("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: sari6.txt (mf, youth, rom, ped) Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com) Story title : Sari and my Alter Ego and Me -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- The Sari Saga: Sari and my Alter Ego and Me (teens, ped) by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com) *** Sari stared. I have seen those beautiful, deep eyes in a dozen different moods. But I never seen them reflect such complete bewilderment as when we were sitting in the caf‚ of the ski station at Bronstadt. She was sipping cola though a twisty, multicoloured straw. She froze, and it was as if the liquid in the straw had also frozen to a dark shadow. Her eyes widened. There was a look of consternation and incredulity on her face as she gaped past me towards the entrance. I turned to look in the direction of her astonished gaze. And I have to admit it: the sensation was of having a hundred dentists' drills working simultaneously on a raw nerve. "Good God! It's me!" It was as if I had been caught up in some out-of-body experience. Or like one of those silly looking-glass routines in an old-fashioned Charlie Chaplin movie where the reflected image is doing something entirely different from what the person in front of the mirror is doing, like stripping when the real person is dressing. It was a true case of Geworfenheit, like being tossed into one of our own home videos. The young man who had entered the low-ceilinged cafeteria could have been my identical twin. The unspectacular fact that he wore ski clobber to match approximately what I was wearing somehow made me feel sick in the stomach. "And here was me thinking I was unique!" I tried to make light of the situation, but I felt as discomfited as Sari looked. I can honestly say that I have never been more disoriented than at that moment. Even the words did not seem to belong to me; it was the kind of thing that happens when you hear your recorded voice for the first time. Sari increasingly sensed my unease. The confused expression on her face gradually melted. It turned to fear - a dread of the unknown. I have seen Sari annoyed, angry, even livid with rage and I have seen her puzzling over some problem, but mostly there has been a look of silent contentment on her face; as a matter of fact, I have never known anyone who has been happier with what nature and good fortune has bestowed, or more capable of dealing with the emergencies of life. And I have certainly never come across another face I would rather kiss. This was the first time that I had seen her truly terrified and totally floundering. Even on that awful night of the advent of her illness when she had come to my bed on what she called 'her worst of summers', what was registered on her face was a quality of anguish or torment that could not even approximately approach what I now saw. It worried me that it could lead to some kind of relapse in her recovery or to some new trauma set to trouble her. I had to make the effort to reassure her. "It's only someone who has the good fortune to look like me." Tears formed in her eyes, and that made me angry. I did not know what I could do about it because I did not know what it was that angered me, and this made me angrier. I turned again to look at this alter ego who had invaded our intimacy. The boy - he was certainly no older than I was - looked around the busy establishment; he shifted from one foot to another, uncertain of himself. It was obvious that he was looking for someone who was not there, for he abruptly spun round and left. Sari stared at the empty doorway long after he had left. "What if he tries to make love to me?" she asked. I thought she was being facetious, but her moist eyes were pitifully earnest. "How can I be sure it isn't you?" "Looks are less than half a person," I reminded her. "You'll know! Anyway we have our own built-in safeguards; we have our own secret words..." The visit to Bronstadt was Grandma Jaksen's idea. She had inherited the station with the neighbouring hotel and the adjoining properties from her late husband. The idea was seconded by my parents, and Cheri Innis could do little else than agree. The prospect of our sharing the entire Christmas holiday had helped return Sari to something very close to her buoyant normality. Indeed, she had never looked lovelier or sexier. Not only had a depth of healthy colour returned to her complexion on the day we set off, but there was the characteristic glint of humour and mischief in her eyes and a lightness and eagerness in her every movement by the time we reached Bronstadt. This was Sari of old! This was the girl I intended to marry and who was going to provide me with lots and lots of children. "There is absolutely no reason why she shouldn't live a normal, healthy life," the white-coated consultant at the hospital had assured me. After due consideration, he added solemnly, "In a few years!" He elaborated when he noticed concern written large on my face. "Her physical development will appear indolent for some time. Until well into her late teens, in fact, she will look very much as she does now - eleven or twelve or perhaps thirteen at best. The spurt will come around her twentieth birthday." Almost as an afterthought, when he studied me for some time, he added, "She certainly won't be able to conceive until her mid-twenties." He walked away from me then spun round on his heels and added, "That, of course does not mean that she won't have the urges!" And the double negative branded itself on my brain. "I think it only right to warn you. She will have urges!" There was a long pause, after which he exclaimed, "And how! Oh, boy! And how!" It was shortly before dinner on the following evening at Bronstadt that my double appeared again. Cheri Innis, drinking a cocktail of fruit juices, Sari with her usual cola, and I were in the bar adjoining the vast dining room. We sat on a half-moon, heavily velveted banquette. He appeared with three older people, possibly parents and a grandparent. The others nodded politely in passing or mumbled some courtesy. The boy, however, hesitated. He stared, not at me, but at Cheri and Sari. His eyes darted from one to the other. Mother and daughter were dressed in identical mini- skirted outfits, which showed both figures, especially their fantastic legs, to optimum advantage. It has to be said that the pair had turned more than a few heads in their direction already. Had it not been for the obvious difference in ages, they could well have been twins. The boy's eyes scanned Cheri before settling on Sari; it was transparently obvious that his imagination was working overtime, and if ever there was a case of visual stripping, this surely was it. There was a look of indescribably desperate hunger as Sari, almost in an unconscious animal gesture widened the gap between her knees and allowed the skirt to ride up her thighs. There was also arrogance in the look when he finally afforded me a glance; it was one of summary dismissal, as if he had evaluated the possibility of prising Sari from me and considered it little more than mere formality. "He'll know us the next time he sees us," declared Cheri aloud, and the boy, as if remembering where he was, smiled an apology and moved on. I laughed. "He'll certainly know your legs!" It was a hollow laugh. I wanted to break his jaw. "Especially Sari's!" Sari, still eyeing the boy with some alarm, whispered, "It's your look-alike, Lor! Your double!" She brought her knees together. "Nonsense," snapped her mother. "He is nothing at all like Lor!" She regretted the acerbity in her voice, and added, "There may be a passing resemblance, but little more than that. Lor has far deeper blue eyes, and his hair is much darker, and his chin doesn't come a point like that boy's. And Lor has dimples on his cheeks. Apart from anything else, Lor would never for a moment dream of staring at people so rudely!" Sari dragged her eyes away from the boy to stare curiously at her mother. She shifted her glance casually to me, and mumbled, "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps he is nothing like Lor." And a most peculiar smile played on her lips. She rubbed her knee against mine. She smirked. "That's a strange thing! I never noticed Lor's dimples before." "It's just that you didn't pay any attention to them," retorted Cheri, and mother and daughter laughed together, and I sighed relief. I knew that they were making some kind of joke, but I completely failed to understand it. I sensed the tension dripping away from Sari. And my love for her increased beyond melting point. During dinner, when we were joined by the others, grandma Jaksen beckoned the maitre d'h“te. The man was plainly terrified of the old woman and bowed and trembled before her. She stared at him in disbelief and barked in perfect German, "Pull yourself together! There is nothing amiss! The food and service are excellent." The man smiled patent relief, but his extreme nervousness remained, and the old woman eyed him with increasing contempt. She added, "But don't become too complacent - I'll be here for another week!" She indicated with slight movement of her hand. "Now tell me, who are the people sitting at the far corner table: the elderly gentleman, the boy who looks like my grandson here, and the two others?" The man breathed more easily. He could answer with confidence. "They are Americans, madam!" The old man, he explained, was a dispossessed count, originally Estonian; the family had lost their property in the first world war. The boy was called Hector Lansdorf, the old man's grandson, and the other two were the boy's parents. The father was born in the United States and had made a fortune in advertising. They were regular guests at the hotel. The boy had actually been selected as a possible member of the United States' Winter Olympics team, and he had done most of his introductory training at the ski station at Bronstadt. Sari was impressed. She has this one foible: she cannot help but genuinely admire people who have exceptional ability in any field. Her admiration multiplies when the talent happens to be something she is good at. Whenever I want to make her laugh, I tell her that's why she is so attracted to me: it is because I am so charming and incomparably handsome and quite outstandingly and brilliantly minded! Later that same night, Sari came to my bed. She curled up alongside me and purred in her own inimitable way. "My mother is in love with you!" she whispered and chuckled softly. "It's mutual, I can assure you," I replied with as much lightness as I could muster. I kissed her. Our kissing had reached and surpassed the former passionate glory. "Indeed, were it not for the fact that I am going to marry you, just as soon as you show the first sign of growing up." She dug an elbow into me. I yelped, and it was not all pretence; Sari's elbows have to be felt to be believed - but that goes for everything about Sari. "...I would be with her like a shot!" I cut myself short; I had been about to say, "As soon as your mum and dad get divorced!" But her dad's absences from home still hurt. After a long silence, long enough to allow a suspicion of sleep to creep up on us, Sari crooned, "I wouldn't mind if you were really in love with my mother." There was another prolonged silence. "Just as long as you still loved me." The silence was reprised. "Will you always love me, Lor?" "Of course I will. You know perfectly well I will!" "Even if I fall in love with someone else?" The silence was becoming unbearable when she continued. "I would always love you and I would always want to come back to you!" I pretended to be asleep. I breathed heavily. Sari crawled on top of me and kissed my sleeping lips. "Even if I make love to anyone else, I could never love them the way I love you!" And that was the way we fell asleep for real, with Sari repeating, "I promise! I promise!" Sari left the nursery slopes before she left nursery school. There was never any serious doubt about it: she was a far better skier at the age of six than I shall ever be. She and her mother did things together on the piste to bewilder and terrify spectators; I chose not to look. They tended to behave like responsible human beings on skis in my presence or when my parents or grandma Jaksen were anywhere in sight. Just occasionally they would do things to frighten the daylight out of me, then laugh hilariously and kiss me passionately which made it all worth-while. It was during one of these hare-brained exhibitions by Cheri and Sari that my alter ego appeared again. Obviously impressed by their skill and desperate to show off and steal some of the limelight, he attempted to emulate their manoeuvres. Which is a bit like trying to outbox Lennox Lewis or outfox Usama bin Laden. As he was to find out to his cost. As I watched through binoculars from a balcony of the hotel, it happened so unnaturally that it was difficult to believe it was for real. This was a potentially Olympic class sportsman. Several minutes passed before the gravity of the accident finally penetrated. Hector Lansdorf slalomed in a figure-of-eight imitation of Cheri and Sari, weaving his hips and hiccuping and pulsating his movements, then he leapt from the snow over a steep incline at a tremendous speed as they had done. His skis glinted in the sunshine as they crossed. They did not uncross. He appeared to hesitate in mid-air as if uncertain of what to do next. He jerked fitfully and crumpled like a man who has been shot, before somersaulting awkwardly with splayed arms and crashing head-first to earth. From where I watched on the balcony of the station, I could almost hear the crunching bones and ripping flesh as broken skis tore into him. Both Sari and Cheri had waved to him when he first set out to follow. Through the binoculars I could see the amused smirk on their faces. It struck me as funny too; they thought it was me! When the accident happened, both struggled back uphill. Sari reached him first. Terror was written over her face. She kissed him tearfully and held his hand to her breast. She seemed hysterical until her mother reached the scene and pulled her daughter away. Cheri gave the prone body oral resuscitation while Sari felt for a heartbeat. After several minutes they changes places, Sari giving the injured boy the kiss of life, and Cheri banging on his chest. They stopped. My heart almost stopped too. They both stood up and back from the apparently dead boy and engaged in an animated discussion, Cheri pointing at the prone body and Sari affording herself another and closer look. I was on the point of turning away to get the ski rescue men on the job when I noticed simultaneously Cheri using her petite mobile telephone and the Bronstadt ambulance crew setting off from the station. It seemed a lifetime, but the entire episode was over in less than fifteen minutes. I went to the landing of the ski station and watched as Hector Lansdorf was brought back up the slopes encased in a blanketed stretcher. A helicopter fluttered ominously overhead. Sari, tear-stained face and pouting lip, clung to a solemn-faced Cheri. They followed at a distance, quite convinced that the boy had died. When they finally reached the landing, Sari glowered unadulterated hostility in my direction, then ran tearfully towards the hotel. I followed, but she locked herself in her room. It was hours later when she reappeared. I was standing in the lobby of the hotel idly reading a flier about a production by a local operatic group. She flung herself at me, wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed as only Sari could. She was still in tears. "I thought it was you, Lor," she sobbed. "I thought you were dead. And I knew that I couldn't go on living without you." She clung to me. "Can we get married? Please? I need to make love to you." This was no whispered sentimental sweet-talk. She spoke in a firm, albeit tearful, treble. There were several eavesdroppers who, in passing, threw us some peculiar looks. After all Sari had only turned eleven! And I have to confess that I looked older than my eighteen years. I held her tightly in my arms. My mind was racing. I had caught sight of Cheri standing at the reception desk. She was staring at us with a most peculiar gleam on her face that radiated contentment and intrigue. She was also a slightly larger than life copy of her daughter, an alter ego, every bit as beautiful and sexually alluring. And I realised that I was madly in love with both of them. "Boy!" I grunted. "Have I got problems!" ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author does not condone the described behavior in real life in anyway shape or form. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 19