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Archive name: sari8.txt (Mf, ped)
Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
Story title : Sari's Side of the Story: Apologia

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The Sari Saga: Sari's Side of the Story (Mf, ped)
by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)

***

As the title suggests, this is the continuing Sari Saga 
told from Sari's own side of the fence. The story deals 
with an award given to Sari as a result of saving the 
life of an American teenager whilst on the expedition.

***

The Sari Saga: Sari's Side of the Story:
Sari and her Apologia

At any time in my life, as far back as I can remember, if 
anyone had asked me for my idea of a perfect companion to 
share one's life, there would never have been any doubt 
in my mind. My earliest recollection of such a person was 
not of either parent (although my mother came a close 
second) or of some fictitious super-hero of literature or 
television, but of Lor.

He was the boy destined to be my partner for life; of 
this I was utterly convinced. I was tied to him with 
invisible bonds every bit as real to me as any ropes or 
chains. It was a spiritual bondage, the kind of thing 
that has to be experienced in order to be understood. And 
it was a binding together, the origin of which was to be 
found deeply embedded in the psyche of my childhood. 

My earliest crystal clear memory was of climbing upon his 
knees at one of the parties his parents seemed to throw 
perpetually at their sprawling Georgian mansion, a 
Halloween party it was, and I think I was six at the 
time. I can remember feeling more secure and reassured by 
his presence than by anyone or anything else at any time. 
I wanted to be encased in his arms forever, bound to him 
in an eternal serfdom. From that moment, I knew, and I am 
sure Lor would agree, that we were Yin and Yang, 
inseparable, and there was no way anyone could prise us 
apart or replace the other. It was as plain and as simple 
as that. That is true love.

Having made this plain however, I know only a few heroin 
addicts, but I don't know one who would turn his nose 
away from a snort of coke. Because you are captivated by 
a Mozart opera does not mean you are incapable of 
appreciating a Brunch violin concerto. You don't have to 
be a vegetarian to enjoy a side salad. Verstehen Sie? 
Savez? Because you love someone physically and 
emotionally with your entire being should not mean that 
you can't have real feelings for another human being. To 
agree with this proposition does not mean you have to 
sleep around with any Tom, dick (sic), or Hairy! But to 
disagree with it, at least as far as my logistics go, 
borders on the blasphemously superstitious and the 
criminally insensitive.

I must confess: I don't over-indulge in charitable works, 
but when I give the odd coin or two to help relieve 
hunger in some third world backwater, I certainly don't 
lose sight of real poverty on my own doorstep. There are 
those who firmly believe that charity should not only 
begin there, it should remain there and never put a foot 
outside the home! I disagree with this standpoint 
entirely, but I take the disagreement well beyond the 
boundary of alms-giving. If favours are sincerely given 
and received, I see no reason whatsoever for not being 
liberal with them.

I may have been only eleven when I invited Jefferson 
Jackson Joe Louis to my tent on that last night of our 
expedition to play some games, but I knew perfectly well 
what I was doing. (I discovered that he preferred to be 
called Jackson!) Lor's place in my life at that point was 
unassailable, but he was not available. And when the big 
black boy left in the morning after a night, which for me 
at least was filled with a kind of unbridled passion, I 
was still one hundred per cent intact and devoted to Lor.

Jefferson Jackson was invited to my tent because of what 
I believed to be a burning need inside me, and I truly 
believe that I would have been psychologically damaged 
had nothing been done about it at that time. And if there 
are people who fail to understand this sense of what Lor 
calls geworfenheit in its full uncompromising intensity, 
if not the mechanics or morality of it, then I can assure 
these people that they have never felt a real need for 
anything, nor a truly binding love for another person, a 
love that can endure age and emergency, crisis and 
calamity, even the odd extra-curricular or extra-marital 
affair. And it could well be that the point is proved 
beyond reasonable doubt if those who would criticise me 
were to examine their motives and the light of their own 
sad experiences.

I needed Jackson Louis that night. I needed the fire 
within me to be subdued, one way or another, and I needed 
to feel needed at the same time; and I discovered, as an 
aside, that there was a lot more to a bondage freak-out, 
so to speak, than having one's hands and feet tied. There 
was one point in the proceedings when I was very nearly 
prepared to have Jackson Louis fill my entire being, I 
was so desperate in my search for satisfaction in all its 
completeness that it was physically painful, and at that 
point in my life I wanted to be hurt and I wished the 
hurt to be extended to everyone I loved.

There was a deep contentment, nevertheless, in feeling 
Jackson's enormous manhood against me as he held me 
securely in his arms and promised to protect me from all 
the ills of the world. I fully realised that his promises 
were empty, albeit well-intended. I gave him what 
satisfaction I could by hand and mouth and held him 
between my thighs in simulated copulation. And in return 
he similarly took me to the summit of sensual perfection. 
And I have no regrets. Whether or not, at the tender age 
of eleven, I was being unfaithful to Lor simply begs a 
question that I was far too young and too innocent to 
understand, never mind to answer the complexities of such 
a problem! 

When it was all over and I returned home, I loved Lor 
Oldmann more than ever, and my determination to be a 
worthy soul-mate to him was, if anything, more firmly 
entrenched in my innermost id. 

One of the last things Jefferson Jackson Joe Louis asked 
me to do for him, when we all (bunch of hypocrites that 
we were) exchanged addresses at the concluding ceremonies 
of the expedition, was to send him a photograph of 
myself. I promised and that was a determining factor in 
what followed. I keep my promises! Ultimately if not 
immediately!

It was nearly a year later. I had changed schools and was 
living with Lor in Cambridge in a multi-apartment flat 
that had been owned originally by grandfather Jaksen and 
now jointly by Lor and his grandmother. It was nearing 
the end of Lor's second year and the pressure of 
examinations, lab reports and repeated demands for 
scholarly theses was increasing by the hour, so a great 
deal of our usual intimate activities had to be shelved.

Apart from anything else, I had to work hard to maintain 
a place at this school - for every student inside there 
were half a dozen outside waiting for a place. And then, 
out of the blue, a visitor arrived, accompanied by an 
official photographer, from the American Embassy in 
London with some startling news. It seemed that I had 
been awarded the topmost honour of the American Humane 
Society for saving the life of Bret Stack. 

"Christ!" I thought. "No-one has bothered to tell them 
that the little bastard from Chicago was trying to rape 
me at the time." 

I thought it best to let that minor detail pass. I was 
handed an invitation to appear at the Embassy to have a 
medal presented by the ambassador and the president of 
the humane society. The distinctly Japanese-looking 
photographer took several photographs of me with my 
mother, who had brought them to Cambridge from Middleton. 
He also took shots of Lor and me together. And then the 
pair left after coffee and biscuits and patronisingly 
smarmy small talk. Mother also excused herself; she had a 
show she had to catch up on, she said, in London. The 
visitors had offered her a ride.

"You made quite an impact on that photographer," declared 
Lor with his usual laconic analysis. "He kept eyeing you! 
He wants to see more of you!" It was a statement of fact; 
there was no innuendo or any hint of jealousy. "Otherwise 
why the dozen photographs when one or two would have 
sufficed?" I think Lor is rather proud when men admire 
me. He held me close and kissed me passionately. "God 
knows how many shots he would have taken had he seen you 
in your sugar plum outfit!" He laughed. "Or the black cat 
costume!"

One of the pictures appeared in The Times of London, 
another in one of the country's upper class society 
magazines, and one of these was copied by a couple of 
American newspapers. Lor had one of them enlarged and 
framed. 

The day before we were due to appear at the embassy, we 
returned to our country residences! There was a letter 
from America waiting. It was a note, in an incredibly 
childish script, from Jefferson Jackson Joe Louis telling 
me that he had cut the photo from a New York tabloid, but 
it was only a stopgap and not what he wanted because 
millions of people would have looked at it and admired 
it. He still wanted a photograph that was intended for 
his eyes only. He also informed me that he had started 
school again and was seriously learning to read and 
write. I studied the handwriting again with a more 
sympathetic eye. I had to admit it: I had a soft spot for 
the big black boy, and had it not been for Lor - well who 
knows what might have happened in that tent?

The same Japanese photographer was at the American 
Embassy. He was absolute perfection of good manners. All 
through the reception and the ceremony and at the dinner 
afterwards, he always sought permission from everyone 
present before he did any photography. He was 
particularly careful always to include Lor or my mum when 
he wanted to take a snap of me. He made a serious point 
in flattering my mother and by the end of the evening the 
two of them were like the proverbial Siamese twins.

"You are a natural subject," he said to me on the 
solitary occasion when he found me alone. I was standing 
on a veranda overlooking the embassy garden when he 
joined me. "Would you mind if I mentioned your name to 
some people in the fashion industry?" I told him I would 
have no objections; already, remembering Lor's words, a 
sly plan to provide Jackson with his own individual 
photograph was germinating in my mind. "I think with your 
looks and the prestige of the American Humane Society 
award, you could name your own price!" 

It was shortly after that, during the last week of term 
at school before the long summer vacation, the 
headmistress called me to her office, and not to make too 
much of a meal of the interview, told me that neither she 
nor the board of governors would have any objection to my 
appearing as a model in a positively upper class, 
hellishly expensive fashion catalogue. She produced a 
letter she had received, which offered the school a lump 
sum of five thousand American dollars for the privilege. 
There was no mention of American dollars being pointed in 
my direction. 

"If anything comes of this, and there are other offers," 
stated the old woman with ice-cold logic, "stick out for 
0.5% gross!" She puffed vapour through her nose and 
virtual reality avarice dripped from her eyes. "You'd be 
surprised at how much that can amount to!" 

Lor seemed pleased when I retailed the story. "We'll wait 
and see what happens," he commented, "but I agree; five 
thousand dollars is bread crumbs for what you have on 
offer!" And I really believe he meant every word of it! 
"Or artificial pearls," he added as an afterthought, 
"cast before greedy swine!" Why is it, I wonder, that the 
people who readily detect greed in others are those, like 
Lor it has to be said, who are more than adequately 
stacked?

The fashion catalogue people appeared at the apartment in 
Cambridge only days later and were introduced by the same 
photographer who once again was decorum personified. I 
was invited to a former film studio in London for a 
preliminary sitting on the following Saturday. A private 
limousine would pick me up and return me to my door. Lor 
was also invited, and my mother, if possible, at the 
request of the Japanese cameraman. Lor had an interview 
at MIT for a place there after he had completed his 
studies in England.

He had also been invited to participate in the world Li-
tchai championships being held in Boston. I knew how 
important these things were for him, so I presented his 
apologies in his absence. My mother and grandma Jaksen 
were on holiday in the Bahamas. The photographer seemed 
genuinely sad, but the other men could not have cared 
less.

The chauffeur who came on the following Saturday to pick 
me up could have come from a novel by P.G. Wodehouse, and 
the studios were straight out of Star Wars. There seemed 
to be hundreds of people milling around - young girls and 
women who had forgotten to put outdoor clothes on, and 
men who seemed more interested in the contents of their 
lunch-boxes and the racing pages of their tabloids than 
the abundance of female flesh seething around them. It 
was tohu wabohu and a recipe for early retirement for 
vulnerable males with a coronary! But out of this 
intriguing chaos the same Japanese photographer and a 
couple of older women emerged.

"Is there not a parent or guardian?" demanded the older 
of the women. The question was directed aggressively at 
the man. When I supplied the answer, she pouted. "You 
know it is against the law to photograph minors except in 
the presence of a parent or guardian." She snorted and 
swung away.

"It is only a test piece, for Christ's sake!" the 
photographer yelled above the encroaching babble of 
voices.

The outcome was that I had to kick my heels in a 
beautifully furnished, hermetically sealed and sanitised 
waiting room. I was plied with soft drinks and had free 
access to an automatic snack machine with chocolate 
wafers and salted peanuts. The man apologised profusely 
for the snag and disappeared after the two Amazons. Left 
to myself, with piped romantic music filtering from a 
concealed audio system, I studied the bookcases and the 
display cabinets for a while, then turned my attention to 
the magazines lying on the glass-topped tables. There 
were the usual pretentious rubbish you find in any 
dentist's waiting room as well as some glossy, high 
society fashion magazines, trade catalogues and 
children's comic books, which were all given short 
shrift.

There were some periodicals which attracted more than a 
passing glance. The language meant nothing other than I 
recognised it as Japanese. The photographs were a 
different kettle of fish! Not exactly pornographic, but 
not the kind of thing Lor's mother would have approved of 
either. Young girls in revealing clothes and suggestive 
poses were bound with ropes, ribbons, tape and belts, and 
in one case with pythons. In a few of the photographs, 
scantily clad men, mostly black, appeared. I lingered 
over these, trying to convince myself that it was idle 
curiosity, but I knew myself better than that! I really 
believed that I could stand fair comparison with any of 
the females in the photographs. And my black friend, 
Jefferson Jackson Joe Louis, was as handsome as any of 
the men.

On another table, the same kind of material was on view, 
but in this case it was in cartoon form with lurid 
drawings in place of photographs. It was one of these 
strip cartoon stories that really intrigued me. It was 
obviously a continuous narrative with previous episodes 
and the promise of more to come; the speech balloons and 
commentary were in Japanese characters, but the story was 
clear: a young, near-naked, preteen girl was being gagged 
and bound by ropes as a prelude, one supposed, to being 
raped, by a older black man IN A TENT! And the black man 
could have been an older ringer for my Jefferson Jackson 
Joe Louis! The pictures of the girl were stylised, but 
those of the man were photographic. The blend of anima 
and real was sexually disturbing.

I was so engrossed in this material that I had not 
noticed the man re-enter the room. He stood behind me. 
"That's manga!" he said. He laid a hand delicately on my 
shoulder. "And Henai! It is extremely popular in Japan 
and Korea." He hesitated. "I do some of the photography, 
not normally as extreme as that!" He pointed at the paper 
I was holding. The principal picture was of a gigantic 
male shaft being introduced between the legs of a tiny 
female form. "A colleague does the art work, some times 
from my photographs, but mostly from live models." He was 
silent again while I turned a few pages. "I don't suppose 
you would be interested?" he murmured.

I did not reply immediately. I turned a few more pages. 
"Perhaps," I said, "for one per cent gross!"

The Japanese photographer appeared deep in thought for 
several seconds. He took my hand. "Sit down for a moment, 
please," he said. "I think we should discuss this 
seriously!" His eyes were already stripping me and making 
a professional assessment. "You are an extremely 
beautiful girl." He sat on a chair opposite me. He 
reached over, brushed my skirt back and parted my knees 
then leaned back and gazed his fill. "Yes!" he decided. 
He rose. "We could make a lot of good use of you!" He 
pulled me to my feet. "One per cent gross, you say?" He 
seemed thoughtful again. "I think we could come to some 
arrangement!"

"One per cent gross," I said coyly, "and a private 
photograph of me."

He smiled wisely. "For your boyfriend? Lor isn't it?"

"For a boyfriend," I replied. "But not Lor!" I smiled as 
sweetly as I could, but I felt the hot blood surging 
through my arteries.

The photograph for Jackson Louis was taken at the flat at 
Cambridge while the P.G. Wodehouse chauffeur waited 
outside. The proceedings lasted for forty five minutes; 
in one way it seemed to go on for hours and in another it 
was over before anything got started. 

Matsumoto Koji wanted to know the motives behind the 
photograph. Was it simply to tease? To recall happy 
memories? As a sentimental keepsake? He explained the 
psychology of posing in plain, explicit language. "The 
nude photograph is much less stimulating to the healthy 
male than one requiring an exercise in imagination," he 
declared passively. "The best photographs are not those 
that reveal physical details, but those that betray real 
emotions."

He suggested we make a careful selection of clothes I 
should wear and I turned out my wardrobe for his 
inspection, and my lingerie drawers. He quickly settled 
on a simple, almost transparent top with four buttons 
down the front, an extremely brief mini-skirt and a pair 
of plain white cotton panties.

He set up his equipment while I changed. I made to go 
into another room, but he suggested that he take some 
snaps in various stages of undress with an Instamatic and 
I make a selection. He watched carefully as I discarded 
each piece; he was intently interested in my nakedness 
and, to be honest, I lingered. When I dressed in the 
recommended costume, he set me on my bed.

"This boyfriend," he said, and halted. "Do you want him 
to be interested in the photograph? Sexually?"

"Yes!" I nodded. "Very much!"

"Can I suggest a mere glimpse of white between your legs? 
Little more than that. One breast exposed? And full 
legs!" He straightened one of my legs, bent the other at 
the knee and brushed the skirt back. He undid the buttons 
of the blouse to reveal my left breast. He stood back and 
admired his work and me - which did me no end of good - I 
was aflame inside. Then he asked, "How easily are you 
aroused sexually?" When I pouted indecision and modesty, 
he declared, "I could get you to broadcast sexual arousal 
from the photograph. Is he the kind of boyfriend you 
would want to do that for?"

I tried to laugh. My mouth was dry. I nodded and 
murmured, "Yes, I think he is!"

He came close. "You are one of the most beautiful girls I 
have ever photographed. Truly!" He tilted my face up and 
kissed me lightly on the lips. He cupped my breast, the 
exposed one, and kneaded it like a piece of glazier's 
putty until the nipple stood out prominently. "Or 
touched," he added quietly. His hand dropped to my vulva. 
He rubbed. "Perfect!" he exclaimed and stood back.

He took half a dozen photographs in quick succession. 
Then started to pack away his equipment. A feeling of 
sadness swept over me. I did not want him to go.

"I'll send you all the prints tomorrow evening," he said. 
He made for the door. "And the negatives!" He left. And 
I felt empty. I wanted Lor. Or Jefferson Jackson Joe 
Louis. Or Matsumoto Koji.

***

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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