This story contains sexually explicit material.
Please e-mail comments to twalden4 at juno dot com with ASSTR in the subject line.
Copyright 2004, All rights reserved.

Technical note: A gasp is a rapid intake of breath, In this story, it also means a rapid expelling of breath, since it is close to the sound I mean, Sigh, grunt, groan, pant, and scream don't work.

Finding Karen

In high school, I was the girl everyone made fun of. I was ugly, flat chested, and bad at sports. Some of the unpopular girls let me sit with them at lunch, but they were all careful not to talk to me too much. I went to one dance, and everyone ignored me, except for a group of boys who would sneak looks at me and laugh.

In college I studied social work and was left alone, for which I was grateful. The first year, a boy in one of my classes asked me out to a movie. I was excited. We sat in the back, and he kept trying to put his hand on my breast, but I wouldn't let him. He avoided me after that.

The second year, another boy asked me out to a movie, and this time I let him get his hand on my breast before I took it off. He asked me to a dance. During the slow dances he kept pressing up against me, and I could feel his erection. He wanted me to go back to his room, but I wouldn't.

The third year, another boy asked me to a dance, and I did go to his room with him. He had some beer, and I drank a little of it, but he drank more. We sat on his bed, and he kissed me. I was scared and excited. He put his tongue in my mouth, and I was surprised. It felt good when he pushed against my tongue, and I pushed back. He rubbed his hands over my back. We lay down with our arms around each other and kept kissing. He held me, and I felt my breasts pressed against him and his erection against my hip. When he put his hand on my breast and squeezed it, it hurt a little. He started to unbutton my shirt, and I let him. His eyes got big when he saw my bra, and he started breathing fast. He put his hands on my breasts and kept squeezing them. He tried to get his hands behind me, and I arched up so he could, then rolled on my side so his hands had room. He couldn't get my bra unhooked.

Eventually, I reached back and undid it for him. He lifted it up and stared at my breasts, although there wasn't much to see. He reached out both his hands and pinched my nipples. It hurt. I was afraid to ask him to be gentler, but when he pinched harder I did. He rubbed my nipples between his fingers and thumb carefully, and it began to feel really good, all tingly and urgent. It was like when I did it myself, but different. Then he put his mouth on my breast and sucked on my nipple. I felt the warmth and wetness of his tongue and lips. This was different than anything I could do myself, and I was squirming around and breathing hard. I was getting very wet between my legs. Then he put his hand down there and could feel the dampness through my jeans. I was embarrassed. He undid my belt and the button of my jeans and pulled my zipper down. His hand went into my underwear and rubbed over my hair. It went farther and rubbed my crotch. I felt a shock go through me. His fingers rubbed around down there, poking and not knowing what to do, but then he got my folds open and put his finger inside me. He put his mouth back on my breast and sucked while his finger slid around inside me.

When he let go, he tried to pull down my pants and underwear, and I lifted up so he could. He took them off and sat there staring at my pubic hair. He rubbed his fingers across it and looked at the way it sprang back up. It seemed to fascinate him. Then he stood up and took off his shirt and pants and underwear, I finished taking off my shirt and bra, and he lay down next to me. I told him he had to use a condom. He had one in his desk, so he got it out and tore it open, but had trouble getting it on. He finally managed, and lay back down and kissed me. He rubbed his hand down my body, over my breast and ribs and side and belly, down to my hair, out to my thigh and buttock and back up to my breast. He rubbed is palm against my nipple, and he put one of his legs between mine and forced them apart. He moved on top of me and rubbed his penis against my hip. Then he put his other leg between mine, reached down with his hand while holding himself up with his opposite arm, and poked at me with his penis. He couldn't find the opening. He found it with his finger, but when he took hold of his penis again, he lost it. This repeated a couple times, but then I felt his penis start to slide into me. It stopped. He pushed, but he wasn't positioned right and couldn't get in very far. He shifted around and made a little progress. His hand hadn't let go of his penis, and he seemed afraid of coming out. I was afraid of the same thing. Then he put both arms around me and slid all the way in.

I thought it was supposed to hurt, but it didn't. It didn't feel like much of anything. Maybe I was doing something wrong. He moved carefully in and out. His movements got bigger, and he nearly slipped out. Then he found the right range of motion, and he pressed up against me each time. I started to feel some tingling, and then he grunted and came.

He stayed hard, and a minute later started moving again. This time it felt better, like when I did it myself, and I started moving with him. I imagined my hand rubbing between my legs, quietly and carefully because of my roommate sleeping in the bed across from me. I imagined my fingers inside (like his penis was), getting me wet, and my slippery fingers pressing my clitoris (like he was with each thrust), feeding the tingling that grew inside me, and rubbing faster as I got more excited (like he was now, our breathing getting deeper and faster). I imagined opening my mouth wide so I wouldn't make any noise when I started gasping (like I was now, holding him to me and forcing myself against him with each thrust). He didn't know what was happening, and he nearly stopped when I started to come, but I wouldn't let go. I pumped against him until he came inside me, again.

We had sex together nearly every day, when we could get either of our roommates to let us have the room for an hour. A couple times they walked in on us, when we got the schedule confused. We skipped classes to make time for sex. Our grades suffered. Then we began to cool down a little. He had tests to study for and papers to write. His roommate sometimes wouldn't let him have the room. We saw each other less often. Then he got angry about something, I don't remember what, and we broke up.

I graduated, and then started on my master's. A girl asked me out to a dance. I thought about it for a few days, then said yes.

It was a gay and lesbian dance. She was a little shorter and heaver than me, with dark hair. During the slow dances we pressed our breasts together, and she ground her hips against mine. I ground back. Afterward, she took me back to her room, in an apartment she shared. We lay on her bed and kissed. She was a good kisser. Our tongues worked together, and our lips meshed, slowly getting us more excited. She rolled on top of me and climbed between my legs. I thrust against her, and she kissed my neck. She took off my pants and buried her face in my crotch. I felt her tongue licking up the wetness from my opening. I felt shock waves go through me as her lips and tongue sucked on my clitoris. She had her arms under my legs, and she held a buttock in each hand. The excitement built up in my belly, then mushroomed through me as I cried out. She went back down to my opening and collected the wetness I had produced.

When she stood up to get undressed, I took off my shirt and bra. She lay down and sucked gently at my breasts. We kissed some more, and I tasted myself on her mouth. I took her breast in my mouth and sucked on her nipple. I held her other breast in my hand. They were soft, and larger than mine. There is nothing else that feels like a breast. It doesn't squish like Jello or compress like foam rubber. The insides don't move around, like the air in a balloon when you squeeze it. It has no muscles moving inside it, like a buttock, and it doesn't move by itself, like the lips or tongue. It isn't hard like a melon, or firm like a grapefruit. It is springier than a perfectly ripe avocado and has no hard center. It flows and jiggles, unlike a loaf of bread. It can ripple like the surface of a pond. It produces its own heat.

I kissed her belly and ran my lips through her pubic hair. I parted her folds and looked at her pink wetness. I smelled her scent. I put out my tongue and found a sour salty taste, similar to my own. I sucked gently on her clitoris and heard her gasp. I felt her squirm under my hands. I ran my lips and tongue over her like I ran my fingers over myself. She responded and started moving under me. I sucked harder, and we set up a rhythm. I felt the muscles in her thighs moving under my hands as I held her open. I pressed my lips into her as she rose to meet me. I sucked her clitoris into my mouth. I watched her belly heave with each thrust, and the wave flow up through her breasts. Then she was coming, and fluid spurted out of her onto my chin as her buttocks clenched repeatedly, driving the breath out of her.

I was in love, and we had sex several times a week, sometimes in her room, sometimes in mine. A month later she dumped me for another woman. I found out she did this regularly.

I finished my master's and got job as a social worker at a large hospital. I liked the work and did pretty well, although I got a little overzealous when I thought my clients weren't being treated fairly.

Judy was a very pretty Asian woman, who was nearly as flat chested as I was. She was a nurse in a surgery ward, where one of the patients was recovering after being beaten by her boyfriend. I was called in to find out if the patient needed alternative housing or counseling. It wasn't a classic case of abuse. The boyfriend wasn't trying to control her. She hadn't wanted him to leave, so he had beaten her before he fled. I told Judy it didn't fit the standard model, and she said something about looking for love in all the wrong places. That hit a little close to home, and I asked her what she meant. She asked me if I had read Games People Play or The Art of Loving. I had heard of them, and Erich Fromm had been mentioned in one of my courses, but we hadn't learned anything about his theories. She cursed under her breath and said there was too much we hadn't been taught in class, that we couldn't understand our patient's problems if we didn't have the right tools. Her anger at the limits of the system reminded me of myself, and I said I would like to talk to her more. She said she would like that and suggested lunch, but not in the hospital cafeteria. She said her ideas were unorthodox, and she didn't want too many people to overhear us. I suggested a nearby bagel shop, and we arranged a day.

I got both books Judy had mentioned and read them before we met. The closest game I could find to our patient's situation was Kick Me. I didn't want to blame the victim, and the boyfriend was certainly responsible for what he had done, but it hadn't been her first poor choice in lovers. She hadn't been asking for it, but she hadn't been trying very hard to avoid it either. And it occurred to me that feeling sorry for myself and waiting for someone to rescue me wasn't very smart.

The Art of Loving said that falling in love was insanity, literally. I had given up on love, but I had thought the problem was with me, not with the institution. Love was blind, but was it also stupid? There was another kind of love beside the kind that just happened to you, there was the kind you built. That sounded a lot more sensible. But judging from everything I saw in movies and television and books, from everyone I knew and worked with and talked to, no one believed it was necessary or possible to build love. You only worked on a relationship if there were problems.

Judy and I met and sat down with our bagel sandwiches. I told her I liked the idea of building love. Many of the problems my clients and their families faced put stress on their relationships. I helped with emergency care for those relationships, but could there be some sort of relationship maintenance? This was way outside the scope of standard psychiatric care, and it was something people didn't like to talk about.

Judy said, for many people, talking about relationships was like going to the doctor. It meant there was a problem, that something was wrong. It went back to the idea of falling in love. It was supposed to just happen, it was supposed to be perfect, and it was supposed to last forever. That's the way it felt when it first happened, but that's not the way it really worked. It only lasted for two weeks to six months. If people hadn't built something more permanent by the time it burned out, they gave up or went searching for the next fix. Next time it would be true love, not just infatuation. But true love was a myth, nature's way of continuing the species. It was really NRE, new relationship energy. It was great if you enjoyed it for what it was, but hell if you expected it to last.

I said I had only heard this from cynics before. Were there really people who were trying to build love? She said Fromm's book was well known and had been around for a long time. She knew people who took it seriously. They were trying to find a better way, and had had some success. They discussed what worked and what didn't. They shared their experiences and tried to help each other. They were building lives and relationships based on care, responsibility, respect, and knowledge. I asked if she was one of them. She said she was. I said it sounded wonderful, but I could never do it. She asked why not. I told her I had been abused in high school and in relationships, and I wasn't able to trust people. She said she was sorry for what had happened, but if I used it as an excuse I would never get over it.

She asked if I had a voice in my head telling me I wasn't good enough. I said no, I didn't. She just sat and waited. And I heard the voice in my head, telling me I wasn't good enough. I realized it had been with me most of my life, and I hadn't realized it. I was scared. I thought she was a witch, or a mind reader. I started to cry. She gave me the tissue she had already gotten out. I took it, then dropped it as if it were a snake. What was she doing to me? She started to talk. She said she understood what I was going through because she had gone through it herself. She had seen that I was more aware than most people, and was on the verge of waking up. She said many people got close to the edge, but fled in panic when they looked over. She hoped I wouldn't. People paid psychiatrists lots of money for what I had just experienced. Some people flirted with the edge all their lives. It could be like a drug. But if I had the courage to let go and take the first step, the second would be easier. I reached out and picked up the tissue.

I asked how to stop the voice. She said the only way she knew of was to starve it to death. It fed on being listened to. And the first step, the biggest step, the one I had just taken, was to know that it was there. Not through some theory, but through direct experience. She asked me if I knew anything about Taoism. I said I didn't believe in religion. She said it wasn't really a religion, but was a form of practical psychology. It taught you to accept the world as it really was, not as you wanted it to be, so you could make sensible choices. It was where she had gotten the techniques she used.

The best way to stop listening to the voice was through meditation, but that was too difficult for most people. It was too sudden, and they could get lost. Another way was to slow down through a physical exercise like yoga, or tai chi. That was what Judy had done. The body had a very close and direct connection to the mind. If the mind had to pay attention to complex or unusual movements of the body, it would have less time to listen to the voice. The more difficult you found the movements, the more attention they took and the better they worked, as long as you didn't get frustrated and quit. As the movements got easier for you, you added more refinements to hold your attention.

I asked about other exercises. She said there was ba gua, or circle walking. Also karate and judo, if not done too competitively. Swimming, gymnastics, and running might work, but they were not usually taught as moving meditations, which is what all these things that required attention really were. Some people used tennis, but she thought it would be too fast for her. She didn't think walking on a treadmill would work. Maxine Kumin wrote two wonderful poems about swimming as meditation, Morning Swim (which was very sensual) and To Swim, to Believe.

She said that she was helping out at a tai chi demonstration and workshop that her instructor was holding. It was in a few weeks, and I could think about whether I wanted to go and see what it was like.

After talking with Judy, I started paying more attention during my walks. I tried to stop brooding so much. I identified the voice as what Games People Play called the Parent, and I read I'm OK, You're OK, which used the same ideas. I tried to see games my clients were playing, and not play them. I read other works of Erich Fromm, The Sane Society and Man for Himself. I read Psychotherapy East and West, which Judy had recommended when I asked about books on Taoism. I still didn't believe in religion, but if Judy found tai chi useful, I was willing to look at it.

When I got there, I saw Judy up front getting ready. It was a large room, with a wooden floor and folding chairs set up. We had to take off our shoes before going in. The first hour was the free demonstration and talk. The second hour was the workshop, for which there was a small fee. I could have waited until the break to sign up for the workshop, but didn't. There was a longer and more expensive workshop the following week, and new classes started a week later. When everyone was seated, the instructor got up on the platform in front.

He talked about the history of tai chi and its health benefits. It seemed to be good for just about everything. Since it was done slowly, it was good for seniors and helped with their balance. It was derived from the martial arts, and the balance, alignments, and coordination it taught could help with karate and other arts. Then he, Judy, and another student did the form. Judy flowed through the movements. She was so graceful and beautiful. It was a dance where she turned and stepped and kicked slowly in different directions. Her arms circled and waved and punched. She spun around on one foot and sank to the floor and rose up striking. I was astonished. It wasn't anything like I had imagined. I realized that physical beauty has more to do with how you move than how you look standing still.

The workshop was much simpler. We did different warm up exercises, and we tried raising and lowering our arms, shifting our weight, turning, and stepping. It didn't look like much, but I could feel a little of the flow. I signed up for a beginner's class, ignoring the voice that said I couldn't do it. Judy was pleased.

The class I signed up for was on the same night as Judy's. Between classes she would answer my questions and help me out. She introduced me to her friend Mark, who was also taking a class. A few weeks later, they invited me over for dinner.

The dinner wasn't to be at Judy and Mark's apartment. It was to be at Linda and Paul's. At lunch a few days before, Judy said she wanted to warn me about the situation, so I wouldn't be surprised. She said it was unusual, and asked me not to talk about it with people at work. I asked if it was more than their ideas about love. She said no, but there was more to it. They didn't only believe that love needed to be built. They also believed it was possible to love more than one person in an open and honest way. I asked if it was like polyamory. She looked surprised and said that was exactly what it was. I said I had heard of it, but hadn't associated it with building love. She said building love was the main idea. It was hard enough for two people to stay together. If there were more than two people involved, things got complicated really fast, and they had no chance of staying together if they didn't work at it. Now that she had pointed it out, I could see that. But polyamory had sounded to me more like a big, ongoing, free-love party than committed relationships. If things didn't work out with one person, weren't there always others? And if you were committed, why did you need others?

Judy looked like she didn't know where to start. I said I was sorry if I had offended her. I was surprised and had spoken without thinking. As a social worker, I should know better. She said no, she was glad I had reacted openly and honestly. It was easier to explain things if she knew what I thought. First, polyamory was about committed long-term relationships. Without love, sex wasn't nearly as much fun. Second, relationships took a lot of time and energy, and it was rare to have more than three. Most people didn't have more than two. Third, it was difficult to find another partner who was polyamorous, even with computers and classified ads. Most people preferred to cheat. Fourth, loving one person didn't stop you from being attracted to others. That was part of the true love myth.

I said I didn't understand what she said about cheating. Wasn't having another partner what polyamory was about? She said polyamory about was making sure everyone involved knew what was going on. Cheating was about keeping things secret. They were opposites. It was a mistake men often made, thinking they could be poly without telling their wives, but no poly women would accept them.

I told her that she was full of surprises, and that maybe I should worry that she was trying to recruit me into some cult. She said that was exactly what she was trying to do, except it wasn't a cult, it was a lifestyle. She thought it was a healthier and saner way to live, though not for everyone. Her group didn't want more people, but she hoped other groups would form. She hoped I was still willing to come to dinner and meet her partners, but she would understand if I wanted to back out. I already knew Mark. I said I just needed a couple minutes to get used to the idea. How many people were there in her group? She said five, the four I knew about, plus Jose. Judy had met Mark at her tai chi class, and had met Linda and Paul through him. She met Jose later, and the five of them had decided they didn't want the group to get any larger, although outside relationships were okay. And so I wouldn't have to ask, she said all five were basically (but not exclusively) heterosexual, and all the men were partnered with both women. She was sorry if that was more than I wanted to know.

I told her I wasn't sure what I thought of the whole situation, but I liked her and wanted to remain her friend. And I did still want to come to dinner and meet everyone. She said she was glad.

I showed up at the door of Linda and Paul's apartment, trying to ignore the voice that said I was crazy. Judy greeted me and introduced me to everyone. Mark I knew. Paul was tall and black, with intense eyes and a quiet smile. Jose was shorter and a little more outgoing. Linda was cooking pad thai. She had short red hair and was a little heavier than the others. We sat at the table in the kitchen before dinner, so we could include Linda. It was a little crowded, but Paul said they planned to find a bigger place.

After dinner we moved to the living room. There was no television, and the walls were filled with bookshelves and books. Judy and I sat on the love seat. The others sat on the floor on cushions. I said I had read more Fromm. Mark said his work was a bit dated, and his categories were too neat, but they found him very useful. I said the idea of working at love appealed to me, and I had given up romance novels. But I still liked opera, even if their deceptions and misunderstandings seemed like something from I Love Lucy. Paul spoke up. He didn't talk much, but when he did, everyone paid a little more attention. He asked what composers I liked. I said Mozart and Rossini. He asked if I had a thing about barbers. I said I didn't know, maybe I did. He asked what singers I liked. I said von Otter and Ramey. He asked if I had a thing about low voices. I said yes, and he smiled a little.

A few days later Paul called me and asked if I would like to see Cosi fan Tutte. He said the others tolerated him listening to opera at home, but they didn't like it much, and he would like to have someone to go with. I accepted.

It was late when the opera got out, but I invited Paul back to my apartment and offered him a glass of Mosel Kabinett. I served it with strawberries. He said he liked wine, but he didn't drink it at home out of respect for the others. He didn't stay long, but before he left, he put his arms around me a kissed me. We looked at each other. I had never seen eyes so dark. If I looked at them closely, I could see that the irises were not solid black, but were slightly mottled with dark brown. We kissed again, a little longer, and our tongues touched briefly. After he left, I had a second glass of wine.

Paul called a couple days later and said there was performance of L'Italiana in Algeri in a couple weeks. Would I like to see it? I said yes.

We came back to my apartment afterward, and I opened another bottle of wine. I gave him more strawberries. We sat on the sofa and talked about music and vocalists. He accepted a second glass of wine, but before I could get up to get it, he took my hand, leaned forward, and kissed me.

I understood that he had commitments, that he wasn't free to ask me to join his group, even if he wanted to. Our relationship would be secondary to others in his life. But I also understood how seriously he took relationships. If we had sex tonight, he was pledging care, responsibility, respect, and knowledge, and he would expect the same from me. I knew he did this with the knowledge and support of all his partners. They were willing to give up a part of him. Paul's commitments to each of them would not lessen, but they would have to be balanced against any commitment he and I made to each other here tonight.

His lips were moist, and they sucked gently on mine. Mine were too dry (no, they weren't). I left the glasses where they were, and we put our arms around each other. Our lips slid over each other, and our tongues met and did the same. I felt myself getting wetter. My nipples were straining outward as I pushed them against his chest. I tried to hold him gently. I could feel the strength in his arms and hands as they cradled me. Slowly, we released each other. Our eyes confirmed what the rest of our bodies had just said.

I looked back over toward the glasses. I waited until the dizziness passed, then stood up and carried them into the kitchen. Paul followed. I set them on the counter and poured the rest of the wine into them. Before we picked them up, Paul put his arms around me again and backed me against the counter. I was glad of the support. I kissed him and felt his erection pressing against my belly. I was crazy (good, because I was about to be committed, and as thoroughly as I could manage). We went back to the living room and sat down to finish our wine, which seemed both silly and unnecessary at his point.

Paul took another strawberry, and I asked him about himself. How had he ended up where he was? In a group of five people who were challenging society's assumptions? And I asked him to be brief. He looked amused. He told me he had come here with his parents from St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Maybe looking at things from the outside had given him a different perspective. There were good people here, and their core principles matched those of others he had known elsewhere. People wanted the same things, and it would be easy to get them if they worked together. So he found some people to work with, and a method for doing so. And now he had found me.

We finished our wine, and I took the glasses and strawberries into the kitchen. I came back, took Paul's hand, and led him into the bedroom. We took off our clothes and got into bed. I was feeling pretty committed, already, and took advantage of it. Paul put a condom under the pillow. He looked at me, carefully, at my face and breasts and belly and legs. He told me I was beautiful. I didn't understand it, but I knew it was true.

He kissed me, a kiss that started slowly and then expanded. Our arms came around each other, our bodies pressed together, and our legs intertwined. His lips moved to the corner of my jaw, down my neck, and up onto my breast, and he took my nipple in his mouth. I nearly came. His hand moved down my side, across my belly, and between my legs, and his fingers entered me. They found wetness and brought it out to my clitoris. I reached under the pillow with one hand and took his penis with the other. I pulled back his foreskin and tasted him, then unrolled the condom over him. I lay back and spread my legs for him, and he knelt between them. Both our hands guided him, and I felt him go all the way through my opening and bury himself deep inside me. He put his arms back around me and kissed me. We moved together to celebrate our commitment.

The length of his penis slid through my grasp in both directions. It reached inside me before pulling back for another effort. Our pubic hair cushioned us when we came together. His hips rocked on mine, and I felt the weight of his body on my breasts as his elbows pressed down the mattress on either side of me. My lungs filled and emptied with the motion of my hips. He kissed under my cheekbone, and pushed his tongue into my neck at the corner of my jaw. Sensations fought for my attention, and I gave it to all of them. They built up inside me, but I held on, and held on, until I exploded with the force of our consummation, and I felt him coming inside me as we gave ourselves to each other.

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