---------------------------------------------------------------
Visit: http://home.earthlink.net/~roller666/index.html
---------------------------------------------------------------
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
Till Death Do Us Part
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter One
ÒIn a child it is most distressing,Ó he said. I listened unwillingly to
the tone of his voice. It was a doctorÕs voice. He was self-assured and
professional even as he related the unpleasant news.
I tried to hurry my steps. I was passing by the pediatric ward. I had
just completed my yearly medical exam. I was relieved to find that I was
still normal after 38 years of living.
Not hard living, mind you. I was never like that. IÕm a certified
public accountant. I donÕt drink or smoke. Never tried drugs. Not much of
a gigolo, IÕm afraid. But IÕm not gay either. IÕd be happy to find a wife
provided sheÕs the appropriate age for me and a virgin.
But please donÕt think IÕm dull. I do have a sense of fun. For
instance, when I go grocery shopping, I take a pocket calculator along. I
add up the things IÕm considering buying. It helps to know how much
youÕre going to spend before you get to the checkout lane. Plus, with my
calculator, I can figure the price per ounce of the various items. You
would be amazed at the savings IÕve unearthed, doing this. Last week
alone I saved $3.06 by calculating the per ounce prices of the items I was
shopping for. Generic isnÕt necessarily the cheapest, even if the goods are
packed in dull boxes, especially when you include brand name sale prices
in your calculations. So not only did I save money, I was able to buy some
brand items, which come in nice packaging.
There was someone standing in the entryway to the pediatric ward.
A child. She was smiling at me. She was about 10, maybe 11. IÕm not an
expert on childrenÕs ages. I donÕt want to be, at least not until I have
children of my own.
I tried to avoid her gaze. Children-- best not seen or heard,
especially if youÕre a 38-year-old man and unmarried.
But her smile lingered. It followed me as I passed her.
ÒDoctor, has my daughter been molested?Ó I heard a womanÕs voice
ask. It was anxious. I quickened my steps. No telling who might be
blamed for that-- a perpetrator, to be sure, but I wasnÕt one and didnÕt
want to become one. Especially with that damn girl smiling at me.
The doctor cleared his throat.
ÒFondled, perhaps,Ó he said.
ÒSheÕs no longer innocent?Ó the womanÕs voice asked shrilly.
I felt the girlÕs eyes in my back. An illusion, of course. Surely she
had turned her head away by now. But I didnÕt want to turn and look, to
make sure. God forbid I should look at her and find myself guilty of
ÒlookismÓ! I well remembered my college days, and the brochure we were
given each semester by the Equal Opportunity Office. ÒLookism is a form
of sexual harassment and is offensive and illegal.Ó
I rounded the corner of the hall. I felt warm. My heart was beating
fast. I could feel my pulse in my neck, throbbing. I needed to get around
just one more corner and then I would be at the elevators. Why couldnÕt
they give me a medical exam someplace else? Why did they have to do it
right next to the pediatric ward? Damn hospitals!
A small girl was standing by the elevators. Her back was to me. She
had long dark hair. She was wearing a trim blouse and a skirt that showed
off the length of her legs. She had white stockings on that stretched to
her knees. Her shoes were black. They were glossy and new.
I approached. Why did she have to be standing right in front of the
hallway elevator buttons? Gingerly I reached past her. Such long, lovely
hair. I could smell her perfume. No, that was the scent of bubblegum.
Nice smell, though. If rather childish.
ÒExcuse me,Ó I mumbled. I reached for the lowest button.
ÒGoing down?Ó a young female voice asked. It was high-pitched,
merry. She turned as I reached past her head, her face. She smiled up at
me.
It was the same girl! The same one IÕd passed outside the pediatric
ward! I felt an abrupt emptiness in the pit of my stomach. My pulse
quickened. Her bright eyes gazed up at me. There was a pinkish hue in her
cheeks and yet at the same time her skin was white, flawlessly white,
like fine china.
I missed the button. I pressed my thumb against the wall instead.
ÒOuch,Ó I said, feeling my thumb press hard against the immovability
of the wall, nearly spraining it.
ÒHere, let me push the button for you!Ó the girl offered. She turned.
Quick, so quick she moved! Nimble and light. She pressed the red ÒDownÓ
button and then turned quickly again and beamed up at me.
ÒThank you,Ó I managed to say.
ÒIÕm going down too,Ó she grinned.
ÒVicky,Ó a womanÕs voice called. It sounded distressed.
The elevator doors opened. The girl leaped in. I stepped in after her.
ÒVicky,Ó the womanÕs voice called again. I wondered if it was the
girlÕs mother. But as a normal male I wasnÕt supposed to be noticing little
girls, was I? I mean, what if I began talking to her, to ask her if that
wasnÕt her mother calling, and just as I began speaking to her, her father
appeared? He might think I was propositioning her.
The elevator doors closed. I was alone in the elevator with the girl.
She stared up at me, with that infernal smile plastered across her face.
In my own face I felt the heat rising. Was I blushing?
ÒDo you think IÕm pretty?Ó she asked.
I tried to ignore her. Children are best seen and not heard, I
reminded myself. Or, rather, not seen, at least if theyÕre 10 and youÕre a
single, 38-year-old man!
ÒDo you think IÕm pretty?Ó she asked again.
Nervously I shifted my feet. I glanced at her. Yes, it was the same
girl IÕd seen before, in the hallway just outside the pediatric ward.
ÒY-Yes,Ó I stammered, trying to be polite. Thank God there was
nobody else on this damnable elevator, who might reprove me for having a
conversation with a child whose parents I didnÕt even know!
ÒYou look like you have a big penis,Ó the girl said.
I was blushing fiercely now. I felt my hands begin to tremble. I
looked up at the numbers above the door. God help me! How on earth did I,
a normal male, wind up all alone on an elevator with a 10-year-old girl
who knew the word penis?
ÒHave you ever heard of Monica?Ó the girl asked me.
ÒN-No,Ó I said. I stared at those numbers above the elevator door.
We were passing floor 10. Only 9 floors left...
ÒShe sucked the PresidentÕs penis!Ó the 10-year-old girl beside me
said.
I was sweating now. I could feel the perspiration on my forehead
and I wondered if she could see it. She kept grinning. Her smile was
perfect. White teeth set like pearls behind ruby lips. She moved, slightly,
coming toward me. With a quickness I thought IÕd outgrown I darted
sideways. The side wall of the elevator kept me from moving farther.
ÒWhy are you afraid? I wonÕt hurt you,Ó the little girl said to me in
her high, childish voice. Then she giggled, and it was an ethereal laugh so
wickedly high in tone that it made my skin crawl. There was something
odd about that laugh.
With my eyes fixed ahead of me like a corpse I watched the numbers
above the elevator door. 5... 4... 3... There was sweat on my upper lip and
in the palms of my hands.
She touched me. Her small fingers were cool. She wasnÕt nervous.
Not at all. Her fingers began to twine about mine.
One! I felt a surge of triumph in me as I saw the number one
illuminate above the elevator doors. They slid back. A bell rang,
announcing the elevatorÕs arrival. I tore my hand away from hers and
hurried out. I walked as fast as decency permitted through the lobby. I
nodded to the guard sitting behind her desk. She nodded back. The wide
front doors of the hospital opened, and I felt the cool air of early evening
on my face. I inhaled. It felt good to be cool again. By God, it felt good in
my lungs too, the autumn air chilling my skin, making me forget the
cramped elevator with the little girl in it and her precocious questions.
There was a park beyond. I had a car but I preferred taking the bus.
Perhaps it wasnÕt quite normal to take the bus, most people drove, but I
liked the sense of social responsibility I felt whenever I rode it. Of
course waiting at the bus stop was a bit of a pain; you never knew who you
might have to stand there with.
I passed under the trees. The shadows were deep here in the park,
now that the sun had set. I hated it when the sun set so early. Why
couldnÕt it still be summer, with its late evening sunshine? A person
could get mugged walking in the dark like this. I placed my hand on my
trousers. I felt the lump of my wallet. I whistled a tune. I wasnÕt sure
what the name of the song was, or the words. IÕd picked it up from a
movie. A late night movie, the kind you watch when you canÕt sleep and
you donÕt want anything too heavy on, just mindless entertainment. I
couldnÕt remember the movieÕs plot or even its main characters now, or
even its name. ÒInterviewÓ, something... ThatÕs what it had been called. I
guess I fell asleep right after the opening credits. The musical theme of
the film must have embedded itself into my mind while I slept.
I reached the far end of the park. The street lights shone down on
me. I felt myself exhale, relieved. I stopped whistling. I didnÕt need that
damn tune anymore. Now if I could only get it out of my head. It rattled
around in between my ears as I strode under the streetlights.
I saw the bus stop in the distance. Only one person. Well, that was
fine. As long as it wasnÕt some big black dude. I always hated that. I
mean, I didnÕt hate black people, I believed in equal rights and everything.
I just didnÕt want to have to stand at the bus stop with them. Especially
if they were bigger than me. Or if there were two of them. That was
always a little nerve-wracking. Well, a lot nerve-wracking, letÕs admit it.
Especially if they werenÕt dressed in business suits like me. Black guys in
business suits were okay. Thank God blacks didnÕt carry those ghetto
blasters anymore. That used to be awful, back in the 70Õs.
I glanced around me. Except for the one person standing at the bus
stop, the street was empty. I hurried toward the bus stop, still glancing
around. I wasnÕt looking for black dudes just then. Rather, I was looking
for bums. You know, those Vietnam hippie-type guys. They think the
world owes them a living because they spent nine months in Nam 30 years
ago. I mean, I work every day, 9 to 5, doing my accounting, and IÕm
supposed to give a dime to some guy because he sat on his ass in Nam 30
years ago smoking dope? Give me a break. I wish I could say that, just
once, you know? Tell the white hippie guys off, and the black dudes too.
They should all go to an accredited four year university like me and learn
something productive, like accounting. Then they could work every day and
not have to stand around in the street asking for money. Or playing some
ghetto blaster.
I walked up to the bus stop. I glanced down at the person next to the
sign, between me and the sign. I hate it when I canÕt stand right next to
the sign. I mean, it makes me nervous. Once someone was standing next
to the sign and my bus came along, but the stupid idiot waved the bus on. I
happened to be reading my Economist magazine and by the time I looked up
the bus had passed by. I couldnÕt believe it.
ÒOh, was that your bus?Ó the guy standing there, next to the sign,
had asked me. Naturally I thought he was being sympathetic so I nodded
ÒyesÓ. The next words out of his mouth were, ÒSay, man, IÕm really sorry
about that but could I borrow a dime? I need to make a phone call.Ó
Of course I told him ÒnoÓ. I know what those bums do. They ask ten
or twelve people and of course some people give away a dollar, and then
they have enough for liquor and they spend the rest of the day in some
alley somewhere. Heaven in a bottle, in an alley.
I glanced at the person beside me again. Rather short, I thought. And
such long dark hair. What was some child doing standing here all alone in
the dark?
She turned. She smiled. Her eyes gleamed up at me.
ÒHello,Ó she said.
I was speechless. I stared at her.
ÒTaking the bus?Ó she asked.
ÒNo,Ó I answered.
She tugged at her skirt. Her knees bumped together. Her shiny black
shoes shifted on the pavement. Such pretty shoes. Such long legs. I felt
the wetness on my forehead again.
ÒI am,Ó she said. ÒWanna ride me?Ó
I swear thatÕs how she said it. There was no ÒwithÓ in that
sentence.
ÒNo,Ó I said again, but my voice was weak.
ÒDo you think IÕm pretty?Ó she asked.
I glanced around. How could this be happening to me? IÕd left that
girl in the hall on the 14th floor, then in the elevator in the lobby. Yet
now here she was again, standing beside me, in the dark.
ÒI need a ride,Ó she said in her licorice-sweet voice.
ÒI-- I canÕt give you a ride,Ó I answered.
ÒYou look like you have a big penis,Ó the girl said. Her eyes scanned
my body. ÒAnd a nice pulse,Ó she added. Her eyes lifted from my crotch,
where I was feeling an abnormal stiffening, to my neck, where I could feel
my neck muscles tightening.
ÒTh- thanks,Ó I stammered. Just then I felt lights illuminate my
body. The police! I felt sweat in my palms and on my upper lip. I stared
ahead of me, forgetting the girl momentarily. Then I realized the twin
headlights bearing down on me were those of the bus. I looked at the
number above the windshield. My bus! With relief I watched the bus as it
pulled up to the stop. Out of courtesy I looked back again to where the girl
was, to allow her to get on first, if she wished to. But she was gone.
There was nobody there. Just the sign, standing naked and empty. Behind
me I felt the dark trees of the park, and a presence there, somewhere. I
leapt onto the bus and scrambled into a seat. The doors of the bus closed.
As the bus pulled away from the stop I gazed out the side window, next to
my seat. But the glare of the lights that were on inside the bus cast a
reflection onto the glass.
I saw a poster for a musical in the window. It was a reflection,
from a poster mounted inside the bus, above the seat opposite mine, on the
other side of the aisle.
ÒCrypt of the Damned,Ó the poster read. Dark figures stared out at
me from the poster.
ÒThey make musicals out of the damndest things these days,Ó I
muttered to myself.
30
----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
-----Back issues (and stories): http://www.dejanews.com/
Click on ÒPower SearchÓ in the middle of the screen.
Change ÒstandardÓ archive to ÒcompleteÓ archive.
Type: roller666@earthlink.net into the ÒPower SearchÓ box.
Click on ÒFindÓ (the button to the right of the box).
-----Other providers:
Usenet Newsgroup: alt.sex.stories.moderated
Or via the Web:
http://www.eroticstories.com
http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/
-----Great books by David Hamilton: The Age of Innocence, A Place
in the Sun, Twenty Five Years of an Artist. By Jock Sturges:
Radiant Identities Need a book? http://www.amazon.com
-----Great sites:
http://www.nambla.org
http://www.AlessandraSmile.com
-Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427) is
copyright 1998 and a trademark of Andrew Roller. All rights reserved.
-END OF story EMISSION