by Garon Whited
Sasha closed the barn/stable doors through which we had just come; the back of the stable had another oversized door, open to pasture. She went to it and whistled.
All four horses came trotting up, crowding around, trying to nuzzle her and search for treats, I guessed. Things they would consider treats, that is. She stroked noses and patted necks, and called me over to introduce me.
There were three mares and a stallion. Ladybird, Silly Girl, and Flower Child were all lovely horses. I don’t know a lot about horse breeds, but I liked them immediately. Once we were introduced, they liked me, too; I found I wanted to brush them down and pet them more than I wanted to ride them.
Arabesque, however, was a magnificent Friesian—or is that Arabian? I get the two confused—with a tendency to rear; he was the stud of the stables. I liked him a lot. Unfortunately, he was none too fond of me; he accepted some petting and a sugar cube, and then dismissed me from his world as he walked off.
We saddled up Ladybird and Flower Child for our ride. They both rather liked the idea; I got the impression they didn’t get out of the pasture much.
So we rode along on a bright and clear morning, enjoying the view and the ride. We rode around and over quite a few very nice hills, and Sasha’s place occupied a lot of them. I noticed a few cattle roaming the property and wondered how many acres the place occupied.
We talked a lot. She turned out to be completely unselfconscious and frank, sometimes even blunt, and tended to lapse into an oddly formal style of speech. I found I liked her more and more. I inferred she was a very private individual with people she did not like, but it seemed she liked me.
Her husband, I learned, died some time ago, a very wealthy man. Later, she settled into widowhood, determined to enjoy life as much as possible as part payment for death’s snatching him away. As for how I came into the picture of her life, she had been out dancing and had noticed I was getting determinedly, grimly drunk with a bunch of sad-faced friends egging me on. Something had moved her to come over and try to cheer me up. She succeeded, and discovered I was actually a lot of fun, so she took me home. Her home.
I was rather glad of that; my place is a small two-roomer, appropriate for someone on a teacher’s (untenured) salary. As a bachelor apartment, it is generally a bit messy—to say the least. Mine might have been a bit more organized than most, but that just means the light and dark laundry have specific spots to be thrown.
She went on to describe our evening in a bit more detail, smiling the whole time. I wasn’t sure if she was kidding me, or really regarded it as a fond memory. If she was accurate, I impressed myself with my deeds. I wish I could have been there.
I hadn’t been paying much attention to the trail; good horses don’t need a lot of steering, and the conversation was… distracting. When she reined up to a halt, I looked around and found we were on a rocky hillside with a sort of flat spot of grass looking like a big dent in the hill. She dismounted, beckoning, and I followed suit.
She took my hands, smiled up at me, and pulled me with her into the grassy area. I followed, curious, and she stopped near the middle. Then she stepped close to me, put her arms around my torso, and turned her face up, lips slightly parted, eyes closed.
I considered for a long second… and kissed her.
The rest of the morning was pretty anticlimactic after that. Once we returned to the house—and put my clothes back in the wash; they were dirty and had grass stains—Sasha found a very nice black bathrobe for me. It was a couple of sizes too big, made of very thick silk, and heavily embroidered with dragons in gold thread. I liked it, but then I’ve been told my tastes are gaudy, often tacky; regardless, they’re mine. Sasha dumped her clothes in the laundry as well and donned her own robe, a white, fluffy thing that would have looked in fashion in any high-end spa.
It was just past noon and I found I was starving. Admittedly, I had been exercising a lot today, but it seemed unusual; I put it down as odd metabolic reactions to being seriously drunk for the first time. Maybe my body was trying to adjust.
So Sasha assembled a huge lunch and I helped by not getting in her way, occasionally even handing her things; there were several sandwiches, some fried chicken, rolls, lots of potatoes, carrots, and peas, along with a soup I couldn’t identify but liked. She ate some of it, but not with her previous vigor; I ate like I hadn’t seen food in days.
As I was finishing, she said, “I like a man with appetite.”
I half-chuckled, half-choked on a roll. I realized something was different. Now I was caught up. She remembered one extra night of wild passion; I remembered one wild morning on a hillside. But we both knew we worked well together; we knew each other physically, and had shared that. I didn’t feel I was a stranger any more.
I took out my feelings and examined them.
I liked Sasha. I liked her a lot. We’d spent—that I recalled—a pleasant morning together and we seemed… comfortable with each other. I could, with time, fall in love with her; right now, I just lusted after her hot, sweaty body. She smiled a lot around me, she looked at me when she thought I couldn’t see, and she generally tried to make me feel comfortable and happy. I wondered what she saw in me. I’m told I’m funny and kind of cute, but I know I’m not Mr. Sexy.
Maybe I’m just insecure.
Still… I decided, yes; I like her. Let’s see how that goes, for a while.
Sasha cleared away the dishes again and I helped. Then, standing close to each other in the kitchen, the urge hit us both at once. For me, I think it had something to do with the smell of her hair. There’s something so very sensual about a woman when she’s fresh from the bath, wearing nothing but her own natural perfume.
The robes were a lot softer than the tile floor. And warmer.
The rest of the day was like that. We talked a lot, too. I learned a lot about the life of the idle rich and what it’s like to lose a husband and a child. I shared with her the story of my life and what it’s like to lose the lady you love. We shared pleasure; we shared pain. It brought us closer.
I decided that even if later we were going to back away from each other on a romantic level, I was going to keep her as a friend. And, my somewhat-less-noble-side added, as a really great sex partner. Wow.
Dinner was a repeat of lunch, mostly; I ate like I was starving. When I commented on it, Sasha laughed.
“You’re a growing boy, and you need your strength. How do you feel?”
I did a quick check. “I feel great. Perfect. I haven’t felt this good in months,” I replied. “I’m still a trifle curious about a wedding you mentioned, though.”
She smiled, eyes all a-twinkle. “That was just to help get your blood flowing. Your awakening was much quicker, was it not?”
“I can think of better ways to be woken,” I grumbled, “but, yeah, I guess it worked.”
“Good. Finish your dinner and I’ll see about dessert.”
SUNDAY, JUNE 12TH
It occurs to me it may seem odd I had nothing better to do than hang around a mansion with a sexy, beautiful woman who seemed to want to feed me and devour me all the time.
Well… maybe not that odd.
But that was yesterday, Saturday. I had taken a big slug of “seriously drunk” on a Friday night. The guys would be wondering where I was, sure—but they wouldn’t be too worried. Sasha had been sober enough to drive, and Hutch was always telling me I needed a good lay. It was either that or get utterly, fall-down drunk; I went with the drinking, alcohol being easier to come by. I hadn’t thought I was in any emotional shape to deal with another woman.
All right, I guess I should mention Terri.
Terri was the reason I was trying on a drunk. Up until recently, we were in love. We were going to be married. We were absolutely happy.
She changed her mind.
Now hold on a moment, let me finish. It’s not that she grew distant, or discovered I had dandruff. Everything was absolutely peachy—one morning we woke up in her bedroom, rouse
d out, and over breakfast she mentioned it.
“Eric?” she asked.
“Yes, dear?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
I smiled at her. “Your privilege. What about?”
“Loving you. I don’t. Don’t come around any more, okay?”
I must have blinked. “That’s not funny.”
“I know. More juice?”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Oh, but I am.”
“What, did the pixie dust wear off?” I demanded.
“I’ve decided I don’t love you. Don’t try to see me ever again. I mean it. Finish your breakfast and leave, please.”
I got up, my head spinning like a weathervane, and got dressed. I gathered my things and walked back to my place. What was I going to do? Fight about it? “You do too love me!” “Do not!” “Do too!” “Do not!”
And that was it. True story. It was that fast.
Now, you figure out how I felt. Try. If you can, you have both my respect and my pity; I wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone. Personally, I don’t care to discuss it. It’s a trifle raw and very tender and I’d rather leave it alone to heal—in a few thousand years, maybe.
At any rate, that was a week ago. The guys felt it would be a good idea to take a break from my depression and misery and get me plastered. So they did.
I must admit Hutch was much closer to correct.
I don’t really remember much after the evening exercise; Sasha insisted on dragging me to bed, despite my feeble protests. I can’t recall the last time I went to bed on a Saturday night; usually I make it to Sunday morning before hitting the sack. But, despite a feeling of comfortable happiness, exhaustion snuck up on me and thumped me into dreamland before it was even dark out.
My dreams were disjointed things, crazy and shifting and none too pleasant, at least at first. I was back in the hospital with a kidney stone, but it had come loose and was reproducing rather painfully in my bloodstream. I kept telling the doctor that it couldn’t do that, it had to be something else, and he just kept shaking his head and muttering about what shame it all was. Then Sasha came in—dressed in black and wearing a veil, which disturbed me immensely—to shoo him out and hold my hand. My dreams improved a lot after that.
I woke up Sunday, about sunrise, shivering and trembling and sweating. It felt like I was having some sort of attack; my heart was struggling to beat, my breathing was short and rapid, and I could swear that my extremities were asleep for longer than the rest of me. The slow thud of my heartbeat was something I could feel in my teeth. Everything hurt, except for the places I couldn’t even feel.
Whatever it was, it passed quickly—like someone turned a dimmer switch on the effect all the way to off. It didn’t just vanish, but it phased down quickly until it was gone. I lay there for a while, just breathing and listening to the steady thud-thud-thud of my heart. Everything seemed fine….
As I lay there, I took stock. I realized that now I felt fine—actually, incredibly good—but ravenous. I got up, threw on the robe, and opened the curtains. Then I opened the blinds. Then I opened the window so I could throw back the shutters. Geez. Who has real shutters any more? I found myself looking south, over the lawn and driveway to the gate. It looked like a glorious morning.
I went downstairs to find Sasha and food. I found both in the kitchen. She had been up for a while and had not wasted the time. There were pancakes and sausage and bacon and ham and butter and toast and jams. It was a big breakfast. Huge.
“You mean to feed a regiment?” I asked, eyeing the piles and platters.
“Just us; a cozy little lovers’ breakfast. Join me?”
“Sure. Do you always wake up so early?”
“Always. It’s a hard habit to break.”
So we sat, and we ate, and I found I was packing food away as if I hadn’t eaten for a day or more. I never eat like that—at least, not more than once a day. It was just weird. That, combined with my episode on waking, made me wonder if I should see a doctor. I mentioned it to Sasha, just in case it was contagious.
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It should finish running its course in another day or so.”
“Oh?” I asked, surprised. “You know what it is?”
“Yes. I have it, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she countered, quickly. She smiled sadly. “I have it; I gave it to you.”
“Oh.” I thought about this. “Is it dangerous?”
She looked at me oddly. Maybe she was considering the question. Maybe she was figuring out a good answer.
“No. Not really. Just… inconvenient, sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” I prompted.
“It never goes away completely.”
I regarded the heaped dishes.
“Am I going to be eating like a pig for the rest of my life?” I asked, patting my stomach.
“If you like,” she replied, smiling again.
“Oh, ha ha,” I answered. I noticed something odd while patting my stomach. I probed at my abdomen with curious fingertips. Normally, I have a small excess around my middle; teaching the rudiments of physics to an auditorium of freshmen isn’t too physically demanding. That fat was gone; I felt only a layer of skin over muscle. The surprise must have shown in my face.
“Your body’s adjusting,” Sasha said, quickly. “It is rapidly burning away what fat you once had. There are changes occurring in your metabolism.”
I considered that while taking off my robe. There was a large mirror in the hallway and I made use of it. I was a lot leaner, now. If I had body fat, I couldn’t find it. I knew I hadn’t looked like this when I stepped out of the shower on Friday morning. Whatever it was, it would make a fortune as a diet plan. Still, it worried me.
I muttered something profane to myself, then, “Will you look at me?”
“Yes. Yummy.”
I shook my head and turned back to her, put the robe back on. “So what sort of… changes? I’m not… that is, you haven’t given me anything… permanent, have you?” I asked, worried.
She hesitated. That didn’t help my worries. I could feel a slight tingle of panic.
“You’ll be fine,” she assured me. “You’ll feel terribly ill for a few minutes come the morning. Other than that, it’s not too bad.”
“I would really appreciate it if you could be a bit more forthcoming,” I replied, as levelly as I could manage. Evasive answers make me extremely unhappy. “I’d like to know what the hell you gave me before I decide whether or not to be hacked off about it, okay?”
She nodded. “Okay. But can you please just see? It is difficult to explain.”
That sounded reasonable. “All right. I’ll bite. How do I ‘just see’ what’s happening?”
She worried her lower lip and then nodded. “Come with me.” I followed her into the house gym; a lot of equipment was in there, most of it pneumatic resistance. There were a few free weights—dumbbells—to one side. Sasha selected one of these, a twenty-five pounder. Then she pitched it, overhand, at my head.
I ducked it and raised my hands by reflex. I succeeded in catching it. I caught it. I held it in my hands and stared at it. My reflexes are good and I’m not in bad shape, but…
“That’s the easiest to demonstrate,” she said.
She selected a fifty-pound dumbbell and started curling it. Sasha is built along athletically slender lines. She should have trouble lifting the thing one-handed. She kept curling it easily, without apparent effort—almost as though she were fanning herself with it. I could see the muscles under her skin, shifting and flexing and bunching. Not a trace of stress or strain. Then she twirled it, like a cheerleader with a baton, and handed it to me.
I took it. Solid steel. Heavy—but I handled it easily. On impulse, I tossed the fifty-pounder spinning into the air, almost to the ceiling, and caught it on the way back down. One-handed.
I dropped the dumbbells on the floor; they thudde
d heavily to the matting. I put me down on the seat of the inclined press machine and put my head in my hands, thinking—or trying to. Sasha came over to me and sat down at my feet, resting her chin on my knees.
“Is there something—anything—I may do for you?” she asked, softly.
I shook my head, still trying to grasp what I’d just seen. And felt. And done.
“I don’t understand,” I admitted.
“You will,” she said, smiling. “I will help.”
“I think I want to go home. I need to sit down somewhere familiar and just think for a while.”
“I would rather you stayed here, please; I have enough food to feed you during the change.”
I didn’t like the way she said that. “The change?”
She nodded and hugged my legs. “We shall be so happy together!”
Which really creeped me out.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
She stood up and beckoned. “I might as well tell you, now that I’ve found you once more. Come, my lord.”
That did nothing to decrease the creepy factor. I went with her anyway; curiosity will be the death of me. We went through the house while she clung to my arm, happy as a little girl with a new dress. She unlocked a door in another wing and ushered me inside.
It wasn’t a large room, but seemed bigger than it was; it had almost no furniture. On the far wall was a portrait. The artist had done a real Norman Rockwell job. It was an old oil of a guy on a bluff, overlooking a city. It was dark, but moonlight illuminated the subject’s face. He had a cloak, furled by a wind, and a black horse standing behind him, one forehoof raised as though pawing at the ground. He had a big, heavy sword—not quite a greatsword, but longer than a broadsword—hanging at his left hip from a dark-red leather baldric. It looked like the same sword that rested on a narrow shelf beneath the picture. It was a very nice weapon; one piece of steel, with the swirls of Damascus striations in the blade.
