Vocations

"...no..."

"It disturbed you at first, didn't it?"

Maureen nodded. "I'm a Catholic."

"I'm a Catholic too, Mo. I know all the teachings. I know how the Church treats sexuality and sexual pleasure. And I'll tell you something your pastor never will." Martine felt her intensity rise. "Every woman who lives is married to every other woman who's ever lived. Husband or no husband. We have a bond from birth that marriage to a man can't undo. It goes all the way back to Creation, to Eve, to the first blood that dripped from our loins. And when we accept it, and learn to make use of its power, we become more than we were. Much more."

"What do we become?" Maureen whispered.

Martine hesitated, suddenly unsure. She groped for reassurance from the Power, felt it come vibrantly awake within her, and her uncertainty vanished.

"Celebrants. Priestesses. The true keepers of the fire of life."

Around them, the little shop was silent. No noise intruded from the street, now fully dark.

"I don't understand," Maureen whispered.

"Your friend does." Martine went to the shop door and locked it, bade Maureen to rise, and urged her gently toward the amber curtain. "And you will."

Martine positioned Maureen before a wall of mirrors and bade her stand at ease. The shopkeeper examined her critically from every angle, as Christine had, but without comment. Strangely, she felt no tension at all.

Lord, I am in your hands. I don't fear this new sense of indulgence, and I don't know if I should. Guide me rightly.

Finally Martine said, "I don't understand it."

"What?"

"How could you have not known that you're beautiful?" The young woman smiled. "I saw it right away. Is it the vaginitis?"

Maureen's head drooped. "It might be."

"Would you like me to fix that?"

Her head snapped back up. "You can?"

Martine nodded. "Maybe. Would you disrobe, please?"

Maureen felt an unexpected thrill, the current that goes with the anticipation of onrushing joy, course through her. She grinned impishly.

"I will if you will."

Martine grinned back. "With pleasure." The young woman stepped out of her high-heeled pumps, peeled off her stockings, undid a short zipper on her form-fitting leather sheath and slid it past her hips as easily as if her skin had been greased. The figure thus revealed was as lusciously striking as Christine's. Maureen blushed, turned away, and made to remove her new clothes.

When she turned back, she noted that the shopkeeper had retained a single garment: a device of steel and leather that circled her waist and enclosed her groin.

"Is that a...chastity belt?"

Martine nodded. "I wear it just about all the time."

"Good Lord, why?"

"It's part of my vocation."

"Hm?" You're too sexy for Opus Dei!

"I'm a professional horny bitch, Mo. I'm supposed to stay as horny as possible as much of the time as possible. Believe it or not, that's the fuel that keeps me going."

Maureen Harkness had thought herself worldly. She'd thought she knew Mankind in its profusion and variety. In that moment she learned how narrow her horizons had really been. She stepped forward and crouched to examine the contrivance that bound Martine's loins.

It was a solid steel plate, brightly polished, closely fitted to the young woman's flesh and held tight there by thick leather bands. The edges of the plate were smoothly beveled, but even so, there were deep red grooves in the flesh along them. It looked as if it would permit no ingress at all.

"Does it hurt?"

Martine shook her head. "Not any more."

"You wear it...all the time?"

"Almost."

She touched her fingertips to the plate. "Is this what I should --"

"No and hell no! Your program will be completely different." Martine gestured toward a massage table at the far end of the room.

Program?

Maureen followed the shopkeeper to the table. Martine gestured to her to get up on it, bade her lie on her stomach, arms at her sides.

"There are several kinds of vaginitis," Martine said as she fumbled in a drawer set into the table's base. "Yours might be treatable, but you'd never get the right kind of treatment from a medical doctor." She grinned. "That's part of what I do. Will you trust me not to hurt you?"

Maureen hesitated, then nodded.

"Thank you. Just lie there and let me work."

And so it began.

Martine's awareness of her every movement as she labored over Maureen was uniquely vivid. The tremors that ran through the older woman's form as Martine massaged and caressed her reminded her over and over that this was not a creature accustomed to the thought of sex as pleasure or play.

She's led an arid life. Love, maybe even a lot of it, but not much fun.

"Time to turn over, Mo."

Maureen's skin was smooth and pliable. It bore the milk-and-roses tint typical of English womanhood, and the chamois-like texture of maturity that embeds every past caress in loving remembrance. Her breasts were small and firm. Her ribcage musculature was solid, without hernia or sag. Her waist was trim, her hips motherly but not overly padded. She bore her years as well as any woman could hope to.

Her husband must know what he's denying himself. I have to fix this.

It was at her vagina that things went sour. Martine parted the labia tenderly and leaned close. The opening was completely dry. The residual lubrication that can be found in a healthy woman, unaroused but sexually fully functional, was entirely absent.

"Mo," Martine murmured, "I'm going to remove your pubic hair. Is that okay?"

Eyes closed, the older woman nodded.

Martine plied an electric clipper over Maureen's mound until only stubble remained, then lathered her up and carefully scraped away the stubble with a safety razor. At the end, Maureen's pubis was as clean and smooth as Martine's own.

"You'll have to keep this up for yourself, Mo," she said. "Shave it every two or three days. Otherwise the vaginitis will return, and it will itch like crazy, to boot."

From the table drawer, Martine extracted a small torpedo-shaped vibrator. She coated it liberally and carefully with the special unguent Helen had compounded for easing an irritation of the mucous membranes, parted Maureen's labia again, and murmured, "Try to hold still, dear."

The older woman nodded again. Martine activated the vibrator, put the tip against the entrance to her vagina, and inserted it slowly. Maureen gasped and her eyes popped open.

"Does it hurt?"

"No...no!" Maureen's long muscles contracted and relaxed in a steady rhythm. Her hands clutched the edges of the table. "It's wonderful!"

Martine rotated the vibrator slowly as she worked it in and out, doing her best to spread the healing balm evenly over the whole surface of the vaginal membrane. She kept an eye on Maureen's reactions, vigilant for any indications of pain or stress. There were none, only a rising arousal building inexorably toward orgasm.

Just before climax, Martine put her free hand against Maureen's sternum and pressed downward. The orgasm that followed was volcanic, likely more violent than anything Maureen had experienced before. Without Martine's restraint, she might have flown off the table.

When her gasping and spasming had subsided, Maureen elbowed herself upright, tears streaming down her face, and beckoned Martine into her arms.

"You're an angel," she sobbed. "A genuine angel."

"No, Mo, not quite," Martine murmured into her ear. "But I'm on pretty good terms with one."

"You have to do it every day," Martine told her. She handed the vibrator and the tube of unguent to Maureen. "All the way to orgasm. Two or three days, and you'll start to feel fresh and moist again. In about a week, the tissues will start producing their own lubrication. Then comes the hard part."

Maureen thrust the gifts into her new purse. "What's that?"

"Persuading Mr. Harkness that you're ready for battle."

Maureen chuckled. "It's Mr. Chase, actually, but I got the idea." She pulled her stockings up legs that seemed twice as sensitive as they had in Albrecht's women's department, fastened them to her garters, and slipped her feet into her sandals. Every movement brought a languorous delight. Her state of dreamy contentment repelled all her misgivings and cares. "Will it be like that every time?"

Martine grinned. "We can hope so. Mo," she said, "if you're nervous about it, or shy, you can always stop by. I'll help."

"I know, dear. We'll just have to see." After this, bracing Chris won't seem like that much of a challenge. She adjusted her minidress, stood and held out a hand. "Thank you for everything."

Martine stepped past the proffered hand and caught her in a full, warm embrace.

"May I make two little suggestions, Mo?"

Maureen pressed the younger woman's form firmly against her own. "Anything, dear."

"Drive home barefoot. Learning to drive in heels takes a lot of practice." Martine paused briefly. "And tell him you want to take his name."

"Hm?" She pulled slightly back and peered into Martine's eyes.

"You wouldn't believe what it means to a man. They all say it doesn't matter." Martine's eyes twinkled. "They all lie. Trust me."

"I will." Maureen hugged her again. "Are you sure you're not an angel?"

Martine chuckled. "I think God would have told me."

Only after the door of the shop closed behind her did Maureen realize that her evening wasn't quite over.

Though brightly lit, copiously traveled Grand Avenue was only a block away, the side street on which she'd found Evenings To Remember was fully dark, lit only by scattering of stars, and seemed devoid of life. Maureen wasn't reflexively afraid of the dark, but the city was largely unknown to her. Her husband had warned against walking its streets alone at night. She started hesitantly toward the municipal parking lot, placing her feet carefully, straining to see through the dark but only able to discern objects a yard or two away.

The lot was well lit, and her fears retreated. She was almost at her car's door when a large, dark figure in rough clothes stepped between it and her.

"Yo, mama. Whatchoo doin' out here? Lookin' fo' a good time?"

The slurred words were followed by a metallic click. A blade gleamed in the figure's hand. Her fears surged to a height she hadn't felt since London. She backed away, stumbled, and would have fallen had a pair of strong hands not caught her by the waist and steadied her.

"Careful, babe."

Christine stepped around her and confronted the knife-toting thug.

"My friend's a little tired. Want to play with me, asshole?"

The young thug snarled and lunged, knife held low, and slashed across Christine's midsection.

Maureen couldn't see clearly what happened next. It looked as if Christine caught the knife blade with a lightning sweep of her hand. It looked as if the thug froze in mid-swing and tried to wrench the weapon free, without success. It looked as if Christine snapped off the blade with her thumb, tossed it aside, and knocked her attacker cold with the neutered grip. But that, of course, was entirely impossible.

However, at the end of the tussle the thug was lying motionless on the macadam, and Christine was standing over him with arms akimbo, clucking in disapproval.

"Where were you?" Maureen whispered as she strove to quell her shakes.

Christine shrugged. "I waited outside the store. I wanted you two to have some privacy, but I thought I should stick around in case you needed a little help. Come on, it's time you got home."

She bundled Maureen into her car, shut the door, and sauntered back toward the shop. Maureen fumbled out her keys, started the car, and headed for her Foxwood home, her mind alight with thanks and praise to God for the friendship of Christine D'Alessandro.

Martine was unsurprised when Christine returned to her shop.

"Did your friend get home all right?"

"Not quite," Christine said. "A little trouble in the parking lot. I just put her in her car. I think she'll be okay."

"I had a feeling you hadn't gone far."

Christine nodded, absently fingering random items on the countertop. "The city isn't a safe place for a woman alone."

"Not even you?"

Christine chuckled. "Well, maybe for me. I wanted to chat with you a little, if you're not busy with important stuff."

Martine laid her journal aside and gestured at the card table, and the two resumed their seats.

"I wanted to thank you for helping my friend," Christine said. "She's had it pretty rough since coming to this country. She can't get a job in her field, her daughter was gang-raped a couple of years back, and her husband works way too much for his own good, or hers. What with all that, the sex crap was almost too much for her to bear."

"I sensed some of that," Martine said. "Anyway, I was glad to help." A thought struck her. "Have you ever been to Los Angeles? To Helen's store there?"

Christine shook her head. "I haven't left New York in...well, ever."

"Then how did you know I could help her?"

Christine was slow to answer. She stared down at her folded hands as obscure currents of emotion and contemplation passed over her face.

"You know what I do for a living?"

Martine nodded.

"It's not just a job, babe. It's more like a calling. One of those things that someone has to do, and I've been assigned." Christine looked up. "I've got what I need to do it, thank God, and I enjoy it, too. But the calling is the important part. I don't think I could walk away from it if I wanted to. And I got the same feeling about you and what you do."

Martine said nothing.

"I think...maybe we're the same that way, and different from everyone else. That other people get to work out their own ways through life, but our jobs were chosen for us."

"Yes," Martine said. "Helen is like that, too. I wish you could meet her. You'd love each other."

"If she recruited and trained you," Christine said, "I expect so. Tell me, babe." She hesitated. "Are you in contact with something?"

Martine's breath came short. She nodded convulsively. "Are you?" she whispered.

Christine smiled. "All my life. He's kept me sane."

"We are the same," Martine said. "Except I wasn't...in touch until Helen recruited me."

Christine flipped a hand. "Not important. Look, Onteora can be a rough place. You're new here, so you're likely to be targeted by some of our less refined citizens. Private and public." She pulled a card out of her jeans pocket and passed it across the table. "If anyone gives you trouble, you use that number. Day or night." She grinned. "Or call if you want a drinking buddy, or a shoulder, or someone to shop or watch TV with. Hell, put it on speed dial."

Martine closed her eyes and prayed for communion with the Power. It came at once, and blanketed her with the sense of approval for which she'd hoped.

Did Helen know this would happen?

"Chris? You haven't seen the whole shop. And I have an apartment in back. Would you like the grand tour?"

Christine rose. "Sure, why not?"

Martine rose and held out a hand, and Christine took it. As they passed through the curtain of amber beads into the mirrored gallery, Martine said, "The apartment isn't much, really, except that it has this amazing tub."

Christine grinned. "Really? Let me see."

(NB: For those who've read my story "Making Do," posted a few months ago, "Vocations" comes before that story in fictional time.)