A Striking Resemblance

So she got down on her knees, ripped the purple condom off, flung it away, and took him in her mouth. Just the head of it. She sucked it hard as she could and tickled the tip with her tongue, while she cranked the shaft with her left hand and squeezed his nuts with her right—you had to be careful about that. You couldn't do it too hard, but you didn't want to be too gentle, either. If you did it right, the payoff was dramatic. It would boost it for him, big time.

"Lara! Oh Lara! Auughh!"

Margie. My name is Margie. But he wouldn't wanna know that. Still, she would have liked to hear him yelling her real name like that. That would have been better.

She suddenly remembered something that happened to her back in high school, senior year—something she hadn't thought about in ages. She'd snuck out to a late movie with a bunch of friends, but afterwards there was a mix-up and she got left behind by herself at the theatre. If she'd had to wake her parents up to come get her, she would have been grounded for months. Might have missed prom—she'd been in trouble a lot that year and they were pretty fed up with her. But a young cop patrolling the big parking lot had spotted her on the sidewalk outside the place looking distressed, and he gave her a lift home so she wouldn't get busted ... She had got the idea in her head he was gonna ask her for a blowjob, before he let her out of the car. Like from something she'd read or saw on TV. He hadn't tried anything like that at all—the guy was perfectly polite, the whole ride. But the thing was, if he'd asked her for that, she would have done it. She'd wanted to do it. She'd wanted him to ask.

Clone Sting didn't come, though. He had said he was ready and it seemed like it was time. But he didn't spurt yet. She kept sucking and tongue-flicking, and the cranking and the squeezing with her hands, and he kept yelling "Lara!" and other incoherent exclamations—"Huuhrr! Yuuhhaarrgghh!" Any second now ... Any second ... But God, he didn't ejaculate. This was taking too long. She'd thrown him off, changing things up like this at the last moment. Maybe it was too good now. Too intense. That happened sometimes. System overload. A paper jam in the printer. She hated when guys got stuck like this. Right on the brink. You just had to wait for it. You kept thinking Now! Now! Now? But no. The answer was no. Jesus.

She couldn't maintain the momentum. She needed a breather or her head would explode. So she stopped everything she was doing and pulled back from him to take a few breaths, and of course right then the moment he was out of her mouth was when it burst. The first shot went right up her nose. Perfect.

She felt a lot pour down over her breasts, but most of that was her own drool spilling from her mouth when she released him, not his semen. He fired upward across her forehead and into her hair. Somehow none of it ended up in her eyes, which was nice. She felt one thick strand loop over her left ear, which then descended slowly toward her shoulder a few inches, a trembling teardrop globule on the end of a thin stretching string, like a plastic novelty earring in the shape of sperm cell, until she flicked it away with her fingers.

Well then. She looked up at him, looking down at her. He certainly looked pleased at the mess he'd made. So she was pleased that he was pleased. She felt shy now, and yucky—but it had felt good while it was happening, like it was supposed to. She had accomplished what she wanted, when she chose to have it finish this way.

If this was a movie, they would fade-out now that the action was done. Jump ahead to the next scene, if there was more story to tell. It would be nice if real life was like that.

Most people get sleepy after sex, but Margie never did. Never. She was always left feeling jumpy, and queasy in her stomach. Didn't seem to make a difference if she had an orgasm or not. Her strongest immediate urge was always to wash and then cover herself up. She never wanted to cuddle with anybody, not even if she really liked the guy she was with. She wanted to get away by herself and not think at all about what she just experienced. Didn't matter if it was really good or really bad. Either way, she'd obsess about it if she let herself, over-analyzing everything. So she had learned to never let that happen. Usually she'd watch TV or play loud music for an hour or so, to give herself something to focus on and keep her brain occupied. She couldn't do that in this place.

She could wash, though, which she did, in his shower. Just giving herself a quick thirty second blast, to rinse the jizz off her. Drying off was a problem 'cause he only had that one dinky green towel and it was still soggy from when he used it before. She did the best she could with it, but she was still dripping all over the place as she got dressed. Clone Sting put on the same crumpled boiler suit he had on originally.

Then they hustled out to his plane and got going.

It wasn't a long flight. They never said a word to each other the whole way. He whistled a little. She sort of half-recognized the tune, but she didn't know the name of it or what the words were. Usually something like that would drive her crazy, but for some reason that time it didn't bother her.

Because she was still damp, it got really cold after they got airborne, and she shivered a lot in her seat, hugging her legs to herself, teeth chattering. But that was helpful. Not enjoyable but good because it gave her what she needed, since she didn't have a TV to watch or music to listen to (besides his whistling, which wouldn't have been enough by itself). She focused on the cold and how awful it was, and didn't think about anything else but those sensations, the entire trip.

He landed them in a field on the far side of the mountains. She was surprised he could do that—she thought a seaplane could only land on water. But it had regular landing gear too. Shows how knowledgeable she was about aviation.

There was a road next to the field, leading to a town or a village a short walk ahead. "Shithole," he said, pointing. Or that was what it sounded like he said. With his accent it was more like "shizool." Perhaps he wasn't insulting the place; perhaps that really was its name, which just happened to sound like "shithole" in English.

She got out and started off ...

"Aren't you going to shoot me?" he called after her.

Without stopping or looking around, she reached over her shoulder and pretended to shoot him with her pointer finger. "Bang bang," she said.

He didn't laugh. "Farewell, Lara Croft. Thank you and farewell."

5.

Now it was three hours later. Margie was in a shitty little hotel room, and she'd just got off the phone with the real Lara Croft. Hadn't told her the entire story, obviously, but most of it. The important stuff. The find, the baddies. Lara had said she would leave right away to come help her out. She would arrive tomorrow afternoon.

It was a relief to hear, but of course Margie still felt a little disappointed in herself for making that call. For not seeing the whole mess through alone. But she had felt stumped. The more she thought things over, the more stumped Margie got. How could she get back to the art stash safely, before the bad guys dug down into it? There was no way, not alone. Too many angles to cover at once. Margie didn't have the resources. The real Lara did. She had said she already knew who the bad guys were—or at least she knew the most likely candidates, in that part of the world.

The only other option Margie thought of would have been to go to the government, such as they had, or the surviving remnants of the police force in that country. Bandits, both groups. Very likely connected to the people that tried to kill her. Even if they weren't, they'd screw Margie out of the credit for her find, and most of the payoff, if not all of it. Hell with that.

So finally she had turned to her former teacher. Lara would swoop in to the rescue.

Would she steal all the glory, in the process? She might, intentionally or not. The press would trumpet Lara's name over Margie's.

Perhaps it was what she deserved, after appropriating Lara's identity. If you dress up like Superman and save a bunch of kids from a burning orphanage, you can't really complain if Superman gets the credit. Or can you? Superman wasn't a real person but Lara Croft was, at least in Margie's universe.

Margie hadn't told Lara about using her name to get the local historians to help her, and dressing up like her. She didn't have any other clothes to change into. That was gonna raise Lara's eyebrows when they met tomorrow. Unless Margie went to a store before she arrived. Could she afford that? Was it worth the trouble?

She wondered what Clone Sting was doing, now that he was back home. Yes, that was how she kept thinking of him—as Clone Sting. She wondered if he'd have any trouble from the bad guys looking for her. When they couldn't find her, and they saw his plane, they'd figure out he must have helped her. What would they do?

How weird was it she felt worried about him? Because she did.

It was worse than weird, it was dumb. Really dumb. The fucking guy was a nut and a rapist and he had raped her. Telling herself it had been something else like a seduction or whatever was stupid and bullshit and a lie. He had forced her to have sex with him and that was rape. Rape is rape is rape. Just because he hadn't put a gun on her or beat her up didn't make it any better or any less criminal or any less wrong. It had been sinful and it had been cruel, as well, even if he hadn't used real violence and hurt her. He was still an evil criminal bastard. Because he had taken advantage of her situation, for his own selfish gratification—she had only agreed to it under duress. That was compulsion. That made it an involuntary act. Which made it rape. Making someone consent to something against their will isn't real consent.

Jesus, though ... It was messed up to say this, but she had to face the facts. This probably meant she had deep issues to work out, and also that she was a traitor to feminism—and to herself. Her own dignity. But Jesus. That fucking guy knew how to fuck. That shit had been the best sex she ever had.

So she wouldn't call it a rape. She wouldn't think of it that way, since she'd got off on it. Her choice. This was her choice. It had happened to her, dammit. So that made it her thing alone to deal with, however she wanted, however she needed to. She wouldn't think of it as a rape—it hadn't been horrible enough to be a rape, so therefore she would hereby declare it had been something else: A seduction. It was still pretty horrible, but that was what it was—the guy had fucking seduced her. And it had happened to be the best damn stupid sex she ever had.

And after making that personal private decision, she made another one. Margie chose to get herself off again. So she took off all her clothes in a furious frenzy, flinging them all over the place around the room, and when she was fully naked she sprawled back on the bed with her legs propped high and fingered herself. She did it savage ... replaying and reliving the entire awful incredible experience step by step in her memory ...

Would she make herself gush at the end, like Clone Sting had, and drench the mattress like she had his couch? Well, if she didn't, she'd just do herself again and keep at this shit until she eventually managed it, however long it fucking took. Hell yeah.