Charlie and Mindy Bk. 02 Ch. 06

Our routine suited us well, and it gave us the private time we needed. (That is, we could enjoy each other's bodies often enough—if not as often as we would have liked.) We liked taking the red pack to the park, and the shorter days brought on by the advancing fall had made it easier for us to be there earlier in the evening—especially after daylight savings time ended.

But as the days grew shorter, and evenings in the park became more private earlier, those evenings also got colder earlier. So we took the red pack to the bottom floor of the library on a few of the colder weekend evenings—which were the times when we were least able to use my room for lovers' intimacies and thus got horniest for each other.

And as we approached the first weekend of November, we entered the progressing season's first real cold snap, with evening temperatures in the mid-twenties—cold enough that I was finally wearing the old leather jacket I hadn't been able to leave in the store. Soon, I reckoned, it would be time for me to show Mindy a few more of my secrets regarding campus buildings. There were other places to take the red pack—warm places behind locked doors, where we could be safe from prying eyes.

We liked least that we couldn't share a bed through the night—nor even slip, naked, into a sleeping lover's bed to wake the other up in the morning. We were hoping we'd be able to spend a few nights together during the coming Thanksgiving break. Most folks (George, for one, and Mindy's roommate Carol, for another) would be gone. But, owing to the travel time required, we would not be going home for that five-day break. As October waned into November and Thanksgiving loomed in the near future, we were eagerly anticipating sleeping together—in the real, as well as the idiomatic, sense of the words.

People who knew us, my house-mates in particular, seemed to find it natural that a brother and sister, both smart, should spend a good bit of their time studying with each other—especially given that they were enrolled together in two courses carrying about half their credit loads.

I had managed to keep up some of the social connections I'd made the year before, even though I no longer shared living quarters with those men. One reason was that when late evening arrived, George and I, more often than not, were to be found lifting a few at Sarge's. There we saw many of our old friends. We also made new friends among Sarge's customers.

Somehow, between the two of us, George and I usually managed to beat the temptation to lift several more than might have been wise. We did show up for our morning classes with our asses dragging on a few occasions. After all, the joys of scholarship are one thing; sucking suds with your buds is another.

Mindy had made connections with other freshman women in her dormitory. In a men's dorm the residents are likely to stay up until all hours discussing the Meaning of Everything, lying about their sex lives, and otherwise shooting the shit; I presume that similar things happen in women's dorms. In evidence, I present the fact that Mindy, too, turned up unusually bleary-eyed more than once.

Whatever may have been going on, she frequently mentioned women friends she had made in that milieu. And several men, none of whom knew her to be my sister, had tried to date her. That was to be expected, and the mythical Rod Hancock had turned out to be a handy fellow to have in Florida. (Frank, I found out from George, had not tried. George had told him about Rod, and so he hadn't bothered.)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was the first Friday of November; Mindy arrived just before George left. I was in the kitchen getting something to eat when I heard her announce her arrival and George's "Hi, Mindy!" in reply. She exchanged some pleasantries with him as she came up the stairs, tossed her winter coat into the living room, and walked down the hall to the kitchen. She'd already eaten at the dorm, and she refused any food—though there was plenty on hand. While I ate, we talked about what we might need to do in order to get ready for classes that day. Until George was gone, that is.

When she heard George walk out the front door and the door shut, she grabbed me and French-kissed me in spite of my scrambled-eggs-filled mouth.

"Mmmm," she muttered, "I sure do like the way you make scrambled eggs!"

"Those are my eggs, woman!" I said. "I offered you some food of your own, and you turned it down. Now you're literally stealing the food out of a hungry man's mouth!"

"You really look hungry, you big oaf," she said with a grin.

I jumped all over the opening. "Well, you might not be so little, if you'd just eaten more when you were trying to grow up."

"I am not little," she asserted, with the usual force.

That was all of the scolding I got; done with it, she set the mortal insult aside. "But I do need some help with calculus this morning, so hurry up and finish."

I crunched on the first half of the last slice of bacon and shoveled the last of the eggs into my mouth to accompany it. Blatantly disregarding Mom's rule that you never talk with your mouth full, I mumbled through the food, "Damn! Only a woman would rather think about math than make love."

She smiled. She'd figured me out pretty well, and she knew that I now found math almost (almost, that is) as interesting as sex. I'd figured her out, too. We usually tried to make love on Monday and Friday mornings, because there wasn't any other time those days when we could count on having my room for that. And I'd noticed that, on those mornings, she never suggested that we should think about our French instead of our loving.

"Sorry, lover," she said, "But business before pleasure."

It was true, and I knew it. And I knew something that she didn't yet know, so I wasn't even slightly disappointed, though otherwise I might've been. (As I've said, we were getting what we needed—if not what we wanted.) I shoved the last half of the last slice of bacon into my mouth, where it joined the eggs I hadn't quite swallowed yet.

I reached out with my left hand (after all, my fork was still in my right hand) to grope her tits, while I said through the crunches, "Then let's get down to business."

She swatted at my miscreant hand. "Stop that, Dope!" she said. But she knew I was at least half teasing, and she was smiling. "I really do want some help."

"Well, I don't know…" I was being stubborn.

"If you help me quick enough, maybe there'll be time for a blow job," she suggested. It was, transparently, attempted bribery.

"There might be, at that," I agreed, with a suitable leer. Corruption (and blow jobs) suited me, and I'd never shied at being bribed. Not that anyone but Mindy had ever tried…

I paused for effect. And then I went on.

"But some famous chemist is on campus today, and he's giving a talk at two o'clock this afternoon. Afterward, at three, there's a reception for him. George is going to both of them—so he'll be out of the house from before two until at least four!"

Her face lit up. "So we can make love then. And you won't need a blow job this morning."

I gave her one of my dirtiest smiles. "I didn't say that."

It earned me two punches.

The calculus only took us about a half an hour, as it turned out, and she would've given me the blow job if I'd wanted it. But I declined so that I'd be in top form for some afternoon delight. That's not to say that we didn't fool around a little before we headed off to class. Her little body felt as fine as ever, and she voiced no complaints about my larger body.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After our afternoon "study session," we just hung out in the house for a while—mostly snuggling with each other on the couch and chatting. A little after four, we decided we'd walk downtown. We needed some school supplies, and there was a stationery store down there that had higher quality stuff at lower prices than the college bookstore. Besides, we hadn't been downtown for several weeks, and, in spite of the cold weather, we would be glad for the walk—and to get somewhere off-campus other than the park we visited some evenings.

Once we got there and got our stuff, Mindy wanted to window-shop. That was an activity I could tolerate—just. But I knew she really liked it, so I decided I'd put up with it.

We checked out several girl-type stores: An art boutique, a furniture store, a jewelry store, a couple of women's clothing stores. She had so much fun ooo-ing and ahh-ing over stuff and griping about how overpriced the things she really liked were that I was glad I hadn't squelched her. (I did make her stop at the hardware store and the sporting goods store, though, on the theory that if you're going to make a guy window-shop, you have to look into some windows at stores guys like.)

When she'd had enough, it was too late for her to get back to the dorm in time for dinner. So, on our way back to the campus, we stopped at Burger Cheapie for a burger-and-fries supper. It was past seven on that cold, evening in early November, and quite dark, .

We were just gathering our trash for disposal when I saw, out in the parking lot, a cop getting out of the driver's seat of the tiniest police car I'd ever seen. It wasn't until we walked to the door, where he met us and held the door open for the two of us, that I realized that I'd had it backward. The car was just a normal-sized car; it was the cop who was large. In fact, he was the largest man I'd ever seen. He was about six feet, ten inches tall—making him a full head taller than I was—and he must've weighed about 275 pounds. I guessed he was in his middle forties. The striking thing about him was that he was so well-proportioned that you didn't realize how big he was until you were right next to him.

As we passed through the door, he smiled and said "Good evening, folks." His badge, on the left side of his chest, was almost at my eye level. So, on the other side of his chest, was his name tag. It said "Abner Delaney." We replied to his greeting, and his partner—who had remained in the car for a moment or two—joined him as we started back to the campus. The partner, who looked about ten years older, was a grizzled fellow with sergeant's stripes on his arms.

"That," said Mindy when we were out of earshot, "is a big man." She buttoned up her coat against the twenty-five degree chill, and drew a pair of gloves from her pockets.

"It sure is!" I agreed, as I zipped up my bomber jacket and got my own gloves out of my pocket. Before putting on the gloves, I raised the fake-fur-padded collar. It had a leather strap attached that I could pull across the opening at the throat and fasten. That's what I did—and that action, which I took so casually, so thoughtlessly, probably saved my life only a few minutes later.

We'd gotten a block or so from Burger Cheapie, walking north up the street toward The Dog House. That house was on the same side of the street as the restaurant, and both were to our left as we walked toward the campus.

The remodelers' trailer was still in place, though it had been emptied several times. That night, it contained ancient lath—flecked with old plaster—as well as an old kitchen sink and a lot of old, one-inch, galvanized steel pipe. Whoever had thrown the pipe into the trailer hadn't been very careful; there was a good bit of it on the ground nearby.

We had just cleared the trailer tongue, and The Doberman had just begun his usual rant, when I saw by a nearby streetlight that the front gate to his yard was ajar—standing an inch or so outward from the fence. And the dog, still raging at us, was bounding toward it.

Immediately, I pushed Mindy—who seemed unaware of the danger that open gate put us in—behind me so that I stood between her and the gate. As I pushed her, I scanned the nearby ground for something I could use as a weapon. And I saw, lying near the curb only a few feet a way, a half-yard length of steel pipe that had missed the trailer. Just the thing!

Mindy said something in an ugly tone of voice—protesting, no doubt, the rough treatment I'd given her. But I ignored her; to this day, I don't know what it was that she said. Pulling her with me by main force, I quickly stepped over, and picked that pipe up.

I made sure that I was still between Mindy and the gate—which the dog had thrown himself against while I was arming myself—and turned to face the dog. Fortunately, he hadn't expected that gate to give, and when it did he tumbled through it and landed in a heap—in no state to accomplish anything.

When the gate flew open, Mindy suddenly realized our danger. She screamed. The dog recovered from his tumble in less than a second. He stood there, barking, snarling, growling at us—not quite certain what he wanted to do.

Maybe Mindy's scream had startled him, or maybe his fall had confused him more than I could see. At any rate, still twenty feet or so away, he stood there, hurling his hatred at us, for twenty, thirty, forty seconds.

And then he charged.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, but as subsequent events were to prove, it all happened too quickly for me to think things through—or I might have acted differently than I did.

As The Doberman lunged forward, I set myself so that I could move quickly back to my right, and I threw my left arm back in order to keep my beloved little sister clear when I did so. Later, I saw that this was a mistake; I should've stood firm, met the dog's charge head on, and trusted Mindy to stay in the shelter my body provided.

The beast leapt at my throat, and I pivoted backward on my right foot, pushing Mindy out of harm's way with my left arm, while I aimed a downward blow at the dog's head with the pipe. I put every available ounce of my not inconsiderable strength into my swing; I fully intended to brain that beast on the spot.

But, what with Mindy, the dog, and the awkward position I had gotten myself into, I was trying to keep track of too many things at once. I forgot that the curb was so close.

When I pivoted backward and swung, my left foot landed on the edge of the curb and slipped off—throwing me to the ground. As I fell, I saw my blow miss the dog's head and connect instead with its left shoulder.

His howl of pain blended with another scream from Mindy.

My head exploded, blinding stars overwhelmed me…

(To be continued)

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Comments are welcome. I don't comment on my own stories, so I have no way to respond to anonymous comments; I will try to respond to others.

—CarlusMagnus