Ep. 02 Love Me Tomorrow

Randy looked down as he withdrew his fingers, noting that her pucker hadn't fully closed yet. He drizzled a little more of the baby oil into her hole and then applied another liberal coating to his cock, finally positioning its head at her opening.

"Okay, gently now," she said.

Rachel hissed slightly with the sensation as Randy pushed the head of his cock forward until the corona was lodged just slightly inside. His efforts at loosening her had paid big off with huge dividends, obviously, because it felt very nearly as pleasurable to her as when he'd first slid into her pussy. Then, bracing herself against the wall of the shower with her hands, she began inching her ass backward onto Randy's cock in a rocking motion, grunting as she took him deeper and deeper inside her.

"Are you all right? I'm not hurting you, am I?" Randy asked nervously.

Rachel moaned as she the last remaining inch of Randy's cock into her ass. "Ooohh yeah, I'm fine. I'm just getting used to the feel of your beautiful cock stretching me back there."

She then began moving back and forth little by little, until she had the lube spread all through the length of her tunnel, and his shaft was sliding as easily as it had in her snatch.

"God, that feels magnificent! I'm so full..." she groaned. "Please baby . . . fuck me nice and slow . . . oohhhh yeah that's it . . .oh, fuck; I love this!"

Randy found that he was really enjoying how tight and hot Rachel's asshole was. Even at the slow pace they were going, he found he was getting close to orgasm. It was Rachel, though, who was the most surprised. She found that she was about to cum even though Randy hadn't even touched her pussy. She pulled and twisted her nipples, moaning even louder.

"Omigod, I'm gonna cum baby," she cried. "Fuck my ass harder, baby! Fuck it like you fucked my cunt! I wanna feel you cum in my fat ass!"

It only took a few fast pumps until Randy groaned and shot his seed into her bowels. Rachel began to grind harder against him as the waves of her orgasm increased in intensity, until she pounded on the wall in front of her and screamed. Randy slid out slowly, then helped Rachel stand upright on her wobbly legs.

"Wow, that was intense," she said. "I'm gonna finish up and then get out of the shower. The steam is beginning to make me feel lightheaded."

Randy suspected that it wasn't really the steam, that it was the excitement, coupled with her rapid panting breathing as they'd fucked. Add in the fact that her head had been hanging slightly lower than her ass, making an easy target for pooling blood, and the mere act of her standing up had triggered the dizzy spell. He didn't bother telling her that, though. Instead, he kissed her gently.

"Okay," he said. "I'm almost done myself. Can you do me a big favor, once you're dressed, and bring in my gym bag, my hairbrush, and my smokes from my van? My keys are in my left pants pocket."

She kissed him on the nose and said, "Sure thing, sweetness," as she left him to finish on his own.

* * * * * * *

He wasn't terribly quick about it. How could he be, when his mind was so filled with the whirling thoughts of this wonderful woman who had magically stepped into his life, and all that he had shared with her in the last half-day. Still, fifteen minutes after Rachel left the bathroom, Randy finished washing himself off, turned off the water, and stepped out of the shower. Waiting for him on the toilet was his gym bag, his hairbrush and a note:

"Here you go baby. I saw you had some clean stuff, in the bag. Your clothes from yesterday were all sweaty, and I got some of my mud on you, last night. I figured I'd wash your clothes while we have breakfast.. Love, ~Rach"

Beneath her flourished signature was a long line of x's and o's.

Randy dried himself and fished in his gym bag for the pants to his gi. Luckily, he hadn't had a lesson or a practice session since they'd been washed. If they'd been sweated up from a heavy workout in the dojo, he'd have had nothing clean to wear. He stepped into the pants and cinched the black web belt around his waist. Donning the spare tank top from the bag, he brushed the tangles out of his hair and put it back into its usual ponytail. Satisfied that he at least looked half-decent, he grabbed his gym bag and cigarettes and left the bathroom. As he walked out into the hallway, he smelled the scent of coffee brewing. He followed his nose to the kitchen, where he saw Rachel bent over, searching through the refrigerator. She was dressed simply, in a t-shirt and blue jeans. He gave her a brief 'wolf-whistle', to let her know that he appreciated the view she was giving him, in that position.

"Thanks for the compliment, honey," she giggled without turning. "Coffee's on the table, for you. What would you like for breakfast?"

Randy surveyed the small breakfast table, taking the seat that gave him the best overall view of both the kitchen and the woman who had so thoroughly enchanted him. There was a steaming mug of coffee on the table, along with the typical sugar bowl and a small cardboard carton of half-and-half and an ashtray. He took a moment to add his usual amounts of cream and sugar, took an appreciative sip of the brew, and lit a cigarette.

"I hadn't thought about it but, now that you ask, I'm starving!" he told her. "What did you have in mind?"

"I could think of quite a few things, baby," she giggled, turning from the refrigerator with a jug of milk and a carton of eggs in her arms. 'But I guess I ought to feed you, first. Can't have you pass out from fatigue or hunger, when I get around to those other things, now can I?"

"True enough," Randy joined her in the laughter. "You gave me quite a workout, both last night and this morning!"

"Is that a complaint?" she set the foodstuffs on the counter, turning to him with her hands on her hips. Judging from the fact that she was trying her hardest not to crack a smile, Randy figured the whole thing was an act.

"Not at all, beautiful!" he told her honestly. "I'm just stating a fact, is all. Any time you want to give me another workout like that, just let me know!"

"Alright, then," she let the straight face laps into a grin, walking over to give him a brief kiss and steal a drag from his cigarette. "Tell you what. My gram makes the best damned French toast in all of Arkham, and she taught me everything she knows about cooking."

"My grandmother taught me an Old Korean proverb: 'Never trust a skinny cook!'" he said with a laugh. "French toast sounds wonderful!"

"I guess every culture has its own version of that proverb, huh?" Rachel chuckled. "I'd really love to meet your family. They sound really great."

"I was actually thinking of taking you to meet them later today," Randy said as he sipped his coffee. "That is, if you feel comfortable with it."

"That would be great!" she said. Turning back to the counter, she cracked some eggs into a large bowl, added some milk, and grabbed a whisk to begin beating the ingredients into the dipping batter.

Rachel hummed softly to herself as she prepared breakfast. It took her several moments, before she realized that the tune she was humming was one out of her childhood, the Ten Minutes Ago waltz, from Rogers and Hammerstein's Broadway production of Cinderella. Well, that was easy enough to understand, given the lyrics that accompanied the tune. What shook her, what rattled her to her very core, was the sudden joining of Randy's baritone voice when she got to the final portion of the tune's refrain.

"In the arms of my love, I'm flying, over mountain and meadow and glen; And I like it so well that, for all I can tell, I may never come down again! I may never come down to Earth, again...."

Would there ever come a moment when something about him, about what they seemed to share, failed to amaze and thrill her? She prayed that it wouldn't happen, shivered at the vision that popped briefly into her mind, and then resolutely turned herself to the task of cooking breakfast.

For most of her life, Rachel had felt that the only way she'd be able to keep a man was through her cooking. That was assuming she ever got lucky enough to find a man, in the first place. She glanced at Randy sipping his coffee and smoking in silence and smiled, then hoped that she was viewing a possible future for the two of them. She also hoped that her parents would accept him.

The Tarunens weren't a wealthy family, but they weren't poor, either. Her mother was very conscious about appearance and social status, and her father, although he was loathe to admit it, had some decided racist tendencies.

It was her parents who had pushed her to date Scott Lister. They were friends, at least in a social sense, with Scott's parents. They didn't seem to care that Scott was a jerk who hadn't really ever bothered to even say hello to Rachel, either at school or at social functions that both families attended.

"He'll come around, eventually, dear," her mother would always say, whenever the subject of how Scott treated her would come up in conversation. "Of course, if you'd watch your diet and get a little bit of exercise -- lose a little weight -- he'd probably see the light about the 'real' you, a whole lot sooner..."

Rachel had been unable to convince her mother that a good man would accept her for who, and what, she was. Her mother would always ignore her, and go on about what a 'good family' the Listers were. What that really meant, of course, was that the Listers were well-to-do and higher on the social ladder than the Tarunens. Unspoken, yet nonetheless understood, was her parents' belief that their own status would rise if Rachel were to marry into the Lister family. Truth be told, she didn't give a damn about things like that.

"Do you think your folks would like me?" Randy's voice snapped her from her thoughts.

She turned to him with a serious expression.

"I don't know, honestly, honey," she admitted. "I guess I should tell you that my dad's kind of a racist. He was in the Army, in 'Nam, and my grandfather died on Iwo Jima. Dad's tolerant to a degree, but he'd have a hard time accepting a non-white into the family."

Randy's face betrayed his sinking heart, so Rachel put her hand gently on his shoulder.

"And I'd have a hard time accepting my family telling me who to date," she informed him. "I'm eighteen now, and preparing to go to college. I mean, it's 2003 for crissakes! That type of thinking died a long time ago.

"Do you think your family would like me?" she asked, trying to take his mind in another direction.

"The only problem I think you'd have is that you don't speak Korean and my grandparents don't speak much English, but I'll be happy to translate for you. Don't worry, I'm not going to translate 'I'm pleased to meet you' as 'Your mother sleeps with my dog', or anything like that! But consider that I'm part Swede, as well as part Asian, so you should be okay."

"You don't talk too much about your father, I've noticed. Your parents divorced?"

"Yeah, when he ran off with his secretary, to Seattle, when I was twelve. I still haven't really forgiven him for that. I hear tell I've got a half-sister, somewhere out there, but I've never met her."

"My parents bicker and fight almost constantly, whether it's about what he went through in 'Nam, her nagging at him for not picking up the dirty clothes, him sniping at her for her shopping habits and her pathological need to keep up appearances. They barely tolerate each other, but they're still together, I think, 'for my sake'. Sometimes I wish they'd just split up and get it over with."

"That's really sad," Randy sighed. "Sometimes one's family only serves as a cautionary tale, to teach you what not to do, by their example."

"I'm somewhat used to it, which is why I can't wait to go to college," Rachel replied as she put the food on the table.

Taking a bite, Randy asked, "So you're going to Misky?"

"No, I'm going to the University of Southern Maine." It was Rachel's turn to sigh. "I want to get as far away from my family as possible, while still being close enough to drive to Boston if I felt like it. Besides, the campus at Miskatonic gives me the creeps. We can still visit each other, though."

Randy nodded and smiled as he tore into his breakfast.

"You like?" she asked.

He nodded enthusiastically as he gobbled another sausage. He realized that he wasn't simply hungry . . . he was positively ravenous. He swallowed the bite he was chewing.

"I must've worked up a hell of an appetite! This is wicked good, baby!" He stifled a belch and continued, "That kinda sucks that you're moving all the way out to Maine, but I can understand your reasons. I looked into that school before I enrolled in Miskatonic. Misky offered the best scholarship, which was the major deciding factor. The other factor was that I wanted to be close to Grandfather's school, because I want to eventually become an instructor there. I want to teach women how to defend themselves, and teach children mental discipline. I'm also trying to start up my own software company. I've got some ideas for some pieces of software that might appeal to beginning musicians."

"Don't they have stuff like that already?" she asked him. "Like 'Cakewalk' and 'ProTools'?"

"Oh, I know," he snorted, trying to swallow another bite so he could talk without his mouth being full. "Do you realize how much ProTools costs? That alone usually puts it out of the reach of musicians who are just getting good, but aren't making a killing in weekend gigs. The basic functions of software like 'Cakewalk' are aimed at letting a decent musician -- guitarist or keyboard player, primarily -- sit and compose new music on a MIDI keyboard or guitar, without having to stop and write down all the notes and chords. The software does that automatically. You have to send in a copy of your song or tune in sheet-music form, as well as audio, if you want it copyrighted. The sheer cost of 'Cakewalk' keeps most new composers from ever getting to first base. I want to change that."

"Any other goals?" she smiled at him.

"Who knows?" he returned the smile, "I might even put out an occasional video game or two."

"That's awesome," she told him. "All I ever heard Scott talk about was football and partying and getting wasted."

"So what are you going to major in?" he turned the questioning around. 'What's your goal -- or goals?"

"I'm going to school to become an elementary school teacher, although I may change my mind down the road."

"I think you'd be awesome with kids," Randy said. "You have that way about you."

"You think so? I can only hope that you're right."

The pair finished their breakfast, Randy helping Rachel with the dishes. When they finished, Randy dug into his gym bag again and handed Rachel a copy of his band's CD. It bore a picture of a young woman kneeling at a grave holding a razor, and the title Remember The Dead. Rachel opened the inner booklet and read some of the lyrics, many of which were rather gruesome. She noticed that the credit for lead guitarist read 'Randy Cho' and asked him about it.

"I changed my name just before I enrolled into college," Randy said. "I haven't heard from my father since he left; I mainly get news from my mother, and what she hears is usually from the grapevine. I haven't even gotten a single birthday card or a letter from him, which really hurts. Since my grandfather has been more of a dad to me than my own father, I chose to honor my grandfather by changing my name. My legal name is actually Cho Ran-Jong now, but I still answer to 'Randy'."

"Oh, okay," Rachel said with a smile. She looked at the booklet again and saw that Randy had all the music-composition credits, and lyric credits for the songs "Dismembered and Resurrected" and "Call From The Grave". The last track was an instrumental which bore the CD's title.

"Do you mind if I listen to this?" Rachel said.

"Not at all," Randy said. "After all, it's your CD."

Rachel wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you, baby! That means so much to me. I can't wait to check this out!"

* * * * * * *

About ten minutes later, halfway through the second cut on Randy's band's CD called "Covered in Drywall", the buzzer sounded dimly from the basement. Rachel led Randy down to where the laundry machines were, and Randy wandered around, nosing, while she shifted their clothing over to the dryer. He noticed that there was a furnished room, across the basement, and checked it out. It wasn't huge, but it held an old couch, a cluttered bookshelf littered with both books and collectible items, and a fairly expensive Korg keyboard hooked up to a computer.

"Someone in the family an amateur musician?" he asked her, hooking a thumb back at the open doorway as he came back to the laundry area.

"Oh. That's my little getaway place," she blushed. "I make my own techno music and remixes. It's just something I do when I'm either bored or depressed."

"That's amazing!" Randy said with a smile. "I'd really like to hear some of your stuff."

"Maybe someday," Rachel replied. "I honestly don't think a lot of it is that good, mainly because of my singing. Don't count on it being all that great, though. I'm sure it's not in the same league as yours."

She turned away, and led the way back up the stairs to the main level of the house. Back in the kitchen, she poured them each another cup of coffee, then sat down at the table and lit one of her Jades. Randy joined her at the table, quietly lighting a cigarette of his own, and the two sat for awhile, silently smoking and sipping at their coffee. Randy sensed that he'd touched a sensitive area of her life, and gave her the 'space' to decide whether she wanted to discuss it with him.

"You don't hear a lot of positive stuff, do you, Rachel?" he asked, finally, as he stubbed out his second cigarette. It was evident, based on the things she'd told him already about her parents and her relationship with them, but he asked the question anyway.

Rachel sighed and said, "No, not really. Every day it's 'your music will never go anywhere, Rachel', 'lose some weight, Rachel', 'quit daydreaming, Rachel', 'you should be out socializing, Rachel' . . . that shit's gotten so old it fossilized."

Randy touched her cheek, making her smile and staving off any tears that were forming.

"That really sucks!" he told her. "I mean, I've gotten much the same thing, particularly about my music and the way I look. Still, my family knows that I'm still me, and that I'm serious about my studies. If the music takes off, I'll devote more time to it after I graduate. But I realize that the type of music I do isn't exactly popular and I'd be lucky to make enough money from it to support myself, let alone support a family. Anyway, I'm ready to jet if you are."

"Well, let me go see if your clothes are dry, yet," she suggested, rising from the table.

"I can come along," he ventured.

"No, baby," she waved him off. "It doesn't take two people to check the dryer. You just sit here and relax. I'll be back in a couple minutes, either with your clothes or without them."

She left the room, and he heard her footsteps descending the wooden stairs into the basement. After ten minutes or so, she returned to the room and placed his neatly folded clothes on the table in front of him. There was a bright smile on her face, almost the kind of look that hints at a secret, so he supposed her few minutes alone had left her get past her blue mood.

"Let me change, quickly, and we can get going," he told her.

"Yeah, let's get the hell out of here," Rachel replied.

As he followed her to the front hallway, Randy looked at Rachel in a new light, understanding where much of her shyness came from, as well as her initial skepticism toward him. His heart broke for her as she shared her stories with him, but at the same time he was grateful that she was comfortable enough with him to open up and share them. Together they walked out to Randy's van, and he opened the passenger door for her and gave her a hand up into the cabin. While he walked around to the driver's side of the van, Rachel buckled herself into place, lit cigarettes for each of them, and found another copy of his band's CD, swapping it for the Springsteen-mix disc that was still in the deck from the previous night.