Letters

"John—John, were are you," she cried. Her knees had pulled up to her chest and the blanket was wrapped tightly around her body.

'I'm here,' said a masculine voice that seemed to come from within he own thoughts.

Somehow, it reminded her of an old movie she had seen called, "The Three Faces of Eve." The voice "felt" real—as if someone else had taken up residence inside her head—maybe even a male version of Amy.

"Here?" Amy asked.

'Yes.'

Amy had an "almost" irresistible urge to ask him who the fuck he was and why he was inside her head—but said:

"Why?"

'Because I'm your guide.'

"My guide?"

'Yes, I'm sorry if I scared you—but I had to get your attention.'

There was a clicking sound and Amy suddenly felt secure and safe rapped tightly in her blanket; like an unborn infant in her mother's womb. She could hear John's gentle snoring from the room that had previously disappeared, and in fact, everything had returned to normal. Amy stood; she had to steady herself against the wall when the room had begun to spin. 'Too much oxygen,' she thought, and slowed her breathing.

"Did you do all this?"

'Yes, but I had to get through to you.'

Amy peeked around the door, the one that lead to her bedroom, and John was sleeping soundly. Despite her first desire to wake him up and fill his ears with exotic and impossible happenings, she was drawn back to the voice.

"What are you guiding me to?"

'The truth.'

"What truth would that be?"

'Ronda, and the letter.'

Amy felt a sharp pain at the back of her neck, a sure sign of a bad headache coming on. She walked back to couch and sat down.

"I can't remember the letter, I've tried."

'You can and you will.'

His words chased the pain in her neck up to the top of her head and it pulsed in time with the lightning that struck behind her eyes.

"Stop it, STOP IT," Amy screamed. "My head is going to explode."

There was a clicking sound again, two clicks to be exact, and the pain stopped. The flashing bolts of light behind her eyes flashed once more—then again for the last time. She took a deep breath, and then fell to her side onto the soft cushions of the couch and felt very relaxed.

'Do you feel better now, Amy?'

"—Yes," Amy said after a long pause.

'That night with Ronda, when she was sitting beside you and showing you the erotic magazines, what happened next?'

Amy's jaw tightened and her eyes closed so hard that her eyebrows came together over her nose.

"She took my hand and put it under the blanket in my lap—and told me to dig."

28.

"I don't think I can do that Ronda," Amy said, but didn't remove her hand from under the blanket. "We're not kids anymore, and this isn't show and 'not' tell."

Ronda didn't speak; she opened the magazine to the first page and then the next. The pictorial was of a couple engaged in various forms of sex, and Amy found she was attracted to the young man in the photos. He had an athletic build and his penis was more in line with what she thought its size "should" be. It didn't look threatening.

Amy tried to resist the overwhelming urge to dig, but settled for a stealth-like approach to the problem. She moved her hand lower in her lap, until her fingers found the small hard bump under the thin material of her panties. The nipples of her breast, however, were not so discreet; they tightened and became erect revealing Amy's excitement.

29.

It was disturbing, this sudden reversal of rolls. It had always been Amy that led the way, and Amy that consummated new ideas and gave them the thumbs up or thumbs down, but here was timid Ronda forging ahead into unknown, unexplored territory.

Ronda moved her hand under the blanket and began to dig. There was not attempt to hide it, or even pretend that it was something else like scratching an itch or adjusting her panties that had crept into the crack of her ass. She was masturbating. Ronda moaned and Amy could visualize Ronda's finger finding its target; working its way through the folds of her vulva and under her clit.

The magazine fell from Ronda's lap, and there was another moan when her other hand crossed the barrier that separated Amy's thigh from hers. Her fingers dug in as she grabbed a hunk of Amy's flesh and held on as if she were afraid of falling off the couch. Ronda's body stiffened and a primitive grunt, like something you would hear from the ape section of the zoo, came from Ronda's throat. It was followed by several high-pitched versions of Amy's name.

Ronda released Amy's thigh as her body sank back into the thick cushions of the couch. Her eyes were closed and the crotch of one side of her mouth slid up into half a smile. The hand that had gripped Amy's thigh with such vigor, now massaged her leg in ever growing circles that, with each rotation, inched closer to Amy's sex.

Amy's eye's grew large and round as she watched her friend cum. She had been so captivated that she hardly noticed Ronda's hand on her thigh, but now it became the focus of her attention. Ronda's hand had bumped into hers, and she had been caught with her finger's on the sweet spot. A wave of guilt and embarrassment roared through her and the pail skin of her face and neck flushed with blood.

It was all too fast for Amy's mind to comprehend; the alcohol had taken its toll, and before she could move past one emotion and onto the next, Ronda's hand was in her panties.

30.

A feeling of impending doom overwhelmed Amy as she replayed the past in her mind. It was as if she had heard screeching tires on hot pavement and she was waiting for the thunder of the crash.

***

Amy grabbed Ronda's arm and was about to extract the invading fingers from her crotch, when one of Ronda's fingers snuggled up under her clit and tickled its length. A classic dig formation if there ever was one. Amy's other hand joined the first and gripped Ronda's forearm. She could feel the muscles and tendons pulsate in rhythm to the stoking of her clit and it seemed to intensify the sensations.

'Stop,' she repeated over and over in her mind, but her body rebelled, and like an angry mob it pushed ever-forward breaking through her defenses. There was a tug at her hips and the sound of ripping paper—no—it was cloth. Ronda was on her knees between Amy's legs and had ripped out the crotch of her panties.

Ronda bit her thigh—and it was a hard bite. It would leave a mark that Amy would find later and curse the day she met Ronda. Amy grabbed handfuls of hair on Ronda's head in an effort to push her away, but her arms and hands ignored her commands. They were part of the coup; the great conspiracy of body over mind—and they were winning the war. Even her throat, larynx, and lungs joined in with shouts of pleasure and lascivious remarks encouraging Ronda to continue her assault.

Amy saw the large dildo in Ronda's hand; it bounced and wiggled like it was a living thing. A snake of massive proportions— but with only one eye, and it stared at her. 'I will have you my darling,' it seemed to say. She wanted to scream and run away but again her body refused to retreat. There was relief when Ronda turned the ugly monster on herself. Amy watched in utter disbelief when Ronda sat on the thing, and she looked to be in pain as it penetrated her sex. Great beads of sweat trundled down her face and did a little dance before falling to their doom deep within the carpet fibers on the floor.

Then her face softened and her mouth made odd shapes that could have represented all the vowels. "A—E—I—O—U". She would rise and fall as if she were on a carousel, and all the while, tweaking and pulling and massaging Amy's clit.

Their eyes met, and even as her face slowly descended to the fine wisps of red pubic hair, their eyes remained locked in meditation. As Ronda lowered herself onto the creature between her legs, her chin would dip down and touch that small bundle of nerves, the brains of the rebellion, and squeeze it against her finger.

An orgasm lurked in the shadows of Amy's mind. It was a beast that threatened to consume her very soul if she would let it, and give into the revolution, become part of the coup, become a co- conspirator. 'It's not you we're after my sweet; it's your innocence, your chasteness—your virginity.'

Amy struggled, but the odds were against her. Now Ronda kissed her pubis. Kissed the top of her left, and then her right thigh. She ran her tongue down the crease where thigh meets groin, and then kissed the very center of her sex. Like a soft, warm breeze that tickles the fine hairs of Amy's arms, Ronda's tongue grazed the small lips of her vulva, touching—but not touching.

Ronda's orgasm came swiftly as she rode the snake monster; her hands had held onto Amy's torso as she bounced and bobbed. She stilled—her fingernails dug into the soft flesh Amy's tummy and several high-pitched squeaks escaped her taut lips. She didn't move or even breath for what seemed like several minutes. Amy felt sure she would fall over dead any second, but she didn't; air finally rushed from her lungs and she released the now sore, and fingernail-tattooed tummy flesh she had strangled for her pleasure.

Ronda kissed Amy's tummy and licked her way to her bellybutton using her nose to push up the nightshirt. She licked around and inside it. Amy tried to turn her body away from Ronda, but she still had no power to do so. She screamed at her to stop, but what came out of her mouth was a low sensuous moan.

Ronda moved up between Amy's legs and brushed her lips lightly across Amy's. A thin string of saliva stretched and then broke.

"I've always wanted to do that Amy, you lips are so sweet."

Amy tried to answer, 'get off me now! I hate you—I hate you! Why? Why did you do it?' But nothing came out.

Ronda kissed her again, this time taking Amy's bottom lip between her teeth and gently pulling at it and then sucked it into her mouth. There was a slurping, slushy plop sound when she let it go.

"You're kisses are like poison—'sweet' poison," Ronda said as she bent down for another kiss. Her tongue pushed past Amy's teeth and preformed an age-old dance that has never gone out of style. "And this," Ronda said, after finally releasing Amy's lips, "is the antidote— the second kiss—and..." She kissed her again, and then on her chin, neck, between her breast, her tummy, and then her final distention— her clit. Ronda sucked it into her mouth and performed a kind of female-to-female fellatio. Using her fingers to pull away the lose flesh that protected the stiff little organ, and she raked it gently with her teeth.

Amy could hear herself moan as Ronda inserted a finger inside her virgin hole, and her pelvis answered with a thrust to achieve a depth never before explored.

***

'No—why—why am I letting this happen?' Amy asked as she felt the finger enter her body, but nothing had penetrated her vagina as she lay on the couch, and she was helpless to stop it. She couldn't change the past—or even understand it yet. She was only along for the ride. There were two Amy's, Amy now, and Amy then. It was like some new interactive movie that guaranteed the realest of real adventures. And then there was the third—Amy? No, she didn't think so, he had answered to the name of John, her husband's name, so who was he?

A second finger interrupted Amy's thoughts as the wave of pleasure almost made her cum; a feeling that she had not desired nor welcomed, but was unable to avoid. Amy could see Ronda between her thighs licking and sucking on her clit even though she new she wasn't really there. The separation between reality and memory grew vague and transparent, and then disappeared altogether. Amy was no longer in her home with John snoring in their bedroom down the hall—she was at Ronda's—ten years in the past.

31.

There were two sets of arms and legs. Amy reached down to push Ronda away, while her other phantom-like limbs, caressed and pulled Ronda in closer. She was now Amy within Amy, a completely separate person with no real substance, and no control over the actions of the other. She could only watch—and "feel" the events unfolding before her.

Amy had heard of ghosts walking the earth with unfinished business and thought that this must be how it feels, to be powerless to right the wrong that had been done to them—or others, and powerless to change the "one" thing that triggered some catastrophe that ended their lives as they knew it. Amy could see and feel the first domino that stood ready to fall and strike the next, and to set in motion— 'What?'

32.

The dildo, now held at the entrance of Amy's vagina, bathed in the wetness of her sex. Amy of the future sat up, and then stepped out of the body of her former self. Momentarily stunned by what she had just done, her fingers and toes turned cold—and her stomach felt as if it had been left up on the twentieth floor of a tall building that sported a particularly fast elevator. She steadied herself on the armrest of the sofa and turned slowly to look at Ronda and—what, Amy number two?

Not quite trusting her sense of balance, Amy remained bent over and holding onto the cushions of the sofa as she moved closer to the lovers. She hadn't floated up to the ceiling and her hands sank into the sofa, and she could feel it. She hoped she could...

Amy's hand went through and into Ronda's shoulder as she tried to get her attention, and she quickly snapped it back. She shuddered and fell back onto the couch. Everything seemed real except Amy number two and Ronda. She could even smell the beer on their breath and feel the movement of the sofa as Amy thrust her pelvis up to Ronda's face, but they were like phantoms—'ghosts of Christmas past or something.'

Ronda held the dildo between the lips of Amy's pussy and had stopped mouthing her clit. The Amy of the future new what was about to happen and yelled a long and resounding, "NO," but as she did, there was a sharp pain in her groin. She opened her legs and saw a small trickle of blood. It started at the bottom of her vagina and had started to seep into the fibers of the cushion. Panic set in as she reached over to Amy number two and tried to console her other self.

"It's okay Amy—It means nothing—please."

There was a grunt, and... "Shit Ronda, what the hell did you do to me!" said Amy number two.

"I'm sorry—did I hurt you?"

"Hurt me?" said Amy. She stood and touched herself between her legs and then bought her hand up to her face. "Goddamn it Ronda—I'm bleeding!"

"I—I," Ronda started to say something, but before she could, Amy had gone into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Even now, Amy sat on the couch angry with Ronda for doing such a thing, but the anger was diluted by time and a premonition that something more important, and more dangerous than the loss of a thin membrane of skin, was going to happen. When Amy finally came out of the bathroom, she had her overnight bag, which she always kept in the downstairs bathroom when she visited, and she was fully dressed.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes!"

"I'll get dressed and walk you home," Ronda said and she started to get up.

"Don't bother—you've already raped me. What's next—you going to sell me on the street? This was a setup, wasn't it—a fucking setup."

"I wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't what for God's sake? 'I' wouldn't have thought you would rape me—and drag me down into your little perverted world."

There was a slap sound as Amy's hand struck Ronda's cheek. It was so fast that Amy, the one still naked on the couch, barely saw it happen—but she remembered it. There was a feeling of satisfaction; it felt good—too good. She wanted her to hit her again.

Amy raised her hand again, but this time she made a fist. Ronda flung out her arms to protect herself from the coming blow—a mirror directly behind Ronda caught Amy's eye, and...

33.

Naked Amy on the couch shivered. She wasn't cold—she was in shock. Not from an injury or loss of blood, but from a loss of reality. She reached for the blanket that had been tumbled to the floor, her own had not made the trip, but it gave no warmth or comfort. Like everything else here, she could touch it—and even feel it, but it was like trying grab hold of a gust of wind.

She had felt the pain of the rubber penis when it entered her and yet, it hadn't entered her—not the Amy of now. Amy could see and hear from two sets of eyes and ears, it was like she was in two places at one time. She could see the image in the mirror, but she could also see herself "seeing" the image. Was that even possible? She thought not. A dream, maybe its all just a dream and she'll wake up next to John and they would have a good laugh over it at breakfast.

Amy wanted to believe that, she "desperately" wanted to believe that, but—no, it wasn't a dream. The pain she had felt was real, the trickle of blood on her thigh was real, the feeling of her hand as it struck Ronda's face was real—it was all "too" real. The image in the mirror was...

34.

Her fist was up and poised to strike; her lips pulled tightly across her white teeth and drained of blood. She could see the underlying muscles of her jaw, flexed and firm, as if she had bitten into something she was about to rip apart, and for a fraction of a second, she didn't recognize the face that stared back at her.

Naked Amy jumped up and stepped in between Amy and Ronda, willing to take the punch. As if in different layers, she could see three distinct images—all at the same time. She focused on her former self and tried to push her away from Ronda. After her hands made contact with Amy's chest, just long enough to build momentum, they passed completely through her. It was like climbing a flight of stairs in the dark, and thinking there was one more step that didn't really exist. She stumbled, past through Amy and slammed into the wall behind her.

"Ouch—God I hate that!"

She turned her shoulder into the wall. It felt so strange when she had passed through Amy. 'Dead skin,' she thought. 'That's what it felt like; pealing off dead flaky skin after a bad sunburn.'

The younger Amy was headed for the door. Ronda took hold of her arm and tried to pull her back.

"Goddamn it Ronda, keep your fucking hands off me. Don't 'ever' touch me again—just—just stay away from me," she said as she stumbled out the door. The bottom of her shoe had nicked the threshold and caused her to momentarily lose her balance. She was able to stay upright, but her anger now teetered on the edge of rage.

Amy of the past turned and faced Ronda.

Amy of now new what she was about to say. Her gut tightened as she replayed the words from memory, a memory that could foresee the coming events only moments ahead of their happening. Suddenly, "she" was standing outside looking in. "She" was facing Ronda and saying the words that struck the second domino—the third, forth...

"You fucking dyke! You fucking whore! Don't ever—EVER talk to me again," she said. As she turned and left, Mrs. Langston, the neighborhood tell-all, was standing at the end of the walk. Her eyes and ears recording the event like security cameras in the mall, and surely would be played back to everyone with her own personal embellishments added.

'Shit,' Amy thought. She turned within the living carcass of her former self and tried to go to Ronda, but she was unable to leave her body of the past. Ronda was on her knees in the doorway; naked from the waist down, and both hands covered her face. Mrs. Langston was halfway up the walkway and speaking to her, but all she could hear were the words, "all right."

35.

Time had no weight in this world of two Amy's. She found that hours had gone by. The sun peeked into her bedroom window of her mother's house, and its beam inched its way onto her bed. The sun should have brightened the entire room, but the laser-like shards of light only pierced the darkness without warming or illuminating effects. It was morning.