Rag Doll Ch. 08.1 - Sherry Baby

"Speaking of which, remember I told you I was 'commando', Danny? What are you going to do about it?" she whispered, her beautiful eyes wide, innocent, teasing and wanton.

That was all I needed; my cock, already hard from all the horsing around, suddenly felt even more engorged and almost painfully constricted; I wanted her, now, and she was practically begging me to strip her and resume what we started the previous night.

"Commere, you," I growled, clasping her to me by grabbing her delicious bum and rolling sideways so we were lying face-to-face on that huge bed. Sherry sighed as I slipped my hands once more into the waistband of her legging and yes, she was definitely 'commando' under them.

"Love me Danny... " she whispered, "Make me naked... " As that was what I intended anyway, I slid her leggings down so I could more easily grope and squeeze, and fondle and plunder her delicious bottom.

Sherry ground her crotch against me, her eyes glazing slightly as the sensitive flesh rubbed against the ridge in my jeans where my cock was trying to burst out.

"Ooohhh Dan, yess..." she breathed, before suddenly sitting up to slip off her top and sling it across the room.

"Naked now!" she sang. "Your turn!"

I was a millisecond behind her, unzipping my fly and kicking off my sneakers while she tugged my polo shirt off, and now we were both naked again. Sherry pushed me back over onto my back, and slipped on top of me, kissing me hungrily as my hands roamed and fondled her delectable body. I tried to roll her off me; I wanted to taste her so badly, but she had other ideas.

"Nuh-uh, not now, later!" she gasped, instead grasping my aching cock and aiming it, a brief second of hot wetness, and then she was groaning as she slid back down onto me, impaling herself on me in one long slow thrust.

We rode, and pounded and writhed and entangled with each other for Lord alone know how long, my world reduced down to glossy black hair, startling blue eyes, parted coral lips gasping my name and sweetly-scented pale sweaty skin rubbing against me, filling my head with her unique scent, the sweetest friction as she tightened and clasped around me again and again, the sound of her breath hissing between her clenched teeth, her entreaties as she sobbed and begged me to never stop, until finally, we could hold back no more and deny ourselves no longer.

She screamed my name piercingly and tightened around me in a death-grip, her muscles rigid and tendons taut as bow-stings as she pulsed around me again and again. It was too much for me, and I came like an avalanche, like a torrent in flood, my ears popping and my eyes bugging with the intensity of my climax as I literally turned inside out, giving every last drop of my essence, my life, my heart and soul to this beautiful girl who'd haunted my dreams and danced through my every waking fantasy my entire life.

Sherry slumped down on top of me, her entire body quivering with aftershocks as our gigantic mutual climax slowly ebbed and died away, leaving us limp as wrung-out dishcloths. Sherry finally stirred, planting a wet kiss on the tip of my nose.

"When we make our babies, Danny, that's how, got it?" she murmured, the ghost of a mischievous smile on her lips showing through the mask of exhaustion. I was almost too tired for words, that volcanic eruption had floored me, but I kissed her cute little chin.

"No arguments here, Sherry-Baby." I grinned before pulling the coverlet over us and smiling at her contented purr.

"I'll make us a snack later, Danny, just lemme have li'l snooze..." she tailed off, asleep before she finished her sentence, so I slipped my hands down to cup her gorgeous plush little bottom, and let myself drift off.

*****

Next day was a busy day; Sherry insisted on getting all my stuff from my room, rather than my plan, to move my stuff gradually as time and schedule allowed, but to be honest, the idea of living with my Sherry overrode everything, so we headed back over to the halls of residence. My stuff easily fit into her car, a rather nice, fully restored MGB GTV8 in British Racing Green, and in the laughably small boot of my classic Black over Silver 1984 Ford Tickford Capri with the Aston Martin Tickford engine upgrade. I was a student, it wasn't like I had a lot of stuff anyway, but Sherry still gave me a raised eyebrow 'really?' look when she saw my 80's 'hot-shot racer-boy' car, my one indulgence. Something told me that one day pretty soon I'd be trading my precious dream car for something a little more practical, but I didn't care; we still had Sherry's MGB, and I had my dream-girl.

****

Life for us settled into a pattern that worked for both of us; I usually had classes all day, and wards, and usually lab into the evening, so I didn't really see much of Sherry other than when I kissed her goodbye in the mornings (and you can't even begin to understand how difficult that was for me, but she kept me focused, she kept me on my toes, her presence in my life kept me striving when it got tough and I felt like I was going to fail) the thought of the life we'd have when I was done with medical school was what spurred me on and kept me going, and my dream-girl, my Sherry-Baby was there for me 100% of the time. My life was finally making sense, and it was all due to her.

Some nights, if I managed to get off early, Sherry would meet me at my training site, a proper boxing gym down on Drivers Wharf, where they'd let me use the heavy bag and practice my various Taekwondo strikes and kicks safely in the ring; in return, I'd spar with some of the proper boxing enthusiasts, teaching kids who were coming up in the rankings how to punch, duck and cover, and guys my age who'd developed a love of the ring or were trying to regain a little fitness. It was a happy arrangement, it meant I got to develop my technique and try out kicks and punches safely on proper weight-bags, and no-one got hurt. Sherry loved to watch me train, and the guys loved to watch her, so we all got something out of it.

This became something of a routine for us; Sherry would meet me there, watch me, and wait while I showered, all the time being chatted-up by the kids who trained there, then we'd go grab a bite at some place we'd never tried and go home. That particular night, though, something was different; I was well into a kicking routine before I noticed the time, and that Sherry wasn't there. She was supposed to be, we were going to the cinema that evening, and I'd even started my training routine early so we'd have time to catch the movie. Something didn't feel right; if she was running late, she'd call the gym and the guy in the office would give me the high-sign, but he hadn't.

Worried, I decided to take a peek outside, maybe she was held up, but what I saw drove all thoughts of cinema and movies out of my mind. Michael and his cronies had her, he had his big paw over her mouth and he was dragging her into the alley. Sherry was struggling and I'll never forget the leer on that hulking oaf's face. I lost it, and suddenly I was in among them, handing out disabling crotch kicks and kidney punches, getting those animals off my girl.

Michael looked up at me, his grin of triumph disappearing in a welter of blood as he got a full-on, unrestrained forward axe-kick powered by all my rage and disgust in the middle of his face. I was wearing MMA shin, knee, and instep leg armour because I'd been practicing full-power belly kicks, and he got the full force of the kick, multiplied by the thick, hard polycarbonate of the shin armour. His face exploded into a bloody ruin, and he went down. His friends tried escaping, but they were going to be in the accident and emergency unit, the knee, hand, and elbow strikes to faces, kidneys, bellies, knees, collarbones, and crotches were going to make sure of that.

Sherry tried to speak to me, but I was still too furious to think straight as I grabbed Michael by his lank hair and dragged him into the gym, ignoring his screams and blubbering as I tossed him into the ring; he wanted to mess with me, now he was going to get his chance. I waited for him to stand and face me, watching the fear percolate through him.

"I warned you, you stupid fucker, I gave you fair warning, but you're too stupid to learn, so now I'm going to teach you a lesson," I gritted. "Come on, dick-head, what are you waiting for, not man enough to take on a man?"

He lumbered toward me, but a textbook karate dragon-stamp kick to the side of his knee left him staggering for balance, and a spinning back fist to the middle of his face spread his already pulped nose and shredded lips across his face and laid him out flat. I should have left him there, he was already crushed, but my blood was up, that fucker needed to learn a lesson, so I was lining up to deliver a highly illegal, very dangerous wrestling move, a single knee-drop with all my weight, bolstered by my padded rigid knee-armour and coming off the ropes for added momentum concentrated right on his sternum, a move guaranteed to snap his ribcage like a handful of pencils when I saw Sherry staring in shock at me. I saw the look in her eyes, and my anger drained away like water from an upturned cup.

Suddenly, I felt ashamed of myself for what I'd done in my anger. I was training to be a doctor, for Chrissake; did I want to have something like that on my conscience? How could I be a healer and do that to someone? The answer was: I couldn't; fighting in the ring as a sport with rules and restraint and referees to stop things going too far was one thing, permanently disabling an injured man was something else, and it wasn't me. Michael wasn't worth what it would cost me to beat him any further, he was already injured. I knew if I stayed in that ring I'd lose Sherry forever; how could she ever be with someone who'd destroy a man he'd already beaten?

I turned away and climbed out of the ring, sickened at what I'd done, but knowing I was done; there was nothing to prove and everything to lose if I stayed in there. I knew now that I would never step back in the ring, not now I knew what I was capable of. Sherry knew it was over for me, too; she'd seen my epiphany as clearly as I had so she didn't say a word, just kissed me gently as she took my hands and started unfastening my gloves.

The dead silence in the gym sawed at my nerves; you could have heard a pin drop, and then one of the kids working on the speed bag, one of the kids I coached, started clapping, followed by the others, one by one, until they were all clapping, and I knew they weren't applauding what I'd done to Michael; they were applauding me for what I hadn't done, for walking away and not injuring him further just because I could.

The gym manager looked at me strangely, and I readied myself for the outrage I knew was coming my way, but he called me into the office and showed me the video recording of Michael and his friends accosting and assaulting and groping Sherry, and her fighting back until he slapped her and dragged her to the alley.

"I think the police are going to want to see this. Now go shower and take your girl home."

As I turned to leave he clapped me on the shoulder.

"You're a good man, Danny, you made the right choice; maybe I'll see you around sometime, eh?"

*****

The police were indeed very pleased with the video; so much so, they were willing to call Michael's injuries a result of the scuffle in the alleyway, without looking too deeply into how a slight girl like Sherry could disable a hulking behemoth like Michael. Oddly enough, no one who was in the gym when Michael and I had our go-round in the ring remembered seeing him in there at all, no-one remembered a fight between him and anyone else on the date in question. In fact, the gym records showed a catalogue of sparring bouts taking place all through that evening, so no fight could possibly have happened then; the ring was constantly in use that entire evening.

The video did show "someone" wearing a head protector, a white singlet and boxing trunks and what looked like knee-length boots (my shin armour) wading into the gang who were clearly assaulting Sherry, but no-one could positively identify him, so Michael's claim was dismissed because the police had no inclination to search our home for the 'boots' his alleged assailant had been wearing (besides, they were safely hidden in the bottom of Sam's closet back in Bailey Street Student Halls, just in case... )

Sherry's statement to the police and the video evidence from the gym's camera system was enough to have Michael arrested, charged, and finally sent to trial. His cronies all turned Queen's Evidence to avoid more serious charges when another eleven girls came forward to report a catalogue of serious sexual assaults perpetrated by Michael and his band of buddies over the previous three years. The case made the national newspapers, and the university showed up in a pretty piss-poor light because of it, either ignoring the complaints or sweeping them under the mat and hoping they'd go away; some pretty serious reorganisation went on at the top over this whole thing.

Michael eventually went to trial at Southampton Crown Court. Predictably enough, he pleaded not guilty, so the trial proceeded. Many of the witnesses were still too traumatised to appear in court, so the judge allowed testimony over sealed video link, but Sherry wasn't afraid to testify in person. Her lucid testimony, about how he'd repeatedly pestered and intimidated her, and eventually attempted to violently abduct and rape her only put more meat on the prosecution's already solid case. The evidence from his cronies put the final nails in his coffin.

Michael was found guilty of all charges, and sentenced to a 27-year minimum tariff on eleven counts of rape, eleven counts of aggravated sexual assault, twelve counts of indecent assault, and twelve counts of aggravated assault. He was classified as a Category A sex-offender, and sent to a prison especially set aside for dangerous and violent sex offenders, a grim place a long way from Southampton and his victims. He'd also be placed on the Sex Offender Register for an indefinite period once he'd served his full sentence. Sherry had no arguments with that; in her book he was a dangerous animal, one to be kept caged-up, and the fact he'd be a middle-aged man when he got out, if he ever got out, pleased her no end: you do the crime, you do the time.

We were in court for his sentencing, but he refused to even look at her, even though her gaze never left his features once all through the sentencing hearing; when his sentence was pronounced he started crying, but it was too late for that; any remorse he may have felt was too little, too late and didn't sway the judge noticeably.

Outside the courthouse, Sherry was interviewed by a BBC News reporter as one of the few victims willing to disclose her identity in order to strengthen the prosecution's case and she told them what had happened to her, who she was, and how glad she was that such a prolific and dangerous predator had finally been caught, and that she was proud of her part in it, and how bad she felt for the other girls whose lives had been blighted by what he'd done to them. I was unbelievably proud of her, at her willingness to be identified as a victim and for her part in sending that animal to jail. The cameraman couldn't seem to keep the camera off her, the reporter had to keep signalling him to point it at her so she could deliver her report, but I didn't blame him; I couldn't stop looking at her either...

*****

As in all things like this, Sherry was a nine-day wonder; with her chic, movie-star looks and effortlessly stylish elegance she was a TV natural and requests to appear on national morning TV, local news programmes, TV magazine shows and that kind of thing kept coming. Inevitably, though, interest ebbed and finally died away, culminating in a last appearance on BBC News when a segment aired about victims and witnesses and their treatment in the press.

With all that drama missing from our lives, my quest to convince Sherry to return to medical school resumed, and finally paid off. She submitted her transcript, and was accepted back to restart Year 2 in the autumn with full credit for Year 1. Of course, that meant she would be a year behind me, but on the plus side, she'd be covering ground I'd already passed over, so she had me as a ready-made tutor and mentor. All in all, things were finally looking good and falling into place for us; it was a good place to be.

To celebrate, I took her out to a snazzy Japanese restaurant, where we stuffed on Unagi, and Ika Nigri Sushi, Yari Ika Tempura squid, and Chicken Teriyaki Teishoku. Sherry had never eaten Japanese before, and she lapped it up; she even braved the Sushi, and loved it, actually pinching mine too, so I knew where to bring her again...

While we were deep in discussions about us, a discreet cough made me aware of a man in a smart suit and carrying a document-size manila envelope standing at our table. I looked up at him quizzically, but he spoke to Sherry.

"I'm sorry, I apologise for disturbing you, but am I addressing Miss Cherie Morrison-Young?"

Sherry looked at me; I didn't know what to say, so I nodded.

"Yes, that is I; what can I do for you?" she answered.

The man held out the envelope. Sherry took it from him, but didn't open it.

"I was asked to deliver this to you in person Miss Young. Please, do carry on, I'm sorry to have interrupted your meal, please enjoy the rest of your evening."

With that he did a strange, formal little head-bow and turned and left.

Sherry stared at me, and I stared back. What the hell was that about?

"Danny?" she murmured, holding the envelope gingerly.

"Open it, Sherry; let's see what was so important they had to delivery it at this time of night."

Her hand crept across the table and I squeezed it reassuringly. Sherry grimaced and carefully slit the envelope. Inside was a buff document folder, Sherry looked apprehensively at me, opened it, and gasped. Alarmed, I slid out of my seat and went round to her side to see what had startled her. I found myself looking at a an 8x10 glossy of a girl who could have been Sherry: the same mischievous, happy smile, the same glossy raven-black hair, the same huge bright blue eyes, even the same dimple in her cheek, but this girl wasn't Sherry, I saw that immediately, but she came awfully close.

The girl in the picture's hair was like something off a 1980's "New Romantic" fashion magazine cover, short at the side and swept back, cascading diagonally across her face in a long fringe that swept over one eye. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years old. I looked at Sherry, at her puzzled expression, and turned the picture over, hoping for a clue. On the back, in the bottom right corner, was written "Rosalie Jean Morrison 14 Aug 1989", and scribbled across the back was "Happy Birthday Jamesie, I'm broke so you get this! Luv you Bruv! Rosa."

Sherry locked gazes with me, her eyes welling up.

"Danny... look, it's Rose... it's my mother... how...?"

"I don't know, babe. What else is in there; who sent you this stuff?" I managed, fascinated at how much Sherry looked like her birth-mother; I remembered Sherry looking just like that when we were young. It was almost eerie how similar they were...

Sherry opened the folder fully and a whole sheaf of papers cascaded out; I picked up some at random: her mother Rosalie's birth certificate, a marriage licence, more photographs, and in the midst of it all, a sealed envelope addressed to "Sherry-Baby." Only Mum, Dad, and I had ever called her that. It was the title of one of those old pop songs Mum used to sing as she cooked and cleaned. Where had this stuff come from?