Part Fifteen
Settling

Sabine Woman, Chapter Fifteen

Jerry's POV

She sets aside the empty glass and squirms slightly. Her knees cross, and she bounces just a little, face intent, and suddenly I think of my four year old nephew, and realize what's wrong. "Baby, why didn't you say you needed to go to the bathroom? C'mon."

I take her hand and help her off the bed, leading her to the bathroom, as her legs are shaky. Again I ask, "Why didn't you tell me? I should have known anyway, I mean it's been hours, and you're not a camel. But you shoulda said something."

In the bright whiteness of the bathroom she stands and looks at the toilet. She bounces again, then looks at me pleadingly. "Honey, what are you... oh." I smile at her modesty. I find fresh sheets in the cabinet, and go to the door. "Sit down, then I'll go out. But don't shut the door, hear?"

She frowns, but nods. Gathering up the trailing gown, she holds it shelteringly in front, only exposing her flanks, and sits, then drapes it around herself again. I wait a second hell, I shouldn't tease her like that, then go back into the main room. Almost immediately I hear the gush of fluid, and a heartfelt sigh of relief.

The tinkling sound continues as I begin to strip the bed. It must have been reaching the point of pain, I muse. I'll have to have a talk with her about that. No point in her getting a strained bladder out of shyness.

As I'm carefully tucking in the top sheet with meticulous corners, like Lally taught me, I hear her flush. Then there's the sound of her washing her hands. Oh, that's a plus in her favor. I expect that little hygenic nicity would have escaped a lot of women in her situation.

I finish the bed, replacing the quilt. The fire is dying down, and I won't rebuild it till we get up in a few hours. I'm beginning to feel chilled, as I'm still naked, and I go to see why she hasn't come out yet.

The medicine cabinet is standing open, and she's rummaging in the cabinet under the sink. She straightens up guiltily, and I curse myself silently for not thinking about proofing this room before leaving her in it. I think it's a good thing that I use an electric razor.

But I don't immediately accuse her. She's looking very frightened. I lean in the doorway and say quietly, "Whatcha huntin' for, darlin'?" She's quiet, not looking at me. "Need some aspirin?" I nod toward the medicine chest. "Got some Tylenol extra strength there. You could take a couple of them."

I step into the room with her, and she flinches back from me. I wish she wouldn't do that. It's not like I beat her, or anything. I guess I'll just have to resign myself to her being skittish for a time yet.

I put one hand lightly on her shoulder, just letting her know that I'm touching her, that I will touch her. She has to get used to that. I want to touch her long and often, and not just when we have sex. "Maybe you want to brush your teeth? Lally got you a toothbrush of your own." I point. "The green one. Soft bristles, but we can change that later if you'd rather."

She stares up at me, bewildered. The simple domesticity of this one sided conversation is confusing her. At last she says haltingly. "I need... I need to clean myself."

"Can't you wait a couple of hour till mornin', doll? I'd really like to go snuggle some more." I'm not telling her no, if she really wants it, then fine. I'd kind of like to see her bathe, anyway.

She won't look me in the face. "Not like that. I mean I need to, you know. You didn't use a condom. I need to clean."

"Oh, I see. You mean you want to douche." The pink flares in her cheeks, and I laugh. "For such an intelligent woman, you have trouble callin' a spade a spade. Don't worry about that tonight. Come back to bed."

"But Jerry..."

"Some other time," I say firmly. I take her wrist and lead her back to bed, snapping off the light behind us. I kick the stripped sheets into a neat pile, with the towel and cleaning rags, and herd her up between me and the wall.

While I get in and pull up the covers, she rolls up into a tight little ball. I poke her. "Stretch on out."

"But I'm cold."

"I know. So'm I. We'll warm up faster if we share body heat. Stretch out." Making grumbling noises, she eases her legs out. I take her shoulder and roll her to face me. "Put your arms up around my neck," I order. She hesitates. "Damn, Scribe, you've fucked me, you can hug me." Reluctantly she slips her arms around my neck, and I feel the heat of her hands on the chill of my back.

The sexual thrill is still there, but it's low, muted, buried under the sweet comfort of the sensation. I put my arm over her waist and draw her closer. She's shivering, and I throw one of my legs over hers, drawing her into a full body embrace, sharing my body heat. As I promised, we warm quickly under the insulating quilt.

Our heads are side by side on the pillow and I can see her even in the dark, or is that just my imagination? I already feel like I know her so well, is my mind filling in details? In any case, her breath touches my face, and I want to just drink it in, stealing it like the old wives tales of cats in babies' cribs.

She sleeps, and I let the quiet rhythm of her night breathing pull me under. My dreams are peaceful, my sleep untroubled. All is right in my world.

Scribe's POV

He left me alone in the bathroom, thank God. As badly as I needed to pee, I'm not sure I would have been able to if he'd stayed to watch.

Oh, who am I kidding? It was that, or rupture. My body would have taken away the decision, scoffing at my modesty.

Oh, it was a relief. As my wastes evacuated, I remembered an article on how to survive rape. One woman repelled her attacker by peeing on him before he could assault her, and he was so disgusted her didn't follow through. But if I remember correctly, he did beat her senseless.

I don't think Jerry would do that to me. He wouldn't view such a thing as deliberate. He'd probably just calmly change the sheets, hose me down, and screw me on the bathroom floor. Just as well I didn't find out.

It's sort of the same thing with the swallowing business. I hadn't really intended to do that. Up till the last second, I'd assumed that he'd be out of my mouth when he shot his load. It kind of took both of us by surprise, I think. And where he was when it happened. There wasn't any place else for it to go. He was barely sticky afterward.

And he expected me to throw up, the way he grabbed that bowl and held it for me. But damn it, I know that it's insane, after what he'd done to me. I didn't want to throw up in front of him. Ralphing is a peculiarly intimate thing. Truth to tell, my throat already felt raw. I didn't like the idea of sluicing it with stomach acid. So I held it down, and the nausea passed.

The water helped. I rinsed most of the taste of him out of my mouth. It hadn't been as bad as I'd expected. A little saltier than the taste of my own skin. And yes, I know what my own skin tastes like. I've had to kiss my own booboos for a long time, and saliva is nature's quick fix for tiny cuts and burns.

I couldn't believe I was having those thoughts as I washed my hands. I looked at myself in the mirror on the medicine chest. What did a debauched virgin... ex-virgin look like?

Not too dreadfully different: maybe a little strained around the edges. The corners of my mouth looked a little too pink, raw, and I blushed at that.

I could hear him moving around in the main room. The tile floor was cold against my bare feet, and I could feel that some of the warmth in the air had disappated. I thought longingly of the thick quilt on the bed, then stopped myself. Do not start to associate that bed with comfort.

I finished washing my hands, and glanced again at the toilet. Things had felt different when I'd performed the wipe, I couldn't lie about that. I'd been tender, though not as pained as I'd expected. I felt more... I don't know... Open. I wondered sourly if that was temporary, or if my slut body was going to stay ready for his attentions from now on.

There wasn't any blood, thank heavens. But there was still an unaccustomed slickness, the aftermath of our shared orgasms. I remembered that as I was drying my hands, and suddenly I realized what it meant.

He hadn't used a condom, he'd riden me bareback. Oh, lord, my first time, and it's without protection!

For a split second, I marvel at how trusting he must be. Sure, he thought I was probably a virgin, but still, in this day of the clap being the least of your worries? And I wonder why I'm not worried in the same way about him. I should be, but I'm not. No, Jerry is one of the most personally fastideous, without being obsessive, persons I've ever seen. I doubt I'd pick up anything from him, except...

I stifle a groan. No, that isn't possible. After all, I'm halfway sure that I've begun menopause. My mom went through it when she was only a year or two older than me. My periods have been spotty for the last year, sometimes skipping a month. I'm safe, aren't I? You don't get pregnant the first time you do it.

And when that simplistic fifties teenage hopeful mantra crosses my mind, I start looking for a douche bottle, because I know I'm fooling myself.

He comes back in while I'm rummaging in the bottom cabinate, and I'm afraid I'm about to get in trouble. But he's mild, even solicitous, offering me medicine to help with whatever twinges and cramps I may have. A considerate rapist. There's one for the books.

But when I admit what I want, he laughs, then shuts me down and takes me back to bed. He pulls me against the solid heat of his body, winding around me, insisting that I hold him. Gradually the cold slips away. I never slept with anyone before, save for those uncomfortable truces on double beds with other female relatives at cramped family gatherings. This is so different. I don't expect to sleep, but I do.

I do expect to dream. I expect gut wrenching nightmares, but they don't come.My dreams are strange.

I haven't been close to men in my life. I've barely dated, hardly had more than speaking acquaintances. But I've been attracted before. If I were a bolder woman, I might have flirted, made advances. I dream of some of these men, the nice ones. The young man with the blonde ponytail who came by the food stand I managed on a regular basis, and talked to me during quiet spells as he ate. The clerk at the bookstore, who remembered what I liked to read, and set aside books he thought would interest me. Even one of Eva's many boyfriends, who insisted on holding a chair for me when we all went out to a restaurant, and rested his hand on my shoulder for a moment.

I dream of myself in those day to day situations, smiling, talking. And this time I almost really say something. I almost say, You know, you're a very attractive man. I like you a lot. Do you think...

I never would have, of course. It would have never gotten that far. But this time, it isn't my own shyness that stops me, as it ever did. This time it's a sense. A sense of someone close by, watching, insisting silently that, no, I will not speak. I will not offer.

It's almost as if I can feel an incorporeal touch, and a phantom voice whispers, No, wait. Wait for me. I'll come for you."