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“’Bye, honey. We should be back by 9:30 or so.” Jane’s mother bent down, slipped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a quick hug, accompanied by a kiss on top of the head, before continuing down the porch steps and down the flagstone walk to where Jane’s father was waiting in the car, the engine running, in the late afternoon sunlight.

They were off to his Saturday night A.A. meeting. Jane’s mother had originally started going along “to be supportive”, as she’d explained to Jane at the time. Also to make sure he got there, Jane thought. But her mother had come to, if not enjoy the meetings exactly, look forward to them somewhat; to sitting and talking with the other wives and husbands in the same situation.

This of course meant that, between A.A., the counseling sessions and her parents’ other commitments, many nights Jane was left on her own. She didn’t mind; it wasn’t that much different for the Invisible Girl, really, except that she could play her records on the big stereo in the living room instead of the tinny portable in her bedroom or watch whatever she wanted on the color TV. Right now she was sitting on the porch steps, a magazine in her lap, comfortably barefoot in a pair of old red gym shorts and a gray t-shirt on this warm spring night.

She watched the car make its way down the gravel drive and disappear into the woods that surrounded their property. She loved where they lived: a large, ivy-covered brick house with a covered, white-railed wooden porch that ran the length of it in front.

The house was set half a mile back into the woods from the road, a two-lane asphalt not much traveled. Behind the house, a large pond—shared only with the family on the other side, whom they rarely saw—with a dock and a rowboat. They were fortunate to have bought it and paid off the mortgage before her father had lost his job. The costs of maintenance were a struggle now, but so far they had managed.

As the sound of her parents’ car faded away Jane thought idly about going in to play some music, but felt too lazy to move from where she sat, not really hearing the sounds of the birds and insects or the frogs calling to each other in the pond.

She had been feeling lazy all day. Since yesterday, really, after....

She had quickly put on her sock and shoe under the desk, seconds before the bell rang.

She had gotten to her feet, taken a couple of quick steps toward the door, then stopped suddenly as she felt moisture running down her thighs. She’d thrown a quick, panicked glance behind her, looking for a stain coming through the back of her skirt—none, thank god—and then walked, slowly, putting her feet down with great care, as if in a posture class, not daring to look down for fear of seeing a shining trickle on her calf or a trail of tiny drops on the floor, until she finally made her way to the nearest bathroom, dashing into the nearest stall to blot herself dry with toilet paper.

Then she had scurried through the halls to her class, trying to be invisible but feeling as though she had a sign on her back that read, “No Panties”. She had sat through the class with her knees held tightly together, wanting desperately to just put her head down on her arms but, knowing that was a sure way to get called on, keeping her eyes focused in the air about three feet in front of the teacher.

Then riding her bike home, acutely conscious of the rush of air up her skirt. Jumping off and pretending to examine something on her bike if she saw anyone coming the other way. Finally reaching the privacy of their driveway and then home. Climbing the stairs to her room, taking off her glasses, kicking off her shoes and collapsing, fully-dressed (Well, nearly, she thought) onto her bed, where she lay until her mother called her for dinner Not sleeping, not thinking—adrift, cocooned in a pleasant lassitude.

She had drifted through dinner, absent-mindedly giving generic answers to the generic questions about her day. All that evening and all through the next day she would begin to do something—write a letter, read the next chapter in her library book, even just watch television—only to find herself staring off into space, with nothing whatsoever in her mind. She went for a long walk in the woods, only to return without having noticed a single blossom or birdsong.

She felt as if she had never really been aware of having a body before, other than as something to be fed and washed and clothed. It had been an appliance; a means of getting from one place to another. A place to hide. Now she noticed the movement of her joints when she walked or reached for something; the weight of her hand resting on her leg; even, sometimes, the way her hair attached to her scalp.

And in this same way she was conscious of him: not as a thought, or an image, but as an undefined, inseparable part of her awareness of her physical self. He was there when she rubbed her nose; he was there in the heat of sunlight on her arm.

And now, when a tiny figure began to separate itself from the dark silhouette of the trees, outlined in gold by the setting sun behind them, and she heard the distant, echoing tap of footsteps on gravel, she felt, not as if she knew who it was, but as if she had known for a long time that he would be there. Still, the fact of his presence sent a thrill of something very like fear through her. He knew where she lived! But how had he known that her parents… He must have been in the woods, watching!

Instinctively she stood, not even noticing that as she did so she had removed her glasses and placed them, along with her magazine, on the step she’d been sitting on.

She watched him walking toward her. The light behind him made him seem ominous, a dark, almost featureless creature, casting a long, wavering shadow before him as he approached. Half of her wanted to run inside and call someone for help, knowing that he was here to make her do more humiliating things, and do them to her, right here where she lived. The other half wanted to go and stand before him, for the very same reasons.

Torn between the two impulses, she did nothing, standing there as his shadow grew closer, then touched, then engulfed her. In her heightened state of awareness the touch of his shadow was something she seemed to feel on her skin, cool and silky, as it flowed up her legs, lay against her hips and breasts, and caressed her face.

And then he was there, facing her.

Even this close, she could hardly make out his face, the faint glowing of his eyes. This disturbed her—she wanted to look into his eyes and know what he was thinking. What he wanted.

But he simply stood there, silently. Looking at her. Waiting.

For what, she thought. Why doesn’t he say anything? Tell me to do something?

Another long moment went by. Then, a thought: He’s waiting for me—but why? What does he want?

And then she realized that something had changed –something within her—since that moment in the library when she had deliberately and consciously given herself to him. And she knew now what she had to do. What she wanted to do.

Without removing her gaze from his—and trying very hard not to think about the fact that she was standing in front of the house where she lived with her parents—she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her red shorts, and, in one motion, pulled them down around her ankles. She heard him take a sharp breath as she did so and thought, I’ve shocked him—good.

As she stepped out of her shorts she pulled her t-shirt over her head, dropping it on the ground beside them. Then, she stood, feet apart, and slowly raised her arms...and clasped her hands behind her head. Her white bra and panties glowed in the late afternoon light, even as she continued to stand in his shadow.

In some strange way, doing what she had just done, and now standing before him like this, gave her a sense of power that she hadn’t felt before. Power over him—he was still standing there, seemingly dumbstruck—because she had chosen to do what she’d done.

She liked it. It made her want to shock him some more.

She continued to look steadily at him and said, softly, “I’ve been a very bad girl.”

She still couldn’t really see his face, but she thought his eyes had widened, and then she saw him lick his lips and swallow as if his throat had suddenly gone dry. And knew she had him. She felt as though a low current of electricity was flowing through her, the power increasing every second.

She continued to look at him and spoke even more softly, as if making a confession, saying, “Yesterday, in the library. I let a boy look up my skirt.”

She heard his breathing become a little faster, and it excited her.

In the same voice she continued, “And then I let him pull down my panties.”

Just saying it made her more excited, especially when she saw him inadvertently look down at her waist. Knowing that he wanted to do it again, right now, but that he wouldn’t. Almost imperceptibly, she tilted her pelvis toward him, reveling in her control as she heard him make a faint groan.

She said, “I let him kiss and lick me, right here,” and reached down and touched herself lightly between her legs.

This time a groan for real. Oh god, she wanted to groan out loud herself.

She looked down. He was wearing bluejeans, and the bulge in front was huge, looking as if it wanted to burst free. And she had done that to him, just by talking! Well, that and taking her clothes off. It made her feel dizzy with excitement and power.

She wanted to do more, to drive him crazy the way he had driven her crazy yesterday. So she stepped slowly toward him, until her breasts were almost touching his chest. Then she tilted her face up to his, as close as she could get, and whispered, her eyes very bright and her voice unsteady with excitement, “And I really liked it. It made me want to...unzip his pants...and put his...cock...in my mouth.”

He let out a groan that was the big brother of the one before—“Uhhhhhh!”—and she suddenly knew what she wanted to do. Quickly, she dropped to her knees in front of him. He continued to moan as she unfastened and unzipped his jeans, and pulled them down around his ankles.

Then she scooped up her shorts and t-shirt and, before he could react, rose to her feet, turned, and ran back up the porch steps, snagging her glasses and magazine on the way. Then she darted inside the house, closing and locking the door behind her with a loud click.

Stunned silence. The kind of reverberant silence that exists after a thunderclap has completely faded away.


It was so loud she thought the neighbors on the other side of the pond must have heard. Quickly, she dropped everything on the floor and ran to lock the back door and check the ground-floor windows.

The living room was at the back of the house and had a fine big picture-window that looked out over the pond behind the house on one side, and a bay window, with a cozy reading nook built into it, facing the woods to the north on another.

As she ran into the room she heard him outside.

He was laughing. Full, helpless, doubled-over laughter.

She quickly ran over to the bay window and knelt on the seat cushion, craning her neck for a glimpse of him. She saw him coming around the side of the house towards her, still laughing, though with less gusto. There was still more than enough light to see him, back-lit though he was. And for him to see her, apparently, because his laughter suddenly picked up strength as he continued toward her.

He had subsided somewhat by the time he had reached the window and stood in front of her, but not entirely. His shoulders continued to quiver, though, and now he smiled ruefully as he looked at her, shaking his head back and forth as if to say, ‘You got me that time’. Then, still smiling, and silhouetted by the fading light, he wagged his finger at her as if to say, ‘You’ll get yours’.

She crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him, enjoying her victory. She saw that although he’d pulled up his jeans, in his haste and distraction he had left them unfastened. Indeed, they had even fallen somewhat—she could see a triangular section of his underwear, white against the faded blue. She could even see that, although considerably reduced, there was still a good-sized bulge there. And this gave her another idea.

She was still in her bra and panties, having dropped all her other clothes by the front door. She rose from what was now a half-kneeling, half-sitting position in the window, and, knowing he was watching, slowly stood on the seat there, feet apart. Slowly raised her arms and clasped her hands behind her head.

Then she looked down at him—and smiled, sweetly.

His wagging finger had slowed to a complete stop as she’d stood up, and now hung there, forgotten, pointing at something nobody cared about. He looked spellbound.

She had never felt less like the Invisible Girl in her life—and she loved it. Loved being able to taunt him this way, doing what she wanted to do and having him helpless to do anything about it. The power of it made her tingle all over. She wanted more. She wanted to pay him back. She wanted to torture him.

So, still smiling down at him, she allowed her hands, with exaggerated slowness, to slide down the back of her neck, to separate there and drift down until they covered her breasts, cupping them, toying with them, slowly drawing her splayed fingers back and forth across them. Then, still in slow motion, her smile widening a little, she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, then reached up to pull down first one shoulder-strap, then the other. Then she lowered her arms to her sides. Her bra was now only covering her breasts by little more than force of habit.

Still looking straight into his eyes, she took a long, deep breath and let it out in a quick sigh.

The bra slipped down a fraction of an inch.

Another breath. Another sigh. Another fraction of an inch.

She reached up and with one finger began to trace a line across the top of her bra, with each pass nudging it a little further until it hung, barely covering her nipples…before finally slipping free. She lowered her arm and let it fall to her feet. Then she raised her hands to her now naked breasts and began to gently pull and pinch her nipples.

She watched his hand drop unnoticed to his side while this was going on. Saw his already sagging jeans, as if in chain reaction, begin to slither downward in sympathetic slow motion until, undiscovered by their hypnotized owner, they were half-way to his knees, leaving exposed what appeared to be a small white tent with a large slanted pole. As she continued to toy with her nipples she now saw his hand travel, as if by its own power—or perhaps by hers—and place itself, palm down, on the tent-pole, and begin slowly to rub there, up and down.

Oh god, she thought, I’m making him touch himself, just like he did to me! She was becoming delirious, power-drunk. She allowed her right hand to trail gracefully down, circling her navel and then continuing down onto her panties, massaging her abdomen for a moment before coming to rest, briefly, between her thighs. Then, still smiling but intent, watching him carefully, she began to imitate the motion of his hand on himself, synchronizing her movements to his.

For a few moments they continued together, a pantomime mirror act. Then she saw his eyes change and regain their focus, seeming somewhat puzzled. She saw him look down and discover what his hand had been doing without notifying him.

He quickly pulled it away and hitched his jeans up. When he looked up and she saw the still-startled expression on his face, she grinned at him—an ‘I got you again’ grin.

Then, still grinning at him, she slipped her hand inside her panties.

He had started to refasten his jeans, but at this he simply ceased to move, one hand holding up his pants, the other on his zipper.

At first, her left hand still teasing her breast, she simply slid her fingers back forth beneath the elastic, dipping a little here and there but not really delving. After a while she took her hand out and hooked her thumb in the elastic, slowly tugging it half-way down her hip, and looking down at him with a mocking ‘should-I-or-shouldn’t –I’ expression.

Then she pulled down the other side until her panties were bunched at her hips, a small tuft of curly hair peeking out over the tightly stretched elastic.

Then she stopped and looked at him for a long, long moment.

Then, thumbs still hooked in her panties, slowly turned her back to him, giving him an unobstructed view of her almost entirely exposed behind. She looked back over her shoulder at him, smiled again, and then with great care began to ease her panties down her legs, past her knees, down her calves and finally to her ankles. Never letting go, bending lower and lower, giving him a good look. Then just as slowly straightening up and turning to face him, again raising her arms and clasping her hands behind her head. He had never seen her completely naked, and she wanted him to know that he was only doing so now because she had chosen to allow it.

And she wasn’t done with him yet.

Again she slowly lowered her right hand, bringing it to rest in the mound of curly hair, massaging it, running her fingers through it. She was just beginning to allow her middle finger to travel a little further, to explore the slick wetness between her legs, when she again saw him seem to come to his senses, at least momentarily.

He reached into his right -hand pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief with red polka-dots. He held it in his hand while he pulled his still-gaping jeans down around his ankles, and followed them with his underpants, his erection springing forth, almost tapping on the window.

Oh god, she thought, look at it. He’s standing outside my window with his pants down and his cock out—and I made him do it!

She imagined going out to him then, naked; imagined taking off the rest of his clothes; imagined rubbing herself against him, feeling his cock against her...oh god. Her middle finger began to travel a little faster now, the pictures in her mind, along with the actuality of him being there looking at her, beginning to overwhelm her.

But wait, what was he doing?

He was unfolding his handkerchief. Now he was holding it up to her with both hands, the red polka-dots looking almost like... Hearts! He was holding up the panties she had been wearing yesterday! He’d been carrying them around in his pocket!

For some reason she found this thought exciting—if a little disgusting. And now she watched, fascinated, as he took her panties, cupped them in his right hand, and began to stroke his erection with them—looking right at her as he did so.

Oh god, his cock in her panties!

It was almost as if he was rubbing against her from a distance. She continued to stroke herself, faster now, looking back at him and watching the head of his cock appearing and disappearing in the bright red and white nest of fabric in his hand.

Oh god, she wanted to do that, wrap her panties around his cock and stroke it...take the head into her mouth while she stroked the shaft...oh god, oh god, she was...she was going to...is he watching me...will he see me when I...oh god I’m going to...I’m.... Ah!...oh...GOD!

She convulsed, bending over, as the shockwave tore through her, leaving her gasping, one hand on the window frame for support. As she did so she saw him reach his climax, his head thrown back, his mouth open, gasping—she could hear his loud groan even through the glass.

She watched, amazed, as the white stuff spurted from his cock and fell to the ground, a few drops reaching the window and clinging there. She suddenly remembered the taste of it in her mouth, the slightly oyster-like texture as she swallowed it. And for a moment wondered if she could get pregnant that way. She didn’t think so, but she was going to do some research. Later. Much later. Oh god, she could hardly stand up...

They just stood where they were, panting. Smiling and looking at each other as if they had just ridden the world’s largest roller-coaster together. She watched with interest as his organ began to shrink, slowly returning to what she now assumed was its normal state. Saw him suddenly turn his head, listening to something, then quickly pull up his underwear and pants, stuffing her panties into his pocket. Looking up at her and realizing she hadn’t heard, he pointed toward the front of the house, gesturing emphatically several times.

Then he made her a sweeping bow and blew her a kiss, smiled and shook his finger at her, as if to say, ‘It’s not over yet’, and vanished into the near-darkness.

By then she could hear the sound of car wheels on gravel approaching.
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