The next morning came all too soon. Amy was up at dawn, refreshed and happy despite getting in at 2 that morning. As she walked into the bathroom her nipples grew hard and she realized they were more than a little sore from Darren's teeth and hungry mouth.
They still tingled and she recalled how he had used his tongue... and everywhere he'd used it. She looked in the mirror and smiled, touched her swollen lips gingerly and grinned as she recalled with delight how she had sucked on his Henry.
She heard the downstairs toilet flush, and knew her mother was up. Then she grimaced as the memory of Darren's ejaculating in her mouth, and how stunned she had been by it. She reached for the mouthwash, and gargled for a full minute. Then she brushed her teeth.
Terrible,
she thought,
Disgusting  that he should want her to do that.
And then she laughed at her reflection in the mirror, pointed at her image with a mouth still full of toothpaste and said, "Disgusting? Then why did you do it?"
The answer came back to her in an instant.
Because you damn well wanted nothing more than to take his Henry and cram it down your slutty throat, that's why.
She rinsed her mouth out and spit the residue into the sink, recalling how poor Darren had profusely apologized at the time. He had been so sweet in every respect that she had managed to swallow his stuff the next time.
NO! Be truthful, at least to yourself!
Her conscience was speaking to her!
You swallowed his stuff every time after that and loved it. That makes you a lying bitch as well as a slut.
Her conscience rambled on,
And what of that nice young man? Didn't he lap your juices without complaint, and wouldn't he have continued doing so, except that after coming so many times, you were worried he might hurt you?
"Well it's true," she whispered to her mirror image. "Alice Lewis confided to me that a person could die from making love, and I fully believe it after last night."
Did you wake up in the hospital?
Her conscience asked with a leer in its tone.
No, but... You used him. That makes you a slut!
"Am not!" Amy retorted aloud, resorting to a child-like rebuttal.
The strange argument might have gone on, but her mother called out that breakfast was on the table, and this was the day, and she had better get a move on. Amy took another two minutes before she was satisfied with her appearance then made her way downstairs and had her last breakfast with the family.
Not long after, Amy said her good byes and there was much crying all around. The whole family went to the train station with her saying more good-byes, with much hugging and kissing. Then the family waved until the train was out of sight.
***
Amy purchased a coke, and leaned back in her chair, her ticket ready for the conductor, and thought about the future and the recent past, specifically the night before. Before she knew it she fell asleep.
She woke to the conductor's sonorous voice calling out, "Grand Central Station! New York City!" and then fumbled around getting her things in order.
She discovered she had plenty of time, and wound up sitting nervously waiting for the train to stop.
Amy disembarked from the train with a queen-like elegance. She'd practiced this move and several others in anticipation of her arrival. Still, she was taken aback as she entered the huge, cavernous main room of the Grand Central Station.
She took her time looking around, and absorbed as much as she could.
This is the big time,
she told herself; and hefted her luggage only to realize she was famished. Moments later she was sitting at a dining room table in the Oyster Bar on the lower level of Grand Central Station. She gazed in wonder at the height of the ceilings with their white tile. Then she caught herself, and silently admonished herself not to act like a country bumpkin.
Surreptitiously, she looked about her, trying to find someone famous, but found only businessmen and women and several commuters like herself.
She had no difficulty in hailing a cab outside the station, all it took was for her to raise her arm, and a yellow cab pulled up alongside her. The driver was polite, although obviously from a Middle Eastern County. Amy checked her watch. She had two hours before she was to meet her Uncle John at his office.
"Take me to the Fulton Fish Market," she told the driver, as she settled down and crossed her long legs. She noted with some satisfaction that the driver's eyes were examining her. Then she read the meter rates and went into financial shock. It was $2.00 for getting in the cab. $.30 for each quarter mile and $.30 for each 30 seconds stopped in traffic! Plus the tip!
This was one expensive town,
she thought.
Then a smile crossed her face, as she figured it wouldn't be long before she was a star earning six or seven figures, and she slipped into a dreamy fugue. As they passed by the Givenchy Boutique on Madison Avenue, Amy returned to reality, promising herself that when that time came, she would surely shop there among other exclusive shops and stores around town.
Amy knew from all the literature she'd devoured, that the best way to experience New York was to walk. She recalled that the grid system the city is laid out on makes it easy to navigate, and that was probably the best way to get a feel for the city and its inhabitants.
As she left the cab on Fulton Street, she paid attention to the "Walk - Don't Walk" signs at the corner. The cars stopped, but people on bikes and rollerblades didn't, and she had to weave her way across the street to the river's edge using caution.
Amy knew something about the Fish Market. She'd read extensively about New York City. The Fish Market was housed in two main adjacent open-air structures, where wholesale buyers—mostly restaurant employees—filled orders and bargained on goods during the early morning hours.
She turned a full 360 degrees looking about her, but only a few scattered tourists and several restaurant workers were close by. No rude fish market workers were slamming fish-hooks into fat striped bass, as she had imagined they would, or deftly slicing up tuna and yelling sharply, "Watch your back!" as they transported crates past on forklifts.
Then she remembered it was lunch hour. So she contented herself by walking through the neighborhood and its quaint cobblestone walkways and wooden docks that clung to the land, resisting the fast moving currents trying to wrench them away and out to sea.
Amy boarded several historic ships, including the Peking and W.O. Decker, and leisurely browsed through a couple of the chain stores, which had sprouted in what were formerly, abandoned warehouses since the old market had become a major tourist attraction.
She glanced nervously at her wristwatch; saw that it was time to meet her Uncle John.
Well, he wasn't actually her uncle, but he was close to it. Uncle John, as she had called him all her life, was actually her stepfather's brother, not her real uncle. But then she had never truly known her real father, so Uncle John it was, and Amy had no difficulty with it.
She hailed another cab, and rode quickly to his office on the 700 block of Madison, just four doors down from the Givenchy Boutique.
Amy was thrilled with the elevator as it rocketed up to the 41st floor without stopping. It seemed to her that her stomach had been left far behind. She chided herself that it was just one more new thing to grow accustomed to in the Big Apple. A moment later she spied an office door with his name on it.
With a reverential motion, her fingers traced the lettering, John Prentice, Custom Imports.
He must be important,
she thought, and then admonished herself.
First things first,
she told herself, and made for the ladies room directly across from her uncle's office.
After appraising herself in the mirror and reapplying her makeup, Amy took pains to straighten out her white blouse, and adjusted her black skirt. She felt her appearance was presentable, but if she were intent on becoming an actress she always had to look her best. A rule she had learned was that one never knew when one would meet someone of great influence, so one had better be prepared.
Thank you Miss Mapelwood,
Amy said to herself, smiling at the thin teacher's memory. Miss Mapelwood had died several months earlier, and Amy missed her very much, both for all she had taught her, and for being a great friend and confidant.
She hadn't seen her Uncle John in over ten years, and to be honest her memory of him wasn't that good. She recalled him as being a classic tall, dark and handsome male. Almost a Prince Charming to her memory, and she was anxious to meet him again.
Taking a deep breath, Amy knocked gently on the office door, but no one answered. Trying the doorknob, she found it open, and walked in. A receptionist's desk greeted her, but no one was in the room.
"Hello?" she called. But it appeared she was alone.
Instinctively opening her purse, she removed her compact and composed herself by touching up her lipstick and makeup once again.
Why am I so vain?
She asked herself.
"Hello?" she called out once again.
There was nothing but her voice reverberating from one wall to another, and then silence.
A half-empty cup of coffee sat cooling on the desk. This told Amy someone was there.
Perhaps they had stepped out for a minute,
she thought, and took a Vogue magazine from the coffee table, and sat down to wait.
Five long minutes passed, and Amy found she couldn't lose herself in any of the articles, despite her penchant for staying up with the latest styles.
Amy's hearing became more attuned to her surroundings and she thought she heard some kind of noise coming from the inner office. Rising from the chair, she walked quietly to the edge of the door, and listened.
Concentrating as hard as she could, Amy was able to isolate the normal humdrum noises around her. Feeling a little giddy at her erstwhile eavesdropping, she recalled that her mother had always called her a snooper, putting her nose where it wasn't wanted. But Amy had learned far too many interesting things from being inquisitive, and that was that.
