Impact 21 Of Consumer Therapy

TRIGGER WARNING: The focus of this story is a love affair between two women. But just as I am not a gold star lesbian, Sarah has an impure past. She is remembering that checkered past in this chapter, which includes episodes of nonconsent - but as always, the erotic focus is between women.

Thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for copy editing.

Impact of Consumer Therapy

Even on the far side of Church Street, there was a crowd of history enthusiasts. I walked through groups discussing T-shirt prices, C4 charges, and how best to get to Times Square. All of them had their backs to St Paul's Chapel, the oldest church in New York.

'Never forget,' I thought sarcastically.

I immediately felt a pang of guilt for being so uncharitable, then some woman hit me in the side of the head as she pointed out something of, no doubt,

vital

importance to her friends. No apology, no 'pardon me' - nothing.

I kept walking.

Looking downtown, I was surprised to see that, even after all this time, there were still jagged tears in the otherwise bland facade of the Burger King on the corner of Church and Liberty just south of the World Trade Center site. It looked like the building's beige siding had been attacked by a huge cat. I couldn't help but wonder if the franchise planned to preserve the damage for posterity, like the decades-old bullet holes riddling the Brandenburg Gate. Knowing New York landlords, they were probably just too cheap to bother fixing it.

But my curiosity was idle and I had finally reached my destination. I was greeted by a blast of cold air as I put all out-of-towners behind me.

'THANK GOD!'

I think at least half my irritation with the tourists was the heat.

But all that was vexing me would be forgotten - or I hoped it would. I was entering New York's most gloriously idiosyncratic of secret destinations, known only to the chosen few and large swaths of New Jersey and Connecticut.

Century Twenty-One,

was a New Yorker shibboleth. Knowing what it meant marked you as one with deep local knowledge. The hundreds of Americans standing just outside were as oblivious to the sanctity of this place as they were to St. Paul's.

Jesus Christ, I was in a sour mood.

'Shopping will help!' I told myself, my mind filling with ideas for things I could buy for Claire's visit. I had been beating myself up all morning. The image of buying her things made me brighten up.

'A little consumer therapy is just what the doctor ordered,' I thought hopefully, as I pushed through the inner doors and prepared to beat my way through seven floors of extremely local bargain hunters.

New York City is a physically intense place to live. I had never been to Paris or Hong Kong or Mexico City, so I didn't know how people in other big cities deal with crowding. In New York there is an unwritten rule, we don't touch each other. Judging by the way tourists comport themselves, this isn't true in most places. Creepers aside, it is exceedingly rare, and even alarming, to be touched by a stranger in New York - no matter how packed the sidewalk or stairwell, no matter how benign or well-meaning the motivation, touching a stranger is a real transgression.

There are exceptions to this rule. Crowded rock shows and subway cars are two obvious ones,

Century Twenty-One

is another.

A longtime downtown institution, the department store was as close as New York got to an outlet mall, but the customer service and shopping experience had more in common with a sample sale or maybe a roller derby.

I had never bought shoes there before, but Kip had once told me this was where drag queens bought their shoes; that they carried outrageous styles in sizes men could wear.

I don't have big feet, just the opposite actually, but I did have an interest in a particular

variety

of shoes that I thought I might share with drag queens... and strippers. I wanted shoes for Claire... I

needed

outrageous.

I dreaded the idea of going to one of those fetish shops in the West Village; hoped I might find what I wanted here - and maybe a blouse and some nice towels as well!

As it turns out, the shoe department was the same chaotic jumble as every other department the store had - maybe even more so. But sure enough, after some hunting, I found a pair of black peep-toe platform stilettos in my size.

'Stripper shoes!' I thought happily. They were as outrageously sexy as anything I'd imagined.

But right next to them were a pair of

Sarah Flint

patent leather Mary Janes....

I had come thinking I would find something slutty and cheap, that I would vamp it up for Claire, turning my old school uniform into a clownish stripper costume. But the Mary Janes were so pretty and almost innocent... almost. Their four-inch high inset block heels, and platformed toes, tipped them into the realm of naughty - but just barely.

I spent WAY too much time agonizing over the choice. Even at bargain basement prices, neither pair was cheap. The Mary Janes were more than twice as much as the stripper shoes, however - so not cheap at all.

I decided that even at three hundred dollars, the Mary Janes were the better value. Even though they were naughty, their naughtiness had a covert girlish quality. They were work-safe... if only just barely. The stripper shoes I could never wear out of the house, much less to work.

When the woman at the checkout counter saw the Mary Janes she gave me a once over. I felt like she knew

exactly

what I was up to.

"He's gonna love these, sugar," she said with a conspiratorial smirk.

So maybe she didn't know

exactly

what I was up to, but close enough to make me laugh.

Clearly, the Mary Janes weren't as work-safe as I hoped.

I didn't correct the cashier or change my mind about the shoes. I just gave her a guilty smile and told her I very much hoped she was right.

Guilt has been my lifelong sexual companion. The first time I masturbated in Rebekah's room I was stricken by guilt and self-loathing. The second time, however, was very different. There was guilt, but there were no crying jags, no visions of madness or brain tumors.

The difference was Rebekah, the way she behaved afterwards. I was all but positive she had known what I was doing, had wanted me to do it, and had almost certainly watched me while I did.

Still, I wasn't

positive-

positive, so I was still a little guilty.

I'm not sure if the guilt was because I thought I was right, and I was wronging Danny, or because I thought I was wrong and I was wronging Rebekah...

I remember feeling like I was held in a state of superposition - Schrödinger's cat - suffering two contradictory things at once.

'Schrödinger's pussy,' I thought wryly, wondering at my ability to feel guilty about two, mutually exclusive transgressions.

'You are the Albert Einstein of self-doubt and shame,' I told myself mockingly.

In the meantime, I kept very much to myself. I avoided spending time with friends, dodged calls from my mother and Danny; buried myself in my classwork. I spent a lot of time reading the things Rebekah had loaned me, and writing, and masturbating.

I masturbated a lot.

All my time was given over to thinking about Rebekah. It felt obsessive, but less...

destructively

obsessive than the week before? Maybe because my thoughts were more honest. I was thinking about the smell of her hair, how sweet her breath was, the warmth of her arm against mine, her fingers touching mine, but also the way college girls

experimented.

I was wondering if she and I were experimenting.

When I masturbated, rather than frantically fingering myself, I luxuriated, wondering at how wet and ready it made me feel to picture myself on her bed. I indulged myself with slow gentle stroking. In my mind, Rebekah was watching me, admiring my pussy and way I touched it. But in my fantasies she wasn't hidden. She was sitting on the bed with me, I could see her watching me, looking at me naked, admiring the way my hand was moving.

And fantasizing that way about her felt good in a way it never had before, because I was all but positive she

had been

watching me, that she

did

like looking at me.

I was sure there must be a peephole or a camera, somewhere she was able to hide. I didn't name what happened between us, but the further I got away from "what happened", the more sure I was that she knew what I'd done, and had wanted me to do it.

I fantasized about Rebekah more openly with myself than I had ever fantasized about a woman before. All the same, the fantasies were relatively tame.

I thought about how close she held her face to mine, our lips just inches apart... but not of kissing. I thought of her wonderfully narrow fingertips, but not grabbing, her beautifully long round nails... but not of scratching. I thought of the soft pads of her fingers touching the tops of my fingers, stroking the skin, my cuticles, and nail beds, all still tacky with my cum... but not of fingering. I couldn't bring myself to imagine those things, but in the dark wordless parts of my mind, I wanted them.

I also imagined Rebekah loving me, being

in

love with me. Again these fantasies weren't sexually explicit, even though they were explicitly sexual. I imagined holding her hand, her pulling me close, so our bodies touched. I pictured her telling me she loved me, her mouth so close to mine so I was breathing her sweet breath.

And while I never came doing it alone, I fell into deep sensuous dreams, and woke up to enticing images of our naked bodies touching, of her mouth and mine; just fragments, but enough. I wasn't able to recreate for myself the orgasm that happened in Rebekah's bed, but I was able to stretch that burst of pleasure into a week of delicious longing and desire.

When I saw her next I was crossing campus with a group of friends, heading to class. She was coming in the other direction with a group of upperclassmen and faculty, maybe heading to an editorial meeting for

The Round,

Brown's literary journal.

She saw me and her face lit up with a brilliant smile.

"Same time?" I asked sounding ecstatic.

"Yeah, let's do that again!" she laughed, looking and sounding as happy as me. She gave me a quick hug, making everyone in both groups look. "It's better for me," she added, wrinkling her nose and reaching out to touch the back of my hand. We were turned to look at each other as our groups passed, but neither of us stopped.

"Me too!" I agreed, walking backward for a step, and then she was gone and I was turning back to my friends.

"How do you know

her?!"

a girl from my physics class asked, giving me a surprised look. Rebekah was, after all, a minor celebrity on campus and I was, well, me.

"She's my tutor!" I told her, making my friends laugh. I had said it with all the enthusiasm I might have used to tell her Rebekah was my lover.

"This!" I cried in triumph, loud enough to make heads turn.

After a lot of searching through the racks, I had finally found the perfect blouse.

I had been having a hard time finding what I needed, because, not unsurprisingly, nothing would fit. I was hunting in the Juniors department.

In the best of circumstances, it can be difficult for me to find certain kinds of tops, because my frame is so narrow and my breasts are so big.

"This is a very good problem to have!" Claire had teased me.

But the girlish cotton blouses I was searching through were either obviously too small across my breasts - which wasn't at all surprising - or fit me like a tent, which did surprise me.

Evidently, there were a lot of very BIG little girls out there.

I was, however,

finally

able to find what I was looking for. It was a crisp white cotton, with an adorably girlish Peter Pan collar. It wasn't

exactly

what I had in mind, I would need to have it taken in, but it had a delicious schoolgirl look. Most importantly, it would fit nicely across my shoulders and at the collar, and it had room where I needed it without being tent-like. I could have it tailored with darts to fit my waist the way I was imagining.

I pictured myself kneeling at Claire's feet in the blouse and my school uniform, ass resting on the heels of my new Mary Janes, and my hair in pigtails. I smiled, knowing it would make Claire laugh. But then I was picturing her naked above me, feet wide apart, thighs tensed, preparing herself for my virgin mouth. That's what the schoolgirl fantasy was about, having me before anyone else. I wanted to give her that.

I wanted to give her what I gave Rebekah.

Preparing for my next 'tutorial' with Rebekah was like getting dressed for a first date, for a first time. I wanted to make myself beautiful for her. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I was sure

something

was going to happen, that one way or another everything would be decided.

I was as nervous as a cat.

I had done my nails the night before, thinking of her, hoping she would like the color. I had gone to sleep easily and woke up to wisps of erotic dreams, but too thin to remember.

I had classes all morning. I spent my lunch hour in the library, preparing my assignments for Rebekah. I had one afternoon class, my physics seminar, which I enjoyed and was doing well in. I felt sharp and well-prepared.

After physics I went back to my room, to clean up and get the things I'd need... to study. I thought of changing. I was already wearing my favorite undies and my least-hated bra. The jeans I was wearing made my butt look good, but the day had warmed up. I changed into a T-shirt. It was crisp and new, a pale blue like my panties. My hair was pulled into a ponytail and looked fine.

Lots of girls wore makeup to class, I didn't. I smiled at myself as I put on eyeliner and lipstick for my tutor.

When I got to Hill House, Rebekah's housemate Dom answered the door. He was on his way out, he explained, in his weird supernaturally deep voice. He asked me how it was going and what I was doing that weekend. I blushed, afraid he was going to ask me out, hating to have to explain I had a boyfriend, which felt like a lie.

"Up here Sarah," Rebekah called, rescuing me.

"Hey, Rebekah!" I shouted back, unable to contain my excitement. I waved goodbye to Dom rather than answer him and flew up the stairs.

"Those sandals are lovely," Rebekah said smiling. She looked as happy as I felt. "Are they new?"

"I just got them - I know, it's stupid, I just felt-"

"It's not stupid! They're fabulous ...and look at your nails! What color is that?"

"Sea Foam!" I piped, delirious that she noticed.

"Did you do it?"

"Yeah..."

"You're really good - I might need you to do mine some time, I'm a disaster."

"Sure, I'd love that..." I said, blushing.

Picturing myself at Rebekah's feet, painting her toenails, was shockingly erotic, but that day everything was erotic.

I started taking off my backpack and moving towards her desk when she stopped me.

"Sit here," she said, pointing to her bed, to the exact spot where I'd left the wet mark. The ghostly mark was still there. I blushed, but she either didn't notice what she was pointing at or she pretended not to and just smiled.

"We can spread out this way," she said warmly when I hesitated. She said it the way she might say, 'It's ok,' or 'Don't worry'.

I did as I was told, taking off my sandals and sitting directly on the invisible spot, like the guilty man in

The Cask of Amontillado

- except it was my heart I could hear pounding as I unpacked my bag, laying my things out on her covers.

What happened next really surprised me.

"So look," Rebekah started, pausing to grimace. "I hate to do this, but can I leave you to work by yourself a bit?"

I had thought Rebekah might talk to me about what happened, confess what was happening, or maybe she would pretend it never happened and would just look in my eyes and tell me she loved me.

"I know, I know," she sputtered. "You just got here. It's just... I need to drop some paperwork off at the registrar's office... It's for graduation. I spaced another deadline."

"No, that's fine!" I said, doing my best to smile. "No problem at all!"

"Ugh, you're the best Sarah. I'm really sorry. I'll hurry, I'll make it up to you - I promise."

"Don't rush, it's good. I had wanted to get more done on this before I came over, so I can do that now, so it's good."

"Awesome," she told me. "We can work a little late, and you can stay for dinner if you want?"

"You don't have to do that-"

"But I want to, and besides, it will be fun. OK?"

"Yeah, OK!"

"Great, I'll be back in... twenty?"

And again, she was gone, rushing down the stairs like a herd of water buffalo and slamming the front door.

I sat for a long time, thinking about what was happening. I looked around the room again, wondering where a camera could be hidden.

I found myself looking up at the ceiling.

In a spy movie, there would be a camera snaked from the attic through one of the light fixtures. I studied them, the cracked plaster medallions. Dom lived in the attic. I tried to imagine Rebekah up there, lying on her belly, setting up a camera... maybe she and Dom together? I almost laughed.

Turning to look out her window, I wondered if maybe she was watching me from across the street.

'With a telescope?' I thought sarcastically. 'From her super-double-secret

second

apartment?'

I got up and went to her door, and examined it. Trying not to look as if I was looking for a peephole or a crack, I looked for a peephole or a crack. I bent to look through the keyhole but there wasn't one, just a brass latch.

I thought of the look on her face when she asked to leave me alone for a bit, as she explained about the registrar. She was lying, I was sure of it. There had to be a camera.

I thought of Dom and started to turn the latch, to lock the door... but thought better of it, and turned it back. What if Rebekah decided to barge in?

I felt a deep thrill as I returned to the middle of the room. Facing the windows, I began to unbutton my jeans, imagining her watching me on her laptop. I pushed them and my panties down off my ass. I could hardly see her neighbors' windows through the trees, no one was watching me from there. I bent over and pushed my jeans and panties down, lifting one foot and then the other to pull them all the way off. I turned to face the door, seeing myself in her mirror.

I was naked from the waist down. My pubic hair was matted from my panties. I pulled at the little tangle, loosening the curls. I don't have a lot of hair down there. The narrow tuft of strawberry blonde was like a little island of warmth between the cool blue of my shirt and the icier white of my skin. Thinking about the way my breasts distracted Rebekah I fingered the hem of my shirt, raising it up my tummy.

I hated the way shirts hung off my breasts, making me look like I had a gut. Looking at my reflection I pressed my shirt against my belly. i liked how that showed my figure, but I might as well be naked. I couldn't walk around this way, with my boobs sticking out. That would draw more than stares.

I was used to stares, the way some men and boys would stare at them, but also other girls and women.

Boys mostly took guilty glances, but men were more bold, they took long unapologetic looks, women sometimes too. But with women, the looks were different, more cooly appraising, less heated craving. Women were judgmental, men

thirst.

Rebekah did not judge, she was more like the boys, she was a nervous glancer, not an appraiser. She took longer looks when she didn't think I was paying attention. Like when I came up the stairs to her room, she stared down at me, watching them bounce - thirsty and guilty, just like a boy.