I'm Gail Shasta. I consider myself an average forty two year old woman, maybe slightly above average intelligence, and probably nicer and more charitable than most people, but I'm certainly no Mother Teresa. I also consider myself to have only slightly above average looks, though apparently men don't view me that way, although why – in all honesty, with no false humility – I can't figure out.
I have a pleasant face, but nothing close to Helen of Troy. My light brown hair with auburn highlights is full bodied, but doesn't glow like on those women in shampoo commercials. While my cup size would be great as a grade in school, it's not one that most guys should give even a second look at. My ass is nice and round and my thighs are sleek, but not really any more so than some of my friends. Also, I'm tiny – about 5 feet 2 inches tall and 105 pounds soaking wet. Yet guys ranging in age from their twenties to sixties, and in all sizes, always seem to be hitting on me. Hell, maybe it's my pheromones, but if not I sure can't figure it out.
I've been married for almost twenty years to Brian Shasta, who's forty three. We have a very good, if not great, marriage, and probably an average sex life for people our age. Brian makes a good living as a businessman, and I don't have to work for money. However, I can't stand not being active, therefore I successfully run a charity that helps underprivileged children get all of the social services that they need.
Despite my inexplicable effect on many men, I have been able to finesse my interaction with them so that I don't encourage them yet at the same time am not rude. There's only one guy I know who causes me some consternation. His name is Rob Decker. Rob is a couple of years younger than I am, is married to an acquaintance of mine named Rosslyn, and Rob frequently does business deals with Brian. Brian and I have known Rob and Rosslyn for about eight years.
Rob makes me uncomfortable, not because he isn't charming and pleasant – because he is – but because he is too fucking good looking. I seem to get a strange tingling sensation when I'm around him and staring up (way up since he's got to be at least 6 feet 4 inches tall) into his steely blue eyes, which makes me nervous. Rob and Rosslyn live only a couple of miles from Brian and me, and I seem to run into one or both of them on almost a bi-weekly basis at a local store or at a cultural, charity, or entertainment event. They have contributed generously to the charity that I run.
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Probably the worst experience of my life occurred while I was just out grocery shopping at the closest food store while Brian was in Europe on business. The store is located about halfway between Rob and Rosslyn's house and mine. It was winter so it was already pitch black even though it was only about six p. m. As I was loading my groceries into the trunk of my car in a fairly remote area of the parking lot I was suddenly grabbed by an obviously strong man who put one hand over my mouth so that I couldn't scream and lifted me off the ground with another.
A second guy, with a gun in his hand and a ski mask on, stuck the gun in my face and grumbled "Don't scream or you're dead," and then they started carrying me toward a van with an open side door. Despite what the second guy said and my overwhelming fear I started to kick, and banged my high heels into a few car doors which made a fair amount of noise.
Just as I was being tossed into the van, hitting my forehead on the doorway, I heard a noise behind me. My vision was a little blurry, but when I regained it I saw the guy who had apparently been carrying me on the ground and a big guy fighting with the guy with the mask. Several gunshots rang out in the air. I tried to exit the vehicle, but was light headed and didn't want to crash so I just flopped back down. Then I heard another shot and the guy with the mask slumped to the ground.
Then I saw my savior's face – it was Rob Decker!
"Are you all right lady?" he asked as he lightly touched my arm.
I turned to face him.
"Wow, that's a nasty cut on your head," he continued, reaching for his cell phone – and then he suddenly stopped.
"Is that you Gail? Holy Shit!"
"Yeah, it's me; hi Rob, and thank you so much," I was able to get out before I burst into tears.
I don't think that I passed out, but I certainly was not totally with it, as the activity level around me spiked. I heard Rob on the phone yelling our location to the 911 operator, I heard other store customers buzzing around, I felt Rob's strong arms holding me, I heard the police and ambulance sirens, I remembered being loaded into the ambulance with a cop and Rob also inside leaving little room for the EMTs, and I remember waking up in a hospital bed in the Emergency Room.
When I was fully cognizant two police detectives, who identified themselves as Marge Williams and Peter Bronson, interviewed me. I didn't have much to tell. I asked them lots of questions and found out that the two attempted kidnappers both had long records for violent crimes and were out on parole. One was dead, the other handcuffed to his bed in the prison wing of the hospital. Rob was fine, had already been interviewed, and was waiting to see me.
Rob came into the room when the detectives were done and gave me a big hug, which I returned while sobbing "Thank you" about a million times. The detectives drove Rob and I to his car in the grocery store parking lot.
The grocery store employees could not have been nicer – they had a note on my car asking me to come into the store to get replacements for all of my purchased items that had been strewn over the lot in the attack; Rob had just pulled into the lot when he saw the attack so he had no items.
The store assured me that my car would be safe in the lot – the manager moved it and parked it right next to his car – and Rob drove me and my replacement groceries home. Rosslyn was waiting for us there and gave me a hug, resulting in more tears from me.
I gave Rob Brian's contact information in Europe and he called him there. Brian could not get home until the next night.
By ten o'clock I had eaten a bowl of cereal, Rob had put all the groceries away, and Rosslyn had helped me change into a nightgown. Rob and Rosslyn were getting ready to leave when I broke down.
"I'm scared to death; I can't be alone," I wailed.
Rob and Rosslyn talked and Rob agreed to stay with me at least until mid-morning, when my brother – who Rob also had called – would arrive.
I was so terrified that I couldn't even have Rob stay in a different room; I made him sleep on the couch in the master bedroom. Despite my anxiety I was totally drained, and after Rob squeezed my hand and kissed me on my forehead – though not on my bandaged wound – I passed out more than fell asleep.
Rob made me breakfast, gave me several reassuring hugs, and stayed with me until my brother Jack arrived. After handing Jack the pain pills that the hospital had given Rob, with instructions about when to administer them to me, Rob went to the front door.
"I'll never be able to thank you," I blubbered, on the verge of tears as Rob stood at the door.
With a devilish smile he said "You'll think of a way Sultry Sue," and then engulfed me in his long, strong arms, and planted a totally non-chaste kiss on my lips.
Despite my confusion at the "Sultry Sue" comment, I waved good-bye from the front stoop as a liquid started oozing out of my pussy and running down my thigh.
******************
Maybe some people can instantly bounce back from trauma like the one that I experienced. I wasn't one of them. Jack, Brian when he got back the evening after the attack, all my friends, and everyone at the charity was as nice as could be to me. Rob called me every other day to see how I was doing. Despite the warmth and support, however, I was still having flashbacks, sometimes waking in the middle of the night screaming.
After about two weeks of angst, Brian talked me into going to see a shrink.
Psychiatrist Betsy Wankel was perfect for me. After I had seen her every other day for two weeks for about forty five minutes a session I felt much better. However one thing about my visits was disturbing. Part of her therapy if I started getting antsy was to tell me to "Go to a happy place in your mind. Concentrate on something wonderful, when you felt safe."
Each time I did, however, I went back to the same place. Rob hugging and kissing me good-bye the morning after the incident. About the fifth time that that happened I had to ask Dr. Wankel about it.
"Betsy, your 'happy place' therapy is great; however there is one significant problem. It's in the arms of the guy who saved me – and it sends chills down my spine."
"That's not really surprising, Gail. It's only natural to feel overwhelming gratitude. However you need to move past that too."
"How?" was my succinct reply.
"You need to do something really nice for him, and him alone. Then you can move past it. What are you really good at that you could do for him?"
"Fucking," immediately came to my mind – though fortunately I had enough impulse control not to blurt that out. I thought for a second and then said "Actually, I'm a really good cook for certain things. At one dinner party at my house Rob raved about my lobster risotto, gushing that it was the best that he had ever tasted."
"There you have it," Betsy chuckled. "Invite just him over for a lunch of lobster risotto; after that you can much more easily move past the incident."
"Thanks," I chirped. "That sounds like a great plan!"
****************
I don't know if it was conscious or not, but I asked Rob over for a lobster risotto lunch on a day when Brian was several thousand miles away on business, and my head wound had essentially completely healed so that I didn't look like a Civil War casualty. Rob seemed very pleased with my invitation. I hardly slept the night before because dozens of thoughts – some of them G-rated, many X-rated (I guess they now call them "NC-17", but you get the picture) – raced through my pea brain.
After my almost sleepless night, I applied a little makeup and put on a cute blue and purple sun dress that complemented my coloring – and nothing else.
"Hi, Rob," I cheerily greeted him; he was early at 11:15 a. m., and the risotto was at just at the nascent stages of preparation. "Glad that you could make it."
