A Story of Jane

Chapter Six

MONDAY, the 21st of SEPTEMBER - THE AUTMNAL EQUINOX

As I write this final chapter, I am sitting in one of my favorite places in the whole world: Mama's library, at the big table in front of the window overlooking Lake Michigan. As little girls, Jean and I would come in here and try to imagine what marvelous spells were contained in the old volumes that line these walls. Women in centuries past have been burned for possessing such books. Today, with freedom from persecution and the freedom of curiosity born in my generation, Wicca is one of the fastest growing religions in the country, though I guess most people consider it more of a curiosity than a religion.

It's time, I guess, to tell you what really happened that night, exactly six months ago, and the incredible events that have taken place in my life since. It's best, they say, to start at the beginning. I, of course, do things the hard way; so I'll start at the end (though I consider it a beginning, of sorts).

I told Molly as I sat in that motel room that two separate souls could not occupy a single body after the moon was full. That was true. I also told her that, with her help, I would transfer her consciousness into the body of the kitten. That was also true. My lie was actually one of omission.

As I read and reread each of the spells (actually a continuation of the spell my sisters had used to bring me back), my mind kept going back to something that Jo had told me when she gave me the book. She said that Mama "knew I would do the right thing." That struck an unsettling cord in my mind. Mama had never approved of ANYTHING I did. She saw me as wild, impetuous, rebellious, untrustworthy, selfish, and a whore. And she was right, of course. I was all those and more. Did she really think I was going to change now, even having just returned from the dead?

As Molly read her little Latin phrase, all that remained for me to do was to utter a single, closing word, and she would be transferred into the body of the cat for the rest of her days. I had KNOWN she would say those words! I knew her type. She was Jean's type! Hopelessly romantic, unbelievably innocent, unselfish to the very end. Just one word, and I would have been rid of her forever. What I had omitted to explain, of course, was that, in the event no spell was cast at all, our souls wouldn't occupy the same body separately; they would merge and occupy it TOGETHER! With Mama's words echoing in my mind, for the first time in my life, I did not act at all. Call it a moment of faith, I guess.

And now, at last, it's time to remind you of the strange little statement I made at the beginning of this rambling missive. I said that the most difficult aspect of writing this was its tense. I've done it (up until now) in the first-person singular. But to do so, I have had to completely disregard half of the sum total of my knowledge, my experiences, and my beliefs. It has been, quite frankly, the hardest thing I think I've ever written, in either of my lifetimes.

Oh yes. One final point before I tell you the rest of the story of that night. It is, by far, the most amazing aspect in the merging of myselves. I find that I marvel at the concept even months later, but I swear it's true. Submissiveness is a dominant trait! Perhaps the truth is that "submissiveness" is not the trait at all, but only an aspect of many traits, that include an overwhelming discomfort for all those things I told you Mama didn't like in me. At the moment of my merging, they simply lost their importance to me, and all those things that make me Molly became the most important.

All I know is that the first thing I did that night (after I stopped laughing at Jean's question) was to throw myself into my husband's arms and kiss him. The second thing (after becoming cognizant of the growing number of people flocking to our room to see what the commotion was about) was to ask him for his jacket so I could cover my nakedness.

The hotel security guards arrived in less than a minute, and Herman (always a sharp guy, my Hermy), concocted a spur-of-the-moment story about seeing me choking on a piece of my salad and he broke down the door to administer the Heimlich maneuver. This, plus his credit card to charge the damages, seemed to be sufficient to placate the motel administration, and we were soon established in another room, complete with carefully drawn window curtains and a working door.

After assuring them that both of me were inside me, I refused to answer any more questions until learning how they had found me. As it turned out, it wasn't so hard after all. Jean had given the other sisters the slip at a gas station outside of town and had gotten a lift from a trucker back the other way. (That was amazing! To my knowledge, Jean had never done anything so bold in her life!) She had entered the house through the garage door, which I had left open, and finally roused Herman from his little "nap" and told him everything about the spell, and what she suspected that I (Jane) was about to do to me (Molly).

Jean was a computer major in college, and she spent some time with my PC and finally located my credit card number through something called a "cookie." (I had used the credit card to buy the silk robe from an on-line lingerie store.) Then Herman called a private investigator in Chicago that he had used once, and gave him the card number. Within an hour, they knew about the purchases I'd made at the mall. In Herman's pickup truck, they used his cell phone to stay in touch with the PI, and tracked the me first to the gas station where I'd filled my car's tank, and finally to the motel.

Jean had fallen instantly in love with the kitten (she's named it Equinox; "Nox," for short), and after chatting with me for a few more minutes, just to make sure in her own mind that both the women she loved were still around, she took it in its carrier, along with my car keys, and headed home to Chicago. I told her we'd meet her there in a few days, after my husband and I had gotten "better acquainted."

This, as it turned out, was quite literal. I couldn't stand being with Herman again unless I came clean about a few things. Before, in our married life, I had never really been bothered by little things like a conscience. But I was now; and even though this first night should have been one of pure romance, the "Molly" side of me demanded that it first be one of confession.

I had cheated on him - twice (well, twice with other men, anyway): once before we were married, with the bartender at my "bachelorette" party (I'd been flirting with him mercilessly all evening, and after everybody else had gone home, things just got out of hand), and once with a piano tuner a couple months after the wedding while Herman was out of town on business for a week (I'd met that guy for a "re-tuning" session the following two days at his single-wide home in a trailer park in North Chicago). Neither of these little flings was serious, and both had been brought to a quick end before Herman could find out. I may have been a wild, cheating whore, but I always knew that nothing must ever come between my husband and me.

And then, of course, there was Jean. Not only had I made love to Jean as Molly, but Jean and I had been having an incestuous relationship since we were teenagers. In fact, it was Jean I had been going to see when I had been killed by the truck.

As I explained all this to him, I had been sitting next to him on the edge of the bed in the cheap motel, but I had been looking down at my bare feet, afraid of what I might see in his eyes if I looked up at him. After confessing this about Jean, however, he made a strange sound, and glancing up at him, I saw an intense mixture of emotions in him. I had been wondering if I should really tell him just yet the whole story about Jean, but now he was clearly excited. There was a sparkle of curiosity in his eye, and glancing lower, I couldn't help but notice that he was hard. I had often caught Herman giving Jean a sidelong glance, but I certainly hadn't faulted him for that; Jean is an exceptionally pretty girl. But more than just beauty, Jean had an aura of innocence that attracted men like flies. I had never been worried about him and Jean, of course. Jean was a lesbian, she was my lover, and she told me everything; literally everything. You see, it wasn't just an aura ... Jean really WAS innocent. But now, seeing this reaction in him, I decided to press on with my night of confession. I took a deep breath and continued.

Jean and I had always been more than just sisters. We were best friends. We played together when we were kids, and when we moved into the big house by the lake, we insisted on sharing a room. Papa had died when I was eight and Jean nine, and from that time on, the house was always in flux. But while we changed bedrooms twice as Jo, and then Jill and Jan left for college, we always share the same bedroom. I think the thing that kept us so close was the fact that we were such opposites. Yin versus yang. Bad versus good. Wild versus subdued. And finally dominant versus submissive.

Sometimes, we would argue, just as all sisters do, but she would always give in. What really ticked me off was that in the long run, she would usually be proven right after all! But she never said "I told you so," never acted smug or condescending, as I always did. At the time, I didn't even know the meaning of the word "submissive," but eventually, I got the gist of the concept, and I always capitalized on every advantage.

She was always very shy; painfully so. She was forced into the dating scene by just about everybody, including Mama and especially me. As a high school sophomore, I was already dating, and I felt threatened by an 11th grade sister who was not. Mama too often told me: "Why can't you be more like Jean?" and the more promiscuous I could make her appear, the more leeway I could argue for myself.

And then, on the third date she had ever had, she was raped.

She told me about it, of course. She told me everything. But at this particular time in my life, I had fixated on cheerleading. It's all I could think about; all I could talk about. I didn't notice anything was wrong at first (though, looking back on it, the signs were all there), and Jean kept the terrible secret bottled up inside her for almost a week before I realized she was in pain about something. By then, it was too late to talk her into going to the police, or the principle, or even Mama. She wouldn't even consider it. She had ME to talk to, and that's all she seemed to want, so I held her as she cried until there were no more tears left to shed.

She never dated again. (Well, there was that one disastrous evening the following year when I forced her to go on a double date with me, my latest fling and his older cousin. She absolutely refused to go at first, but as usual, I eventually got my way. I've never seen a girl so nervous in my whole life. She got half way through dinner and threw up. "Okay, sis," I said as I drove her home, "you win.")

I wanted to cast some spell on the creep that had raped her, but he was a military brat, and before I could find a way to turn him into a mealworm, he had moved away. I still fantasize about getting even with that asshole.

Midway through the next school year, I began to notice the way she looked at me sometimes. She had become more introverted than ever, and I had long since lost patience with her. We were still best friends, of course, and we still told each other almost everything, but lately, it was me doing most of the telling. And all my adventures seemed to be sexual. I had lost my virginity at fifteen, and by my junior year, I was already getting a reputation. I'd use a guy until I was tired of him, then dump him for someone that was his exact opposite. In this way, I was an equal-opportunity fucker, switching indiscriminately from basketball player to debate team captain to football lineman to nerd. And I'd tell Jean every gory little detail; every feeling and sound and smell. She would listen, enraptured, chiding me, telling me how naughty I was; but mainly she'd just listen. I slowly realized that my tales were sort of a sexual substitute; that I wasn't just a source of fantasy, but a surrogate in a forbidden realm.

I could tell she was sexually excited; but not by my stories. She was excited by me.

As I said, we had no secrets, so finally I just came out and asked her: "Are you a lesbian?" And once the question was out in the open, she had to think about it. And the more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that she really didn't know. It didn't matter anyway, she said, since she had no intention of going out with ANYONE in the foreseeable future.

Now, if you haven't already figured it out, I like sex. I like it a lot. But looking back, I have to admit that it wasn't really the sex; it was the amazing amount of power I had over others when sex was involved. I could manipulate, cajole, coax, and demand things I had never before thought possible. Every experience was still new; and, good or bad, it was the number of new experiences I was after. As long as I relied on my sexuality, I felt I could do almost anything by controlling almost anyone. I had never been with another girl, but I was a little curious; and, after all, it was just another experience.

But now I realized I was about to take an extraordinary step in my life by controlling my best friend: my sister. I looked at her in a whole new light, and in it, I could, for the first time, see the way she was looking at ME. She didn't even realize it herself. If I did this, nothing would ever be the same. That made it all the more exciting. I decided to make it a very long, deliberate process, and I decided that I would have a lot of fun as the task progressed.

I began by "dressing down" a little. I had never been a shy one, and being in the bedroom with Jean while wearing only my panties and bra was no big deal. Jean almost always wore a robe when she wasn't fully clothed, but now I stripped to my underwear whenever we were in the room together. If she questioned it, I told her I was more comfortable like that, and I began berating her for being prudish by covering up all the time. And then, more and more often, I'd go topless, wearing only my panties. I started noticing her staring at me then, and that sort of confirmed my hypothesis. Now, I really started getting on her case, telling her that best-friend-sisters shouldn't be afraid to show a little skin while relaxing in their own bedroom. We fought. She avoided the room for awhile when I was home. We fought again. And finally, as always, she gave in and started lounging around the bedroom in her underwear. She was nervous and dreadfully shy. Fortunately, she didn't get so nervous that she threw up, but she never did feel comfortable like that in front of anyone; even me.

I started complimenting her on her figure. She shyly reciprocated, telling me she envied MY body. This, of course, made it easy to demand she remove her bra, as well, for a little comparison. The argument didn't last as long this time, and ended in us sitting side by side in her bed, arms touching provocatively, talking about breasts in general, and hers and mine in particular. She blushed beautifully for the hour or so before bedtime, and I realized that we had reached some pinnacle in this little exercise. I could either retreat or push her over to the other side. Full speed ahead!

Over the next week or so, I demanded often that she remove her bra when we were alone in our room. I had started removing my panties, as well, and while I was always nonchalant and matter-of-fact about the whole thing, I saw her staring at me more and more often. I began touching her a lot more, as well, both in and out of the bedroom. I'd hold her arm while we were walking around the neighborhood and at school, and sometimes I'd even hold her hand. She never pulled away, but I could tell that the public show of intimacy was embarrassing to her. In our room, I'd often sit very close to her, sometimes perched on the arm of her chair, butt-naked, my arm around her bare shoulder, reading an e-mail on her computer screen along with her. Sometimes, when I caught her staring at me instead of her textbook, I'd smile knowingly, and she'd blush crimson and quickly look away.

It was early spring, and the first thunderstorm of the year was the excuse I was looking for. The week before, I had demanded that she start sleeping naked, just as I had. By this time, she had almost stopped arguing with me about everything. She still saw my demands as outrageous, but she simply began relenting to everything I suggested. When the thunder was near that night, I feigned fright and got into bed with her. She didn't try to stop me, but rolled away from me, facing the wall next to her bed. I snuggled up to her, holding her closely, even though her skin was uncomfortably hot from embarrassment. After a long ten minutes or so, I could tell she was crying, probably from nervousness and confusion about her feelings, but I pretended to think she was scared of the storm, too, and made her roll over and put her head on my chest while I held her and told her that everything was going to be alright. After the storm ended, she asked if I was going to get up and go back to my own bed. I asked if that's what she wanted me to do, but she couldn't make herself answer; so I stayed, and eventually we went to sleep like that.

The next night, I got into bed with her again. She never questioned me. For the next month, we slept together, naked in her bed.

Now, this didn't stop me from dating (and screwing) one or two links in my long chain of high school sexual suitors. When I came back from an especially hot date, often reeking and dripping from the encounters, I'd crawl right into bed with her and make her listen to all the little details. She was obviously repulsed, but aside from our constant closeness, it was still the only thing sexual in her life.

She was uncomfortable and nervous, but she had by now begun submitting to my every demand and suggestion. At my insistence, she was always naked in our bedroom. I'd make her go into the kitchen to get us milk and snacks wearing only the minimal dress ... a thin robe or a long-sleeved shirt. When I knew Mama was already in her room for the night, I'd have Jean go to the kitchen wearing nothing at all. She'd beg me not to make her, but she'd stopped arguing completely, and she'd always wind up doing as I commanded, no matter how uncomfortable it made her.

The next logical step in the process was to start stroking her with my fingertips when we were in bed at night. For about a week, I just stroked her hair, idly, as if I were doing it absentmindedly. The next week, it was her back. The next, her stomach and breasts.

All this time, I became more and more demanding of her. I had her doing my home work, as well as her own. She had been accepted, with a scholarship, to Princeton. But I made her apply to U of I, and tell Mama that she intended going there. Mama threw a fit and Jean cried. In private, I commanded and Jean obeyed. I hadn't even had sex with her, and already she was my greatest personal conquest to date.

By the end of the school year, I'd worked the situation up to the point that I was almost making her cum with my gentle touches, but I'd never quite go all the way, and she'd never be so bold as to ask me to take her to the peak. By now, I was as frustrated as she was. I made some pretty strenuous demands on my boyfriends, but even after making them bring me to some heart-stopping orgasms, I would still find myself wanting her. At times, I wondered if I could keep things at this level forever. But, of course, neither of us could stop the inevitable now.