Here is a little story for your enjoyment. The story is presented in three chapters, and all have been submitted.
Obviously it's not the third part of
Emily & Ellen
. I'm still working on that.
E & E 3
is a long tale (similar in length to the first two parts) and may take some time yet to complete.
However, hopefully you will find this little tale interesting. It is a bit different from my previous stories in that there is no actual sex in the story. I hope that won't disappoint. But I have formed some ideas to submit an additional version of this story, but one in which the plot goes in the direction of reluctant sex.
This is usually where I encourage my readers to post their comments and observations about the present story. I've discovered through experience that making a general and open invitation of that nature is not the best way to handle the matter. I very much and very genuinely enjoy comments related to the literary elements of my stories.
BUT, really, if you are a budding junior attorney and just have to post to let everyone know about the dire legal ramifications of the actions in the story, or the potential divorces and child custody battles that will arise from the tale's plot line -- well, I'm really not interested in reading about that (and I'd surmise that very few others are either). This is an erotic literature site: just enjoy the story (or don't, and click on some other story and bother some other author with your pseudo-legal babblings).
AND if you just have to post a comment that is really nothing more than you venting your anger at women in general, who in your estimation are all skanks and whores because they might occasionally have less than entirely morally upright sex, and you just have to lash out at women (even, and most pathetically, fictional women) because somewhere in your past some woman done ya wrong, well I'm not at all interested in reading your rant in that regard.
AND there is a permanent marker mentioned in this story. If you feel moved to post to give me the unabridged history of permanent markers and their antecedents: sorry, not interested in that either.
ALSO, if you're posting with the hope of influencing the story line, there is no need to do that either. My stories are in final form when I submit them and before you see the first chapter.
OH, YEAH. And I really don't need any opinions on whether or not anyone feels I've submitted this story in the wrong category.
HOWEVER, ALL THAT ASIDE: if you have comments or observations on the literary aspects of the story (characters, plot, plot progression, settings, writing, imagery, etc.) those are very welcome and eagerly read and responded to.
I finally found the button to turn off anonymous comments to my stories, and that's bound to block at least 90% of the most lame-brained comments.
Anyway, thank you for your interest and please enjoy the story.
bb
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Rita's Bet -- Chapter One
I began to get a sinking feeling in my stomach as I rounded the corner that November Sunday evening in my high school senior year. Even so, my steps did not slow as I aimed myself toward a house on the right that I knew quite well: Rhiannon's house. The night was a bit chilly, but my varsity sweater provided enough warmth for me during my short walk. The cool air felt good as it chilled the skin above my taut knee socks and crept slowly up under the pleated skirt of my cheer uniform toward my thighs.
Rhiannon and I had been friends since first grade. We were in class together almost every year in grade school. Those years that we were not we were still inseparable on the playground. And in junior high school, when recess was a thing of the past, we were together almost every day after school and on weekends.
Rhi and Ri. Rhiannon and Rita.
But as our freshman year of high school rushed by a cloud suddenly descended on us. Enrollment in the district had been slowly and steadily increasing each year for the past decade and the bond issue to fund a new high school had passed three years previous. That shining new edifice, its bathroom stalls still free of graffiti and all its light bulbs presumably working, would be ready for its first classes the following fall. Rhiannon and I hadn't thought this would affect us. We lived only two blocks from each other. Just take a right out my front door and walk a block to where my neighborhood ends at county highway 117, a two-lane, increasingly busier thoroughfare. Cross the highway, walk one block, make a left and Rhiannon's house is the second on the right.
What separated us was the decision by the local school board to use county highway 117 as the boundary between the two high schools' service areas. Shocked and disappointed, we learned that I would spend my last three years at our current high school while Rhiannon would attend the new school.
Sure, we stayed in touch and got together when we could. But with academics and clubs and sports and other activities we slowly, and I suppose inevitably, receded from each other, our relationship becoming increasingly tenuous.
One girlish enthusiasm we shared from our first meeting in childhood was what we then considered the swanky, to-die-for excitement and thrill of being a cheerleader. We both wanted to be one someday, and many of our play encounters found us jumping in the air trying to see how high we could fly and how wide we could spread our legs while shaking imaginary pom-poms.
That last year that we were together in school, freshman year, the first thing Rhi and I did was audition for spots on the cheerleading squad, vowing not to participate if the other didn't make the team. Well, for reasons no one ever had the time, inclination, or obligation to explain to me I was selected and Rhiannon was not.
Talk about a dark cloud. My heart broke for her. My promise to Rhi pressed on me like the weight of the world. How could I not honor my agreement with Rhi? But how could I pass up the chance to pursue the dream and goal I had entertained since my knees were covered with scabs? Finally I sat down with Rhi and told her how much I wanted to cheer. Could she ever forgive me if I went ahead and accepted the spot on the squad?
As I walked along the dark sidewalk in front of the house next to Rhi's I could still hear her voice clearly in my mind, and imagined I could hear it in my ears.
"Sure, Rita," I heard her voice say. "Sure go ahead. I wouldn't want you to miss out on your dream." I could hear her heavy emphasis on the words 'you' and 'your.' Now, twenty years later, I would know exactly a girl's feelings hearing that sentence spoken in that way. But then I was far too immature to understand her meaning. Instead I heard only the surface words, the sweet parole that set me free. All else was dismissed unnoticed in the swelling of sheer joy her permission had unleashed in me.
The rest of the year went by, but even I began to notice by February how distant Rhi had become toward me. When I asked her what was the matter she would smile and tell me, 'Nothing, Rita. Nothing at all.'
I don't know that my soul really accepted that evaluation, but in that chilly, third academic quarter portion of the academic year any association with our broken cheerleading deal in September had receded too far into the past for me to link it to whatever might be bothering her. I was a cheerleader, she was not, and those two facts had now become just a part of our lives and our experiences at school.
My sinking feeling came from all the cars parked in front of Rhiannon's house and farther down the street. I had never seen so many near her house. I suspected the reason for their presence, and that suspicion sparked a knot of trepidation in my gut. We had said friends could be invited, but I never imagined any crowd like all these cars seemed to forebode.
I had timed my departure from home to arrive at Rhi's front door at exactly the appointed hour: eight in the evening. From all those years of experience I knew well by now exactly how long it took for me to walk from my house to Rhi's. At right on the dot I was ringing her doorbell, after having mounted the two steps from the sidewalk to the Paulson's walk, and then the three steps up to the small porch at their front door. I rang the bell and waited, the sight of those numerous cars again tickling at my apprehension nerve.
While I waited a moment for the door to open a recent memory came to mind, and in spite of the unease that I was feeling since turning the corner. The memory made me smile. It was just a couple weeks ago, a week or two into November. I was in the convenience store and suddenly there she was two aisles over. I'd not seen Rhi for months, not since the summer in fact. But it was good to see her and I immediately made my way in her direction.
I came at her from the side and slightly from the back, she examining the choices displayed on the magazine rack. I gave a hank of her shoulder blade length raven hair a little tug. She looked up, a smile starting on her face. When her eyes met mine the smile faded and she said, "Oh, hi, Rita."
Her demeanor left no doubt she wasn't excited to see me. I guessed that we really had taken different forks in the road after freshman year, and that we were now far down sundered and increasingly divergent paths. I tried to make some small talk, tried to engage her in a conversation about how our respective senior years were going. But no dice.
She answered my questions monosyllabically or with as few words as would suffice, her body still mostly turned toward the Newsweeks, Times, Guns & Ammos, and Seventeens. She asked a couple questions of her own, but I could tell her heart was not in it.
I made a last stab before withdrawing. I knew that after that disastrous, strained freshmen year she had hit her new school and immediately had made the cheer squad. 'Mission accomplished,' I had thought when I'd heard the news. She was off on her own adventure, her own childhood wish fulfillment quest. I had sincerely hoped it would be good for her.
"So, still with the cheer squad?" I asked.
"Um, yeah," she said, her eyes avoiding mine. I didn't really have to ask: her varsity jacket told me the tale. I was not wearing mine that day.
"I made co-captain this year," I said, trying to make the statement matter of fact, not wanting to seem like I was rubbing my success in her face in case her own experience had not taken her to such lofty heights.
