The Ghostwriter's Words

Sara: Bushwhacking, Busy Fingers in the Bath Water, and Other Hidden Truths

Along with many other memories of the distant past, Sara occasionally reflected on her mother's private moments in the privy. Could the sounds she'd occasionally overheard from within have been more than the success, or frustrated effort, of a bowel movement? Could her poor mother have been bushwhacking in the shitter? That remark had been one of the Professor's more memorable, causing Sara to wet herself.

As she contemplated her untamed bush in the mirror, a stream of other centuries-old memories flowed through Sara's thoughts. She recalled her mother's thick, dark thatch when she'd stood naked alongside the tub, still dripping wet from her bath, helping Sara climb into the tepid, gray water when it was finally her turn. Then Sara's imagination returned to the outhouse and the unbidden image of her mother desperately trying to rub one out. Or busy fingers beneath the bathwater providing herself that pleasure Sara couldn't imagine her father ever had.

Sara could only hope that her mother had succeeded in her efforts, hopefully fantasying about a better man than Sara's father, someone touching her with a gentle, loving hand rather than one of brutality. Could her mother have even imagined such a man? Or could contempt for her husband's voice, demanding to know what took her so long in the privy, have been enough to push her over the edge? Perhaps, so conditioned to comply with his every demand, the instant he'd ordered her to "Come out, this instant!" she came? Wouldn't that have had a sweet irony?

Fortunately for Sara, there was an inexhaustible supply of orgasms, especially once she discovered she could supply them herself. And, since her first, she was determined to enjoy as many as possible, promising herself; she would never live another day without the pleasure of at least one. That had now been a lot of days. More than three hundred thousand, roughly rounded. So, she must have come half a million times, considering the days she'd gotten off several dozen times, as she had with more lovers over those many years than she'd made any effort to add up. And on her own whenever the fancy struck her. Except for that day, so far.

Of course, Sara hadn't been sure what she'd experienced that first night, let alone having a word for it, only that the most wonderous, inexplicable sensations had built in waves that suddenly burst from her in an explosive rush, forcing the air from her lungs in a series of shuddering sounds she'd never made or heard before. Then her inarticulate, breathless effort to voice her gratitude for the pleasure whatever he'd done had given her.

Sammy claimed many times afterward that he thought he was having another erotic dream, as he did so many lonely nights. And his pajamas and bedclothes would often attest in the morning. It wasn't until he heard her voice that he had the half-woken realization: The taste lingering on his lips wasn't Eve's, his long-dead wife, whose taste he sadly could no longer remember, but hers. Sara's. But why would she, the young daughter of his cook and groundkeeper at the time, a girl, barely a woman, that he'd brought home and provided a bed for the night, be in his?

And as part of his ongoing string of apologies, Sammy told Sara he'd believed, or just rationalized, that he must still be dreaming and didn't want that dream to end. That when she emerged from the pool beneath the waterfall so breathtakingly beautiful and naked, he couldn't force himself to ignore her perfect breasts or the dark bush between her legs. Then he'd inadvertently felt the warmth of her breast when she leaned forward and kissed him. His fingertips brushed her erect young nipple, leaving him instantly hard and wanting her so badly he could barely control himself from pulling her down on that muddy bank and allowing nature to lead that where it would.

And he hadn't been able to chase the images and tactile memories of that brief encounter from his subconscious thoughts. And he'd tried and failed many times to convince himself he couldn't be responsible for what he dreamed, especially when he'd been alone for so long. And he'd repressed that brief realization that she was not his dead wife, Eve, and unforgivably given himself fully back to a dream that was so much better than any reality he would face when he woke.