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Chapter 8

Bleeding Perseverance

That night was the loneliest of my life. Not because I had been taken away from the luxuries of the embassy. After all, with the exception of the previous week, I had spent the first eighteen years of my life surrounded by similar poverty and captivity

The overwhelming loss I felt actually came by being separated from my beloved, Toby. I had met, fell in love with, and been taken away from him all within the short period of only seven days. And now, although I wanted to believe with all my heart in the precious words he insisted upon during our parting, that he would never leave without me, the fear that lingered would not allow me the peace to fully accept his promise. I knew with my entire being that if the darkness of what I had come from were to once again engulf me and cause me the loss of Toby, I quite simply wouldn’t be able to go on living.

Through my years of reading of hidden books I had come upon a well-known quote a number of times.

“It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

An adage I now knew to be untrue. For when it comes to the level of love I feel for this man who has awoken me to the beauty of life, my soul, my energy, my spirit, knows that it could never again just be “my” or “I” but forever “we.”

Now at one with Tobias Montgomery, reversing such would not be possible.

But the Americans, including Toby, had proven to me that indeed great things can come out of hope.

And with this I made the decision to continue to prevail. I would keep the hair tie close, but remain strong in not sending out the signal as long as there was hope.

Anti-American protesters crowded the streets outside the courthouse with their deafening hate-filled chants and burning of U.S. flags as I was led into the building under the protection of American soldiers.

Inside, subtle yet sharpened looks of detest from my fellow Afghans scorned over me. Not only because I was seen as a traitor, but also due to my western appearance since I had refused the fabric prison I had escaped from.

When the proceedings started, the charge of murder was read aloud. A word that shocked me as it echoed throughout my body.

For the next hour I sat in stunned silence as the prosecution laid out their argument with the outrageous claim that, influenced by western literature, I had had an incestuous affair with my own father and once the rest of the family found out he and my mother had fled while I remained hidden underground with the ‘pornography’ we had accumulated over the years.

The preposterous story they had contrived went on to claim that this was why my parents were nowhere to be found. And that Omar, concerned for my well-being, had searched day and night until he finally found me below his uncle’s home, where I viciously murdered him after he refused my incestuous advances.

I couldn’t stop my hands from trembling, my defense lawyer leaning over to reassure me that no respectable judge would believe such far-fetched accusations.

But how could he be so sure that the judge proceeding over my preliminary hearing was indeed a man of truth? What if he was nothing but a puppet for the Taliban?

And so such thoughts began to plague me as I looked around the courtroom.

Why were the eyes of the two bailiffs shifting so frequently?

Why was it that the official who had lost face at the embassy never seemed to rid himself of the look of hidden vengefulness-in-waiting?

And who was that rather tall female Afghan sitting in the corner towards the back of the courtroom in full burqa?

Was the Taliban really capable of such orchestration, or was my imagination just building upon what the prosecution had already created?

Well, they were displaying their convincing ability to come up with such an elaborate scenario, which had obviously been based on the report the U.S. government had filed. And how it all so fittingly played off and capitalized on the sentiments outside.

The prosecution finished their argument with the same level of absurdity as they had started with.

Insisting that the defense would present fictitious evidence created by the U.S. government with its unlimited resources. And that those who had been killed had been framed by this superpower. Relatives who were only guilty of caring for me, now dead and unable to defend themselves against the Americans and their unending claims that every Afghan life lost was somehow connected to the Taliban.

As I sat there contemplating on what the judge’s perspective might be, my lawyer began presenting what really happened. I realized that my fate would really come down to one man’s personal views, for if he sympathized with the Taliban I would go to trial and certainly be convicted.

But if he was truly impartial, he would rule on the side of justice. My lawyer said we had to presume the latter. That being an educated man, the judge would know that the only hope for the future of his country would involve the eventual acceptance of equality and democracy, which, based on history and the developed nations of the world, couldn’t be fully reached unless the rights of women were included.

An educated man would know this, and therefore it was part of my lawyer’s strategy to have me address the court once he had presented all the facts. To show what the future of our Afghan women could be if educated with books like I had been.

And so I gave my impassioned speech with a mixture of English and our native tongue, explaining how I had learned of the world through my father’s gift to me. The gift of literacy.

From the California Gold Rush to the Great Wall of China. From renaissance artists to the wonders of our solar system.

Knowledge attained thanks to the wonderful power of books. And that if I, an Afghan girl who had strengthened her mind while hiding beneath the dirt could have such an outcome, imagine what kind of future our country could have if only all Afghans were allowed the gift of education.

In closing I looked straight into the judge’s eyes and said the following:

‘I do not enter your courtroom in disrespect of our nation’s religion of Islam, but rather as a free young woman, who, thanks to the education I have received thus far, have learned some of the fundamentals of democracy, including freedom of religion.

‘Most Afghans want a free Afghanistan, and I stand here before you today as an embodiment of such. I may not have the same religious beliefs as my fellow country men and women, but I am Afghan nonetheless, and like you, Your Honor, believe in the potential of our people and country.’

The courtroom was still and silent, and just as I was about to turn away, the entrance exploded to pieces, the energy of it throwing me near a wall as debris and body parts scattered out with force.

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Chapter 7

Diplomacy

After the quiet weekend, the embassy’s halls began to liven back up with the start of the new work week, employees passing the vibrant, fresh-faced Karida with pleasant morning smiles as she headed to the kitchen for breakfast.

Opening the door to the dining area she was surprised to find that the lights were yet to be turned on, and once she flipped the switch was taken aback as the room jumped to life.

“SURPRISE!”

All the employees from all five of the classes she was a part of were there, Annie and Tobias coming forward to greet the shocked teenager.

“Happy Birthday,” her Toby gleamed, he and the other warm hearts singing the traditional birthday song to her as she was led to a table full of presents; Mary and Mehri standing there presenting a cake with eighteen candles alight.

Birthdays weren’t really celebrated in the simple life Karida had come from, and with the life-changing week she had just experienced the fact that she was becoming an adult had escaped her.

“Make a wish, sweetie!” Annie enthusiastically said.

“A wish?”

“Yes, darlin’! A birthday wish! You think of something you want more than anything else, then blow out all the candles to make it come true.”

Overwhelmed, Karida took a moment to collect her thoughts, then with her pure love for her Toby, her eyes found his.

She leant down to the illuminated cake, taking in all eighteen of the beautiful little tear-shaped flames as their reflections danced across her eyes.

Drawing in a deep breath, she envisioned her wish, but before she could exhale-

“Excuse me.”

Pardon me.”

The military officer who had debriefed Karida was making his way through the crowd, two Afghan officials at his back.

As she stood back up and watched with the others the three men approached, giving her an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach. In the depths of her heart, she knew something was wrong.

“Karida, dear,” the officer somberly said. “I’m sorry, but I need you to come along with me and these gentlemen back to my office.”

She had insisted Tobias be allowed by her side, her shaking hands now consoled by his as a bunch of formal talk concluded that Karida, who was now of legal age to answer to the Afghan courts, would have to face a preliminary hearing on whether or not she would stand trial for the death of her cousin, Omar.

That despite the incident occurring while she was a minor, along with the fact that her father, Hadi, had made arrangements beforehand that in the event of he and his wife’s death legal guardianship of Karida would be taken over by the United States government, now that she was an adult and the investigations into the killings were still ongoing, she would have to be handed over to the Afghan government until matters were resolved.

“Please understand that our hands are tied,” the military officer expressed.

“We tried our damndest to get them to allow you to stay within the walls of the embassy while we see this thing through, but between the hostility due to recent events and using our own democratic system to their advantage, they got us on harboring one of their own citizens.”

“So she didn’t become a U.S. citizen when our government became her legal guardian?” Tobias asked.

“No. We had been petitioning Washington for years to naturalize her father for the service and intelligence he had been providing since 9/11, but they always wanted to use him a little bit more, and unfortunately that little bit more became a little too much a couple of weeks ago.

“So in theory, yes, she is an American citizen, but the courts here are conveniently dragging their feet. And with Washington wanting to appease due to the amount of bullshit going down as of late, please forgive my French, young lady, we’re left with what we have now.”

Turning his attention back to Karida, the officer continued. “They have agreed to a few diplomatic requests. That while in custody you be allowed adequate and proper care, including but not limited to sanitary living conditions, three square meals a day, and a daily check-in from one of our staff members here at the embassy. And of course, legal representation of our choosing.”

Apologizing for the whole ordeal and reassuring that it would all soon blow over, the officer’s voice began to drift away as tears began to gather in Karida’s eyes, one escaping and beginning to trickle down her cheek while she looked at Tobias, who himself fought from breaking down.

“May we have a moment alone?” Tobias requested.

“Certainly,” the officer replied, standing and gesturing the two Afghans to the door. “Gentlemen…” 

“But sir, I don’t think-”

“For god’s sakes,” he fired back. “give ‘em a moment, will ya?! It’s the poor girl’s birthday! Do you really think they’re gonna jump out of a four-story window?!”

“Very well.” The taller of the two men answered while swallowing his pride.

He then turned to Karida and said something in their native tongue as he held out a hijab head scarf for her to take.

“I will not!” she declared in English.

“What now?!” asked the officer.

“He says I have to put on the head scarf before I leave this room.”

Although a little shorter than the cumbersome Afghan, the military officer stared him down coldly.

“Boy, you’re startin’ to ride my last nerve. Look at the paperwork. It’s right there in black and white. Freedom of religion must be observed. Now do I personally need to get Karzai on the phone to explain the lack of competence goin’ on here?!”

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Chapter 6

Ecstasy

Tobias was the first to wake, his morning erection becoming even harder as he looked down at his sleeping beauty atop his chest, one of her cute little breasts visible and resting on his stomach.

Running a fingertip over its areola and to the top of the nipple, he couldn’t help the involuntary spasm below which roused Karida since their legs were wrapped around one another’s.

Keeping her head nestled to his chest, she looked up at him with a sweet smile, one that became a little hungry as she bit down on her lower lip. Next thing he knew he felt her hand began to

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Chapter 5

The Untouched

Who was this sleeping beauty, whose radiance so captivated Tobias? Trying not to stare, he kept a respectable distance as he went through his morning stretch routine. With fluttering eyelids, Karida awoke and as she remembered where she was, sat up and took sight of the ancient scroll.

“Although you hold the sword above my heart-”

“I will prevail,” Tobias softly finished, startling Karida a bit as she quickly turned around to find him seated against the wall with his legs stretched out to his sides.

“Good morning,” he pleasantly said, and then with one fluid movement awed Karida by leaning his torso forward, tucking his shoulder and going into a tumble, smoothly coming out of the roll in mid-step and walking over to her.

Dressed in a black gi which tapered off at the bottom with black leggings and a black pair of Japanese tabi slippers, Karida found herself speechless as her eyes shifted from his handsome yet somewhat boyish face to the kanji of Nin embroidered on the part of his training outfit that was above his heart.

She couldn’t believe what she was seeing in the flesh.

“You are a Ninja…”

“All who find themselves in the eye of perseverance are Ninja,” Tobias said.

He was a mystery to her. Like the other Americans he was warm and friendly, but while the soldiers had had a male rigidness to them, and the female soft and nurturing, he seemed more complex, like he was capable of any and all.

“So you’re familiar with Ninjutsu?”

“Only through books.”

“That’s how I started,” he replied.

“It’s hard to explain,” Karida went on, “but when I discovered this knowledge it was like I already somehow knew it. I mean on a subconscious level. Like it was more of a re-discovery than learning something for the first time. Like my soul had found its way home. But then I wondered how that could be when I had never known anything outside of Islam and the books I had read.”

She suddenly felt shy as she caught herself opening up to this person she had just met. But then again there was that perplexity, a part of her feeling it was only natural for her to do so.

“I know exactly what you mean. They are life-changing, aren’t they?”

The two shared a smile of knowing, but as their eyes returned to being attracted to one another, a shyness came over the both of them. But instead of turning into a moment of awkwardness it became playful, with a little hint of flirtation.

“By the way, my name’s Tobias.”

“Karida.”

Still holding the other’s hand, they secretly enjoyed one another’s touch.

“Can I call you Kari?”

“If I can call you Toby.”

“Deal.”

And with this they sat down together and began to learn of the other’s past.

Karida could hardly contain her excitement as she headed back to her guest room with the gi Tobias had given her. It was just like his with the exception of the belt color, and after she put on the bra and blouse from the stack of clothes which had been laid out for her, she figured out how to dress herself in the new Ninja wear.

The black pants that tied at the side of the waist,

The special tabi socks that separated the big toe from the rest so as to easily fit into the tabi slippers, of which fastened up from the heel to the ankle.

And the leggings, to be velcroed from the top of the tabis to the top of her calves.

The only thing she couldn’t interpret was where the ties on the gi coat were supposed to be attached to, as well as how to properly tie the white belt around her waist. Something she planned to ask her new teacher for help with. But first she was to be escorted to an office to be debriefed by a military officer.

Many at the embassy already knew of Karida, and some even stopped and greeted her in the halls as Mehri took her to the morning meeting. Annie was among the friendly faces. A middle-aged American with a southern accent who introduced herself as the embassy’s librarian.

“Ah, honey, I feel like I already know you,” she said while wrapping her arms around the shy seventeen-year-old.

“Between the books I’ve sent to you over the years and your father’s stories of how you loved ‘em so. Did you get the last two Chronicles I sent for ya?”

“Yes, thank you so much. I treasured everything. They really saved my life.”

“Oh, honey,” Annie’s shaky voice replied as she went back in for another hug, the two then wiping away tears.

“You stop by absolutely anytime you wish, darlin’. The library will always be open for you.”

The photos were shocking, graphic and unbelievable in the sense that she had known these people for the cousins, aunts, uncles, and acquaintances they were, but silently the images were also gratifying to her. Evidence that those who had been so cruel to her and her parents were now gone forever, including Omar, who due to Karida’s own hand was now pictured in eternal shock, the odd and grotesque image of his inner throat open for all to see.

One by one she identified them for the military officer, but as she neared the end fear began to overtake her with the realization that Mahaz was not among the dead.

“Where is he?” Karida softly said while taking in the photographs once more, hoping that she had somehow overlooked the evil that was her uncle.

In panic she looked up to the officer. “You didn’t get him?”

“Who, sweetie? Who are you speaking of?”

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CHAPTER 4

Liberation

Karida hadn’t fully realized her weakened dehydrated state until the cool night air hit her as two soldiers whisked her away to an awaiting helicopter. The strong breeze both hindered and strengthened, making her painfully aware that her body had went through a week of malnourishment, yet at the same time awakening it with fresh oxygen.

The ascending helicopter was so odd and exciting, and the blades so powerful as they took flight into the dark sky. But best of all was how her long hair felt as it blew about loose and free for the first time in her life.

Landing on the roof of the embassy, Karida was escorted into the building and met by two female staff members. An American and an Afghan, known as Mary and Mehri

“You’re safe now, Karida. Take care,” the U.S. soldier who had found her said with a warm smile.

“Thank you,” she replied in English, reaching out and hugging him before he turned to leave. She was then led down a long hallway by the two women and into a clinical room where an Afghan female doctor was waiting to examine her.

From there she was taken to a large bathroom by Mary. Fascinated by her light skin, blonde hair, blue eyes and warm friendly American accent, Karida only admired the physical attributes through shy glimpses as the woman turned on a shower for her.

“We’ve got some new soap and shampoo here for you, and Mehri will be back with some comfy pajamas and a fresh towel. Is the water too warm for you, sweetie?”

“No, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

Once the neatly folded items were brought in, Karida was left in privacy to bathe. Looking into the mirror, this was the first time she saw the effects of being down in the earth for a number of days, along with stains from the altercation between her and Omar. Much of the blood had been cleaned off by the doctor, but there remained enough to chill her with the newly formed memory that was sure to last forever.

The constant flow of water felt so good to Karida as it poured down against her tired sore body, lathering every inch as she felt she was washing away all that she had been stained with for the past seventeen years.

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CHAPTER 3

The Accent

Of

Freedom

Sixty new students, half Afghan, half American, divided into five groups of twelve, five classes a day, five days a week for five weeks. This was Tobias’ new schedule after agreeing to help his country by coming to Kabul to train the U.S. embassy staff in combat-oriented self-defense. Recent events had begun to erase the work put into winning the hearts and minds of the Afghan people, and now that tensions were at an all-time high, authorities realized that with each new incident their attempts at damage control became less and less credible. Ill-prepared for the blow up on the brink of occurring at any moment, they needed their people trained as soon as possible with practical, realistic defensive skills that anyone could learn. Something basic enough that could be taught within a few weeks’ time yet having the effectiveness of protecting oneself from real-life violence. The embassy had been attacked the previous year, with troops being able to hold the adversaries at bay, but with the tension only escalating since, a backup plan had to be put into place just in case the first line of defense failed.

And so here Tobias was, the backup plan. Despite the chaos which lied beyond the compound’s walls, the setting was peaceful in this temporary training hall the government had set up for him. When asked what he needed for the five-week program he only listed the basics like mats, knife and gun replicas and if possible, a part of the building that was both spacious and relatively quiet.

They ended up having exceeded his expectations, virtually soundproofing a great-sized space and decorating it with fresh plants, an indoor fountain with a constant stream of flowing water and an impressive array of training weaponry along the wall joined by Japanese items such as kimonos, beautifully crafted fans, a rack of authentic katanas, and wooden plaques displaying inspirational kanji with its English translation written at the bottom.

With Tobias supplying the centerpiece of the ancient Nin scroll and the soothing aroma of his favorite incense, the tranquil dojo made him feel as though he were in the art’s motherland of Japan.

The house was ransacked from top to bottom as angry footsteps made their way from room to room, muffled frustrated voices arguing with one another as furniture was pounded, dragged and thrown across the wooden floors of the humble home.

Karida had been sure to align the removable floorboards perfectly and to secure them underneath before crawling through the hidden tunnel of dirt to her secret library after her third and final trip down. Food had been scarce the past few days, as had always been the case when waiting for her father to arrive just in time with his earnings, which meant the only thing she had besides her rationed bottle of Yoo-hoo, and now six peanut butter cookies, was a small pitcher of water, a couple pieces of bread, and three cups of cooked rice her mother had prepared earlier in the day. She figured if she were careful, it would last her for a week, maybe two.

Hide down in our sanctuary until-

What had her father meant to say? Had it been true that he had been working with the Americans? Did he not tell her so as to protect her? So had he been like a secret agent from some of the spy novels she had read? Or more like a Ninja engaged in psychological warfare in pursuit of freedom for his people, or in this case, his family.

Looking down at the books he had brought home to her, the ones he had been struck by, she wanted to cry again but held it in for the fear that she might be heard. Even her breathing seemed louder than usual. Were the few feet of earth between her and the enemy enough to cover sounds that felt as though they were being amplified? The slow chewing of a small piece of cookie? The soft shifting of her body weight atop her blanket? The careful turn of a page?

Her dear father had tracked down the last two books in her beloved series of the Vampire Chronicles, Blackwood Farm and Blood Canticle. It had been a fifty-fifty chance that Omar had picked up the former, and if he hadn’t, it would have been her who would have died in her father’s arms, for she was sure her sweet mother wouldn’t have been able to read the word Canticle.

The thought again filled her eyes with tears, but this time the sorrow was accompanied by a new emotion. Rage. And from rage, defiance. Wiping away tears, she grabbed the neck of the broken bottle she had taken from where the bloody scene had started and began cutting away at the burqa. She had shed the garment from her body as soon as she returned home, but brought it down with her to hide from those she knew would be coming. And now all she wanted to do was destroy it. Puncturing the fabric, and cutting away at it with the sharp glass that had wounded her father. Slicing. Shredding. As she swore to herself that if by some miracle she were to get away from the evildoers above and find freedom, she would never again be imprisoned by someone else’s beliefs.

But that risk, that possibility, would have to be contemplated later, to be conceived in a more clear-headed mindset. Right now she just needed to mentally escape, and who better to provide such than her adored vampire Lestat. And so she opened the book that took her mother’s life but saved hers, and began to read.

Was it day or night? Karida had no idea, as the only clock in the house was in the kitchen plugged into the wall. Her father had planned to run additional wiring down to their secret library to add a few more appliances, but she was just grateful for the light that allowed her to keep feeding her brain. Judging from how much food she had left, she guessed it had been four or five days, dividing her unknown time between her two newest books and the revisiting of some of her old favorites. The Secret Garden. Misery. Tulku – A Tale of Modern Ninja. After all, she didn’t want to finish the end of the Chronicles too soon, as her father had found out they were sadly the last two published thus far in the series.

Like a mouse hidden beneath the floorboards, Karida nibbled on her second to last peanut butter cookie while engrossed in her literary treasure. The muffled voices and footsteps would come and go as if it was their own home, and she was sure the house was under watch even when it appeared no one was there. But they were definitely there now, obnoxious in their noise and ignorant to the fact that the one they were waiting for, the one they thought would come crawling back after finding no permanent place to hide, was actually so near and inwardly free.

But a sudden PING jolted Karida back to her physical surroundings while grabbing the attention of those above. Everyone froze.

Another PING.

After a few seconds, another.

And then another.

Footsteps started to search.

Were they using some type of detector to find her? No, based on their reactions they were just as surprised as she, and as Karida focused on the sound she realized it was closer to her than they were.

PING! PING!

PING! PING!

Now coming in intervals of two, she followed it to the top shelf of the wall opposite the tunnel. Up behind the autobiographies.

Nothing but earth. But a patch of it seemed out of place. As if it had been dug out then put back. Rushing over to grab the jagged-edged bottle neck, she ran back and started to dig, her heart racing in fear as the volume increased, along with the overhead chaos.

It was a black box, no bigger than a paperback, now producing PINGS by sets of three, Karida frantically looking for an off switch but finding none.

She ran back over to her blankets and wrapped it up in all, but to no avail, the attempt providing less of a muffle than the dirt between her and those who now started to rip away at the floorboards.

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Dedicated to

Jourmey Teller.

Dad has bled perseverance long enough.

May the strokes of the pen

finally set us free.

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Like other cities and towns in the Philippines overpopulation had reached Baguio as well, but what made this place special was indeed the climate. With an average temperature in the seventies, the cool weather was such a relief from the awful heat that engulfed the rest of the country.

There was only one park with a lake, Burnham, spread out over eighty acres, and after giving it a walk-through and coming up short we checked into a hotel a couple of blocks away and grabbed a bite to eat before heading back for a more thorough search.

I didn’t want to rob Gemma’s mother of the one recent picture she had of her daughter, so I had Rachelle take a snapshot of the photo with her cellphone, which she used as we split up to cover more ground.

It wasn’t easy for someone like me, who came from such a diverse country, to scan over countless faces that looked more similar than different. Add that to the constant mental torture I was experiencing and there would be times when I’d zone out and not realize it.

Every third person, every third person.

Mother, infant, daughter.

Triple tiara.

Triple crown.

Three times three is nine, nine divided by three is three.

Manila, Bangued, Baguio.

She’ll be among the crowd as number three.

But then something would snap me out of it. A passing song. An occasional foreigner. Then I’d realize how many faces I’d overlooked. All the ones and twos before the three’s, and this would cause a fidget as I would have a momentary battle with covering OCD with OCD.

She’s passed you. She’s gone.

She’s leaving the lake, the park, the city, unless you ask every third person the time.

Rachelle was one of these third people, and before I could recognize her, before I could stop myself, I asked her like a stranger, “Excuse me, do you know what time it is?”

I snapped back as the last three syllables left my mouth, but it was too late, and she looked at me with such confusion.

Thankfully, I was able to think fast, and acted as though I were only joking. She fell for it, and after a few giggles informed me that she hadn’t found my Gemma.

After a couple more go-rounds of the park, this time sticking together, which forced me to stay focused to the point of not losing it in front of her, we went ahead and retired to the hotel.

It was all I could do to sit through dinner, now grateful for Rachelle’s cellphone obsession since it kept her busy and therefore less likely to pick up on my ever-increasing fidgeting, or at least I believed.

But it was getting so bad, taking all my concentration to send it to the bottom half of my body, to my feet and legs under the table, that I knew I couldn’t hide it for much longer.

“I think you should go.”

“What?”

“I really appreciate all your help, but you’ve done all that you can. We’ll stop off by the ATM in the morning so I can give you that thousand I promised, then I’ll drop you off at the bus station.”

“You’re not coming?”

“No, not yet. I’ll give it a few more days.”

I don’t know if it was because she felt bad for me, or if she was just turned on by me being a celebrity, but when we got upstairs to the room Rachelle threw herself into my arms, and when I moved my lips before hers could make contact she went for my belt buckle.

I had noticed how proud she had been when a few of the hotel’s guests recognized me. Proud of the perception that we were together. I, indeed, had experienced many times over how the drug of fame could be so intoxicating. So I didn’t blame her at all, but to give her my body, my soul, was something I simply could not do.

I now belonged to the pearl of the slum, with the thought of being with someone else as catastrophic as losing my genius. The girl and the gift were now one, and as I drifted off to sleep in a chair on the other side of the room from Rachelle lying alone in a queen-sized bed, I knew with all my being what my life had come to.

It would be Gemma, or it would be over.

The park was cool, crisp, with the calm lake reflecting the wide open sky above.

I thought of my princess. Of how her fantasy of looking out over the lake while in the arms of a great true love was now a fantasy of my own.

I wanted to live. I wanted to experience a compulsive-free life while still feeling the magic of the universe.

I took a deep breath.

Looked over the landscape of the park.

And began to walk.

By noon I had been at the search for six hours, having completed a dozen go'-rounds that I’m sure was by no coincidence, as the inner demons kept me in alignment with their evil sorcery of threes.

My cellphone was useless for its main purpose since my coverage was on the other side of the world, but it didn’t matter because all I needed it for was to show the image on it that I had gotten from Rachelle’s. And now my main focus was to show this picture of Gemma to every homeless person, every beggar I could find.

Some were kind and honest, compelling me to share what was in my wallet, while others tried to play me to see what they could get out of me, those of which I had no pity for.

Unfortunately none had seen Gemma, so my go-rounds of the park continued for the rest of the day and throughout the night, forcing myself to buy a snack from a vendor every now and then since I needed fuel to keep my body moving, my mind as straight as possible.

By day two my optimism was fading, as was the control I had over my own mind. Not only was the zoning out becoming more frequent, but the demons had infiltrated the core of my rational thought, the triple threats to myself now audible to those who passed me by. Reason to create space. To avoid the crazy foreigner who murmured while scanning over their faces.

I felt as though I was sleepwalking, with conscious awareness coming back to me at random times whether it be day or night. I’d be staring at the LCD screen of my cellphone, perhaps from delusion still allowing me to see her image even though the battery had been long dead.

I’d find myself in mid conversation with strangers, who’d have such perplexed looks on their faces.

I’d wake up, or snap out, while looking over the night version of the lake, at all the shiny lights bobbing atop its surface.

Night and day bled into one another, and I could no longer tell how long I’d been in that park, or even why, other than the image of Gemma in my mind’s eye. I’d either be in an intense battle with the demons, or staring up into the sky while lying flat on my back.

Sensing eyes looking down at me.

It meant nothing. The moments, the hours, the nights, I didn’t know since I had lost all sense of time, but it seemed I was only at peace while among the stars. Forming constellations with those infinite diamonds, in clusters of three, her face.

Over and over again, playing with the jewels of the gods, until one time

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Rachelle, the cellphone-crazed island girl I had first discovered my genius with while diving down into her far and wide, was now sitting by my side in an air conditioned bus as we headed to the northwestern part of the Philippines.

Despite the insanity I had experienced in the meeting, and was continuing to experience, I had managed to enthuse the suits with my pitch, even convincing them that it would be better that I immediately return to the Philippines, where they would FedEx the contract, instead of me waiting twenty-four hours to sign it in person once their lawyers had it drawn up. That by me being in the Philippines for awhile and establishing my name in the local market, it would only help in the fight against our musical being pirated once it opened in the country.

Tracking down Rachelle to enlist her help in finding Gemma hadn’t been too hard. She didn’t have the same cellphone number, but I remembered how to get to the building she had worked at, and even though I found out that she had transferred companies a few years previous, the different call centers in the country were all interconnected by employees who would come and go from one to another. So it only took a few peso bills to open mouths and locate Rachelle, and a few more to sway her boss to let me have her for a few days.

The maid from the five-star hotel didn’t have much more to add from what she had told me over the phone, but just hearing it in person, of how Gemma had cried and screamed to stay and wait for me moved me to the point of nearly shedding some tears of my own.

She had wanted to stay in the suite, even if it meant her mother and little brother leaving her, but the hotel staff had listened to the adult, refunding the payment I had made and leaving Gemma no choice. Nowhere to go but with her family.

A soul on fire. A soul burning for me. And unfortunately, a soul too young to think of leaving a message for me, to let me know where they were going.

Back to the alley. Back to the patched-up tent that was still in the far corner. I knew better than to think they had returned, and was only hoping for information as to where they had come from. Where they called home. The new residents claimed to know nothing, but once the mighty pesos were shown, minds cleared up quickly and recalled what we needed to know.

Zone 7, Rizal Street. Bangued, Abra.

Rachelle knew of the area. Located in a province about eight hours away, we were now travelling by night since I had refused to waste a single moment in not getting to Gemma.

The last order of business in Manila had been to find an attorney that would put a rush on the documents I needed to make Gemma legal. Once again money talked, and within a few hours I had acquired what I needed.

With my guide asleep and her head in my lap I sat there with my headphones on, drowning out the music on the bus with an audio book since I had made the conscious decision, the vow, upon knowingly losing contact with Gemma, that I wouldn’t listen to any music until we reunited. Not only because of a fear that I had lost my talent by losing her, but something else as well. Something that I couldn’t explain.

I think some people call it being in love.

Abra was a provincial valley, and Bangued, its capital, was beginning to awaken with the rising sun by the time we arrived.

Small and overpopulated, the municipality had no taxis, its primary mode of transportation that of ‘tricycles’—motorcycles with covered sidecars-- that were like little infernos from hell buzzing around everywhere you looked. It was in one of these mobile sardine cans that I squeezed in with Rachelle, the ride being the roughest I’ve ever had as I felt every bump in the road jar through the hardened seat below our assess.

Half the roads were dirt, which only intensified the awful experience, and when we finally reached Rizal Street I couldn’t get out fast enough. I felt as though I had been riding a mechanical bull, and told myself there was no way in hell I’d be getting back into one of those things.

Like the rest of the Philippines, Bangued had a top one percent that thrived off corruption, leaving the rest to fend for themselves within different levels of poverty.

The ironic thing about it was, in many cases the haves and the have-nots lived side-by-side, where there would be a family that lived in a large modern house in one lot, with the neighbors being a poor family living in the dirt in a makeshift house made of tin and plywood.

It was to one of these dirt-poor dwellings that we were led by a teenager we had come upon at a small corner store. We only had Gemma’s first name to go on, as well as her mother, Delicia, and her little brother, Francis, since I had foolishly not thought of asking their last name during our brief time together. But fortunately, everyone knew each other in these parts, with the kid even claiming he and Gemma had once been classmates.

He yelled for Delicia, and when she came out and saw me approaching, shock covered her face, followed by a fake smile that was meant to show she was happy to see me, when in reality she was scared shitless.

I, on the other hand, put no attempt into hiding my disappointment.

“Where’s Gemma?”

She stumbled for words.

“Where is Gemma?!” I demanded

“No here. Gemma, no here.”

I turned to Rachelle, and she turned on the Tagalong to get answers.

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Upon drying off I hung up the towel and headed out of the bathroom, enjoying the cool air conditioning engulfing my body as I walked into the bedroom and went for my laptop which sat on a nearby table.

I then turned around towards the bed and once again found myself frozen in place by Gemma’s doing. This time by the image of her lying in the middle of my bed, covered up and asleep.

I was instantly hard again, but had no intention of taking advantage of someone who was unconscious.

Being careful not to wake her I slowly lifted the blankets and discovered she was also nude, my eyes spontaneously sending the message through my brain and to my blood-engorged cock, which twitched a couple of times in reaction.

I slid in beside Gemma, turned on my laptop, and tried to ignore the obvious.

It had been forty-eight hours since I last checked my email, and although I had told everyone in my inner circle that my vacation was going to be an actual vacation, away from the around-the-clock hustle of film production, I still had over a hundred emails waiting for my attention,

As which was always the case, I sought out messages from my agent first, since he was the one who handled the day-to-day offerings of potential projects I might be interested in.

He had sent three urgent messages, one right after another to get my attention, all with the subject in bold caps reading, SOUNDTRACK.

One of the major film studios was offering me the opportunity to do my first musical feature film. They were well aware of past offers I had declined around town throughout the years, and were prepared to offer me the one thing I would never compromise. My artistic freedom of final draft for the script and final cut of the film, in addition to backend percentage of the film’s gross profits

The soundtrack was attached to the email, the majority of the songs by the artist who would also star in the film.

If I chose to accept this project I’d treat it like any other, combining muse, music, and mind for the visuals that would play out in my head.

The only thing different would be writing out the scenes that linked the musical numbers together, which I knew would organically come about as a result of that first stage of creating.

As I clicked download I couldn’t help but think that the muse was already in the palm of my hand, lying right beside me and waiting to become a woman.

My mind began to drift, thinking back on the vision I had had in the alley. Gemma picking the pearl from the open clam and placing it in the palm of my hand.

The distant foreign music that had been playing in the background, acting as a soundtrack to an introduction neither of us could have known the significance of.

Not that long after breaking into the industry I had developed some new habits, such as wearing headphones nearly everywhere I went to continuously listen to whatever song I was serving at any given time. To replay the video in my head over and over again so when shooting was underway it flowed with the precision of my direction. There were many things I utilized from my previous life as well, like listening to recordings while sleeping. Some involved factual content, while others were directly linked to projects I worked on.

Either way, it was always about following my gut, and right now my instinct was telling me to play the film soundtrack with Gemma in my arms

With download complete I hit continuous play, placed the open laptop on the nightstand, and turned off the light.

She roused a bit and looked up at me, her smile illuminated by the laptop’s LCD screen.

She nuzzled up against my chest, and in so doing I brought my arm up over her back. Within moments she had returned to unconscious breathing, and I closed my eyes as well, to the music playing us to sleep.

I was dreaming of the pearl, its smoothness rolling around in tiny circles as it balanced atop the surface of

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From the slums of Manila to a five-star hotel, I could only imagine what this mother and daughter were thinking, as well as the staff after seeing what I h-ad brought in from the streets.

Suite 393. With two bedrooms, I had more than enough room for the woman and her two children, and after showing them around I had Gemma help me order some Filipino dishes for them.

Over dinner we laughed at Gemma’s broken English, and my pathetic attempt at a few Tagalog words. The three were still covered in slum grime, and I was unsure if they had any plans to remove it.

Once everything was eaten I brought them in a set of clean towels, a bar of soap, two hotel robes and one of my t-shirts for the baby. Mother finally got the hint, and took her two offspring to the bathroom for a much needed washing.

Maybe I should have been more blatant, because when they returned they still had dry hair and smudged dirt here and there.

The woman hugged my hand and again placed her daughter’s in mine before heading off to bed with her infant son

It created a stir within me how Gemma just stood there, waiting for me to make the decision on what would be done next as she kept our palms together, the pads of her thin fingers wrapped around my hand as if letting me know she would follow whatever lead I would give her.

And with such realization I walked her to the bathroom. The tiles in the shower were dry, the only sign of water having been used coming from the sink and a nearby dampened washcloth

“You guys don’t like the shower?”

“My mother say we get sick if we take bath at night.”

“Really?” I replied. “I wonder how she came up with such a superstition.” As I finished saying this it occurred to me that she probably didn’t understand the choice of words I had used, and so I tried to simplify it. “Water alone, uh, water only cannot make you sick.” I gestured to myself. “I bathe every night, and I am healthy. No sick.”

She mirrored my smile, but I wasn’t sure if she was getting it, so I turned on the shower and adjusted it to a nice warm temperature before guiding her hand, which was still in mine, under the flow of water.

“See. Very nice, huh?”

Her smile grew, and she added her other hand as well. “You want to try?” I suggested. “You bathe in here.”

She let go of my hand and went for her robe, but before she could remove it I was heading out the door.

“Let me know if you need anything,” then closed it and stood there with the knob at my back, still in my hand.

My heart was racing with excitement, my mind spinning to catch up. What was this rush I was feeling that I hadn’t experienced since I was this girl’s age?

Schnapps. I needed some peach schnapps and orange juice to simmer down, but within steps of reaching the mini bar

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Chapter 8

Slumdog Princess

A half day for creating and prep, two days of shooting, one day of editing. Three and a half days per project makes two videos per week. Twenty-eight days equals four weeks. Add the last two to three days per month with no break for five years and this brought the number of music videos I had created to five hundred.

Not that quantity ever trumped quality. All were flawless, all seamless in marrying music and motion picture. But after so many nameless faces. Threesomes. Orgies. The body count constantly rising, never steadying. It was getting to the point to where I was fearing I would unknowingly fuck someone I had already been with. And with my fragile mental state getting shakier and shakier, if such were to occur and threaten my flow of brilliance, I honestly don’t think I would have survived it.

This brought me to the conclusion that in order to save myself I had to step back and reassess. There was no reason to believe I couldn’t take a breather. Perhaps just a week or two to come up with some elaborate master plan that would carry me as far as I could get before pulling the plug on my existence.

Besides, five-hundred was a nice round number to take this break. If it would have been a few more, or even a couple, my demons would have demanded I kept going until I hit one thousand.

It had all started in Manila, so what better place to search for the answers?

I’ve always loved walking. To clear my mind. To get the blood flowing. To experience my surroundings with all my senses.

Back home the autumn air would be cool and crisp, keeping me comfortable in a light jacket and pair of jeans. But on the streets of Manila I found myself in a constant sweat, the t-shirt and shorts I was wearing not doing much to stop the flow of perspiration.

A few blocks into it, I had become so desperate that I removed the ol’ ball cap and sunglasses at the risk of being spotted by those who kept up on pop culture. With the world being smaller than it’s ever been, the ludicrous human condition known as celebrity now easily reaches all corners of the globe. And that late afternoon proved such with at least a half dozen passersby taking notice with their wide eyes and bright smiles as their brains tried to register my familiar face.

I took in a few more streets, with the cracked and broken sidewalks continuing to scuff up my shoes as I’d glance up, just for curiosity’s sake, while passing alleys and the like. Just a little quirk I’ve always had, wanting to know what lies within the nooks and crannies of city life.

The homeless filled most of Manila’s, especially alleyways that were tucked away between abandoned buildings. I gave to a few when approached but kept my pace brisk. After all, even the world’s richest man would go broke in less than a day if he tried to help all who are in need.

But then a pair of eyes caught my attention and wouldn’t let go. They belonged to a woman who appeared to be in her early thirties, with slum-dark skin that had probably never been properly cleaned.

Realizing I was a foreigner, she latched onto my forearm and wouldn’t let go, pulling the loose collar of her grimy blouse down with her other hand to show me her flat bony chest as she repeated, “Sex. Sex. Sex.”

Shaking my head no, I gave her the last of my coins and moved to leave, but those piercing grey eyes once again stopped me in my tracks.

They were pleading, as she was now alternating between putting her hand to her mouth and rocking her arms as if cradling a baby.

“Where? Where’s your baby?” Motioning as I said this since she obviously couldn’t speak English.

With her filthy hand back around my arm she began to pull me into the alley, and since our communication was limited to the physical, I allowed her to do so

Past makeshift dwellings and littered trash, the woman led me to the dead end of the alley. An area no bigger than a prison cell and fenced off by a couple of large flattened pieces of cardboard.

Beyond the crude barrier were random items from the outside world, while a small tent with more patches than original canvas filled the remaining space. Prime real estate when compared to the rest of the alley.

I had put my hat and sunglasses back on in an attempt to conceal my foreign appearance, but along the way still managed to attract a few squatters that the woman was now trying to shoo away while closing her cardboard gate.

Word was spreading quickly, and as she pulled back the blanket sewn into the tent that served as its entrance she gestured me to go inside.

It wasn’t as hot as I would have imagined, thanks to a current of early evening breeze beginning to stream into the alleyway and through the hole above our heads from a drawn back piece of fabric.

The floor of the tent was hard but cool, with a few spots cushioned with pillows and blankets.

And that’s when my eyes found hers. The woman’s teenage daughter staring back at me as an infant lay sleeping in her arms.

She had her mother’s eyes, only more intense. Grey ash, as if the soul behind them was on fire. Upon first glance she might have appeared as just another slum girl, but for someone like myself, who had been admiring art from the hands of genius nearly all my life, what I saw before me was a true pearl in the lagoon.

Her mother took notice of this, took the baby from her daughter’s arms, and with her free hand went to lift the teenager’s t-shirt.

“Sex. Sex. Sex.”

An obvious first for her, the girl was nervous but had the same desperate look of need and therefore followed her mother’s urgings and began to remove her shirt.

But I shot my hand out and stopped her before her breasts could be revealed. “No. No, that’s not necessary.”

“Wala ako pera sa pagkain,” the woman said.

“I… I don’t understand,” I replied.

“She say no money for food.” The girl’s eyes were still intently focused on mine, and now that she was directing her soft voice towards me as well, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat mesmerized.

“You speak English.”

“Kaunti. Uh… little.”

I reached into my pocket, took out a five-hundred-peso bill, and handed it to the woman. It was an equivalent of about twelve U.S. dollars, which in these conditions was enough to feed this family of three for nearly a week

Overjoyed, the woman laid her sleeping baby down on a pillow, hugged the hand I had given her the money with, and went about preparing a cup of powdered orange juice for me.

I couldn’t help but have a little inner laugh as I thought to myself that the only thing missing from this being my drink of choice was the peach schnapps.

But of course, for sanitary reasons, I only acted as though I were drinking from the cup of my gracious host, my eyes never really leaving the girl who seemed to be captivating me more and more with every passing moment.

As ridiculous as it may sound, I felt like an awkward teenager with my next question.

“What’s your name?”

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Chapter Five

Cenobites Cove

“Are those contacts?”

Stunned, I was afraid I already knew the answer as I stood there staring at Jules, bewildered that she no longer had any white in her eyes.

“Ah, don’t insult me. You know better than that. It’s my true blood. Ink.”

“So it’s permanent?”

“Nothing’s permanent, Vanilla Bean. But yeah, it’s a part of this body until I move on to another. So what can I do for you? Lookin’ to get another girlie tat from my gun, or what?”

Sarcastic with that forked tongue of hers, Jules looked demonically delectable in her pursuit of becoming a real-life cenobite from that Hellraiser clan she was so obsessed with.

“I think you and I are more alike than it would appear. You know that god-like gratification you get when aligning pleasure and pain? Well, my nirvana is pleasure and music. Any kind of music. Even that hardcore shit you have playing right now.

“The thing is, my inkwell seems to have run dry for some reason. So do you think you got anything downstairs that might help me bleed it back out?”

“Well, given that you’re still as vanilla as a Mickey D’s shake, I don’t believe it would be wise to throw you down there among the hungry wolves. And since you have that cool last name and all, maybe we can come up with a win-win.”

“Do I?” I asked. “With all the vanilla references, I didn’t think you heard me last night.”

“You’re the first Zerylnick I’ve ever met. With your height and features, I figured you had Russian blood running through those veins, But once I heard you say Zerylnick, I have to admit, it made me a little wet.

“A family lineage of bleeders?! Your ancestors were fucking amazing! Going around convincing people they needed to be filleted to get rid of their sickness? I mean yeah, they believed it themselves since that was the norm back then, but can you imagine? They took their blades to so many different walks of life. From peasants to royalty. From infants to the elderly. All lying there in submissive desperation to have their illness extracted while your family sliced open their flesh with razor-sharp steel. What a rich history.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“My graveyard guy will be taking over in awhile,” she said. “Why don’t you go have a donut hole around the corner and come back in thirty.”

Wired up on a few cups of coffee, I returned to the cove to find Jules’ graveyard guy behind the counter. The kind of guy who is so big his arms puff out from his sides. Built like such a mammoth that he’d crush you with one blow if he caught you, or die from not being able to breathe if he didn’t. Obviously the after hours muscle for the twenty-four hour shop, and also quite possibly one of the owner’s personal toys, as he looked like he could be such with that spiked dog collar wrapped around that massive neck of his.

“Hey, is Jules around?” I asked.

“Back here,” he answered as he gestured to the curtain at his back.

Pulling it open revealed a naked strawberry blonde on all fours, her mouth wide-open and sealed around a dildo while drool poured down her chin and over a spiked dog collar of her own. Guess they were all Jules’ slaves.

A chain was attached to the fake dick, and before my eyes could follow the links to find its end, Mammoth handed the reins over to me.

“Your safe word is…”

He looked down into my eyes.

“Vanilla.”

“Safe word?” I ignorantly asked.

“If shit gets too much for you to handle, say it.”

He then reached down and slapped his heavy hand over the girl’s ass, prompting her to get going and guide me to their master.

As she began to lead me into a long narrow corridor, I noticed that the chain actually had two ends, and I became quite surprised when I discovered the second was attached to another dildo, this one stuffed deep into the slave’s ass.

I tilted my head down a little to catch a glimpse below it, and sure enough there was a third one chained to the second, stretching the lips of her swollen pussy while the act of crawling on hand and knee caused friction in her two gaping holes.

Impaled three times over. Three.

No! Not fucking now! Stay focused!

We came to a trap door, where the slave lifted it open to a set of stairs leading into darkness.

Once she had me inside she closed the entrance above my head and down we went as I used my free hand to feel the walls of the close quarters. The tension in the chain I was holding tightened, as my guide, who I could no longer see, pulled me down to the underworld.

Every now and then we’d come upon these dimly-lit alcoves that held nothing but single doors. Doors, that in my mind led to the demented fulfilling their deranged sexual fantasies. And here I was, Vanilla Boy, desperate to join in if it meant getting my mojo back.

Reaching to what appeared to be the bottom of this demented pit, this last door opened to yet more darkness, and once it shut behind me I again had to rely on the tension of the chain to lead my blindness.

A few yards in and we came to a stop. I sensed that we were in a much more open space, and the only thing I could hear was the sound of something hovering, possibly slightly swaying above me.

All of a sudden music blasted to life while the chain in my hand was simultaneously jerked away. My clothes were then being stripped off at a pace that matched the distorted electronics of Prodigy’s frantic fusions, while the bass echoed throughout the room and my body.

I wouldn’t call myself an avid listener of the group, but their sound was distinct enough to where I knew it from others. And the name, Prodigy. With Jules’ ironic and sarcastic sense of humor, I didn’t doubt for a second that this was a selection she had purposely chosen.

My hands were being held at my back, and just as my ears picked up on the lowering of whatever was above me, black lights switched on.

As my eyes struggled to adapt, they began to make out fluorescent patterns on the thing that was slowly descending down in front of me in mid air.

I then felt a pair of hands grab the cheeks of my ass, immediately followed by warm wetness enclosing over my flaccid cock and hanging balls

The first pair of hands, the ones that had been holding my own at my back, let go just as a soft light filled the room.

The thing hanging in front of me is what had latched on to my genitals.

It was a body.

Someone was floating.

Chest up, their head hanging lower than the rest of their body, orally attached to me as my eyes gradually adjusted.

It was Jules, her nude body suspended there three feet off the ground, hanging by nothing but hooks.

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I knocked lightly on Stephanie’s door, bottle of Midori capped with a shot glass in one hand and electric toothbrush in the other.

She wore a Hello Kitty nightgown, inviting me into a bedroom that looked more like it belonged to a preteen than to a co-lead singer of a pop-rock band.

Sitting on the edge of her bed with knees pressed to one another and feet apart, Stephanie looked like one of the girls I used to dream about back in high school.

Add that to the Britney Spears teeny-bopper classics she had playing on her computer and it was as if I had been transported back to one of my adolescent fantasies, only now I was actually living the dream.

I poured Steph a shot, handed her the battery-powered toothbrush with its ultra-soft bristles, then left her long enough to retrieve the camera and tripod.

Out of the three band mates Stephanie was definitely the most nervous, sitting there in silence as I set up the shot while trying to reassure her that everything had turned out great so far.

When it was time, I brought her around to the side of the bed we’d be shooting on and went over everything.

“I’ll need you to be on the edge here, and do your best to keep your face turned towards the camera. Feel free to take as much time as you need, and if it helps you can keep your eyes closed.”

I positioned myself behind the camera as Stephanie placed herself on the edge of the bed. She then laid very still as I framed her in a medium close-up from the chest up. So still that she looked more like a mannequin than a young woman.

“OK, whenever you’re ready.”

Her eyes stared dead ahead into the camera lens, the occasional blinking of the eyelids the only part of her body to move as Britney sang in the background about not being that innocent.

A full minute passed before any sign of movement came from Stephanie, her lips then parting to softly say, “I can’t-- Can you tell me-- I mean--”

With the other two girls I had kept my respectable distance, not saying a single word to them once they had begun pleasuring themselves so as not to disturb their focus. But being the tamest of the three, Stephanie indeed needed some assistance in helping turn this awkward situation into one of sensual expression. And so more than happy to oblige, I began directing her every step of the way.

“It’s OK, Steph. To learn of one’s own body through self-exploration is a form of self-enlightenment. Only by knowing our own personal pleasures can we fully satisfy those we choose to take as a lover. It’s one of the most natural acts of human kind, where the body and spirit attain an individual freedom unlike any other.

”It’s all about you now. No performance, no worries. No better place than in the comforts of your own bedroom to learn to release yourself.

Let it all go.

Turn on the toothbrush.”

The sound of a small but powerful motor came to life.

“Now bring it up in front of your face and look at all the little bristles spin about.”

She did just as I said, her eyes leaving the camera lens of mine to stare down at the electric toothbrush.

“As soft as angel hair.

Ever so gently, barely touch the corner of your mouth with it.”

As she did so her eyes returned to peering into the camera.

“…And keep it there. That’s right. Feel the heavenly softness awakening.

Lightly run it over your top lip.”

Subtle yet obvious, her reaction was one of delight.

“Yes, the tickle is such a treat, isn’t it?

“Now do the same with your bottom lip, and allow yourself the full pleasure of it this time.”

Her eyelids softened, coming down a bit as she gave in to the tingle.

“It’s that easy. What you feel is your body thanking you. Appreciating the fact that you’re now taking control of sweet sensations, instead of having to rely on another to do so. Such an amazing power you now possess.

“It only gets better from here. The nerves of not knowing are now nerves of excitement.

“Feed them. Bring the angel’s touch down to your left breast.

“Again, with only the slightest contact, place it on the fabric above your nipple.”

And by doing so, Stephanie found herself in the midst of a sudden deep inhale.

“Apply a little more pressure…

“And slowly trace the firmness growing beneath it.”

Her knees, side-by-side as before, began to shift. “Such gratitude for such pleasure. Yes, your body now answers with the wetness between your legs.

“Give in.

“Let it out.

“It only gets better.”

Onward I continued, not only peeling away the undiscovered layers of Stephanie, but also uncovering this level of self-control I never knew I had with this third go-round of suppressing my sexual arousal.

“Now listen to your body and you’ll start to hear it, feel it, telling you the patterns to use to increase, expand, these delicious sensations.

“Keep ‘em coming, keep ‘em flowing, and place your free hand on your stomach.

“Now use those fingers to start pulling up your night gown, the more the fabric rides up and gathers in the palm of your hand the more free you become. The more intense it all becomes.”

I watched out the corner of my eye as she lifted her center weight until the unveiling curtain passed her waist and was all gathered across her stomach.

“Now remove the toothbrush and lift your gown up to your chest.”

This exposed her left breast and half of her right, both of which were in frame.

Of course the part of the footage that showed her actual bare breast would be, as they say, left on the cutting room floor during the editing process. The idea was to keep the camera rolling so I wouldn’t miss those special magical moments that could later be pieced together for a PG-13 type viewing.

“OK, bring the bristles back down to your nipple, but start off with featherly-light kisses.”

Stephanie continued to look straight into the camera’s eye, as if it were my own, and it picked up the slight changes in her face as she touched the pink tender pebble of her perky breast with the rotating softness.

“Yes, a little bit more pressure now as your body guides you.”

We would be hitting the next level soon and consequently would have to push in closer, but I really liked the framing we had going on of her beautiful breasts on one end and that cute face of hers on the other.

It was then that I realized her right breast had the answer. The bottom part lay bare while the hemline covered the nipple, with the Hello Kitty image bunched together across her chest in just the right position to where you could make it out if you looked at it the right way, yet not visible enough to where copyright infringement would be an issue.

This was ideal to the theme. The innocence of a young woman learning how to pleasure herself in the sanctuary of her own bedroom. And in Stephanie’s case, life imitating art.

“Feel the warmth, the moistness down there between your legs as it calls out to you. It begs to know the angel’s touch. But before you heed the call, turn off the toothbrush.

“Now take the lube beside you and apply some to the bristles.

Massage it throughout.”

And as she did so I reached out and pulled the hemline down over her exposed nipple to match the other.

Beautiful. We were ready to move on.

Like her band mates, Stephanie was hairless, her closed crease blushing red with stimulated blood flow.

“It’s all about the slow ease. Taking the time to smell the roses. To feel their smooth texture while admiring their bright beauty.

“With that slow ease, stroke in the curls that once twirled around what is now bare. Feel the impulse it sends down to your secret garden below.

“Yes, don’t be afraid to follow the trail. The strengthening urge is just confirmation that this couldn’t be more right. It’s the one area of your life where there are no boundaries. No limitations.”

Following my directions, my somewhat hypnotic tone, had led her to the entrance of the promise land. But my guidance would soon be leaving Stephanie, letting her finish out the journey on her own so she could give herself that final affirmation that it was she who held the master key to her domain of pleasure.

“You give in to the one and only who has been there for every heartbeat, every breath. No one could ever know you as well as you know yourself. So feed the craving with no hesitation.”

She approached the

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