Chapter 7

The air was cold and wet, the stars obscured by heavy clouds. I shivered and put my arm around Liz's waist, pulling her close, as much for her body heat as a friendly gesture. We were walking toward the pickup after going to a movie.

"Hot chocolate," I said. "The night calls for hot chocolate."

"Sounds good," Liz said.

"My studio. We can warm our insides and talk."

"All right. I would like to take another look at your paintings before you ship them to San Diego."

Twenty minutes later, I flipped on the lights in the studio and disarmed the burglar alarm. The alarm was recent, a requirement of my insurance company after I informed them about the value of the paintings I stored in the studio.

"Do you know another artist, a man named Carl Ballard?" Liz asked as we settled on the sofa with a cup of hot chocolate in hand.

"Yes," I said. "Why?"

"When I told my older sister about you, she said she'd overheard Ballard talking about a punk kid named Brent Carson, and she asked me if you were that punk kid."

"I'm he," I said. "What was Ballard saying?"

"That he was going to break every bone in your body."

I nodded. I'd wondered if Ballard's busted balls were going to come back to haunt me. When she asked, I told Liz what had happened at the Crane cocktail party. I ended the story with a chuckle and said, "So, ask your sister if Ballard is talking with a slightly higher voice lately."

Liz giggled. "Abby, that's my sister, says he's huge, that he looks like a mountain man, authentic scraggly beard and all. Do me a favor and try to avoid him until after the prom."

"After which you won't care if he breaks my bones?"

She blushed. "I didn't mean it that way. Remember, I watched you with those bullies, Brent. They outnumbered you three to one, and you prevailed. Ballard might be big, but there's just one of him, so you'll take him. Still, you won't come out of a fight with a big man completely unscathed. I'd rather you were bruise free and lively for the prom."

I grinned. "Good save."

I got a cynical smile for that.

"Let's change the subject," I said.

"All right. What would you like to talk about?"

"Dancing. Can you dance?"

"Sure. Can you?"

"Slow dances, yes. I look like a frightened chicken during fast dances."

She laughed. "Not unlike most boys. Drop by my house Saturday afternoon, and I'll give you a lesson in fast dancing."

"Let's meet here. Between now and Saturday, I'll buy a CD player. Just bring the music you want to play."

She grinned and said, "I like your plan better."

I told her about my tinnitus, and that I was musically challenged, and promptly changed the subject again. "Let's talk about sex now."

Her aplomb surprised me. "What would you like to know?" My expression made her laugh again.

I recovered and said, "Am I to infer from your question that you could teach me a few things?"

She looked at me over the rim of her mug. Her blue eyes danced with mischief. "Maybe."

"Probably. You are, after all, robbing the cradle," I conceded.

"Hah! You're more mature than my ex-boyfriend, and he's a college sophomore."

"Pretend I'm a blank slate. Pretend I'm pliable and amenable to training. If you wanted to train me in the ways of sex, what would you teach me first?"

She blushed. I laughed. "Something came to mind," I said. "Go ahead. Tell me. You won't shock or offend, and I won't think less of you for saying it."

"Easy for you to say. Let's turn the tables. What would you teach me first? How to give head?"

"No! That'd be way down the list. My first lesson would be how to relax so you can accept and expect the wonderful sensations a sexual partner can give you."

She looked at me as if I were suddenly two-headed. Still, the look was positive.

I laughed. "Your turn."

"I don't think so. Tell me about lesson number two?"

"A tour to promote self-discovery. Most women don't know, beyond the obvious places, what parts of their body excite them if caressed, kissed, licked or fondled. This relates to my first rule of sexual competency: know what turns you on. My third lesson would be another tour, and relates to my second rule of sexual competency: know what turns your partner on. There, I've described my first three lessons. To be fair, you must now reciprocate."

"I don't think so." She blushed. "I think I'd rather have you as a teacher than a student."

I cocked one eyebrow. "I doubt that would work very long. I don't see you as a submissive."

"No, I'm not, but you're a dominant male."

"I prefer equality in a sex partner. Equality encourages edges, and edges makes sex and love, any kind of interaction, for that matter, more interesting."

"What do you mean by edges?"

"Unexpected reactions, small surprises, intense passion, those sorts of things. In a dominant/submissive relationship, unexpected reactions or surprises would be frowned upon because the roles are set. Equality allows switching dominant and submissive roles between the partners." I chuckled thinking about my first time with Sherry. "A dominant/dominant session can be... ah, exciting, but very tiring if constant. A submissive/submissive session, by definition, can't happen. Each would be waiting for the other to provide direction."

"You sound as if you've experienced many types of sex partners and roles."

I grinned. She thought she had me in a vice. She didn't. I said, "I have — in my mind. I have a rich and varied imagination that feeds my fantasy world with interesting females of all ilks. I must admit that since you asked me to be your date to the prom, you've taken center stage in my fantasy world."

Her eyes became mischievous again. "Tell me about the roles I've played on that stage."

"You defy conventional style and wear your sleek hair in a bun, which on another woman would be dowdy. You make the look stylish, intriguing, even sexy. In one fantasy, I removed the pins in your hair, used my fingers as a brush and let it fall down your back, or over your soft shoulders, or across your bare breasts." I moved next to her, reached and removed one pin from her hair. "Sometimes my fantasies have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Other times, I have what I call fantasy flashes." I took out another pin. "Whether pulled back tight behind your classically beautiful face, or let down and flying in the wind, or waving to the movement of your head, your luxurious hair comes to me in fantasy flashes." Her hair fell free, and I used my fingers as a brush. "I've seen and felt the tips of your hair brushing across my naked chest when you throw your head from side to side in passion as you move on me. Another time, I saw and felt your hair wrapped around my erect member. In yet another fantasy we shared a shower, and I shampooed your hair."

I leaned and gave her a very soft, romantic kiss. "What about you? Do all your fantasies have a beginning, middle and end, or like me, do you sometimes see flashes of arousing scenes, only one or two slides in a slide show, instead of full-length fantasy videos?"

She kissed me back. "Both, but mostly flashes, and the full-length fantasies are disjointed, cutting from one scene to the next without rhyme or reason."

She kissed me again. Her lips moved on mine, and I felt the tip of her tongue. I let it in my mouth and twirled my tongue with hers. Her hands moved to the back of my head, and she pulled me closer as the kiss deepened.

"I and others in the crowd saw you naked from the waist down," she said. "You were soft, but still, you looked long and thick to me, and in my fantasy flashes, I saw it half-hard, then hard, and finally it was huge, like in those old-time Japanese pillow books."

My lips traveled down her long neck while I undid the top three buttons on her silk blouse. She didn't stop me.

She said, "I used both hands to fondle you, one on top of the other, but still you stuck out above the top hand, and my hands couldn't encircle your normal girth."

My kisses moved lower over the tops of her lovely breasts. Another button came undone. I felt a nipple brush across the cheek of my face.

"You're not that large, I know," she said, "probably average, or a little longer and thicker, but those were my fantasy flashes."

I turned my head a little, and my lips found a nipple. I kissed it and licked with the tip of my tongue. Her hand dropped to my lap, and she explored my erection over my pants.

She giggled. "One hand will be enough."

I stopped kissing and nibbling and licking. Instead, I sucked most of one breast into my mouth.

She gasped and said, "Does this sofa make into a bed?"

"Yes."

"Make it so."

I chuckled at her Star Trek reference and pulled her to her feet with me. Wrapping my arms around her, I kissed her with passion, and then moved her to the side of the couch. The cushions flew, and the bed, when I pulled it out, was made up with fresh sheets. I stepped to the closet and grabbed a couple of pillows, tossing them onto the bed where Liz had already settled. She was naked, a perfect, sexy little doll. Full breasts, a tiny waist, narrow hips, and she'd shaved her pubic hair away, which made her cunt look like a little girl's, except her clitoris poked out from between her outer lips. It was huge. No little girl ever had a clit that size. The outsized bundle of nerves made my mouth water.

She watched me while I awkwardly removed my clothes. I nearly fell on my face while trying to remove a recalcitrant sock from one foot. She laughed at my antics, which didn't bother me at all. Laughter should be part of sex.

"Maybe I'll need two hands after all," she said when she saw my bobbing hard-on.

"Not likely. Do I need a condom?"

"Uh-uh. I'm on the pill, but thanks for asking."

I moved to the bed and gathered her into my arms. Her flesh was warm and silky smooth, blemish free. When I kissed the top of one soft shoulder, I felt a dainty hand encircle my erection. She stroked it, spreading the natural lubricant that was oozing from the tip. Her legs drifted apart when my hand slid up an inner thigh. She was wet, wet enough to take the finger I pushed inside her. Her hips rose a little, pushing my finger deeper, as far as it would go.

"I want to taste you first," I said. I couldn't get the picture of her large clit out of my mind. Wrapping my lips around it had become a compulsion. Besides, as Jane Wilson, I'd preferred being eaten for my first climax. Perhaps Liz had the same preference.

After moving onto my knees between her spread legs, I grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under her delightful bottom. Then I started at the soft places behind her knees, kissing, nibbling, licking, moving up one inner thigh and moving down the over.

"I love your aroused fragrances," I said just before my mouth covered her cunt. With Sherry, I had to search for her clit. Not with Liz. Hers was prominent, easily recognized by the nerves in my mouth and tongue that sensed touch. Liz's clit was the only part of her body out of proportion with the rest.

"I adore your aroused flavors," I said and smacked my lips. She laughed gaily as I returned to my oral explorations.

She started to moan, and soon her moans became continuous, except when she interspersed a "yes," or "yes, yes."

A minute later, she said, "Suck it."

I assumed she was referring to her clit. I'd been avoiding direct contact with that sensitive bundle of nerves. No longer. I sucked the outsized nubbin into my mouth and lashed it with my tongue, reveling in its size and throbbing texture. At the same time, I started to finger-fuck her with two fingers.

She moaned with pleasure, and her hips moved, not a lot but enough to let me know she was enjoying what I was doing to her.

"Yes! Yes, yes!" she gushed, and her fingers raked through my hair, grabbing handfuls at each side of my head.

She fucked my face, her moans and yeses becoming more pronounced, until suddenly she pulled my head tightly to her cunt as she screamed and climaxed. I wanted to move up over her and push my throbbing cock into her convulsing cunt, but her grip on my hair remained steadfast as her hips danced to the primitive beat of her orgasm. Even after she collapsed, I had to pry her fingers loose to extract my hair from her steely grip, and when I could finally raise my head, she looked so out of it that I decided to defer fucking her until she recovered a little. I rose erect while remaining on my knees between her limp legs, and let my hands roam over her flesh, not to arouse, but rather to appreciate.

A minute later, she opened her eyes and smiled at me, her normal cynical smile. "Whew," she breathed. "I needed that. Thank you."

"You're welcome," I said as I waved the head of my throbbing cock through her sodden crease. She winced when the crown bumped her clitoris. "Still sensitive?" I asked.

"Uh-huh, but put it in." She moved up onto her elbows and watched as I slowly buried my length inside her. When I hit bottom, her eyes rolled back in her head and she smiled again. "I needed that, too. Go slow, and I'll come again."

We made love — slowly. She climaxed before I was ready, but she stayed with me until I collapsed.

We rested for a while and talked some more. I told her that Grace had finally found a date to the prom, a college boy named Aaron Tibbett. Grace had met him while dating Dean Gibson. While we talked, Liz played with my cock, and it wasn't long before it started to lengthen again. She helped it along with her mouth, but she wanted it inside her cunt, and she wanted the dominant position. That's where I wanted her, too. She was so short compared to my length that it was difficult to kiss her when in the missionary position, let alone suck on her sensitive breasts.

She rode me, coming twice before I climaxed again. She was verbal and fun, laughing and moaning, and saying, "Yes, yes, yes!"

Afterwards, she pulled me from the bed and down the stairs so she could see and study my paintings. Because we were naked, I felt a little awkward. She didn't. She was completely at ease in her skin. Before she finished gazing at each of my paintings in turn, I started to appreciate her confident and free spirit.

We showered separately — she didn't want to get her hair wet — got dressed, and I drove her home. As first dates go, my date with Liz had to be right up there with the best of them.

As the night turned into morning, my mother and I flowed from one pose in a tai chi form to the next. We were synchronized, smooth and fluid. Although she was still struggling with the proper breathing necessary at different stages of the form, for the short time she'd been learning the ancient exercise, she was doing extremely well.

We finished, and Mom shook out her long muscles, causing her breasts to wave. "I love this, Brent," she said with a wide smile. "I'll do tai chi for the rest of my life. Thank you."

"You should check around. Classes in tai chi are offered in a lot of places. Sign up for one but don't stay with the same teacher long. Move around. Each instructor will be different, emphasizing different moves or philosophies."

"I prefer you as my teacher," she said.

"So sorry. I am not a very good teacher," I said, using a Chinese accent. She laughed. How would she have reacted if I'd spoken to her in Cantonese or Mandarin? I spoke both languages well, not the present-day languages, though. All languages had changed dramatically over the last 150 years, and I suspected that Cantonese and Mandarin were no different in that way.

She moved inside, and I started the kuen for Kung Fu. I specialized in Wing Chun, arguably the most famous style in the Shaolin system. The style was popularized by the Bruce Lee movies, although he'd altered the pure style, creating one of his own.

As was my habit, I let my fingers do some walking on the keyboard of my computer, and found references to Wing Chun on the Internet. I was surprised to discover that the style had recently received new publicity. Following the death of long time grandmaster, Yip Man, his three senior disciples were waging an acrimonious battle over who would inherit the supreme mantle for the style. Shame on them. They weren't following the Way, or if not Taoists, then the teachings of Buddha, especially the fourth of the Four Noble Truths of Mahayana. The fourth truth says that adherence to the Eight-Fold Path is the route to the extinction of desire, one of the life goals of a Shaolin monk.

I finished the Wing Chun kuen, and picked up my cudgel. Cudgel play stresses a sweeping action, but chopping, jabbing, hanging, leaping, smashing, pointing, blocking, sheltering, holding, floating, and lifting also come into play. Different schools of cudgel sparring emphasize different actions. Cudgel play is quick, like heavy rainfall, and combines always changing offensive and defensive moves. Like equal sex partners, I thought.

I joined my mother in the kitchen, and she handed me a cup of green tea, a habit I'd recently acquired. She sat, blew air over the rim of her cup of coffee and said, "How was your date with Liz Cornwell?"

"Great. We went to a movie."

"Movies aren't shown after midnight."

"No, they're not," I said and sipped tea.

"Well?"

I laughed. "Mom, you are incredibly nosy."

"A mother's work is never done." She grinned coyly.

"After the movie, we went to the studio. She wanted to see my paintings before I shipped them to San Diego, which reminds me. The crew Darrell hired to crate the paintings will be at the studio this afternoon at two o'clock. They wouldn't come any later. If I meet them, I'll need to skip my last two classes."

"I'll meet them," she said.

"Thanks. I'll drive there immediately after school and relieve you."

"It doesn't take two hours to look at twelve paintings, and that's assuming you didn't leave the movie theater until ten o'clock."

"It was cold and wet last night. We also made hot chocolate, and that's all you'll pry from me, so..."

"What about Sherry Crane?" she asked, interrupting me.

"What do you mean?"

"If... ah, things get interesting with Liz, will you stop seeing that woman?"

I laughed heartily. "Mom, you wear your emotions on your sleeve."

She grinned. "I do, don't I? Answer my question."

"No, I won't answer your question because I don't know the answer."

She nodded and bit her lower lip with her upper teeth, a nervous habit I found endearing.

"Did you find a kwoon?" she asked.

"No, I decided to wait until school ends for the year. I have enough on my plate already." Besides, I worried about how I could explain my expertise with Wing Chun and Shaolin wushu weapons at my age and in this century to a venerable Chinese teacher of Kung Fu. Sifu, I corrected silently. A Chinese teacher is referred to as Sifu.

Watching carpenters build crates for my paintings wasn't my idea of a good time, and that attitude was exacerbated because Sherry had called and wanted to meet me after school. When I explained my circumstances, I'd noticed that the tone of her voice changed, taking on a definite chill. She'd commented that I didn't seem to have time for her lately. I'd responded by saying that I wasn't trying to avoid her and added that I'd only been unable to meet her twice, once because of broken ribs, and today because my paintings were being crated.

"You established the rules, Sherry, and I'm following them. You choose the time and place, and although you don't give me much notice, I try to oblige. You know I'm right." I was angry, and I'm certain my voice telegraphed how I felt.

She sighed. "Yes, of course you're right. I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that I've missed you. I was disappointed, that's all."

Before she said goodbye, she didn't try to arrange a different time, which also annoyed me.

Agnes relieved my boredom when she dropped by with a new bottle of red wine. I opened the bottle and poured her some wine, and then fixed me a cup of green tea.

"When did you start drinking tea?" she asked after sipping some wine.

"When I realized I was a Chinese man during one of my past lives."

She nodded, accepting my explanation at face value without question.

"What skills did that life pass on to you?" she asked.

"Kung fu, expertise in Shaolin wushu weapons, like the cudgel I carry with me now," I said, motioning with my head at the cudgel leaning against the sofa. And then for the first time, I spoke to someone using Mandarin. I'd told Grace about my new past life memories as a Chinese man, but I hadn't mentioned that I could speak the languages of the time and place for that past life.

Agnes gave me a curious look. "What did you say?"

I grinned. "That the freckles dotting your cleavage are appealing."

She blushed. "What was the language? Chinese?"

"Mandarin. I also speak Cantonese, but I speak both languages using old dialects no longer used. I feel like wielding a hammer. Do you have anything that needs forge and anvil work?"

She shook her head. "I tore down my fire before I came here. Sorry."

"No problem. I'm just restless."

"I haven't seen Sherry Crane's car here recently."

I gave her a hard look.

Agnes laughed and said, "Don't worry. I haven't mentioned her visits to anyone."

I relaxed and said, "Thanks. I agreed to keep her visits a secret."

"Then tell her that she shouldn't drive her car here for your afternoons of delight. I heard she has a female lover."

"She does."

Agnes nodded. "She's a switch hitter, huh?"

I said nothing.

"I also heard that Ballard is out and about again. He's threatening to tear your limbs off, Brent." She chuckled. "Good thing you know Kung Fu now. Keep that cudgel handy, okay?"

I nodded.

"A pistol would be better," she said.

"I don't know how to use a pistol. I'd probably shoot myself in the foot."

She laughed. "Consider learning something new in this life, Brent, if only to have the ability handy in your next life."

She had a point.

"Yoo-hoo," a feminine voice cried out from the studio floor.

I stood and walked to the railing. "Liz, hi. Come on up."

"Liz?" Agnes said when I returned to the table.

"Yeah, my date to the senior prom."

Agnes looked dumbfounded.

Liz arrived before I could respond to Agnes, and Liz stopped me when I started to introduce the two women.

"Brent, my sister is waiting in the parking lot in her car. Can you give me a ride home later?"

"Sure."

"I'll tell Abby she can leave and be right back."

After Liz left, Agnes said, "You actually have a date with a girl your age?"

"No, she's eighteen, a senior. When her college boyfriend dumped her, she'd already purchased the gown and accessories for the prom, so she asked me to take her."

"Why you?"

I grinned. "Probably because she saw my swinging dick."

Agnes hooted. "She was in the crowd when you got pantsed, huh?"

"Yep."

Liz returned and this time she let me introduce her to Agnes. "Agnes is my best friend, Liz. She's also an artist, a sculptor. She has a studio here in the complex."