Rachel's Revenge

This is a long, slowly-developing story about psychosexual disorders and their impact on interplaying characters. It's in four parts, so doesn't have to be consumed in one read. If you're looking for a comedy, this isn't it. Votes and constructive feedback are appreciated.

Part 1

The phone interrupted me as I was in the kitchen preparing pasta. "Val!...Oh, Val! Please come quickly! Something awful's happened! Denise has drowned in the pool!" It was Rachel calling, panicked, just returned from grocery shopping at the village market. She'd often referred to her strong-willed mother by her first name, whom I'd gotten to know over the past few months.

"What?" I asked, incredulously. "Have you called the police?"

"They're on their way but...oh, Val, I need you. I can't deal with this alone!"

I was there in ten minutes, throwing on a pair of long pants and driving the mile or so to the house that Rachel's mother owned on the dead end road in our wealthy, gated community. The girl sobbed into my chest as the police combed her house, collecting forensic evidence, and an ambulance crew was hustling Denise's body out to the Coroner's lab.

I was shocked. I'd seen Denise a couple of weeks previously, and had spoken with her on the phone more recently. I informed the police lieutenant of this and he asked that I make myself available for questioning over the next few days. He was encouraged when I told him Rachel would spend the night with me, since he and his crew had a great deal of work to do on the grounds.

That night as we snuggled, naked, in bed, Rachel slept typically restlessly, and we didn't make love...a first for us in a long time. Instead, as the night wore on, my mind retraced the half-year or so that had passed since I'd met her... .

* * * * * *

...I'd been doing some landscaping in my side yard. It wasn't out of habit, nor was I trained for or very experienced at doing groundwork. Instead, it was a way to pull myself out of a year long depression anddosomething rather than sit and feel sorry for myself.

My mourning period was over. I'd buried my wife of 25 years the previous Spring, whose death in an auto accident had shattered our carefully planned lives. Shortly thereafter, at age 48, I'd sold my chemical engineering business for a huge amount, guaranteeing that I'd never need to work again. My two grown children, both married, lived on the East Coast, and I was at the mercy of a good friend who was a psychiatrist. He advised self-immersion in hobbies, occasional consulting work, and travel.

Hence, my landscaping. I had a gardener who came in periodically to maintain the property's grounds, yet I needed something to do on my own. I had an orchid greenhouse at the rear of the large house in which I liked to putter on a daily basis, and from which I supplied local florists and other merchants with exotic flora. But that hobby had been the passion of my loving, departed wife, who'd been a nursery expert. So, to avoid lapsing into a depressing daily funk at her memory, I occasionally altered my routine by doing other work in the gardens.

I met Rachel – quite by chance – on a hot afternoon in the Spring, my job of the week being to lay flagstones on a path parallel to my driveway that leads to the rear, the pool deck and my greenhouse. I was fully engrossed, listening through my headphones to Michael Crawford sing his heart-rending "Music of the Night" number to the Christine character inPhantom of the Opera. Out of habit, I sang along, full-voiced. I'd been vocally-trained when in high school and college but was an amateur. As I recall on that afternoon, though, I was really putting my heart into it – complete with full body movements while I set stone in mortar, until the number's climax – when I sensed someone watching from close by.

I turned and there she was, holding a bouncy Golden Retriever pup at bay on a long leash. I whipped off my headphones and promptly dropped a trowel-full of mortar completely down my front. I'd wrapped my tee shirt around my neck and was sweating, so was half-naked. I was wearing cargo shorts, so my legs were bare to my work boots, now covered with gray, sticky cement. I was embarrassed.

"You have a beautiful bass/baritone voice," she said. "You should do something with it," she continued, scanning my cement-covered front. "I'm a music teacher. I could tell the owner here that I'd be happy to coach you."

"I'mthe owner," I said, extending my hand. "Valentin Noreika. Friends call me Val. Your name?"

She placed her tanned hand in my large palm and exhaled a quick, "Forgive me. I'm Rachel Noyes. I walk my puppy, Thurber, past your drive every day and have seen you working. I thought you were one of the help."

Thurber chose that moment to push his nose into my cement-stained crotch and snort. "Maybe I'd better go clean up," I recoiled, pushing away from the dog's hard, probing nose. "I've made a mess of myself! Awfully nice to meet you!" I said, turning to go inside, conscious that my shorts were soaked through to my privates, which were now very cold.

"Perhaps tomorrow. We come by every day!" she said, as the dog yanked her away. I stole a glance at her, dressed as she was in skin-tight light blue shorts and sports bra with running shoes. I was a bit flustered, since it was the first time since my wife had died that I'd noticed a woman to be in any way physically attractive.

Rachel was about 5'6", with platinum blonde hair in a ponytail that swept down past her shoulder blades. Her fair skin was tanned to a golden brown – the sort of color one seldom sees on blonde women except those who've worshipped the sun. Her widely-set, violet eyes slanted upward at the outer corners with an Arctic, almost Asian, look. All this was bounded by a heart-shaped face with a strong jaw, straight nose, and a widely smiling, full-lipped mouth that begged to be kissed. As she turned to wave goodbye, I remembered having seen pictures of such women in photo albums kept by my Lithuanian relatives.

But it was her body that left me breathless. Though appearing to be in her mid-twenties, her figure was that of an opulent teenager...probably 34C or D-23-36. Her breasts emerged high from her chest, full and succulent. Her torso narrowed to an incredibly small waist that was snugly bound by her tight shorts. Her hips flared roundly – unlike a typical Caucasian women – and were accented in back by a high, bubble-shaped bottom. Her thighs were full, softly delectable while stretching her shorts, and nipped in delightfully at the knees, quickening my pulse as her smooth, muscular calves ended in very trim ankles and small feet. It had been decades, I mused, since I'd been so moved by seeing such a stunning female creature. As I watched her walk away, I felt the first palpable throb in my groin in over a year.

"You're making good progress!" she said the next morning, this time sitting on one of the decorative boulders that circumvented the large front yard while her dog lay next to her feet. Again, she was dressed in skin-tight shorts and sports bra, this time maroon, with a matching, zippered, sweat jacket on top. Her legs were drawn up and – quite by chance – I managed a glimpse of the nexus of her legs. Her labia were perfectly outlined by the very snug material, as a seam in her shorts split them into two sublimely opposed crescents.

"One more day, I think!" I said cheerily, hoping my errant eyes hadn't betrayed my sudden lecherous glance. "If I'm finished tomorrow, perhaps you'd like to see my greenhouse!"

"You have a greenhouse?!" she bubbled. "Can I see it now?"

"Well, I suppose..." I hesitated. I wasn't used to having my routines interrupted, but she seemed so enthusiastic that I could hardly refuse. "Follow me," I said, leading her around the back of the house, past the swimming pool, to my tropical inner sanctum.

"Wow!" she exclaimed, as we entered the hot, humid, glass building. "This is amazing!" she gasped, as the jungle of blooming orchids seemed to swallow us from the roof to our hips. "You should go into business!"

"It's just a hobby," I explained, "something that my late wife and I had fun with. Some of the merchants in town buy plants from me, though – including the florist – since I have a lot of rare flowers."

"You're a widower? Your wife passed away?" she asked, appearing concerned and expressing real sorrow.

"Uhh...yeah...car accident." I answered, trying to change the subject. "Now, let's see if we can find an orchid for your hair...something to match those lovely eyes of yours." I stared into her violet orbs for a minute, causing her to blush. "I've got just the one," I said, "a purpleCattleya. Notice that this greenhouse comes fully equipped," I joked lightly. "I even have clips to attach orchids to a lady's hair."

I cut the flower and put it behind her ear. She watched me warily as I stood close to her, smelling her sweet scent as her magnificent breasts rose and fell quickly while I affixed the bloom. "Thank you," she almost whispered when we were finished. As she backed away nervously she muttered, "I'm alone, too...divorced for three years. I live with my mother on the other side of the hill."

"In the big Bernard Maybeck house?" I asked. I was a fan of Maybeck architecture.

"That's the one. My father – with whom I wasveryclose – died several years ago." She then turned and walked out, it appeared sadly, with her dog leading the way.

As we sauntered past my swimming pool, I tried vainly to lighten the mood. "Well then, you know what it's like to lose a loved one. The only upside is that I swim naked in my pool every morning now. If my wife were alive she'd never allow it."

She brightened. "I'm sorry for being so morose. It's been good talking with you. Do you mind if I stop by tomorrow?"

"I'm always here. If I'm not laying stone I'm either in the greenhouse...or swimming," I said, leering comically.

"Fine," she said, smiling softly. "See you tomorrow...and thank you for the lovely orchid."

The next morning, and every morning thereafter for a couple of weeks, Rachel stopped by with her dog, Thurber, and talked, each day spending more time with me as I dabbled at one or another project. Frequently, her presence was presaged by the arrival of Thurber, who would join me in the pool as I swam nude. Whenever this happened I quickly exited the water and pulled on my trunks, anticipating the arrival of the dog's mistress.

Rachel got me talking about my earlier life – and hers – which seemed to lift us both from our depressions, and we became friends...so much so that I planned my mornings around her arrival time. She was an adopted child, of Finnish descent, had grown up less than a mile away, and had been married less than three years before divorcing.

Most importantly, she said, the upscale town of 2,400 in which we lived was a steamy suburban enclave closed to outsiders, ruled over by its own country club oligarchy. Being a mere commuter resident for eight years, this was big news to me, since politics bored me and I'd avoided the local social circles.

We became friends and, in reality, she took the place of my departed wife as a conversational companion. Since my experience with women was mostly limited to my spouse, I was blissfully ignorant of my growing dependence on Rachel, and tender feelings toward her.

"How 'bout some coffee?" I asked one morning, maybe a week later, and led her into the house. While I was brewing it, she wandered about, finally ending up in the music room. I heard the first few tinkles on my grand piano, which hadn't been touched in over a year, then – suddenly – the whole house reverberated with the glorious sounds of Grieg'sPiano Concerto. I watched her laboring over the keyboard as I carried the mugs of coffee, then took a seat to let the music wash over me. She seemed possessed by the piece as she worked the keys. My heart pounded as this gorgeous little Scandinavian girl put the rugged old Steinway through its paces. Her ponytail relinquished several strands of hair that swept the ivories as she passionately distilled each musical phrase from every movement. At the end of the composition, my eyes were misty, and I found it difficult to breathe freely, given my emotional reaction to her rendition.

She swung to her right, toward me where I sat on a loveseat, and murmured, "You said something about coffee?" I looked down at the cups, which were now cold, and jumped up to make some more. Rachel followed me to the kitchen.

"You're a brilliant pianist," I said, still moved by her impromptu performance. "Do your family and friends appreciate your talent?"

"My wonderful father did when he was alive," she responded. "I used to give recitals for...friends, from the country club. Now I just play for Denise – that's my mother – and my teaching colleagues, since we're no longer members of the club." She seemed to be engrossed in thought, speaking as if I were hardly there.

"And your husband? Does he? I mean, did he...?" I asked, not knowing how to phrase the question.

"Myex-husband," she corrected, "approved of my music well enough. He just didn't understand me or my family pressures."

"I apologize. I didn't mean to pry...".

"No, it's okay. Something awful happened that wrenched us apart," she said, staring at the brown liquid as it dripped into the pot. There was a pregnant silence, except for the wheezing sound of the appliance brewing our coffee. I watched her face, unsure of what to say next, and noticed a tear well in her right eye, then slowly run down one smooth, tanned cheek.

My heart froze, and I could have kicked myself for rekindling unpleasant memories in this beautiful young woman. Without thinking I stepped behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist from behind...naively hoping to comfort her in some way. "I'm so sorry," I muttered into her sweet, platinum hair.

"Ohhhh...Gawd, don't be, Val," she whispered, leaning back into me as she placed her hands over mine, then moving them downward over her flat tummy so that my fingers caressed her pelvic creases. "For weeks you've been such a sweet, sensitive, man," she purred, pushing her bottom back against my groin, which now throbbed as my loins responded to the warm pressure of her luscious backside. "Mmmmnnnn...I can feel you...and – honestly – there's nothing I want more than to be closer to you," she gasped. "But I'm so frightened of getting involved with someone new. I'm just not ready yet! Please...let's wait for a while."

I was shocked! I had no idea that she'd entertained what sounded like sexual thoughts about me! I mean, she was twenty years my junior...at least! "Of course, sweetheart! I'm an old man compared to you. Let's just share your music...walk your dog...take a swim! At least I can see you almost every day!"

At that. she spun around in my grasp to face me and planted a lingering kiss on my mouth. I was fully erect now and we broke our embrace, with both of us panting. I flushed as she looked down at the bulge in my shorts, and she gasped, "I...I'll remember to bring my swimsuit tomorrow!"

And what a suit it was! Dark green in color and – as it turned out over the next several days – just one of many colors that Rachel said she wore at home when sunning with her mother around their pool. Though not a thong, the bottom was cut very high on her hips, showing her sumptuous, creamy buttocks whenever her back was to me. The top was much like a sports bra to support the hefty weight of her breasts, yet plunged dramatically to show her deep cleavage, with the bra's sides cut forward from her armpits, allowing the full roundness of the outside of her tits to tempt me whenever she raised an arm or turned to the side. When I was able to speak coherently, I complimented her on her appearance.

"I'm glad you approve," she beamed. "Your trunks aren't bad, either! I'm used to seeing you in your baggy shorts! If we were more adventurous, or if I weren't so nervous, we could probably both go without."

Once again I was at a loss for words. She's just teasing! What a social cretin you are! I told myself. If you think this little doll would everreallywant you...you're delusional.

Yet that day and each day thereafter I grew more curious about my enticing new acquaintance. I asked people in town about "Mrs. Noyes," Rachel's mother. Eddie at the village's wine and liquor store said, "Denise Noyes?" as a smile split his face. "She's a legend. Got quite a reputation. Lived here for almost thirty years. Buried her older husband, who was a real nice guy. Drinks vodka like a fish. Very rich."

Rex, the nurser who bought rare orchids from me, said of her, "Yeah...big power in town. Country clubber for years. Has the dirt on all the city fathers, living, retired or dead."

Even Mario, the young pool maintenance guy, and the stock clerks at the hardware and grocery stores, knew Rachel's mother, as did my attorney. He said, "Val, Mrs. Noyes is also a client of mine and I can't say anything at all about her, except...be very careful."

Rachel, however, was praised by all as an angel. So, I felt fortunate at having made a new friend who was thought of so highly in the community. And, I felt honored when she invited me for dinner at their home, with just she and her mother. It'd been so long since I'd been on a social outing that I thought carefully about the upcoming Wednesday evening. I got a haircut to get rid of some graying locks – even a manicure to dress up my landscaper's nails – at the village barber's. I carefully selected someSt. Emilionred wine from Bordeaux as a dinner offering. A new silk sport coat with tie to match rounded out my preparations. And, knowing how Rachel loved my orchids, I prepared two different corsages as gifts, one for her and one for her mother.

I was as nervous as a schoolboy as I drove my newly-washed BMW up the long, curved drive of the Noyes property. One ring of the doorbell and an attractive Latina in black uniform dress admitted me. In thirty seconds Rachel and her dog, Thurber, literally ran to meet me in the foyer, puffing with excitement.

"Val! So pleased you could make it! Forgive me, this is Carlotta, our housekeeper and cook!" The Latin woman murmured some nicety, bowed slightly, and accepted the wine I'd brought. "I have fabulous news that I'll tell you about over dinner!" continued Rachel. "And what's this?" she questioned, referring to the two boxed corsages.

"A couple of things from the greenhouse," I muttered.

"Things! They're stunning! We'll wear them tonight!" She took me by the arm and we walked into a large drawing room with high ceilings. "Denise...uhh, Mother...will be out in a minute!" she said, then – hesitatingly – stood on tiptoe to kiss me softly on the mouth. She uttered a deepmmmnnin her throat as her tongue flicked briefly at my lips. As she broke the kiss, she moved away from my face no more than an inch and whispered, her violet eyes flashing through smooth mascara on her eyelashes, "I've been waiting for that all day!"

I'd never seen Rachel more beautiful. It must have taken an hour to apply her evening makeup, with eye shadow and liner done perfectly. Her platinum hair was in a simple twist atop her head, held in place with a short diamond pin, revealing her strong, flawless neck. Diamond cluster earrings matched a short, diamond necklace that flashed against the dark material of her dress, a thick knitted material of violet and black. The dress itself was sleeveless, clung to her figure like a second skin as it zipped up the back, and extended to just above her sumptuous knees. Nylons and three-inch black heels completed the ensemble.

My breathless appreciation of her was interrupted by the steady, purposeful click of heels emanating from the tile floor outside the room. I turned, expecting to see the older, graying, matronly widow whom I assumed Denise Noyes to be, and was struck dumb by the breathtaking visual impact of Rachel's mother. As she stood in the open double doorway, her long-fingered hand posed dramatically on the jamb, her stance reminded me of a dancer. She was perhaps my age, yet far better preserved, deeply tanned and tall, perhaps 5'10" in heels. She fixed me with a long, appraising look in her emerald eyes, and switched on an extremely warm smile, lighting up her flawless face with dental work that must have cost a fortune to maintain.