The Empath Cycle: 2001 It Takes One - Book 1

Book 1

2001 -- It takes one

Prologue

Jade Summers is half-way through her rigorous daily training regimen. As she returns to the university grounds after her hour long run in the park on the nearby Mont Royal, she spots the now familiar t'ai chi ch'uan practitioners as they go through their sets of forms. She can see those two young women are no amateurs. They must have begun training at a very young age and be serious students to have attained this level of proficiency. The grace and controlled strength they demonstrate in their taolu sets of forms is proof enough.

Herself an adept of aikido, she knew the inner discipline required to reach this level of mastery. While Jade knows she should show respect to those who are obviously masters, she knows her curiosity will nag her until she introduces herself.

Chapter 1

When they coined the expression 'wallpaper flower', they had Sylvie Tremblay in mind.

Looking at her, one would see an unexceptional mousy little thing. Always dressed in nondescript apparel that left nothing to imagine, with old style sneakers, brown hair tied up loosely so as to partially hide her face, no make-up to accentuate her features. In a word, somebody you wouldn't look at twice, if you noticed her at all.

Which was fine with her.

She sat in the middle of the classroom, by the far wall. Concealed in the crowd, but keeping at the edge of it, she never raised her hand to ask a question. Though she was unfailingly polite when addressed, she never initiated social contact of any kind. Sylvie preferred the company of her books to people's. Science was much safer.

One day, she had to stop at the bathroom to change her tampon and was later than usual for her next class. Her favorite seat was taken and she looked around, in a near panic, for a different to place to sit. She liked the safety of routine and any deviation from it had her in a tizzy.

Spotting a couple of empty seats in the middle of the class, she turned quickly and bumped into somebody, dropping books and binders. With a low squeak of dismay, she bent to pick them up and felt a hit on her head. Looking up she saw a woman rubbing her own head. Apologizing for her clumsiness, she asked Sylvie if she was hurt. Mumbling an indistinct answer, she shook her head and proceeded to gather her things and rush to one of the available seats.

She barely glanced over as the woman seated herself at the desk next to hers. She had just opened her books when the teacher launched in the lecture on n-dimension vectors.

That day, uncharacteristically, Sylvie found she had difficulty keeping her concentration of the subject matter. It never happened and she did not know what was wrong with her. Maybe she was affected by her period. Shaking her head, she wondered if she would turn out to be one of those unlucky women who suffered from PMS. So far, she had been fortunate with a very regular cycle and no debilitating cramps or headaches. Ah well, she would deal with it as with everything else: methodically and dispassionately.

Later, seated at her usual remote table in the cafeteria, her books spread before her as she worked on the door hinge problem one of the teachers had given them, she found her concentration failing her again. This was getting to be aggravating. She was trying to analyse the situation when she noticed, at the very edge of her consciousness, a subtle flowery scent. As the windows were closed and there were no plants present, she lifted her head and looked around.

There, at the usually empty table next to hers, sat the same woman she had bumped into. She also had books spread on the table and was writing equations, working through what looked like the same assignment as Sylvie.

She quickly lowered her eyes to her books, unwilling to be caught looking in case it was taken as an overture to a conversation. If she liked to people-watch, trying to imagine what wonderful lives they lived, she always did it at a distance or in the safety of a crowd.

Now that she had acknowledged the problem, her mind brought forth the memory of her discomfort in class. She remembered the same smell. She knew that the olfactory sense was a powerful trigger to the mind, ranging from launching the recall of long forgotten memories to a stimulant of anticipatory sensations. But what could she be associating with that scent? It brought no particular memory to mind and, having lived in the city all her life, she associated no special activity with the smell of flowers.

Looking at her watch, she saw she had to get ready for her next class.

As she gathered her books, she noticed the woman doing the same. When she walked past her table, they almost collided again.

"I'm sorry. I really should pay more attention to where I'm going." The woman said, laughing.

"That's all right." Sylvie mumbled, head lowered to avoid eye contact. She rushed away.

In the following weeks, Sylvie noticed the woman in many of her classes, which was not surprising since the first year of the engineering curriculum was one of two common trunks.

Often, as she walked the corridors of the university, she would raise her head instinctively, looking around she did not know what for. Then she realized the now familiar scent was there, tugging at her mind until she had to find its source. Once she found it, she was able to resume her interrupted journey.

The woman often sat at the table next to hers to work, probably liking the relative peace and quiet of the far corner of the cafeteria, a haven from the sometimes frenetic activity reigning in the auditorium-like room.

She looked to be in her late thirties, older than most students. A buxom woman, she did not flaunt her full voluptuous figure, but instead chose ample clothes that, though stylish, understated it. If she could not conceal her large breasts, neither did she show cleavage. Her features were delicate and what little make-up she used was tasteful. Her long silky auburn hair was worn loose. She carried herself in an unaffected manner, projecting confidence without being aggressive about it.

The woman seemed to have an easygoing personality. If she was often engaged in conversation with students or teachers when Sylvie saw her around the school, she gave the impression that she did not belong to any group. Almost as if she were social, but not gregarious.

Little by little, Sylvie found that the woman had invaded her private world.

She began to walk around the school with her head up more often, looking to see if she would spot her. Slowly, she gravitated to the back of the class, moving from seat to seat gradually, until she found one where she could catch the flowery scent, but, as it was subtle, by then she was only two desks from the woman.

When the woman did not come to the cafeteria to study or work, Sylvie wondered where she was. Imagining her at the student café, seated at one of the small tables, engaged in conversation with some man. Planning an evening of revelry or simply sharing a romantic moment. She could almost see them holding hands, fingers entwined, gently stroking, as they stared in each other's eyes, sighing.

She was not envious. The mere thought of being in such close contact with a man evoked no emotion in Sylvie. If she enjoyed the romance she found in fantasy books, it was only as a vicarious experience. In high school, some boys had approached her. In a reaction of near panic, she had rebuffed them, some more vehemently than others, until no more had tried their luck with her. After all, there were always better looking girls willing to assuage their raging hormones.

By the time she was in cégep, she had perfected her camouflage and blended with the background to the point where she had been universally left alone to concentrate on her beloved science.

External life only rarely intruded on Sylvie's own. And then as little as she could not escape. Particularly when she was within the safety of her apartment. There, she could relax, knowing she was in total control.

In recent weeks, she had found her haven invaded for the first time.

At first, it had been a vague uneasiness. Diffuse feelings that something was missing which she should be looking for. She found herself staring at nothing when she would normally have been engrossed in a book, either fantasy or non-fiction science. She woke in the middle of the night from dreams she could not clearly recall. Even though, more often than not, she was sweaty and her covers were all tangled, she did not feel like they were nightmares, but rather pleasant ones.

Then, she would be concentrating on her studies and her head would pop up, certain she had smelled 'the scent'. But that was impossible. She would search to find the source. In vain.

One morning, as she was brushing her teeth, she looked up at the mirror and sparkling emerald eyes were looking back at her. Frightened, she ran out of the bathroom. When she got herself under control, she went back in, warily. But no, it was only her naked self, reflected in the mirror. All she saw was her lanky body, with its small frame, small breasts, narrow hips, plain features and stringy wet brown hair.

Gradually, she became more conscious of her dreams. Remembering unconnected snatches. She thought she must have dreamt she was in one of her favorite fantasy stories. 'Yes, that's it. I was in a dream adventure and nothing more.' She rationalized.

Until the day she woke clutching her pillow against her torso, breathless, her whole body tingling with unfamiliar sensations. As she moved, the pillow brushed against hard nipples, jolting her fully awake. Sitting up, when her thighs rubbed together in the movement, she became aware of a wetness between them. Opening them, she was frightened by the amount of it. Thinking she had peed in her sleep like a small child, she blushed. Then she noticed that the smell wafting from the mess was not that of urine, but of something she could not readily identify. It was not harsh as pee, but vaguely pleasant. Her mind still in the fog of unrestful sleep, she could not figure out what it could be.

When she sat on the toilet, she was startled to see that her panties were indeed soaked through, but the texture of the coating was slightly more consistent than she expected. Gingerly, she put her finger to it and found it vaguely oily, like thinned Vaseline. That got her blushing furiously.

Sylvie was not innocent to the point of not knowing her body and its functions. When she had attained menarche and her mother would only tell her how to take care of the 'problem', she had researched the situation on her own. Fascinated by what she found, she had looked through every source of information she could think of.

Though she had never masturbated, even when a particularly romantic scene in her books aroused her, she knew the mechanics. What she had not expected was for her body to take control on its own.

She had taught herself yoga and meditation from books and instructional videos and had mastered control of her body and mind to the extent she could which, given her determination and single-mindedness, was advanced indeed. It had been sufficient to keep unwanted emotions and needs at bay. Until this moment.

When she lifted her eyes from having washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face, the green eyes were looking back at her. Though there was no condescendence or scorn in them, only a benign sense of caring, she bolted to her bed where she hid under the covers. She was trying to push away the feelings the vision had evoked in her. Unfortunately, the scent of her earlier oneiric activities was strong in the enclosed space and she was instantly aroused.

Her first thought was to flee the scent. To change her sheets for clean ones as she had her panties. To go sleep on the couch. Anything to escape those unwanted feelings.

She hesitated too long before making a choice between the options roiling in her fevered mind. As she hyperventilated in her anxiety, her brain got saturated with the olfactory stimuli. Endorphins calmed her as Nature took over and gently brought to her attention that those feelings were not bad ones.

She stopped trying to analyze and, little by little, came to accept her body's responses.

She became aware of the heat spreading from her core, suffusing her with a languid lethargy while, at the same time, bringing her senses in sharp focus. In the semi-darkness she saw her body curled in a tight ball, nipples standing out on her chest, her long graceful fingers clutching her knees. She heard her breath changing from panicky panting to a deeper steady rhythm. She felt her skin tingle all over and the sensual touch of her bed sheet at every point of contact. But mostly, she was aware of the overpowering scent of her arousal, so intense it mixed with her saliva and she found the taste troubling.

As if in a dream, she uncurled and stretched to the fullest extent her tendons allowed. The bed sheets caressed her skin, her breasts, her nipples. She brought her hands to her body. Lightly caressing her abdomen, then running her nails on her sensitized skin. She brought them ever higher until she was stroking the underside of her breasts. She felt a vibration in her chest and realized that she was softly moaning.

Was she such a slut to react this wantonly to so light a caress? In the wake of the sensations brought forth by her hands stroking her breasts, the guilty thought left her mind as soon as it formed. She avoided her hard nipples as, in a last stab at self-control, she felt touching them would be a surrender of sorts.

Her fingers fluttered over her chest, to her neck, scratching the skin over sensitive spots. She traced the line of her jaw, the contour of her lips, her tongue coming out to touch their tips, then pull them within the hot moist mouth.

Senses inflamed by the erotic self-caress, she could wait no longer and brought her hands back to her breasts, covering them completely. Kneading the mounds of flesh, she pressed her palms to the peaks. The turgid nubbins poked at her hand and every rub on them brought more moans from her throat. As she pressed her fingers around them, she felt a swoon come over her. When she put more pressure on them, her back arched as if to accentuate the contact. When she twisted slightly and pulled on them, the delicious sensations joined others and she was overwhelmed.

The buzz in her ears became a low roar, her tightly shut eyes were dazzled by bright lights, a sheen of sweat broke over her chest, neck and face, her abdominal muscles clenched and she felt heat suffuse her vagina in pulsating waves.

She was confused by the sensations of what could only have been an orgasm, if a minor one, her first ever... while conscious of it, at least. She was scared by the loss of control, yet desiring to abandon herself to it completely. Her mind was in a frantic turmoil, caught by years of harsh indoctrination by a frustrated religious fanatic mother and then further years of self-conditioning to avoid what she had been taught was perversion. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but her every instinct told her it was right and that she must pursue it to its utmost conclusion.

Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, she could taste them on lips that remembered the touch of the fingers she had kissed, then sucked. Surrendering, as, deep down, she had known all along she would, she brought her hands to her material encased vulva. At first simply covering it in an ultimate gesture of protection against her perversion, then cupping it, the slight pressure bringing out a deep moan as Nature overrode conditioning. She rubbed her blood engorged outer lips and could feel the heat through the thin panties. She could also feel the wetness soaking them. She must have more. She must feel more. She pressed her fingers within her cleft, pushed the material against the sensitive inner surfaces. But it was not enough. She needed MORE. And she needed it NOW!

Suddenly, her fingers were enfolded by the heat and the wetness. She felt the smooth velvety skin between her inner lips on her fingers and she felt the invading digits at the entrance of her vagina, then thrusting within her.

A madness seemed to come upon her. All thought of self-control swept away in a maelstrom of sensations.

Her thrusts became frenetic, the heel of her hand pressing on her pearl, fueling the firestorm that now raged across her body and engulfed her mind. But she wanted more. She needed more. She brought her free hand to her breasts where she renewed the previous assault on her aching nipples, pinching them hard, twisting them savagely, seeking still more sensations. Then, by accident, the fingers ravaging her vagina curled upward and came across an area with a different texture. Mad with desire for stimulation she applied pressure on the out movement.

That was the final trigger. Her body trashed all over the bed. Sweat covered her from head to toe. Then she thought she was having a grand mal seizure as she went into convulsions, a long drawn out wail escaping from her raw throat.

When she regained her senses, she was again curled in a foetal position, one hand on her sex, two fingers clutching the front part of her vagina, the other hand balled in a fist between her teeth to keep from crying out the agony of her shame, every muscle tense as that of a prey who knew it could no longer escape its fate.

Eventually, fatigue set in her clenched muscles and she relaxed. At least her body did. Her mind was another matter. A lifetime of conditioning had her in its clutches. She was a slut, a whore, a slave to perversion. She was doomed.

She buried her face in a pillow so she could wail her heart out as she sobbed uncontrollably, her body wracked with great shudders.

This self-flagellation went on until she fell asleep from nervous exhaustion.

"Why are you crying, sweetie?"

"Because I'm a monster and I'm going to burn in Hell for all eternity."

"What could you have done so terrible it would earn you this punishment?"

"I am a pervert who abused her body for the sake of pleasure."

"Is that all, dear? Did not the Lord create your body? If it gave you pleasure, is it not the Lord's design?"

The disembodied voice sounded so reasonable. She argued back and forth with it for a long time, but all her arguments were refuted so calmly and so sensibly. When she ran out of reasons for her self-chastisement, she cried, hiding her face in her hands in shame. Gentle arms enfolded her, comforting her in their warm embrace. Her head was pulled against a generous bust. She could hear the regular beat of a heart under the soft warm breast pillowing her head. Her racing heart harmonized with it and so did her labored breathing with the rise and fall of the living flesh under her.

She felt at peace again. The storm of negative emotions that had been raging in her mind stilled. Smiling, she looked up at the presence comforting her. She was not surprised to see the beautiful green eyes. When the full lips kissed her forehead, she felt suffused with love. When they licked her tears away and kissed her eyes, she felt purged of her guilt. When they joined her lips in a sensuous kiss, her heart filled with the desire to repay this wonderful woman for her kindness.

She came to, flat on her stomach, humping the hand busy inside her vagina and the other rubbing her pearl vigorously, in the throes of an orgasm.

And so the night went. She successively cried herself to sleep and succumbed to one erotic fantasy after the other until her alarm clock brought her short of the ultimate conclusion to yet another.

That morning, her unfailing adherence to routine came to her rescue, or failed her miserably, as she got up and mechanically went through the motions of getting ready for school without having come to grips with the message her subconscious had tried so hard to send her.