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Saturday, July 31, 2004

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Princes of Mannsborough, Part 6a of approximately 23 (last chapter is 22.)
by Vulgar Argot (caution. Additional tags at bottom to avoid spoilerage.)

(Section 6 of "Marigold" was already monstrously long. After the
additions I made to "Princes of Mannsborough," it would have been even
longer [approximately 40 pages.] So, I split it into two pieces, 6a and
6b.)

When Marigold woke, the world seemed to have gone fuzzy around the
edges. She was alone in the bed. Her head ached. She'd slept so soundly
that she had cricks in her neck and back. She was still sticky from the
night before.

Groaning, she hoisted herself up onto her elbows, opening her eyes only
reluctantly. Early morning light slanted in from the window. On the
bedside table, an airline-sized bottle of vodka stood open, a third of the
way full. Marigold chuckled darkly. She'd never had much of a taste for
alcohol, but this was ridiculous.

Sitting up on the edge of the bed, Marigold rubbed her neck and tried to
arch her back, balanced on one hand. Standing, she placed a fist in the
small of her back and leaned backwards over it.

The door opened, admitting Thule. He was dressed in a charcoal gray
business suit, adjusting a red, silk tie. His long, black mane was tied
into a neat ponytail. Instinctively, Marigold straightened up, covering
herself as well as she could with her own arms. Thule cocked an eyebrow at
her. Reluctantly, she let her arms drop to her sides.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" he asked. Marigold shook her head in the
negative.

"So," Thule asked, buttoning his jacket, "how do I look?"

Marigold stroked her jaw, considering the question, "Pretty
professional."

Thule smirked, "Only pretty professional?"

Marigold nodded, but said nothing. Instead, she turned her back and
walked to the closet, extracting her robe and wrapping it around herself.

"That reminds me," said Thule. "I have a gift for you. I was going to
give it to you last night, after dinner, but..." He spread his hands as if
in explanation, letting his words trail off. He left the room momentarily,
then came back with a long box wrapped in silver paper.

As he held the box out, Marigold stared at it warily. Thule smiled,
"Take it."

Marigold reached out and took the box. Considering all the things she'd
been ordered to do, this was easy. In fact, being ordered to do it
actually seemed to take away some of the guilt she normally associated with
accepting gifts. Sitting on the bed Indian-style, she slit the tape
holding the paper together nearly with one fingernail. For some reason,
she felt that it was very important to behave like a grown up right now.

She opened the box and drew out a red, silken kimono. A lotus blossum
was painted across the back of it in loving detail.

"I suspect you won't be able to wear that at home," said Thule, sounding
almost bashful. "But, I was thinking you could wear it at Harvard. Maybe
you'll remember..." Again, he trailed off.

Marigold stood up, her hands going to the belt at her waist. Thule
said, "You'll probably want to wash up before you try it on. It's not very
practical to clean."

Marigold looked down longingly at the robe, wanting to put it on, to
have Thule see her in it. Reluctantly, she let her hands drop, "Thank you,
Thule," she said. "I'm sure that I'll be glad to have it at Harvard."

Wrapping her arms around Thule, she hugged him. After a moment, Thule
hugged her back. As he leaned down to kiss her, Marigold felt a moment of
panic. But, the kiss was gentle, not passionate.

"How do you feel this morning?" he asked.

"Violated," Marigold said as if it didn't matter, "and sore."

"Do you mind as much as you thought you would?"

Marigold lowered her head, pressing it against Thule's shoulder to try
to hide her tears, but her shoulders shook with them. Thule's arms
tightened around her.

"No," she whispered. "Not that much."

Thule stroked her hair, his touch feather-light, "You are a very
peculiar girl, Marigold."

Marigold leaned into his hand like a cat would, closing her eyes. She
allowed herself to sink back into the fantasy that Thule was her boyfriend
and she was here of her own free will.

"You probably need to get going," Marigold said, detaching herself from
his arms.

Thule nodded, "Shortly. Is there something unprofessional about the way
I look?"

Marigold reached up and smoothed his collar, "Much better. Only..."

Thule raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently. After a few seconds,
Marigold said, "I only wish we could do something about your hair. I
suppose tying it back will have to do."

Thule didn't answer. Leaning in to kiss her on the top of the head, he
said, "I'll be back no later than two. Until then, your time is your own.
If you get anything to eat, just sign it to the room."

"Thank you, Thule," she said, surprised to find that her words reflected
genuine gratitude. Thule gave her an ironic half-smile, picked up his
briefcase, and was gone.

Marigold found herself standing alone in the bedroom in front of the
open closet. Somehow, when she'd thought ahead to this weekend, no matter
how she felt about it, she'd assumed that Thule would be there with her the
whole time, not leaving her to her own devices.

As long as he'd been there, Marigold had felt...not right about what she
was doing, but not exactly wrong, either. She'd felt...absolved. She was
only following orders. Whether she enjoyed it or not didn't matter because
it was coerced.

Looking in the mirror on the back of the closet door, Marigold wondered
what was wrong with the light in this room that it made her eyes look so
glassy, like she was about to cry. The thought had barely crossed her mind
when she found herself sagging to her knees, laying her head against the
mirror's cool surface, and weeping.

What was wrong with her? Not ten minutes before, she'd been on an even
keel, accepting of what had happened. Now, she found herself fighting an
urge to curl up in a ball on the floor. She wanted nothing so desperately
as to pull her old, comfortable terrycloth robe out of her luggage, climb
back into bed, and sleep.

She couldn't, though. Thule would be back by two. She may not know
what she wanted right now, but she did know that she didn't want to make
him angry. Last night had brought out in stark relief just how much the
quality of her life depended on keeping Thule...well, not happy. There was
something dark and troubled about Thule today...but, at least, not mad at
her.

Taking a moment to brace herself, she looked in the mirror again and
heard her own involuntary snort of laughter at just how ridiculous she
looked. Spurred to action, she rose, walked into the large main bathroom,
and turned on the faucet for the big whirlpool tub.

For a long time, she stared at the running water, thinking nothing,
letting the steam open her pores. She needed cleansing. If she could just
get clean, she would feel worlds better. Of course she was miserable.
With tears drying on her cheeks and something that didn't bear
investigating drying on the insides of her thighs, how could she be
anything but miserable?

Turning on the jets, she stepped over the edge, relieved to see that the
steam had already fogged up the mirrors around the tub. Did this hotel
have some kind of a weird mirror fetish? Didn't they know that girl might
want to have a place where she didn't have to look at herself once in a
while.

Not a girl, she corrected herself, a woman. Wasn't that what they said
after a girl had sex for the first time--that she'd become a woman? Fine.
She had no idea what else she was now. At least she had one element of
identity to hold onto.

With the jets swirling around her, pounding aches out of her muscles,
Marigold tried to decide what else she was. The first words that came to
mind, unbidden, were "a whore," but they didn't last. As much as she'd
done last night, even things she'd sworn to herself not so long ago that
she would never do, she had to acknowledge that, from a practical
standpoint, it probably took more than could be done in a single night with
a single man to make a girl into a proper whore.

She certainly wasn't "the Virgin Marigold," anymore as Brianne had been
so fond of taunting her with. Idly, she fantasized about laughing in
Brianne's face the next time she brought out that old saw. Of course, that
would leave her in the position of explaining that it hadn't been with her
boyfriend, Elliot, but with Thule, the king of the dregs.

What was she going to do about Elliot? She'd accepted that she was
going to lose him and, with him, her plans for what to do once school was
over. With acceptance came the realization that the thought of losing him
didn't effect her much either way. With one brief exception, he'd been her
boyfriend for as long as she'd had a boyfriend, but their relationship had
never progressed much beyond what it was when they were eleven years old.
Earlier this year, she'd been surprised to find that he had applied to
schools outside of Boston "just to be safe" and, at least as of the last
time she talked to him, still not declared which school he was going to.

What was left of her, then? How would she describe herself?

She was a Christian still, certainly. No matter how many of God's laws
you broke, you didn't get expelled from that. But, the more she saw of
people who felt the need to describe themselves as Christian, the less she
felt comfortable attaching the adjective to herself.

She was still going to be Valedictorian. Thule could have forced her to
let her grades slip so that he graduated first in their class, but he
really didn't seem to care. Imagine that. All this time, she'd imagined
him breathing down her neck, agonizing over every assignment, every test,
every grade the way she did and he didn't even care.

She was still studious, then. She was still going to Harvard, then
John's Hopkins.

She tried that description on for size, "Dr. Marigold Tarr, studious
woman." The words echoed back at her. The ridiculousness of it made her
giggle.

What about the rest of her plans? The wedding between college and
medical school? The three children, two girls and a boy, little Jonas II,
Jessica, and Maya? She shrugged. She would just have to find someone else
to marry. Maybe that's what she would do to Thule if she ever found
anything to blackmail him with--make him marry her, cut his hair, and get a
good job. That would show him.

Most of the soreness had melted away by now. Only her thighs still
ached from the abuse they had taken. Hanging over the edge of the tub, she
straddled one of the jets. Letting the water pound against one, then the
other thigh, she was careful not to hold herself so low that she would be
masturbating, as much as she might like to. The path of the righteous was
often narrow and hard. Whatever Thule did to her, however he made her
feel, she knew the difference between being coerced and going willingly
into sin.

Still, it was with no small measure of regret that she finally drained
the tub. While she'd bathed, the maid had come in, made the beds, and left
more towels. She'd even taken away the little vodka bottle. The room
looked almost sterile in its cleanliness. With all signs of the evening's
debauch gone, Marigold felt her spirits rise. She dried herself off and
wrapped the kimono around her body. It turned out to be surprisingly
modest in cut even if the feeling of silk against her skin seemed vaguely
illicit.

Later, sitting on the veranda, wrapped in the kimono, she drank
too-bitter coffee made palatable with cream and sugar, and nibbled on a
croissant. The late spring sunlight played on her skin, cooled by a gentle
breeze. From far below, she heard traffic noise. But, up here, she felt
isolated, protected from the world.

"Dr. Marigold Tarr, studious woman," she said again. This time, she
didn't giggle, only smiled. It didn't sound so bad.



-=-

After breakfast, Marigold lounged on the couch in the suite's living
room trying on her identity as a sophisticated, sexual young woman. She
could still feel Thule inside of her. When she got tired of lounging, she
tried to read her biology textbook. After reading the same paragraph six
times without getting any meaning out of it, she gave up on homework as a
lost cause.

In the bedroom, she frowned at her bathing suit. She'd bought it last
year more with the idea of flattening her figure than flattering it. The
truth was that it didn't do much of either. She would have to do something
about that.

Downstairs, there were two pools, one marked "family," the other "no
children." She took two steps towards the former before steeling herself
and heading to the "no children" side. She'd paid the dues of adulthood.
She might as well enjoy it.

Still half expecting to hear someone yell at her to get back to the
kiddie pool, Marigold dove into the deep end, slicing neatly into the
water. There was only one other swimmer in the pool, cutting across the
lanes, back and forth. Rather than risk collision, Marigold swam in
parallel with him, pushing herself hard. The exertion felt good. She lost
track of how many times she crossed before noticing that the other swimmer
had stopped and was trying to speak to her.

Latching onto the wall, she turned to face him, "Excuse me?"

"I said, 'You're a very strong swimmer.'" the man said, his voice thick
with an Australian accent, "You were leaving me in the dust out there."

"Oh," said Marigold. "Thank you. I was just working out some tension."

The man nodded, "Me too. I just spent most of the day on an airplane."

"From Australia?"

"Moscow," said the man. "I haven't been home in three months. By the
way, I'm Adam." He extended a hand to shake.

Marigold took the hand and introduced herself, "Nice to meet you."

Shaking her hand, Adam said, "Well, Marigold. I know it's a bit early
by the clock on the wall, but I feel like it's about midnight. Can I offer
you a drink?"

Marigold almost demurred without thinking. She'd never really drunk
alcohol. But, she paused and appraised Adam. He was older, maybe by as
much as ten years. She wondered if Thule would even care if he saw her
having a drink with another guy. He certainly hadn't forbidden it.

"All right," she said. "Something with vodka in it, I think."

Adam leveraged himself out of the pool, "A screwdriver?"

Marigold nodded, "Sure."

By the time Adam came back, Marigold had wrapped herself in one of the
hotel's robes and sat down at one of the unoccupied tables at poolside.
The drink was sweet and barely tasted like alcohol.

"So," asked Adam, sipping his beer. "Are you here with your husband?"

Marigold smiled. She must be pulling off the adult act better than she
thought. Not wanting to be caught out for the game she was playing, she
said, "Yes. He's meeting some investors today."

"Oh," Adam's face fell. "Only..."

"Only?"

"Well," said Adam. "You're not wearing a ring."

"Oh," said Marigold, her hands fluttering to her face at being caught in
a lie. "He's not really my husband yet. He's my fiancee."

Marigold was still congratulating herself for the quick save when Adam
said, "Still, no ring?"

"Err..." said Marigold. "We...that is...we'll have one soon....once we
graduate. Bartholomew's going to be an electrical engineer. Then, we'll
have a ring and a big wedding."

"Oh," said Adam. "Where do you go to school?"

"Harvard," said Marigold. "My husband goes to MIT."

"Your fiancee," prompted Adam. "Bartholomew."

"Thule," said Marigold. "His friends call him Thule."

"So," asked Adam. "Are you and Thule in New York for long?"

Marigold shook her head, "Just for the weekend. Then we have to get
back to Boston for class."

"That's a pity," said Adam. "I'm here for two weeks. It would be nice
to have the company of a couple of bright people my own age. It's been a
long time since I've had any real non-business-related contact. And, I'm
not going to see my family for another three months." He took a long slug
from his beer.

"Family?"

Adam smiled, "My wife and my two year old son, Devon. I hate leaving
them alone like this. But, it's a couple of years before I'll be able to
work out of the home office."

P"Your wife?" Marigold glanced meaningfully at his hand.

Adam held up the appendage in question displaying his bare ring finger,
"I'm on the road six months at a time. My wife is a very...understanding
woman."

He made eye contact on the last two words. Marigold looked away, "So,
what do you do that keeps you away from home so much?"

"I travel in espionage."

"Excuse me?"

"I sell surveillance equipment--tiny cameras, microphones, little
recorders."

Marigold leaned her head on her hand, "Really? How interesting."

Adam looked surprised, "Really? Most people just think it's creepy.
Personally, I'm a bit bored with it. I sell mostly to big corporations and
police departments."

The rest of the conversation went much more smoothly. Marigold barely
had to embellish on the original lie. At some point, Adam went to get
himself another beer and brought her another screwdriver.

Marigold became so engrossed in the conversation that she lost all track
of time. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was nearly ten after two.
Leaping to her feet, she said, "Oh, God."

Adam's face showed concern, "Is something wrong."

"No," said Marigold hurriedly. "I just realized that I'm late. I have
to go. It was nice meeting you, Adam."

"You, too," said Adam. "If you want to talk again or anything, I'm in
room 822."



-=-

Marigold bolted back to the suite, fearing what punishment might be
waiting for her. Letting herself in, she called out, "Thule?"

Hearing no answer, Marigold collapsed on the couch, feeling like she'd
dodged a bullet. When Thule arrived ten minutes later, she'd had just
enough time to worry that something might have happened to him. She rose
and wrapped her arms as far as they would go around his barrel chest,
laying her head below his heart. After a momentary pause, Thule hugged her
back.

"You're in a much better mood," he commented.

Marigold, who had completely forgotten about her foul mood earlier in
the day, realized that she was just glad to see Thule. She tilted her head
back for a kiss. He accommodated her, his tongue teasing hers out of her
mouth.

"You've been drinking," he said, sounding surprised.

"You got me drunk last night," Marigold pointed out, smiling. "I
thought I should at least see what alcohol tasted like. How was your
meeting?"

Thule stepped out of the circle of her arms, "Non-productive. The guys
loved my product, but don't want to buy it. They want me to join their
little company and bring the software with me. And, there's no way I can
realistically do that while I'm a freshman at MIT without working myself
into an early grave." As he spoke, he threw his jacket over a chair and
undid his tie, "Have you had lunch yet?"

"No," said Marigold. "I didn't know if you would want to eat lunch
together."

Thule smiled, "Sounds good. Do you want to go downstairs or eat here?"

Marigold's heart sank at the idea of running into Adam downstairs at the
restaurant and having to explain her story to Thule when she wasn't even
sure why she had told it in the first place. Quickly, she said, "Let's eat
here."

"All right," said Thule. "Would you call down the order and stay
dressed enough to answer the door, please? I'm going to change into
something more comfortable."

They took lunch on the patio. For once, the conversation lacked its
usual brooding intensity. When Marigold asked Thule what the product was
he was trying to sell, he rattled off an explanation involving phrases
like, "Bayesian analysis," "topography," and "heuristic processes."

"Now I feel stupid," said Marigold. "Not only could I not build
something like that, I still don't know what it is."

Thule smiled, "You're not stupid, Little Flower. It's a tool for
representing complex data, creating generalizations from it, and using
those generalizations for decision making."

"I don't remember learning any of that in school," said Marigold. "I
must have been out that day."

"We didn't," said Thule. "I've been a math geek since like the fourth
grade."

Before she could stop herself, Marigold blurted out, "Thule, you're not
a geek."

Thule raised an eyebrow at her, "Sure I am. I worked hard to earn that
title."

"But..." said Marigold, stunned.

"Yes?" asked Thule, a note of menace creeping into his voice.

"Nothing," said Marigold quietly. Thule just looked at her until she
realized she would not be able to leave it at that.

"It's just that...you're in such good shape," said Marigold. Still,
Thule didn't speak. She knew that wasn't a good answer. "And you know how
to talk to people...And...." Now, she blushed furiously.

"And..."

Marigold's voice was a whisper, "and you clearly know what you're doing
in bed."

"And that makes me not a geek?" Thule asked.

Marigold nodded, not knowing where he was going with this conversation.

"So," he asked, his voice casual. "Who did you fuck to get to get such
good grades?"

Marigold sat bolt upright, "No one. Thule, I earned my grades."

"Couldn't be," said Thule. "Everyone knows popular girls are too stupid
to get more than a C without fucking somebody. In between the teachers
and the football team, it's a wonder you don't have bedsores on your back."

It took Marigold a second to realize what Thule was getting at. When
she did, she released a burst of relieved laughter. Still, his face was
angry.

"Thule, I'm so sorry," she said. "I know most of those things are
cliches. It's just force of habit. I'm sorry."

"Marigold," he said patiently. "I would think that, after the time
we've spent together, particularly at lunch, that you would have learned
something."

"I have," said Marigold, getting upset. "Thule, I really like most of
the guys that we eat lunch with. I said I was sorry. Do you want me to
beg for forgiveness?"

"Yes," said Thule. His voice was almost even, but held an undercurrent
of menace. He rose to stand in front of her.

"All right," said Marigold, looking up at him. "I'm begging. Please
forgive me."

"I don't think that seated is really the appropriate position from which
to beg."

Marigold looked around in stunned surprise. Looking straight at Thule,
her eyes were at crotch level. She could see his arousal. Giving a little
nod, she went down to her knees, her bottom resting on her feet.

After a moment, Thule asked, "Well?"

"I'm sorry," said Marigold, close enough to feel warmth radiating off
his body. "I forgot what I was supposed to be begging for."

"You were begging me not to be mad at you for being a shallow,
superficial bitch."

Marigold smiled to herself, "Please, Thule," she said, leaning forward,
"Don't be angry with me." She reached out her hands and began to undo his
fly, "Please," she said.

"Marigold," Thule said evenly. "A genuine apology does not require
physical contact."

Marigold was stunned. If she wasn't down here to suck his cock, what
was she there for? He couldn't actually just want her down there, begging
forgiveness for telling the truth about geeks, could he? But, the longer
she thought about it, the more she realized that there were no obvious
conclusions other than that one.

"Please, Thule," she said, "Don't be angry at me for what I said."

He looked down at her, but didn't say anything.

"Please, Thule," she said again, "Don't be angry at me."

"For what?" Thule asked.

"For what I said," Marigold answered.

"Is that what I told you to beg for?"

Marigold was stunned again, but her response time for getting over being
stunned was improving by leaps and bounds, "Please, Thule," she recited,
"Don't be angry at me for being a shallow, superficial bitch."

"Are you contrite, Little Flower?"

"Yes, Thule," she answered, "I think so."

"Well," asked Thule, "are you or aren't you?"

"I don't know," admitted Marigold, "I'm not sure what's wrong with what
I said. I am sorry for making you angry, though."

"I'm not angry, Little Flower," said Thule, stroking her hair. "I'm
just disappointed to see that you still think those labels mean anything.
If Brianne decided to call you a geek tomorrow, who would agree with her?"

"June Kane," said Marigold. "And the other cheerleaders." She thought
about it, "And the guys on the teams would probably repeat it." She lowered
her head, "Pretty much everyone, I guess--except the geeks themselves."

"And, how would you be different?" Thule asked.

"What?" Marigold's head shot up.

"How would you be different?"

"I wouldn't."

"But, you would be a geek," said Thule. "By extension, you would be out
of shape, socially inept, and lousy in bed."

"I wouldn't actually be a geek," said Marigold. "just because they
called me a geek."

"Would you be popular?"

Marigold lowered her head again, "I suppose not. Are you saying that
some of the geeks aren't really geeks even though everyone calls them
geeks?"

"I'm saying," Thule sighed heavily, "that broad generalizations rarely
actually mean anything. Some of those 'geeks' spend every weekend making
or swinging swords and are a good deal stronger than the jocks. Most of
them know how to talk to people, but rarely find anything that people
outside of their own circle say interesting. Some..." he let the word hang
in the air, "even know how to fuck with reasonable proficiency. You can't
apply generalities to specific cases as if it were gospel. You know, if
you would watch TV once in a while, I wouldn't have to explain this."

"I watch TV," said Marigold defensively.

"Regardless," said Thule. "The problem is that you are making group
generalizations based on what you've observed and applying them to the
individuals in the group. You presuppose you know everything about a
person because you can label them."

"Oh," said Marigold. She thought for a moment, "Isn't that what the
software you wrote does?"

Thule blinked down at her. By the stunned look on his face, Marigold
knew that she'd scored a point. Afraid she was about to be punished, she
stared back up at him, not speaking.

"I appreciate the irony," said Thule finally. "But, it's not the same
thing."

"All right," said Marigold, not willing to press the point.

"Stand up," said Thule. "Go inside. Take off what you're wearing and
put on the kimono I gave you. Then, come back out here."

Marigold hurried to obey. When she came back, Thule said, "Hold onto
the railing with both hands. Don't let go until I tell you that you may."

Marigold nodded, gripping the railing and closing her eyes. She
trembled as Thule pressed himself up against her back, pinning her to the
railing.

"Thule..."

Thule placed a finger over her lips and growled in her ear, "No speaking
except to answer questions."

Marigold nodded. Thule took his finger away from her mouth. With both
hands, he gripped the sides of her kimono at the waist, pulling until the
material was resting on her hips, leaving her naked from the waist down.
Marigold moaned in anticipation. She couldn't believe that Thule was going
to take her right there.

His hand snaked down between her legs, pushing them apart, a finger
sliding just inside of her. Marigold moaned again.

"God," said Thule. "You're soaking wet. Does begging really turn you
on that much?"

Marigold nodded, surprising herself. When she spoke, it was a rasp,
"Yes."

Thule chuckled. Marigold felt herself flush.

"Now that I have your attention, I will explain," said Thule.

Marigold let out a groan of protest. Thule wanted her to listen to an
explanation now?

"The application I've written applies generalizations for the purpose of
creating a best guess of group activities before specialization. For
instance, if it were set up to evaluate the actions of ten thousand
cheerleaders, it could probably be right seventy to seventy-five percent of
the time on many questions. But, that demographic would include you,
Brianne, Dawn, Ioke, Maya, and June Kane. In terms of individual analysis,
it could be wildly off. Does that make sense?"

As he spoke, Thule had been letting his fingers have free reign inside
of her, letting the tips graze time and again over her clit. Now, she
shook her head, "Oh, God, Thule...no."

Thule chuckled, "Are you answering my question or protesting my
actions?"

"Answering," Marigold said, then moaned. "I...please don't stop what
you're doing."

Thule started to withdraw his fingers, "I may have to. You don't seem
to be listening."

"It's not that," protested Marigold pressing herself against Thule's
fingers, trying to get him back inside of her. "I...I haven't been a
cheerleader in years. I never hang out with the cheerleaders except at
lunch and on the front steps before school. I don't go to their parties
or..."

"All right," said Thule, absentmindedly stroking her clit again.
Marigold's whole body shuddered in relief and pleasure. "But, when you
were a cheerleader, were you just like Brianne?"

Marigold wanted to deny it, but wondered what answer Thule expected. In
the last few years, she'd been pretty cruel at times, but never really
enjoyed it like Brianne did. She'd only done what it took to stay popular.
If she'd been nice to everyone, she would only have shared in their
torment.

Freshman year, when she'd been a cheerleader, had been another story.
Depending on how much Thule knew, he could very well think she'd been just
like Brianne. And, she had to admit, she wasn't so sure anymore herself.

"I...I don't know," she finally blurted out.

"Too hard to think?" Thule asked, letting up on her again.

"No," said Marigold quietly, laying her head on the railing. "I just
don't know anymore. I was pretty awful. I did a lot of things I'm not
proud of. I don't know if I was as bad as Brianne, but...I'm so sorry,
Thule."

Thule stood up, taking his hands off of her, letting her kimono drop
back to her ankles, "Do you have something to confess, Little Flower?"

Marigold wanted to. But, she couldn't open her mouth to say the words.
She wanted abosultion, but desperately didn't want Thule to hate her.
Finally, she shook her head and said quietly, "No."

Thule ran a finger down her spine, "You can let go of the railing now."

Marigold stood up, turning to be taken into Thule's arms, but he had his
back to her.

"Thule," she asked. "Aren't you going to...?"

He turned around, smirking, "Going to what?"

"Make love to me?" Marigold asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Thule's laugh chilled her, "I haven't yet. And I don't have time to
fuck you again. We have to get ready for dinner. Go start a bath. I'll
join you shortly."



-=-

When Thule joined Marigold in the tub, he sat in the opposite corner.
She splashed over to him, backing into his arms. After a moment spent just
sitting there, Thule soaped up a washcloth and began to gently wash her
skin, finishing his explanation of how his software worked, moving from the
general to the specific. As soon as she thought she could get away with
it, Marigold wriggled her bottom against him. Already halfway hard, Thule
stiffened immediately, but went on with the cleaning and the explanation as
if he hadn't noticed.

Emboldened, Marigold raised her hips, trying to impale herself on
Thule's cock. Her body was vibrating with tension and desire. Thule
shifted himself ever so slightly. Marigold tried to position herself
again. Thule shifted again. The third time, Marigold realized that he was
doing it on purpose.

"Thule, please..." she begged.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" he growled in her ear.

Marigold nodded emphatically, "God, yes. You've got me so worked up. I
can't stand it. I just want you inside me again."

"Spread your legs," he ordered. When Marigold did, he locked his ankles
in front of hers, keeping them open. Then, he twisted, turning in the tub
until he was in the middle of it and Marigold was pressed against the edge.

Rising a little, Thule bent her over the edge. Marigold moaned,
spreading her legs even further. As he positioned himself, she found
herself stretched over one of the jets. It hit her straight between the
legs. Before Thule could enter her, she came hard. Blushing, she hoped
Thule hadn't noticed.

Not only had he noticed, Thule locked her into position, forcingher to
stay over the jet. Marigold tried to squirm away, but Thule held her firm.

"Please..." she whimpered. "Thule, please...fuck me. Please fuck me.
God, Thule. I need you." She knew she was begging, but didn't care.

Thule didn't answer, just held her there. Marigold sobbed with pleasure
and frustration. It seemed like he held her there for hours, but Marigold
knew intellectually that it was probably only a few minutes. She didn't
come again. The pleasure was too intense on her tender parts to drive her
to climax.

Finally, he released her, pushing backwards to the far wall. Marigold
turned to look at him, her eyes shining with lust.

"Fuck me, Thule," she whimpered.

"No," said Thule, rising out of the tub, turning off the jets, and
opening the drain. "If we're going to make it to dinner on time, we need
to get ready." He strode past her. "Get dried off. I have another gift
for you."

Marigold caught his hand as he went by, thinking to pull him back into
the tub. When she looked up, she let go. There was no mercy in his eyes.

"You're a bastard," she said quietly.

Thule didn't bother to argue, "Get dried off," he repeated.

Left alone in the tub, Marigold had little choice but to follow. Her
legs were wobbly and shaky. She gasped a little even as she drew the towel
gently across her breasts.

She was tempted to close the door and finish herself off. Truth be
told, closing the door was not an absolute requirement. But, she'd seen
something in Thule's eyes that suggested he wanted her in this excited
state. If she ruined it, he might take actions to get her back into it
while they were out in public.

The idea made her knees so weak that she stumbled on her way out of the
bathroom. Thule looked up. She smiled apologetically.

Thule held up a dress by its spaghetti straps. It was gray and nearly
sheer. Marigold stood, stunned.

"Thule, it's..."

"Beautiful?" he offered.

"Obscene," Marigold said, not exactly contradicting him. "Thule, I
could be arrested for wearing that."

Thule chuckled and held up the dress, indicating Marigold should
approach. She hesitated for a moment, not even sure she wanted Thule to
see her in it. Then, she realized she was naked and that putting something
on should only be an improvement to her modesty.

She was wrong. The dress dipped down in the back so far it almost
showed cleavage. Held up with spaghetti straps, there was absolutely no
place to wear a bra underneath it. However, support had been artfully sewn
into the body of the dress itself. Once she had shimmied into the dress,
Thule drew two long straps, no wider than the ones on her shoulders,
crossed them under her breasts, and tied them in the back.

Marigold looked in the mirror and frowned a little. The first thing she
noticed was that the material had stiffened her nipples. The support
material made this less obvious than she thought it would be, though.
Turning this way and that, she wriggled a little.

"Hmmmm..." she said thoughtfully. "I guess it only looks like I could
fall out of it at any moment. Actually, it's lovely."

"Are you sure?" Thule asked. "If you would rather wear something
else..." The look in his eyes made it clear that he didn't believe for a
second that Marigold would refuse the dress now.

The look was the only thing tempting Marigold to surprise him and
refuse. She looked at herself in the mirror. Thule had obviously spent a
lot of time figuring out what would look good on her. Marigold had never
felt so beautiful.

Instead of refusing, she said the first thing that popped into her head,
"You really like dressing me up. Don't you?"

Thule chuckled and nodded, already dressing himself.

"Why?"

The question hung in the air for a long moment. If Thule hadn't stopped
what he was doing, Marigold would have worried that he hadn't heard the
question or was ignoring it. Finally, he said, "Whether we like it or not,
we partly become who we are dressed as. Playing dress up is like lying to
yourself in the hope that, if you repeat something often enough, it becomes
true."

Marigold gave him a meaningful look, "Who am I in this dress? Who is it
that you want me to be?"

Thule leaned into her, the hand on the back of her head and kiss on her
forehead taking any sting out of his words, "Anybody other than who you've
really been--a new woman."

Marigold clutched at Thule as her legs suddenly threatened not to hold
her up. He looked at her, concern writ large in his eyes.

She gave him a reassuring smile, "I think I like that."

Thule didn't answer. To fill the silence, Marigold said, "But, if this
dress drives some poor man so mad with lust that he attacks me, you'll have
to defend my honor."

By way of answer, Thule gave her a sardonic smile that made Marigold
blush down to her toes even though she wasn't sure what it meant.



-=-

For dinner, Thule took her to a little bistro in Chelsea, a French
restaurant that was dark as a pit inside. The hostess led them through the
gloom to a hidden garden area with additional seating, surrounded by
buildings on all four sides. They took the only empty table. As they
crossed the garden, Marigold felt like every eye in the place followed her.
Men leered openly while women shot hateful daggers at her. Invigorated by
both reactions, she hugged Thule's arm tighter.

Thule explained the menu to her, making suggestions and warnings.
Marigold agreed to all of them until she realized that was what she was
doing and deliberately chose something Thule had suggested was "too
challenging." Thule ordered it for her without comment. Nor did he comment
when she left most of it on her plate at the end of dinner.

Still squirming a little in her seat with the aftereffects of what Thule
had done to her that afternoon, Marigold drank white wine until it took
some of the edge off of her desire.

The only other disappointment with the meal was the coffee.

"Why," she asked Thule, "does everybody in New York have to burn their
coffee?"

"It's not burnt," said Thule. "It's French roast."

"Well," Marigold answered, putting her cup down, "I'm drinking tea for
the rest of the weekend. To me, it just tastes burnt."

After dinner, Marigold had thought they were walking back to the hotel.
It took several blocks for her to realize that they were walking the wrong
way.

"We're not going back to the hotel?" she pouted. Even dulled with
alcohol, her desire was like a dull ache inside her.

"Not yet," said Thule. "There's some place I'd like to take you."

Marigold giggled, "Take me anywhere you want."

Thule guided her to another part of Chelsea. A man standing outside a
club was calling out, "Live music," in a voice that sounded to have been
ruined by whisky and cigarettes, but still seemed to hold some melody.

When Thule came to the door, the hawker smiled, "Glad you could make it,
young sir."

Thule smiled back and shook the man's hand, "Is the band in good form
tonight?"

The hawker grinned wider, white teeth now dominating his black face,
"They sure are. Is this the young lady you mentioned?"

Thule nodded. The man's smile got impossibly broader, "Nice to meet
you, Marigold. I'm Lucius Collins. I used to play with your father right
before and right after you were born."

"Here?" Marigold looked at the nondescript club. The music that emerged
had seemed vaguely familiar, but she hadn't immediately recognized why.

Lucius nodded, "Yeah. I played with him at his last show. We all were
really sorry to hear when he died. He talked about you all the time. It's
nice to see what a beautiful young woman you've grown up to be."

"Thank you," said Marigold graciously. She glanced at Thule. He didn't
look at all surprised by this turn of events.

As they entered the club, she asked, "How in the hell did you find this
place?"

"Your father was something of a local celebrity in his time," said
Thule. "He wasn't hard to look up on the Internet."

"How long have you been planning this?"

"Tonight specifically?" asked Thule. "Since that first night in the
newspaper office."

"And the rest?" asked Marigold.

Thule laughed, "About three years."

Marigold laughed with him until she realized he was serious. Three
years ago, Thule had still been on the track team, still tolerated by the
jocks and the popular cliques. Most of freshman year, he'd dated her best
friend, Maya, who was a cheerleader and fairly popular in her own right.

She froze so suddenly that Thule's next two steps dragged her forward
before he stopped and looked back.

"I need the lady's room," she said. Thule nodded and indicated the
booth at which they would be sitting. Marigold fled in as dignified a
manner as she could.

Staring in the mirror, she knew what Thule was really punishing her for.
All he'd said about this being revenge for years of was a facade.
There was one specific event three years ago that could have made him so
angry that he would have nursed a grudge this long.

Worse, Marigold couldn't blame him.

In a panic, she looked around the room, thinking for a moment that she
could make an escape like in the movies, letting herself out a window. She
could take a bus back to Mannsborough, get Jonas to protect her. Thule
would tell Harvard about her. At the moment, it didn't matter so much as
getting away. With the realization of what he knew, Marigold felt certain
that Thule had no intention of letting her go to Harvard. He must want to
kill her.

When she saw that there was only one window in the room, high up and too
small to get through, Marigold was forced to think rationally. Thule
hadn't shown any indication of wanting to hurt her. He'd had
opportunities. Instead, he'd spent a huge amount of money and time making
this the most memorable weekend of her life.

He must not know the whole story, Marigold decided. She just needed to
keep her cool. She looked in the mirror and put on a smile. Still, she
couldn't get the thought out of her head that she deserved every bad thing
Thule had done to her. She deserved worse. Resolutely, she pushed the
thought aside. Thule was waiting for her.



-=-

When Marigold approached the table, Thule smiled to see her. Marigold
examined the smile carefully for any hidden malice. Instead, she found
genuine warmth. He was happy to see her. When she slid into the booth, he
put his arm around her, pulling her against him, facing the stage, eager
for her to watch with him.

Marigold didn't understand what was going on. If Thule knew what she'd
done, he gave no sign. But, what else could he have held a grudge about
for this long?

Still, he held her, stroked the flesh of her arms, whispered to her,
smiled at her. If he wasn't enjoying her company, he was a far better
actor than any she'd seen. Taking a deep breath, she let herself relax and
enjoy the evening.

She was still nervous enough to accept a screwdriver when Thule asked if
she wanted a drink. Soon, she was feeling pleasantly buzzed, swaying back
and forth to the music, eyes closed. She hadn't listened to jazz much
after her father's death. She still had some vinyl records her father had
bought her, but had never bothered to upgrade from the toy record player
she'd had at the time. Besides, no one she knew listened to it. And,
she'd gotten in the habit of not doing things her friends didn't do.

But, the sound brought back memories she'd long suppressed. Her
earliest clear memory had been lying in her bedroom at night when she'd
still lived at her grandparents' house, hearing the clear sound of her
father's saxophone coming from the shack outside. He practiced there so as
to not wake the house.

The memory, still clear after almost fifteen years, was of a specific
song. Marigold could only remember one song her father had ever played.
It was an original composition he'd written just for her called, "Little
Flower." She could almost hear it in what the musicians were playing now.

Her eyes flew open. There was no "almost" about it. The band was
playing her father's song, the one her father had written for her. She
turned to Thule to tell him about her discovery, only to see that Thule was
watching her intently, smiling trepidaciously. He already knew.

Behind his smile, there was a look of uncertainty on his face. Marigold
realized this he was afraid that his grand gesture would fall flat or make
her mad. Marigold felt a surge of power at knowing she had this power over
him. But, for the first time, she felt no temptation to exercise that
power.

"Thule, I love it," she said. Drawing his head down in her hands, she
kissed him on the mouth, opening her own lips for his exploration. Thule
kissed her back, his hands raising goosebumps on the bare flesh of her
back. The saxophone player improvised a little flourish in response to the
kiss.

When she broke the kiss, Marigold realized that a lot of people were
staring at them. She didn't care. If Thule had wanted to take her then
and there, she wouldn't have protested.

Reaching up, Thule wiped away a tear that Marigold hadn't remembered
shedding. She sniffled a little, "Thule, this is really wonderful. Why
are you doing this for me? I thought you were going to punish me."

Thule gave a sad smile, "This is our last night in New York. I wanted
you to have something to remember fondly, no matter what else happened."

Even the implied threat, spoken so casually, did nothing to dampen
Marigold's mood. It didn't matter. However he punished her, it would be
less than she deserved. Incredibly, impossibly, Thule had even developed a
certain fondness for her. He may be punishing her, but he was forgiving
her at the same time.

She turned to Thule, opening her mouth to speak. But, the set ended.
The audience applauded enthusiastically. Sensing many eyes on her,
Marigold brought her lips together, not to speak, but for another kiss.

When the kiss broke this time, the band was gathered around the table at
a respectful distance. It turned out that all of them had played with her
father and had memories of him to offer her like gifts laid at her feet.
As they spoke, others lined up behind them. More than two dozen greeted
her. She'd never realized how many people her father had touched with his
music. She'd thought of playing the saxophone as his job, not realizing
how good he'd been at it.

Finally, they'd all told their stories. Marigold was overwhelmed. Not
only had Thule arranged this incredible gift for her, many of her father's
old friends had thanked her for listening to their stories. To her
knowledge, her mother had never had any contact with these people. They'd
had nothing of her father since his death.

She left the club feeling like she was walking on a cloud. Moonlight
turned the street silver. Marigold cuddled under Thule's arm. When the
hotel came into sight, she walked more slowly. She didn't want the walk to
end. Thule had no such compunctions. He kept her moving forward.

"Anxious to get back to the room and punish me some more?" Marigold
asked. Her grin was wicked. With their trip to the jazz club, he'd done
something she hadn't thought possible. He'd made her forget the ache of
desire. Now, though, it was back with a vengeance.

Thule didn't answer immediately. He led her into the hotel, past the
front desk, into the elevator. Once inside, Marigold reached up and threw
her arms around his neck. She kissed him. Thule's kiss was surprisingly
chaste. Marigold was glad for it. Any more and she might have started
tearing off his clothes here, not waiting to get back to the room.

"Thule," she said. "I've fallen in love with you."

Thule's face was carefully neutral, "I know. I'm sorry, Marigold. I
never meant for that to happen."

"No," said Marigold. "Don't apologize. It's wonderful. Tell me you're
not falling in love with me, too."

Thule pulled away from her, turning his back. Marigold wouldn't let him
go, though. She laid her hands on his back, kissing a spot between them.

"I love you, Thule. And, I know you're falling in love with me, too."

Thule turned to face her again, "You still have a lot to answer for,
Marigold."

Marigold nodded, "I know. I will, Thule. I don't expect you to forgive
me. Punish me. I accept it. I deserve it. Do whatever you want to me."

The elevator door opened. Thule took her by the hand and led her into
the hallway. Turning around to face her, he kept pulling Marigold down the
hall. She followed willingly. When they were in front of the door to
their room, Thule wrapped his arms around her, "I have forgiven you,
Marigold. What you've done to me is a small thing, not uncommon. It
happens in every high school in America. You've suffered enough for that."

Marigold shook her head, "I don't understand. If you've forgiven me,
why are you still going to punish me? I thought forgiveness meant
absolution."

Thule's face was pained as he withdrew his key card from his jacket
pocket. Turning to Marigold, he kissed her one more time on the forehead.

"I didn't say I was going to keep punishing you. I said you still had a
lot to answer for, but not to me."

Marigold's skin went cold. She pulled away from Thule. Even before the
door opened, she knew who would be behind it. If she hadn't, she might not
have recognized her one-time best friend. She'd changed so much in the
intervening three years.

As the door opened, Maya strode forward from the living room. When she
took Marigold by the wrist and drew her inside, Marigold went without a
struggle. Even when Maya wrapped her arms around Marigold, resting her
hands on bare flesh, Marigold just stood there.

"Hello, Florita," Maya said, her voice a cold monotone. "Did you miss
me?"

Princes of Mannsborough, Part 6a of approximately 23 (last chapter is
22.) by Vulgar Argot (MF, nosex, oral, light D/s)

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Thursday, July 29, 2004

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Monday, July 26, 2004

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This work contains depictions of sexual acts. If you are not above the age of
18, or viewing erotic fiction is not allowed in your area, please do not read
any further. All rights reserved by the author. Consent is given for
electronic or printed copies for personal use. Archiving to free sites is
permitted.


The Wall (M/F no sex, sad)

Part of a novel in progress


The Wall

Becky had come to my dorm room to study. This was a frequent occurrence when my
roommate was out. Since her roommate had left school and they had not assigned
her a
new one we used her room often, but this made a nice change.
It was getting near the middle of November and we had decided not to try and go
home
for this holiday, saving our money Christmas break. I was working on my modern
history
course specifically the Viet Nam conflict. With all the conflict within our
country, I had
decided to write the paper on what the soldiers had gone through. I had found
some
accounts in our Library on Campus, but it wasn't enough. Of course most of the
materials
were on the military focus, battles, skirmishes, and the like. The instructor
was a retired
major so it would be his forte'. I wanted the human side. And it was not coming.
I closed
the screen on my laptop and sighed on flustration.
"Stuck honey?" Becky was watching me from my bed.
"Yeah. I can't seem to find anything that has the feeling for what these guys
went
through. All the accounts are just dry. Some have the details down, but no
emotion. I
wanted to write what they were feeling, their thoughts."
Becky was very thoughtful for several minutes. "Did I tell you I had an uncle
that was
killed in that war? His name was Kevin Donnalson. It of course happened long
before I
was born. My mother was just barely 8 when he went in. I always wondered about
him.
Maybe you could write about him?"
Next afternoon Becky called home and asked her mother about getting some
information
for me. She didn't know how much help she could be, but would dig around.
Becky's
grandparents still kept several things in the attic that were Kevin's, but she
did not want
to upset them with old memories. She hung up and gave me the news. I decided to
try to
get a little help from my instructor. When I explained what I was trying to do
for my
paper, Major Mackie gave me the lead to the resources within the Dept of Defense
to
track downwhat files they would release, and gave me permission to use his name.
And I
went to work.
Records for Lt. Donnalson, Kevin. Serial#xxxxxxxxxxx were short and to the
point. He
had been killed while his command was being pulled out of a hot zone near the
Laos
border. Issued Silver Star, and recommended for Medal of Honor. At least I had a
start.
Becky was very quiet for the next week while I was trying to get my notes and
everything
else together. Monday before Thanksgiving, I was wading through some notes on
the
days after the Tet Offensive. We were in Becky's Room this time. "Jimmy?"
"Hmmm´┐Ż?
"Could we make a road trip over the holiday?"
I was still in my notes. "Sure where to?"
"The wall."
I looked up from the bed. "The wall. The Viet Nam Veterans Memorial"
"Honey, I am sure we could, but the question is why?"
"Uncle Kevin. I never knew him. He died somewhere thousands of miles away. At
least I
could honor him and those that died with him."
I got on the internet and booked one of the few hotel rooms left just outside
Washington.
That is how I found myself looking at a wall of black granite. Stretching
seemingly
forever, it was covered with names. And I was thinking, for each name on the
wall there
had been a person. Someone with parents, a wife or girlfriend. Family that loved
them
and were anxiously awaiting their return. These are the same people who had to
bear the
devastating news when they were informed that he wasn't coming home. Wives with
young children left without a father. Mothers and fathers losing their young
sons. How
many times did this scene play out? They were much more than just a name on a
wall.
The sky was adding to the somber mood. There was a hint of drizzle in the air,
muting the
colors of the flowers and trinkets that had been placed at the base. Small
momentos that
somehow left the feeling that these men who gave their lives were not forgotten.
Becky and I found Her uncle's name towards the base of the memorial. Becky got
down
on her knees, and softly touched his name. In some small way trying to connect
with him.
Through her tears she was whispering "Uncle Kevin. I wish I could have known
you." I
knelt down beside her wrapping my arms around her. There were no words for me to
say
that would have made any difference.
We were still kneeling down and I had just made a rubbing of his name for Becky,
when
we heard a deep voice from behind us. "Was he a relative of yours?" Becky and I
both
looked up to see a rather large, weatherbeaten man to our left. "He was my
uncle. He was
killed when my mother was still young. Grandma and Grandpa don't say too much. I
just
wanted to come and tell him I wished I could have met him"
This giant wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. "I served with your uncle. I
was the
medic in his unit. He was a hell of a man. We talked about family, and he was so
anxious
to get home to see his family. Especially his little sister. He was proud of her
and showed
the pictures to anyone who would look."
We sat on the grass as he told us of the mission where Kevin was killed. They
had been
ambushed, and lost most of the squad. There were only six left and four of those
wounded. Kevin and the sergeant would carry the wounded a couple of klicks then
go
back and get the other two. Took them 3 days to get to the Landing Zone for
pickup.
They got to the LZ and radioed in. They had just about loaded the chopper when
the VC
opened fire, catching Kevin in the back. The chopper lifted off, but Kevin died
before
they could get back to base. "The Louie carried me 12 klicks. I had been hit in
both legs
by gunfire and was losing blood. He should have left me for dead, but you know
what he
said? 'I don't leave my men behind. As long as you are still alive you are going
out with
us'. I wouldn't be alive today but for him."
Becky was still listening with tear filled eyes. I finally spoke up. "I am glad
you came by
when you did. And I know it means a lot to Becky. But why were you here today?"
"Today, November 23, is the day that chopper lifted us out. The day the Louie
saved the
lives of his squad. I come every year on this date to thank him and tell him how
much I
owe him."
With that, he stood. With tears running down his cheeks, he straightened his
jacket and
moved back down to the wall and into the shadows. Becky and I sat there until
dusk, lost
in our own thoughts. Finally we went back to the motel room where we undressed
and
got into bed. We didn't make love that night, but just held each other tightly.
We made it back to the campus the next day. And then went to Thanksgiving dinner
at
our friend Irene's the day after that. Dinner was great and the festivities were
needed as
well.
On Saturday night, we were once again on the bed in Becky's dorm room. The
television
was playing some silly sitcom but we were not really watching it. It was just
nice to be
alone, with the other near, but still within our own thoughts. Becky had been
very quiet
all weekend and I figured that it was because of our trip. Truth be known, I
was mulling
over the images myself.
I finished my paper on time, received a B. The medic never told us his name,
but I
found in during my research. It was Richard Beale. Becky sent him a letter
thanking him
for what he had said and included a copy of the paper.

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