Vanishing Point Ch. 01 page 5

The scissors were already at work now, reshaping her, and sending little wet, delicate fragments of herself flying about, to land on her shoulders and her breasts and arms. She was being shorn and reshaped and changed – in the way that women have been altered for centuries. Slices of her hair fell silently in clumps, onto the floor. Tiny, single-stranded shards of time, measured in amber filaments, fluttered onto her nakedness.

Each snip of hair that was taken from her took her farther and farther from who she had been. Who will I be, when I am awakened? Will I know her? Or even recognize her? With each passing minute, the answer became less and less sure.

She awoke to the sound of the hair dryer blowing its Sahara-hot wind through her hair. There was less of it now, though she resisted the urge to lift her hand up to touch it. The women working on her hands weren't finished with her yet. The combs and the brushes and the gels were still at work, sculpting what was left of her into something that was presentable. How much of me is there, still? Or is she gone forever now, lost to the shadows?

But still her eyes remained closed.

Will I ever see myself again?

While the answer seemed tenuous, the absence of certainty wasn't troubling. The absence of everything – of any landmarks or signposts – just was. She couldn't explain it, even if she had a lifetime of words and images at her command. It just was. And there was no changing that fact.

An Interlude In The Fog

When she opened her eyes, she was sitting on a bench in the park, under the leafy shade of an ancient oak tree. She was alone, and she was… who?

How did I get here?

She sat quietly, listening to the sound of her breathing, and to that impossibly loud mourning dove cooing from a hidden lair somewhere nearby in the bushes.

The name 'Jean' tasted like a name she had known before. So for lack of a better one, she adopted it as a point of reference for herself. Everyone had a name, and while she wasn't completely sure, Jean seemed to fit as well as anything else she could think of.

All right – I'll be Jean. Until I find something that fits better.

She looked around her. Children and dogs and mothers with babies in carriages moved about her like syncopated figures in a mechanical toy, each one making sounds and moving from place to place with random, unfathomable, and what appeared to be aimlessly mechanical steps.

She lifted up her arms and stared at her hands. The gleaming red of her luxuriously long and perfectly shaped fingernails glinted in the late-afternoon sun. It would be twilight soon.

I've been gone so long… Gone – where?

She looked past her hands to the curves of her body. She was wearing – where did this come from? What she saw did not match her hazy recollection of what the woman named Jean would wear.

Her torso was covered – barely – by a clingy little white tank top that had something embroidered in classic script on the white fabric between the hiding-nothing outline of her breasts and her hard, aching nipples. Why do they hurt so much? She struggled to read the delicate red cursive words upside down. "Fantasies can come true," it said.

She was wearing a skirt – barely. The playful breeze that swirled around her legs and made the flowers in the nearby garden bow and dance told her that she had nothing on beneath the narrow strip of black spandex. And the black, spike-heeled sandals would make for tricky going on the uneven ground. Her legs and ankles told her that she was not used to wearing such intimidatingly tall heels.

Then she noticed the girl on the bench on the other side of the little swale that ran down the center of the park. The girl sat there, facing her, and wearing what appeared at this distance to be an identical outfit, from the immodest little tank top with blue writing between her tits to her hiding-nothing skirt and the black sandals. The girl had barely any hair on her head – just a meadow of short, gelled spikes of black shooting up from her scalp.

And she was masturbating.

The girl had her fingers between her legs, with her skirt pulled up. She obviously didn't care who saw what she was doing. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted back slightly so as to have the fast-fading, late-afternoon light bathe her face in its amber glow. She was using both hands, her fingers alternating in her pussy and on her clit.

The girl stopped for a moment, hesitating as if she had forgotten something. Jean watched her rummage through the purse that sat next to her on the bench. The girl took out – oh my god - a pair of red plastic clothespins, and attached them to her nipples, over the painted-on tank top that was just barely large enough to accommodate her generously sized breasts. She took care to stretch each nipple carefully before she pinned herself, with the red daggers sticking straight out from her tits. The look on her face when she resumed her masturbation was one of pure rapture.

Jean watched, mesmerized, as the girl pleasured herself. It was so frankly open and unashamed that it had all the air of innocence and piety, rather than lewdness or indecency. The girl's pace quickened and she arched her back and spread her legs wider – and she orgasmed. Right there on the park bench with a dozen other souls close enough to hear her little cries.

But everyone else within earshot seemingly ignored the quiet and unassuming masturbation session that played out in their presence. It was as if the girl wasn't really there.

Am I imagining her? She has to be real… I see her. And I heard her come.

The girl on the bench had her hands clasped in her lap now, with her head bowed. Is she praying? Jean watched intently as the girl's lips moved, speaking whispered, silent words to herself. After reciting her benediction, the girl sucked her fingers into her mouth, kissing each one in turn; and then fingering the silver chain necklace around her neck.

Lastly, she removed the clothespins from her breasts and put them back into her purse.

Jena could tell that when she did that – popping off the pins – the girl wanted to orgasm again as the twin jolts of electricity illuminated her eyes. But she didn't, Jean was sure of it. No, the girl smothered it and buried it, in some dark place within her.

Her ritual completed now, the girl stood and stared for a moment in Jean's direction – though her eyes gave no hint of recognition – and then she turned away and walked towards the entrance to the park on the other side of the grassy sward.

As she watched the girl's ass move so sexily in her tiny skirt as she made her way daintily along the gravel path in her skyscraper heels, Jean's hand went to her own neck. She discovered a metal chain necklace there – just like the one the spike-haired girl had worn.

How did this get here? I don't remember… Jean fingered the necklace around the circumference of her neck. There was no clasp either. It was a single unbroken circle of delicately formed links. Somehow, it had been formed around her throat – and there was no way she could remove it.

So strange…

There was one thing, though, that broke the simple symmetry of the chain. There was a small metal oval hanging from the chain. It was flat and polished and smooth, and devoid of decoration, though.

No… Wait a minute. There is something engraved on it.

Her fingers tried to discern what the inscription was. It was not much – only three letters, she guessed. Her initials? J for Jean – if that was even her name, and then what? She soon gave up her attempt, though. The letters were too small and her fingers were too big.

It was getting dark quickly now. Jean rose from her bench and made her way out of the park. She didn't know where she was going, but she felt that this was the right direction. She was a lost puppy, trying to find her way home.

When she crossed the street, she was rewarded with an angry blare of car horns and screeching tires. The thought to look each way for approaching vehicles hadn't even occurred to her. After safely reaching the refuge of the sidewalk on the other side, Jean came face to face with her reflection in a store window.

So this is who I am…

She surveyed the woman who stared back at her. Dark red hair, down to her neck, but stopping well short of her shoulders. It looked freshly styled, too. That thought triggered other remembrances, as her body whispered little secret sensations in her ear. Her skin… scrubbed and waxed and oiled. Without reaching under her skirt to check, Jean knew that her pussy was soft and smooth and bare – and hurting. Like her nipples hurt. It wasn't a bad hurt – it was an achy, I've been fucked hurt – and a bit more than that.

Did I get fucked today? But if I did, wouldn't I remember that?

Jean furrowed her brow and tried to concentrate as she walked towards – towards where she was going.

Echoes of the Past

A long thirty minutes later, Jean was back in her apartment, staring at it as if it was completely new to her. It wasn't new, and she had been here before – of that she was certain – but it still felt foreign and alien. Kind of like when you go away to college and you come back after six months and everything seems different, even though it really isn't.

It was amazing, and yet somehow not, that she was here at all; that she had found this place. Her place – her home…

Is this where Jean lives?

The small rooms looked lived in, but were somehow not fully imprinted with the soul and the personality of the person who occupied them. The person who lived here did not own this place. It was more like a transient's way-station; the kind of place where people move in and out with the regularity of the tides, without ever leaving a permanent record of their existence or their presence behind.

Where did Jean come from? And how long has she been here?

Everything about this was a mystery, and the pieces of this jigsaw puzzle were still scattered about in her head. They were all there, she thought, but she had no idea how many there might be, or what the image might look like when they were all fitted together.

Her curiosity led her to her bathroom mirror, where she studied the chain around her neck. She could see where the final link had been soldered in place, to seal the sterling silver around her throat and make it impossible to remove. And the small oval medallion attached to the chain – it said "146". So it wasn't her initials. Or a word.

What does '146' mean then?

She tried to concentrate, but everything was blank. 146 was a meaningless, random number to her. It was a curiosity, and it surely meant something, but after a few minutes, its significance faded. It wasn't important – at least not now. Nor was the chain around her neck. It, simply, was there. A plain and unremarkable fact that needed no further explanation.

Jean wandered through the apartment, as she tried to get a feel for her identity and her history. Jean, or 146, or whoever she was. On the nightstand in the bedroom, next to a quite-large silver vibrator, was a photo. She was in it, along with another woman. Both of them were nude in the picture – another unfathomable curiosity. She looked different in the photo, though. Her hair was longer, and lighter in color – reddish blonde and spilling over her shoulders.

Jean picked up the photo and took it into the bathroom with her. She stripped off her tank top and skirt and studied herself. Her eyes darted back and forth between the photo and her reflection in the mirror. Everything looked the same, except for the length and color of her hair, and the long, blood-red manicured fingernails on the hand that held the photograph up to the mirror.

No, wait a minute. There's more. She licked her lips and leaned forward. Yes, I see it now. They're fuller, lusher. The lipstick she wore couldn't hide the fact that her lips were much more kissable and more attractively contoured than the image of herself in the black metal frame. How did that happen? And when?

On an impulse, she looked down at her pussy. It was smooth and bare – freshly shaved and waxed, she could tell. But here, too, what she touched with her fingers was more rounded and full than the not-quite-bare cunt she saw in the photograph. Hmm. A triangular shaped pussy rug. Now that's a bit unique. She looked down at the cunt lips that were framed by her new, blood-red fingernails. These labia were so much more sexy and attractive now – like what most men imagine a young girl's pussy must be like.

Jean contemplated the two images of herself and decided that she liked the one she saw in the mirror more than the one in the picture frame. These lips were so much more kissable and fuckable than the ones in the picture. And little-girl bare was so, so wicked. She smiled inwardly while she caressed her face with one hand and her cunt with the other. 'Kissable and fuckable' – they both apply - here, and here, too.

And the other woman in the photograph – she had kissed and caressed and fucked these lips. Jean was sure of it. The woman's name was on the tip of her tongue, but there was no doubt in her mind that she had had her tongue everywhere Jean was touching herself now.

She would find her again – Jean was sure of it. Or she would find Jean. She would have that tongue in her mouth and cunt again; and she would return the favor.

Suddenly tired now from the exertion of her day, and whatever had occurred between leaving here in the morning and returning at nightfall with different clothes, different hair, and different lips, Jean headed towards her bed. A few minutes later, the silver vibrator was deep in her cunt and she was rocking back and forth, masturbating herself into the darkness, wrapped in the monochrome fog of her dreams.


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