Read More

Midnight in Yosemite

Allan M. © 2006

After minutes, hours, or possibly weeks, she confronts a fragmented cognizance. 

Who she is? What is she? Where is she? She is Jasmine Bell Summers, and her nearest memory is planning a camping vacation at Yosemite National Park with her husband, Peter Summers. He is a teacher. She is a teacher. Yes, she is a history professor at an eastern university. No, it's not Harvard. Ahh yes, it's Tufts. She is a professor of English Literature at Tufts University. How could she forget that? 

No, ... it isn't Tufts. Tufts University is where she attended school. Where she got her degree in ... something. That's where she lost her virginity after a house party, and some social drinking. Somebody slipped her a drug. They probably placed it into her drink. Is that what's happening to her now? Is she drugged? That would explain her woolly recollections and her dislocated being.

She is with her husband, to her closest recollection. He wouldn't drug her. He has no need to drug her. She craves sex more often and with more variation than he ever has. If he drugged her it would be to keep her still, possibly to give him time to locate a golf course or a restaurant that serves Italian food. Pete loves golf and lasagna. 

She teaches at Michigan or is that Minnesota. Michigan! Yes, definitely Michigan. She teaches classes somewhere. She teaches English Literature. At the University of Michigan. Maybe? No. it's Michigan State, and it's American Literature. She is Professor Summers, Michigan State's most recently tenured professor! Or is she?

Her world is the flimsiest of fabrics. Are her eyes open, or are they sealed? She can't tell. No light! No vision! She can't see light, they must be shut. Unless it's night She has to know! 

She struggles to make a modification to her eyelids. Any adjustment. Absolutely no success. Nary a flinch, wink nor flicker of a filament. No tactile indication to infer that she is alive. She can't hear. She can't smell. She has no indication where she is and just the barest recollection of who she is. She is Jasmine!

Ignorance is the most disconcerting companion. As a tide beckons even the shallowest stream, the fear inside of her blossoms with each new uncertainty. Is she sick or injured, or merely dreaming. She tries to scream, but nothing, not even the indication that she is in possession of lips, a tongue, or a face. 

That's it, this is a dream. Jasmine has had such dreams before. Now that she knows who she is and has partially analyzed her situation, she will command her body to obey. ... Awake ... Awake, damn it, Awake. Nothing! ... Her body is a stranger to her ambition.

She feels something stirring within her, and the comfort that tactile sensation offers soon horrifies her. What she feels is an invasion of her femininity. It is more than a casual probe, she is having sex. No, she is being had. This is rape. She screams inside her mind, and to her amazement, the sensation stops, but only for a moment.

"She's waking", she hears inside her head. "I like it even more when they're aware", the small voice inside her head said "Give me privacy". She feels someone within her most personal regions, probing, pressing, and using her. She senses a presence glory in the possession of her and even more in her acknowledged subjugation. It is a violation which she can neither resist nor protest. Even her anal cavity is soon subjugated to the onslaught. Then after that indignity, silence. 

With the silence, there was stillness. With the stillness comes rest. Rest, silence, and forgetfulness.

* * * * *

Who is she? She could not recall. Her name is Kathryn. No, that's silly, it's James. No, that's even sillier. Her name is Jasmine! She attempts to mouth the name, but nothing. No sound. No sound is present. No voice, no noise, not even the whisper of the wind! She is Jasmine, daughter of Kathryn and James Bell. She is Jasmine! 

Her mind is gelatin and mangled fruit. Her past is marshmallow and whipped cream. Who is she? Is she the librarian, or the receptionist? She works at a college in the mid-west, somewhere, doing something. 

She has a child. She is the child. She has a husband. Where is Peter? Help me Peter. Help me daddy! Help me!.

Her mind ambles like a lethargic log on stagnant seas. Is that a tunnel ahead? A sliver of degraded light. She can see. shadows steal beneath her. She hovers just beyond the shadows. Men. Menacing men. Threatening her! No, not her, they are attacking a woman. An Asian woman, or maybe she's Hispanic. How can it matter when everything she is and everything she sees, is a dream.

Large hulking humanoids with massive bodies and sinister demeanors. Naked men! Men with throbbing, hulking muscles, and huge threatening penises. Large men. Green men. No not green, they're more blue than green. Dirty turquoise with prominent purple veins embedded along the sides of their hairless domes, their muscled backs and their overdeveloped phalluses. 

A tan woman recoils, she attempts to dive between two large men to escape the advances of the third. They are up to the task, one grabs her wrist and casually flings her backward. Her body soars through the air before she lands horribly. She is naked and in agony. She soon manages to slide awkwardly along the floor in a futile effort to avoid these huge men. Her right arm hangs by her side like a inconvenient weight. Tears and blood stream down what may once have been a beautiful face. 

The men, they have no faces. Well not faces in the conventional sense. Small mouths with razor thin lips and even less conspicuous nostrils. They do have eyes. Carnivorous eyes. Eyes that deride the slender woman's efforts as she scoots along the floor. They are enjoying her agonies. Angry penises imperil the tiny woman as she attempts to scurry between the men, as inch by inch they reduce her options, until finally ... one man ensnares an ankle. Her destiny is complete.

For almost an hour Jasmine watches as voracious beasts, (they cannot be termed men), ravage the fragile woman. Even the most vicious man would not violate a woman so. Even men with their astounding aptitude for savagery, could never be half so cruel, She had never seen men so muscular, not even the body builders at the gym. Men don't have bodies that imposing. Men aren't blue. No facial hair at all. These aren't men, they're beasts. 

They ravage the woman with their hulking penises and immense hands. They rip her apart with organs more suitable for demolition than sexual gratification. She see's the woman's mouth moving. She sees striations on the woman's neck vibrate in concert with the movements of her mouth, but Jasmine hears nothing throughout the ordeal. Maybe she's deaf? Maybe she's better off not hearing the slaughter.

When they are convinced that the woman has no further utility, one beast lifts the woman's abused body from the floor and flings her contemptuously into a corner. 

A fourth blue man dressed in white, rapidly approaches the scene, he is far thinner and slightly taller than the other three, and at his behest, the three brutes obediently withdraw from the carnage. The woman isn't dead, however, she is bloodied and misshapen. Her body convulses in measured spasms and she is in obvious agony. Her shredded vagina, and a ruptured anal cavity, are vibrant red. 

This poor woman is somebodies daughter. Expiring on a floor in need of friends and dignity.

Jasmine can only observe with unexpressed revulsion. She cannot turn her head or avert her eyes. She prays that death will hurry and spare the woman further grief. The woman's body endures one final spasm. She is gone. Blood continues to seep, but the woman is free.

The lights slowly rise and Jasmine becomes aware of others about her, dangling in midair, She notes no visible harnessers, ropes nor chains. She too must be dangling upon unseen constraints, but she cannot feel their pull. Jasmine cannot feel anything. Now as much as anything Jasmine wishes she were unable to see. 

Men and women, all about her, all naked, all with their arms raised above their bodies like freshly slaughtered meat. Their legs below them. Their eyes are open, but not one seems aware. They are not sleeping but neither are they awake.

Two of the beasts return. One quickly fetches the woman's body from the room, the other accompanies a machine that resembles a vacuum cleaner, only it is larger, more flexible, and maneuvering independently. They combine their efforts and rapidly clean the room, their heads bowed in deference to the thin one. 

Where did that come from?

A large panel with buttons, switches, and illuminated dials is where an empty space was only a moment before. The tall one sitting on a seat, that was not there during the slaughter, deftly manipulates the panel. He has long thin fingers. He turns to her, and with his thin lips, smiles. It's a sinister smile, more of a sadistic grimace.

"So once again you are awake", she does not hear his words with her ears but she can hear it inside her head. He touches a button and she slowly descends toward the floor. He stands and approaches her position. 

Even slowly it doesn't take long for her to reach his level. She is only raised a few feet beyond him. "This won't take long". He opens his robe, or coat. It's actually a combination of the two. His penis is now unencumbered. It is not as huge as the other's but it soon begins to lengthen. It continues to grow. It moves as if under a separate agenda than the owner. It is now long, really long. Snakelike. An elongated penis of several feet approaches her face. It embraces her cheek, "you are not like the others." 

The penis leaves her face and after considerable manipulation of her more sensitive regions, buries itself within her. She is not aroused, at least not aware of being aroused. She is not afraid, at least not for the moment. She is uncomfortable, extremely uncomfortable. He continues, she can feel the penis explore her. Not like a man's organ, the penis moves with a cleverness no man can duplicate. It maneuvers more deftly than the most skilled artisan's hand. It strokes her tissues and embraces her innermost regions. If she didn't hate him? If she didn't hate the situation? If she were free to enjoy it? If it wasn't rape? If he were human?

A man is brought into the room. She barely notices. He is fighting furiously, but to little avail. "Oh my", she thought, noticing his face, It's Peter! 

"Peter help me", she thinks. He doesn't hear her, but instinctively he turns his head. When he sees her face and her compromised position his struggles increase. He twists his body, momentarily maneuvering his captor aside He escapes and comes within a few feet of the tall one before he is overcome from behind. The tall one briefly glances around. "I believe that's what's called jealousy, or is it something else". He continues ravaging her for the next few minutes. 

The tall one gesticulates, his stringy arms and bony fingers indicate where he wants Peter positioned. The two monsters that brought him into the room bring him immediately before her. He points down and they force Peter to his knees. He motions down again, and they force Peter's weight upon his elbows. The tall one casually extricates himself from Jasmine, his sadistic grin broader than before. In a manner merging supreme confidence with ultimate intimidation he slowly proceeds behind the woman's husband. The man naked and exposed, desperately tries to evade his captors grasp. The lengthy penis undulates in midair and slowly, deliberately enters the helpless man's anal canal. Every muscle on Peter flexes but he lacks the ability to deter the creatures from their goal. Peter could not avoid the tortured expression upon the face of his wife, nor could she ignore his.

* * * * *

Jasmine vacantly scans the magazine in her hands. She looks at pictures of Janet Jackson, Hillary Clinton and Oprah, pretending to be interested. She doesn't care who has lost or who has gained, money, influence, or pounds. She sees some meaningless pictures of George Bush and a soldier with about a hundred medals on his chest. They're standing shoulder to shoulder at some podium, addressing some audience. Something political. A fund raiser or a photo opportunity. Something. She doesn't read the article, she barely glances at the pictures. 

She awaits the doctors verdict.

"Is this your first", the woman seated across from her asks. "No ...", she admits after deciphering the nature of the question, "I have a boy, he's four", she replies, her eyes still examining the door waiting for Doctor Cornwall to emerge. She has contemplated this day before, and she has always imagined it to be a joyous occasion, like when Junior was born. She had pictured sharing this and many other moments with Peter. He should be here, but he's not. A lone tear meanders down her cheek.

"Jasmine Summers", a nurse bellows. "Yes", she answers, deflecting the tear aside, attempting not to sound anxious. 

"The doctor will see you now." Jasmine wants to know everything, but her anxiety leaves her armpits damp, and her forehead moist. Even her palms feel clammy, as she strolls for the door where she knows Doctor Cornwall will be. 

He is seated on a stool when she enters the room. He motions her to the chair against the wall. "You've been seeing Doctor. Pierpoint?" It was as much a statement as a question?" "Yes I have", I've separated from my husband and I have some issues I need to deal with. "Dreams?", doctor Cornwall inquires. "Yes, that too" she replies. "The nightmares", the doctor adds, "the one's you spoke about before?" "Yes, the nightmares", Jasmine had forgot she spoke to Doctor Cornwall about them. She hated to talk about the nightmares with anyone, even Doctor Pierpoint.

She talked to Peter about it, and Peter just said "That's ridiculous, ... It's just a dream". Doctor Pierpoint believes it's repressed anxiety, and possibly misplaced feelings of guilt concerning the bear that attacked that Puerto Rican family at Yosemite. It did frighten Jasmine. They left the next day after hearing the horrific news. Such a vicious attack, the bear killed the wife, and mauled her body beyond recognition. They put the bear to death the next day, but the incident crippled the tourist trade at Yosemite.

"I've got some concerns about the baby" she states. Doctor Cornwall looks over his glasses and into her eyes, "the babies fine, he's perfectly normal" "A perfect baby boy." I'm more concerned with you. Your blood pressure is high, and you're showing signs of chronic anemia". "Are you taking your vitamins?" 

"Yes I am", she answers "every day, three times a day like you said.

"Your iron and copper levels are far too low", he cautions, "I'm going to have to give you another shot. I want you to take those vitamins, and follow my directions to the letter, and I'll want to see you again, next week". :"Yes Doctor Cornwall", Jasmine replies, "I am taking the vitamins just like you said!" "I've been a bit stressed."

She actually has taken her vitamins four times a day, and she's been eating like a horse! Well, horses are vegetarians and she's been consuming lots of beef, poultry and rutabagas. She's has a serious inclination to taste the flesh of an ostrich but she has thus far been able to resist the urge. She did manage to locate a local ostrich farm, but she hasn't contacted them. Yet!

The doctor reaches for a tray containing an ominous syringe and two small glass containers. "There's no need for you to get undressed just lean on the cart", "you know how this is done". She dutifully rises to her feet. She leans over the cart and adroitly lowers her panties and raises her skirt with a single hand. This is the fourth time she's done this. Even though it posses no more dignity than the first time. She feels the cool caress of alcohol on cotton and the penetration of a needle delving into her buttocks. It hurts, but doesn't everything! 

She raises her panties then smoothes her skirt about her tender bottom. "You're sure the baby is ... OK?" She scans the doctors eyes. "The baby is perfect", he says without hesitation, his words are convincing, but his eyes remain neutral. Maybe it's the infusion of steel gray that dominate his pale blue eyes? Maybe she's as paranoid as everyone either says, or infers her to be. Even her Mother accuses her of manufacturing turmoil. Her father blames her for the difficulties within her marriage. He hasn't said it, but a girl knows when she's displeased dad. They really like and respect Peter. She does too, that's why she married him. She still loves Peter, that's a persistent habit to abandon. She didn't leave him!

Right now Doctor Pierpoint is her only friend and he charges her a hundred bucks a session. Some friend! He just says "ugh huh", between cliche's like "how does that make you feel" and "go on". He never says so, but she feels he too thinks she's nuts, when she describes her nightmares. Her health insurance pays for half or she'd be paying two hundred bucks a session, which would be twice as ridiculous.

On her way out of the office the nurse seated behind the desk asks Jasmine if she wants a copy of her sonogram. Jasmine declines, and with her head modestly bowed, she commences an arduous sojourn to the parking lot. 

No sooner does the door close behind Jasmine when the nurse whispers to her nearest companion, "I guarantee ya this kid won't spend his Saturday night's alone", she barely conceals her puckish amusement, as she notes the young woman's quizzical expression. 

"You haven't seen the Summer's baby's sonogram, have you?" She covertly slides Jasmine's chart along the desk, in the direction of the nurses-aid. "Now tell me what you think, Donna". "Isn't he a lil monster"?

Read More