Warning: descriptions of heterosexual situations and coarse language.
Chapter 1: The Situation
Ellie curled up in the corner of the sofa and pulled a cushion towards herself, hugging it into her middle. She chewed a bit on the side of her thumb and watched Devon out of the corners of her eyes as he threw back his head and laughed, pointing to the TV screen and saying, "Man, I bet that kid's stones are gonna hurt for a week."
It had been his turn to pick what they were watching tonight, and of course it was some stupid Xtreme sports show about idiots with no brains trying to kill themselves. Ellie had even read up on the psychology of it once, trying to understand why Devon, a doctor, would endanger himself like that with all his rock climbing and kite surfing and bungee jumping. The only conclusion she could come to was that it was his way of nose-thumbing death in the face, the death that he was all too familiar with at the hospital, that same death she was familiar with as well.
Ellie stopped chewing – stopped breathing – as she made a final connection in her brain that caused her to gasp slightly. When Devon did these things, he was searching for life, searching for things that made his heart pound, his blood boil, his emotions come alive. It all made so much sense to her now.
Ellie, not wanting Devon to see her epiphany – not that he was paying the least bit of attention to her anyway – jumped up from the couch and blurted out a hurried, "Going to have a bath, hon," before running into the bathroom and locking the door.
It explained so much, what she had just realized. Why a woman in a stable, long-term, loving relationship with a wonderful man like Devon would hear that tiny ping at her first glimpse of another man, the man who had come to her door unexpectedly – uninvited, in fact – flashing a charming smile and offering a plate of mini quiches, pushing his way in through her door, worming his way into her life, working his way into her consciousness so that she couldn't seem to get him out. If she even wanted to try anymore, that is.
Ellie ran hot water into the tub and opened the cupboard to find some scented bath salts. Pouring in a liberal amount and taking off her scrubs and underwear, she quickly fastened her long rope of thick, dark hair up on top of her head with a scrunchie and turned the water off, getting carefully into the tub and easing herself into the steamy, soothing water.
It might take some time to work this through, and Ellie hoped that Devon would be occupied for a while and not interrupt her with his child-like demands for attention. This thought brought her back to her developing thesis about the John Casey situation, and she closed her eyes to better concentrate.
Ellie's mind went back to her sexual awakening – no, she was going to have to start long before that. Sexual awareness.
She was twelve. It was summer, and four of them were playing near the old gravel quarry, Ellie and Chuck and two of the neighborhood boys Chuck's age, when a man from down the street, Mr. Clonmore, walked by. The children were out of breath and flushed from running around, playing a tag game they had made up that involved throwing stones at an old oil drum for points and avoiding the touch of the other players.
Ellie's tee shirt was soaked down the front with her sweat and clinging to her chest. Her mother had mentioned the week before that it was time her growing girl got a training bra, but Ellie had made a face, preferring to still be just one of the little kids, one of the boys, and she had put the prospect out of her mind. But that didn't make the small buds of her developing breasts go away, and that didn't stop the tee shirt from outlining them as clearly as if she hadn't been wearing any shirt at all, and that didn't stop Mr. Clonmore from staring intently at her and licking his lips in a way that Ellie instinctively knew was different than any man had looked at her before and, without explaining why she had changed her mind, she got her mother to take her to the store the next day.
Fast forward to high school, junior year. Ellie wasn't interested in boys. At least not in that way. Sure, she cut pictures out of Tiger Beat magazine and put them up on her bedroom wall the way her friends did and swooned over frothy pop songs that spoke of love and movies that ended with a chaste kiss, but she was completely oblivious to the boys circling her like vultures, their hands, unseen by Ellie, quickly adjusting their young genitals as she walked by, giggling with her girlfriends, ignoring them.
Then she was on her first date, which she only consented to because her girlfriend Tracey wanted to go out with a boy and Tracey's mother wouldn't let them go to the movies alone. So Ellie had grudgingly agreed to double, and she spent the whole evening trying to free her hand from her date's squishy, sweaty grip and avoid his fetid breath when he moved in to kiss her. Ellie knew it wasn't polite but she finally forestalled him with a long, drawn-out "Ewwwwwww," after he had managed to mash his cold, damp lips onto her tight mouth for a couple of seconds before she could get out of the way. He never asked her out again.
Something shifted by sophomore year, though, and Ellie changed her tune. She suddenly wanted to kiss boys, tease them, tease herself to the edge of temptation, then back off according to the unwritten rules of the time. But she never sought them out, never pursued them. On the contrary, they constantly hung around her, phoning at all hours of the day and night until her mother put her foot down and started chasing them away, which mortified Ellie no end.
Finally, it was senior year and things were settling down a bit. The captain of the swim team had been her steady boyfriend for four whole months and she even let him take her top and bra off one night so he could kiss her breasts and suck her nipples, and she squirmed her hips, still in her jeans, rubbing her crotch against his swiftly hardening penis until he came in his pants, and she tried not to laugh behind her hand as he cried from embarrassment in her arms.
After an uneventful senior prom, during which she drank too much spiked punch and after which the swim team captain took her home early because he was a gentleman, Ellie graduated and moved to LA to start her undergraduate studies, and that's when she met Devon. Wonderful, sweet, kind Devon. Devon with his generous, gentle nature, engaging smile, rock-hard six pack and long, thick cock, and Ellie was glad she had waited as he gently pushed into her and then broke through with a sudden quick jab that first time, a look of concern and inquiry on his face.
Ellie thought at first that the pain was going to kill her, and she struggled to get him out of her, scrabbling with her legs and whimpering. Then all of a sudden it started to feel different, and as the pain faded, it was replaced by a fiery surge from her deep center, and when her brain registered the friction of his penis inside of her, sliding slowly in and out at first and then speeding up as the muscles in Devon's face relaxed and his eyes took on a faraway look, she let herself go and clutched him to her fiercely, arching her neck and tilting her pelvis towards him, wanting more of the wet, hot waves engulfing her body.
And that's pretty much how it was with Devon from that moment. She hadn't wanted anyone else. Why would she? He was always considerate of her, in the bedroom and out, and he more than satisfied her sexual needs. Sure, he was absorbed in his sports, but then she had her cooking to hold her interest and, other than eating everything she placed in front of him, he wasn't involved in that, so it worked out okay.
Except now there was another man who also ate her food. A man who was as completely unlike sweet, guileless Devon as any man could possibly be, and Ellie frowned and turned on the hot water tap to top up the tub before resuming her analysis of why she was so drawn to this man, this John Casey.
Casey relaxed into his big leather lounger, popping the foot rest and settling his long legs on top of it, watching his toes wiggle out their tensions as he reached for the bottle of scotch on the table beside him to top up his glass. He pulled a couple more ice cubes from the small insulated silver bucket he had placed there and plopped them in, careful not to make the liquor splash over the sides. This was a situation that was going to take a little time to work through, and he didn't want to have to get up and down for supplies.
The situation in question was Ellie Bartowski, Chuck's sister. Chuck, the asset. The fucking Intersect's sister. So how was he going to handle it?
Casey was aware of the problem from the moment it began, of course. When he smiled and handed her that plate of mini quiches, about six different emotions flashed across her face and eyes in the space of about two seconds, if Casey was any judge – and he was.
He first saw annoyance at his unheralded arrival to her already-crowded dining room; then a pause as her skin detected his sweat pheromones; next, surprise as the jolt hit her; wonder as she slid her eyes upwards to take in his broad smile and broad shoulders; and finally, the twin emotions of curiosity and excitement, and he watched her pupils dilate as she smiled and invited him in.
Casey recognized each discrete step after years of training that began long before he was admitted to the Academy. It started when he was twelve years old, as a matter of fact, the first time he awakened from a dream about the baby-sitter and groped in his pajama bottoms for his little cock, now going limp, feeling the wet, viscous semen covering everything.
He sopped it up as best he could with his pajamas, still not sure exactly what had happened, and washed and dried his hands, genitals and thighs in the bathroom before dressing and running down to the kitchen to ask his mother.
She stood stock still at the counter where she had been beating eggs for an omelet and, without turning around, told Casey to go and ask his father, and he ran away blithely to do so.
Once his father explained the situation, Casey was satisfied and went out to play baseball with his little brother, forgetting all about the matter until the following Saturday when the baby-sitter of his fevered dream came over so his parents could have a night out.
After Casey's parents left, the sitter, who was quite old, sixteen or seventeen, let her boyfriend in through the back door and, when she thought the two boys were playing in the rec room downstairs, they made out on the couch, hot and heavy. But Casey crept up the stairs when he heard the strange noises coming from the living room and watched in awe as the boyfriend opened the sitter's blouse and pulled up her bra, giving Casey full view of both breasts before leaning in to do whatever it was he was doing to her.
Later, when the baby-sitter came up to help Casey and his brother into bed, she became impatient with him when he tried to squirm out of her grasp. Her annoyance turned to surprise when she tugged his pants down and was almost hit in the face by his full erection, and she was downright shocked when he grabbed himself in an effort to save the situation but instead quickly came all over the front of her blouse, soaking the breasts that had started it all with an unnaturally large amount of hot, sticky fluid.
Casey smiled and took a sip of his scotch before jumping ahead in his memory three or so years. Shortly after the pajama incident, he had started a massive growth spurt that caused his joints and muscles to ache almost constantly and caused his parents to start complaining about how much it was costing to keep him in new clothes.
His coordination hadn't caught up with his limbs yet, and he lurched around the town and his school like a baby giraffe, wearing his too-short pants – "flood pants," the kids called them behind his back – and shirts with sleeves that missed his wrists by at least a couple of inches. Add in the usual case of acne and indifferent-teenage-boy hygiene, and you had a surefire recipe for no sex, not even a fumbled grope in a dark movie theater.
Then his little brother had died from the flu that winter and his mother had started to drink, distancing herself more and more from Casey and his father. She finally just left one day. After giving him a hug and a kiss and saying she would be back soon, she picked up her suitcase and walked out the door without a backward glance.
Casey took up a paper route to help out the family that was now smaller by half, and he rode around town on his bike every day, finishing his route at the last house on Washington Street. Since it had once been part of a large estate that had been severed to build new houses after the Second World War, it was older and bigger than the other houses and set quite a ways back from the street.
The Widow Lady lived there. That's what all the kids called her and it made her sound old, but she wasn't that old, really. Casey had heard she was only twenty or twenty-one, which didn't seem so ancient to him now that he was a bit older. Her husband had died in an accident at the plant, something to do with a forklift, and Casey saw her day after day as she came outside to pick up the newspaper that he tossed onto her front porch, a sad, faraway look on her face.
One day, just to see what would happen, he purposely threw short and the newspaper bounced onto the lawn about ten feet from the porch. The woman came out and stood near the door, not venturing down to the lawn to get it, and Casey, feeling ashamed that he had played this trick on her, got off of his bike and wheeled it past the gate, scooping up the paper and bringing it to the edge of the porch, holding it out for her to take.
He never could clearly recall exactly what had happened next, but when he was once more aware of his surroundings, he was naked and lying next to the woman's pale body in a big bed upstairs, stiff with fear as she coaxed him to relax and, when he eventually did, stiff with something else, and he entered her, sliding his throbbing member in and out, tentatively at first while she whispered instructions into his ear and then more confidently as he got the hang of it, euphoric from the sensations crowding his body and brain when he came this time and sorry when it was over so soon.
When he got home later than usual from his paper route to a supper gone cold, Casey caught hell from his father, but since he figured it had been worth it, he decided the best thing to do was pedal like the wind to leave more time for his "final delivery," and he now dragged his bike around to the back of the house and let himself in every afternoon, running upstairs in eager anticipation.
Once, he asked The Widow Lady why she chose him, and she smiled slyly and replied that he only needed to wait a year or two and he wouldn't be able to beat the girls off with a stick, they would be coming at him so fast, and Casey, who couldn't imagine it, hoped against hope that it would come true.
The daily fresh air and vigorous exercise probably contributed to the next change in Casey and, as he continued to sprout up, he was also beginning to fill out. The early and frequent sexual activity helped to clear his acne sooner than the other boys his age and, lo and behold, The Widow Lady was right. After she moved away to another town, Casey turned his attention to the local girls, who were by this time pretty much creaming their panties whenever he strutted down the halls at school, chest thrust out, head held high.
From then on, sex for Casey was kind of like shooting fish in a barrel. By the time he graduated high school, he was bored with the usual small-town backseat shenanigans and ready to experiment, and he moved to the nearby city to go to college. Surveying the campus on that first day, ogling the talent, he decided that college girls were just the ticket.
But when he settled into dorm life, Casey was shocked to discover he now had lots of worthy competition, and that realization helped him decide to join the ROTC so he could wear a uniform and then remove it often or, better yet, let some hot, wet co-ed remove it from him and practice gymnastics on his cock.
After he finished school and the rest of his officer training and finally returned from two short tours in the Gulf, Casey had understandably matured, as had his taste in women, and he preferred to stay with one woman for a few weeks or a few months, getting to know her better as a person, so that by the time General Beckman recruited him into the Academy to begin training for the NSA, he had tempered his sexual activity so it no longer controlled him. He still enjoyed sex, lots of it, but he could manage without it as long as he had a good magazine to hand and, after learning about Tantric practices, could even go completely without for relatively long periods of time, which was to come in handy while he was in deep cover for several years in Eastern Europe.
And he also learned new things during his Academy training: how to gauge women – and men, for that matter – and use their sexual impulses against them, taking extensive courses in the seduction of women and sexual technique that, frankly, left him a little jaded and subject to boredom in the bedroom if things ended up being too predictable.
He went through his no-holds-barred period about this time, experimenting in a few areas – some bondage and group sex and the like – finally coming to the conclusion that it wasn't his thing, and he once again concentrated his attentions on women, becoming very choosy, selecting intelligent, classy women who, underneath, were smoldering volcanoes, and he was now very satisfied with where he had ended up.
Which brought him full circle back to the original problem: the intelligent, classy, smoldering volcano woman who was the Intersect's sister, Ellie Bartowski.