Bump

Author's note: Each story in this series is complete and separate, with no plot or characters in common with the others. Only one thin thread connects them.

Many thanks to author/editor

HMAuthor

for first editing and improving this story and to editor extraordinaire and fledgling author

LovelyAnon

for later fixes and suggestions that challenged me to do better.

Legendary author/editor/organizer

BlackRandi

was kind enough to go through it and find even more problems that needed fixing, despite obligations that would have made even an unselfish mortal bow out.

Peter is in outer space, and his orbit widens.

As the DJ builds the mix to frenzy level, everyone is dancing wildly. His friends are blurred in a haze of drugs and booze. He feels as though his feet have detached from his body and are circling around him, his friends and everyone in the club.

As he looks around, he sees a group of beautiful girls dancing together. They are all holding up their phones, taking selfies. One is breathtaking. She is the most beautiful of them all, the most beautiful girl in the club.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his iPhone, and raises it above his head. He feels as though his arm is a pole and he is dancing around it. His orbit moves him closer to the beautiful girls and the one who is the fairest of them all.

Peter nears her and jumps high in the air. As she raises her phone to take another photo, it happens. He reaches out and their phones touch.

Bump!

She is startled and looks confused at first. Then her face registers anger. She stops dancing and starts walking toward him, but he is in another orbit now, and he's forgotten her.

She puts herself directly in his path several times, but he never engages with her again. She shouts at him, but he doesn't hear her over the music.

For a while, she stands and glares at him, and then she turns and looks for her friends.

**************

The next day is Sunday, and Peter wakes up at three in the afternoon, after sleeping nearly twelve hours. He remembers nothing of Saturday night, as usual. Saturday night is for frying his brain. Sunday is for coming down. Monday is for going back to work in the research department of the large investment banking company, twelve- to fourteen-hour days until Friday night, when he begins another two days of swallowing and dancing.

He's bumped a lot of beautiful girls on Friday and Saturday nights. Even though the touching of phones exchanges contact information, he rarely calls or messages any of them.

The ones he does call are usually happy to share their bodies and drugs with a fellow weekend wildie, who means as little to them as they do to him. The trouble is that when he looks at the new contacts at lunch on Monday, he rarely has any idea who they are. Some weeks, he doesn't even look at them. They remain in his growing contact list, untouched.

**************

Two weeks later, on a Wednesday afternoon, Peter's cell phone rang: Mira Barton. He didn't recognize the name, figured it was a mistake and ignored it.

The same person called back fifteen minutes later and every ten minutes after that. He was busy with some important calculations, but finally picked up the call and in the fake officious voice he used when he was irritated, he said, "Yes, Mira, how may I help you?"

"Is this Peter Madison?" asked a pleasant voice.

"You know that already, Mira."

"I just wanted to make sure. Peter, I need to meet you tomorrow for lunch."

"But I don't know you, Mira. You sound very nice, and I'm sure if I ever met you, I'd love to ask you to lunch. Tomorrow happens to be a busy day for me."

"I know you don't know me, Peter," she replied in her same pleasant voice, "but that didn't stop you from raping me a few weeks ago."

She paused to let her statement sink in.

"If you don't want any trouble, you better be at the Denny's across the street from your office at one tomorrow."

"Wait a second! What is this?"

"I've got to go now," she said. "If you aren't there tomorrow, you'll be sorry. I know where you live and where you work."

Peter was starting to burn, but he kept up his fake politeness.

"Sorry, Mira, but I don't believe you."

She blurted out his home address and work phone number and hung up.

**************

Peter was certain he didn't rape anyone, but he was nervous because of those Sunday mornings when he couldn't remember the night before. He often didn't know where he'd been or how he got home.

When he asked his friends if he had done anything stupid, they always laughed and told him that when he was high, he was totally helpless and incapable of doing anything except smiling idiotically, dancing or wandering aimlessly.

He would never force himself on a woman. The thought was repugnant to him. She certainly didn't sound angry, just insistent. Something was fishy.

The next day, he arrived at Denny's ten minutes before one and sat at a table in a corner as far from everyone else as he could. A few minutes later, a stunning brunette entered the restaurant, looked around, headed straight for him and sat down across the table. She gave him a quick smile, followed by a serious expression.

"Mira?" he asked.

"What did you say?"

She shook her head and smiled again.

"I'm sorry. Yes, I'm Mira. Listen, Peter, I know you don't want to be here any more than I do. There's a way to take care of this quickly. May I look at your iPhone for a second?"

Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it. She didn't look like a phone thief. He tentatively extended it to her. She snatched it out of his hand and went to work on it.

"Here it is," she said about fifteen seconds later. She poked at his phone a few more times, then handed it back.

"Problem solved," she said, starting to get up. "Goodbye."

He grabbed her arm roughly and pulled her back down.

"What did you just do?" he demanded.

"Don't worry about it."

"I am worried, and you're not leaving until you do some explaining."

"I'll scream for the cops."

"Go ahead. I'll hold onto you until they arrive. Every man in the place saw you come over and sit down at my table. You can tell them your story, and I'll tell them mine.

"I want to find out how you got my number and found out where I live and what you did to my phone. Either you'll tell me, or you'll tell the cops."

She laughed as she sat down. Her laugh was as melodious as her voice.

"This is so funny," she said. "The rapist is accusing the rape victim. Okay, Mr. Rapist, have it your way. I got what I came for, so I'll tell you what you want to know, and we'll both leave here and never see each other again.

"What I just did was remove my contact information from your phone. No, Mira Barton is not my real name. My real name was in there, but now you're never going to know it. You had no right to bump rape me. You violated me just as much as if you..."

"Slow down," he said. "What are you talking about? I'm sure I never touched you. I don't think I ever saw you before in my life. You need help."

"Oh no, Mr. Rapist. Back off! How do you explain that my information was in your phone? You can't get away that easy."

Peter was getting exasperated.

"Mira, or whatever your name is, try to make some sense," he said. "What do you think I did to you and when did I do it? Let's start there."

She told him about being in a club, one he went often, on a Saturday night having a good time with a bunch of girlfriends and how he had danced over to her and bumped phones with her.

"I saw the app on your phone so don't try to deny it," she said. "You knew that if you asked, I would never agree to exchange contact information, so you bump raped me and invaded my person.

"I went after you, but after a while I could see it was useless. I thought maybe you'd call, but you never did. Maybe you've already sold my information, but at least now you can't do it again."

"I remembered how whacked out you were. Do you sell contact information on girls for drug money? I talked it over with my girlfriends, and we agreed that I had to confront you. If you hadn't been cooperative today, we were prepared to go all out. We didn't think the police would do anything, but we figured out a way.

"You probably didn't see me get right up next to you at the club and take some photos of your face. The strobe lights ruined most of them, but one turned out bright and sharp. We have it ready to go around the Internet in a wanted poster with your personal data that tells every woman you will ever meet that you are a bump rapist."

Now it was Peter's turn to laugh.

"Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful you look when you're delusional," he said. "I'm sure your facts are real, but the way you put them together is pure fantasy.

"Yes, I go to that club a lot. Yes, I was probably high and had no idea what I was doing. Yes, I bump with a lot of girls, but I usually can't remember them, so I never call them. Yes, maybe I saw how beautiful you were, so I bumped you.

"You saw my contacts just now. There are nearly two thousand names there, and many of them are from bumps. Even if I wanted to go after you, I would have no idea which one you were."

"If you're telling the truth, I'm glad that my fears were unfounded," she said. "Now let's say it's been great and call it a day."

She started to get up, but Peter took her arm again and prevented her.

"Just a minute," he said. "You are funny, as well as crazy and beautiful. I'd like a chance to really talk to you. Don't worry. You could pick a place in public in broad daylight. You nearly gave me a heart attack, so I think you owe me that."

"What could I ever owe a pathetic druggie, Peter?" she said. She wasn't smiling.

"You were in that club, too," he shot back.

"Yes, I know that club is famous for what you can buy and use there, but believe it or not, some people go for the DJ and get high on the music and dancing. You and your friends probably think we're lame, but we don't care. We think you are all disgusting."

"All right, but I still would like to talk to you one time," he said. "Please, Mira? Have you ever felt that way about someone you just met? Probably, the conversation will go just like today, and then we can go our separate ways. If you ever get to know me, you'll find out that one of my worst traits is honesty. Right now, I'm honestly saying I need to talk to you one more time."

"Too bad," she said. "Please let go of my arm. Thanks. Goodbye."

Something came over him as she got up, and he spoke defiantly.

"You haven't seen the last of me, Mira. I'm going to find you."

Just as he was thinking that he sounded like a stalker, she turned around and smiled at him, and then walked out of Denny's, swaying her hips in an exaggerated, sexual way. That's when he noticed her purple pants were so tight that they looked molded to her tight round butt. She turned one more time as she left the restaurant and must have seen how his mouth was wide open.

Peter was lost in thought as he walked back to the office until he remembered something that made him smile and put a spring in his step. The first thing he did when he got to his workstation was glance at the iPhone contacts on his hard drive. He went back to work without plugging his phone into his computer to synchronize.

After quitting time, he stayed late to pore over the contact list on his phone and compare it to what was on his computer. Since he hadn't synchronized, the deletion from his phone hadn't affected the computer list.

It took him two hours until he came to the first name that was on his computer but not his phone: Anya Tobias. He dialed her number, and he jumped as he heard Mira's voice asking him to leave a message. What should he say?

"Uh, hi Anya," he said nervously. "This is your bump ... no, I'm not going to say it. This is Peter, who won't give up until you talk to him, just once. I have all your information again, but I promise to erase it after we meet. Please call me back. In case you've erased my info, I'll leave you some numbers."

He left his home and work landline numbers and hung up. He noticed his heart was racing.

On Saturday, he enjoyed a typical evening of oblivion with his friends and forgot about Anya until Sunday, when he looked to see if he had any voice mail messages. There were none. He decided to stay in all that day and evening, but he received only one call from a friend.

*****************

"You bastard," said Anya's voice when he picked up the phone call from "Mira," the next afternoon at the office.

"Can't you let this go? We have nothing in common. I don't do drugs. I don't binge. I don't have unprotected sex with anyone who gets within five feet of me. What is there to talk about?"

"Nice of you to call, Anya. I hope you had a nice weekend. I'm looking forward to getting together. Tell me when it's convenient for you. I'm pretty flexible."

"My friends warned me that if I gave in to you I was asking for it. You would promise anything to get what you want, because you are a narcissistic jerk who only cares about his own pleasure. I think they've got it right."

"They sure do, except I haven't broken any promises yet. I did promise you that I'd find you, and I kept that promise. So when do you want to talk?"

"My friends want me to go ahead and put that wanted poster for the bump rapist out. I'm sure it's going to go viral pretty fast."

Peter thought how amazing it was that even when she was trying to blackmail him, she sounded sweet.

"Well, if you don't like what you hear when we get together, go ahead and put it out," he said. "When you find out what a monster I am, you'll feel better about destroying me. On second thought, why don't you and your friends put it out right away. I don't care. It won't make any difference. Get a court order, too. I want that meeting."

There was a long silence at the other end.

"I have to think about this some more," Anya said. "It may take a while. I'll get back to you."

Click.

**************

Three weeks later, Anya called his cell phone on Thursday while he was in a meeting. She left a voice mail message for him to meet her at the same Denny's on Saturday night at nine. Since he hadn't given her his cell phone number, he realized she had never erased his contact information. Maybe he'd accuse her of hypocrisy Saturday night.

****************

Denny's was nearly deserted when she walked in with five other girls. All of them were dressed up for a night of dancing, and all were hot. She left them at a table across the room and joined him at the same corner table where they first talked. She was silent until the waitress brought their coffees and left the table.

"I'm going to tell you a little bit about myself," she said. "The first and most important thing you need to know is that I lie. I want you to remember that. You told me you always tell the truth, but before I even talked to you, I lied by making up a name. Maybe half of what I'm going to say now is a lie, or maybe all of it. We'll probably never see each other after tonight, but if we do, you will never know whether I'm telling the truth or not.

"I lie mostly to manipulate people, Peter. I don't do it for money, but because I'm perverse and sadistic. I don't abuse drugs or alcohol, but I abuse men. I use sex to twist, torment and humiliate them. I degrade them until they're broken and helpless. Then I dump them.

"You want to stay away from me, because you've never met someone like me. Unless you want to end up like a dog in the dust, this will be the last time we talk."

She looked at him intently, and she wasn't smiling now.

Peter was speechless when she was finished. Her words were shocking, but there was a disconnect between what she was said and the sweet way she said it. Even the glare she aimed at him now didn't fit the person he spoke to the last time he saw her.

"I understand," he finally said, trying to keep a serious face. "I've been warned. I tend to think of myself as out there on the edge, but it sounds like I'm not in your league.

"You've told me what a liar you are, but I'm still going to be honest with you. For some reason, I want to take this further. I'll play along until my instincts tell me not to. I promise you that I won't complain if I get burned playing with fire. Is that fair enough?"

"Suit yourself, but I'm telling you one last time. If we get together again, you're going to be sorry. I've got to go now. Don't follow us. I'll call you Monday afternoon and tell you where we'll meet the next time. Bye."

She got up and joined her friends. They were gone in a flash.

*************

Monday afternoon, she called him at work.

"You have my address. Be here at seven tonight."

Click.

**************

Her apartment was a cozy two-bedroom. She gave him a tour. One bedroom was her office, but she didn't say what she did there. Her bedroom had a lot of professional lighting equipment and a few video cameras on tripods. All the cameras were aimed at the bed. He wondered if she was a web-cam sex workers? This was even stranger than he thought it would be.

She sat down in the living room on a couch and motioned him to a chair.

"Okay, Peter, this is what you wanted," she said. "You seem to be amused, but let's see how long that lasts. I have a demand that may be the deal breaker.

"From now on, your Saturday nights belong to me. That's when we'll have our weekly dates. Unless I tell you otherwise, all the dates will be here. You need to arrive promptly at eight. If you're late, you may as well go to the club, because you're never going to see me again.

"You might be here until midnight or later, but afterward, you must go straight home. As long as you want to see me, you're going to stop doping and binging. Cold turkey! Think you can do that?"

Wow! She was right about making it hard. Could he handle this? Probably not for long, but he wasn't going to back out now.

He gulped and said quietly, "Yes."

"Good. Let's have some wine and cheese."

For the next three hours, it was a first date. They talked about themselves, their lives, their families, their hopes, their fears. She didn't hold back, except she never mentioned her career. The more she talked, the more he liked her.

After a bottle and a half, Anya's questions seemed to direct themselves more to his love life and what kind of girls he liked and didn't like.

It got a little strange when she started asking what he liked to do with his girlfriends and what he didn't like and even stranger when she asked what kind of porn he liked, what he didn't like, and why.

By that time, the wine had loosened his tongue, and he did most of the talking. He noticed she wrote some things down in a little notebook. He wanted to ask her what that was all about, but he forgot.

At ten, she made some strong coffee and turned the conversation to lighter topics like music and movies. She insisted he have three cups of coffee, and at eleven, she made him walk around the room a few times while she watched him. Then she shoved him out the door and warned him again that he better go home if he wanted to see her again.

Even though he was sober now, he was high on the evening. This Anya was the girl from the first Denny's meeting, not the second one. She was not only beautiful and had a hot body, but she was funny and warm. He was enchanted.

He was glad that he hadn't been scared off by her strange talk at their second encounter. At home, he looked at himself in the mirror. He had just spent Saturday night without getting drunk or high, and he didn't care. Getting to know Anya was exciting.