ON THE REBOUND
by: stmercy2020

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171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

I consider myself to be a realist- that is, I am well-aware that many of the things I enjoy 
can only exist in the realms of fantasy or science fiction (with the emphasis being on the 
fiction part, not the science.)  Sometimes, however, life throws me a curveball; recently, 
it threw me a doozy and I’m still not over it.

My name is Chase, an apt name given that I was a sprinter in high school and college.  I 
took several medals and, while I was never world class, I was pretty close to the top of 
my school’s league.  I own at a little sporting goods store- I opened it about three years 
back after I finally got fed up with the corporate hooey that I’d been getting ever since 
my boss, a traditionally pretty young woman, made a pass at me and I not only didn’t 
rebuff her properly, I failed to notice altogether.  My sister later informed me that what I 
did was about as bad a thing as I could have done short of shouting insults at her- the 
mysteries of woman revealed!  At any rate, from that time on, she endeavored to make 
my life a living hell, full of crappy assignments and tedious work that had to be 
completed by various arbitrary dates that required me to work insane amounts of 
overtime.  Did I mention that I was a salaried employee?  That’s right- unpaid overtime.  
After about eight months of this, I finally got fed up and told her to find a new whipping 
boy.  I walked out the door and never looked back.

My little business, The Wild Hunt, has been doing remarkably well; I was moderately 
surprised to discover just how many classically educated athletes were actually in the city, 
and even more surprised that they would find my little niche so appealing.  I moved from 
a dingy little corner shop a couple of blocks off the main street to a much larger 
storefront with a shop window facing the square.  I expanded my staff from me and a 
jock buddy of mine to a full staff of nearly twenty people, and I’ve been considering 
adding on again.  I have a nutritionist on staff and a couple of employees who specialize 
in sports medicine- and I actually sell enough to be able to afford to keep them.

A few months back I realized that I no longer needed to be in the store sixteen hours a 
day every day and I started to cut back on my hours.  I even gave myself some regularly 
scheduled time off, which my best friend, Vik, said was long overdue.  Vik has been the 
most consistent supporter of this enterprise, the man who joined me at ground level and 
who has been there to slap me in the back of the head when I started to get too crazy or 
stupid.  He looks like a typical guinea football jock- curly black hair, ruddy complexion, 
thick shoulders and an expression on his face that could charitably be called distracted, 
but would more accurately be described as moronic.

It was Vik’s idea that I ought to take Friday nights and Saturdays off- even though those 
days are traditionally the busiest days of the week for us- and let him or Berta handle the 
managerial responsibilities.  That was, after all, what I paid them for.  So it was with 
some trepidation that I started to reclaim my weekends.  At first I really didn’t know what 
to do with myself.  I puttered around my apartment until I got too stir-crazy, then I went 
over to the Hunt and made all my employees crazy.  Vik put up with it for exactly one 
weekend, then gently but firmly put the boot to my butt and kicked me out of my store 
with instructions to turn off my phone and not return before Sunday afternoon.

Not knowing what else to do, I strolled downtown until I found myself outside a singles’ 
bar- I don’t honestly remember the name if I ever knew it, but it had a fairly obtrusive 
neon sign with a squiggle obviously intended to invoke a woman’s lips sensually biting 
the head of a maraschino cherry.  I wandered inside and was surprised to find it more 
tasteful than the sign had suggested.  There were a number of booths, a few tables, and 
several high stools lined up along the bar.  It was still fairly early, so there weren’t many 
people there yet- just me, the barman, and a half-dozen young professional types.  And 
her.

She had the sort of body that you never actually see in real life.  The curves and figure 
would have looked very much at home on a Boris Vallejo painting or maybe in comic 
book art, especially with her huge eyes and smooth complexion.  It was an effect that, 
until that day, I would have sworn required airbrushes to accomplish.  She was tall- 
approaching my height- and deceptively thick.  Her body was mostly covered by her 
jeans and a very short-sleeved scoopneck t-shirt.  As the only woman in the joint, I would 
have expected her to be surrounded by the other men, but none of them had made the 
slightest motion to sit with her or, for that matter, to even acknowledge her existence.

I am not one to normally put myself forward when it comes to meeting women- I have a 
pretty deep fear of rejection, I guess- but I found myself drifting over to the stool adjacent 
to her.  As I got closer, I noticed that several empties were already lined up near her; 
apparently she had gotten there early and had been drinking both heavily and steadily 
since she arrived.  Some very elementary arithmetic told me that if I had imbibed as 
much as she apparently had, I would be either unconscious or dead.  Despite that, she did 
not appear intoxicated in the slightest.  What she looked, I realized, was terribly, 
unbearably lonely.

She wasn’t crying- that is to say, it didn’t look like she had cried yet- but tears were 
standing in her eyes and trying to build up the necessary momentum to roll down her 
perfect cheeks onto the mahogany bar.  She was staring into the middle distance, her light 
blue eyes shell-shocked as if she had just come away from a war zone.  Her lips- perfect 
and pink and, as far as I could tell, untouched by gloss or lipstick- were drawn back in a 
very slight grimace as she bit back whatever it was that was causing her such intolerable 
pain.  Her right hand was curled gently around a tumbler with ice and light brown liquor- 
I saw the nearly empty bottle of Bacardi 151 in front of her and drew the obvious 
conclusion- and her left hand was clenched into a tight fist on the bar, her knuckles white 
from the pressure she exerted, the muscles on her lean forearm standing out in sharp 
relief to her otherwise smooth skin.

“My god, lady,” I heard myself saying, “what’s wrong?”

I don’t know how I managed it.  As I said, I’m normally very reserved around people I 
don’t know.  Something about her pain shocked it out of me and I was talking before my 
own innate bashfulness could apply the brakes to my lips and voice.  As soon as I spoke, 
though, I felt embarrassed, as if I had intruded on a particularly private moment and I 
wished that I could pull those words back out of the air and make them unsaid.  It was, 
however, far too late for that.

Slowly, almost ponderously, she turned her head towards me.  She moved with the 
exaggerated care of the exquisitely drunk, her face rotating on a single axis until she was 
staring directly at me.  The force of her gaze, her turquoise eyes staring unblinkingly at 
my face, was nearly enough to make me shrivel into a tiny ball and slink away into a 
corner, yet somehow I managed not to immediately disappear into myself.

“Excuse me?” she said slowly, pronouncing each word very precisely and carefully.

“I’m sorry,” I managed, “It’s none of my business, but you looked so…so…wounded…I 
had to ask.  You can tell me to go to Hell, if you want, but you really look like someone 
who shouldn’t be alone right now.”

It was probably the fact that she was so drunk that allowed me to get all that out; a sober 
woman would have written me off before I finished the second line and that would’ve 
been that, but she just sat there listening until I wound down.  She took a few moments 
digesting what I’d said.  For a moment I thought she would just get up and walk away or 
tell me to go away or something, but she didn’t.

“Okay,” she said finally.  She held out her left fist and turned it so that it was palm up.  
Slowly she opened her fist.  “What do you see?” she asked.

I looked.  The palm of her hand was perfect and smooth, but there was something odd.  In 
the various lines there was a faint metallic glimmer- gold, I thought- and the inside of her 
palm sparkled very slightly in the dim light from the bar.  My face must have shown my 
confusion, because she didn’t wait for my answer.

“That was my engagement ring,” she said softly.  “I was going to be married, but I’m not 
anymore.”

It was so matter of fact, so direct, that for a moment I didn’t know what to do with it.  It 
was like being handed a beautiful ball of thistle- it’s so delicate that you don’t dare drop 
it, yet, at the same time, it’s so painful that you can’t hold it.

“I’m so sorry,” I finally choked out, “what happened?”

She almost laughed at that; her lips twisted into a cruel mockery of a smile.  “The same 
thing that always happens,” she bit out, “he found out.”

I waited.

She looked nonplussed.  “He found out that I’m strong.”

I waited.

“Don’t you get it?” she demanded, her voice rising, “I’m too damn strong!  I scared him 
off!”

After a moment I cocked my head to the side.  “So…” I began, testing the waters, “does 
that mean you have the rest of the evening free?”

She stared at me like I’d grown another head.

“I mean,” I hurried on, “if you aren’t too busy- if just sitting around and getting shitfaced 
isn’t the only thing you can possibly handle right now- I would really love to have some 
company.  No strings attached.  Nonexistent scout’s honor!”

“Non-“ she began quizzically.

“I was never a scout,” I explained easily, “but if I were, I would pledge on all the merit 
badges I could’ve earned if I’d had even the slightest smidgen of self-discipline.”

That actually earned a chuckle and appeared to drag her somewhat out of the morass of 
self-pity she’d created for herself.  “Okay,” she agreed, “lead on…”

“Chase,” I supplied.  “And you are?”

“Elke,” she answered.

I dropped a couple of twenties on the bar to cover any outstanding tab Elke might have 
and led her to the door.  As we stepped into the cool night air, I turned sheepishly towards 
her.  “Um, I didn’t bring a car.  Are you okay with walking, or do you want me to call a 
cab?”

“I’ve got a car,” she offered.  She was surprisingly steady on her feet, but there was still 
no way I was going to let her offer to drive with around 700mL of high-test in her system.  
I told her so and she laughed.  “You can drive,” she agreed.  “I don’t think I can get 
seriously drunk on regular alcohol, but it’s probably best not to test it.”  She fished in her 
handbag and pulled out a set of keys which she tossed to me.

We walked around to the back of the bar.  Her car was easy to spot- it was the only 
foreign car in the lot, a Honda Civic.  It had been parked in by a variety of Fords and 
Chevys, and a delivery truck had sealed the box.  I winced.  “Looks like we’ll have to 
wait until Mr. Coors Light has finished dropping off the booze,” I groaned.

Elke looked at me amusedly for a moment.  “Chase,” she began, raising an eyebrow, “I 
can crush diamond to powder in my hand.  Do you really think that I can’t extricate my 
car from this double-parking nightmare?”

I took a moment to digest this.  “Um…no?” I guessed, and gestured magnanimously at 
her car.

She wrinkled her nose prettily.  “Why don’t you just hop in?  I’ll clear a path so you can 
pull out.”

“Clear a path…?  Wouldn’t it be simpler to just- I can’t believe I’m saying this- lift your 
car out of this meshiva?”

She looked at me steadily for a beat.  “It would,” she agreed, “but I don’t want to risk 
damaging the frame of my car.  These idiots boxed me in…let them take the risk.”

I shrugged and opened up the driver’s seat of her car, but I didn’t get in right away- I 
couldn’t help myself; I wanted to watch.

She shrugged, making her tight t-shirt do simply fascinating things over her chest, then 
reached down and slipped her right hand under the bumper of the delivery truck.  Then 
she stood up, pulling the entire truck off the ground with her.  I mean, it wasn’t as if it 
were an eighteen-wheeler, you understand, but she didn’t even make it look difficult.  
She held it there for a moment, the entire weight of the vehicle resting at an incredibly 
unbalanced angle off her right wrist and you could hear the frame of the vehicle groaning 
and protesting.  “I’m tempted to just wreck it,” she commented absently, “but that would 
just be mean.”  She then walked across the lot, the back of the vehicle bouncing lightly in 
her grasp, and set it down gently.

I hopped into her car and tried to make myself comfortable- an impossibility when all the 
blood in your thinking head has run South, I’m afraid- and backed her car out of the 
space.  Before I could turn the wheel, she was back, standing next to the passenger door.  
She tapped lightly on the glass and I unlocked the door and let her in.

“Thanks,” she grunted.  “I should’ve brought a coat- I’d forgotten how chilly it was going 
to get tonight.”

“You’re cold?  After that workout?”

She laughed.  “That wasn’t a workout, Chase- there isn’t a whole lot that actually can 
give me a workout.”  She glanced over at me.  “Doesn’t that scare you?  Most guys I’ve 
known run screaming in the other direction about now.”

“Oh, I would,” I admitted easily, “but I’ve never mastered sprinting with three legs.”

“Huh?”

“Look,” I explained, “you aren’t planning to hurt me, or you would’ve done it by now 
and I’m not stupid enough to think I could stop you.  I think you’re beautiful and sexy 
and I’d really like to get to know you better.  The fact that you’re strong is pretty much 
the opposite of a turn-off for me.  If you happen to be smart and fun to be around, as 
well- well, I’d be a real imbecile if I let the fact that you were thousands of times stronger 
than anyone has a right to be scare me off.”

“Millions.”

“What?”

“Millions of times stronger- at least.  I told you I had a hard time getting a workout?  I 
meant that.  I haven’t been able to measure my strength or my strength gains since I was 
a pre-teen, and I’m pretty certain I’ve only been getting stronger.”

This conversation wasn’t doing anything towards easing the discomfort in my loins.

I drove her car out of the city limits and up to a little bluff I knew overlooking the town.  
I pulled over and turned to face her.

“How did-” I began.

“I get like this?” she finished for me.  “Beats me.  I’m not the adopted daughter of a 
failing star, if that’s what you’re asking, and I never had a transfusion of irradiated blood 
from my wandering, eccentric cousin…”

Comic book references!

 “Forgive me for saying this,” I began cautiously, “but your ex-fiancée, any previous 
boyfriends you may have had; they’re all idiots.”  I flashed my dimples at her nervously.

Her breath caught in her throat for a moment, and I thought I might have gone too far.

“Oh,” she breathed, “Do that again!”

I turned my face to hers and cocked my head to one side, grinning tentatively.  I don’t 
know how she moved so fast.  She undid her seatbelt and covered my lips with hers, her 
hands holding and supporting my head as her tongue probed my mouth.  The faintly 
sweet flavor of rum was still in her mouth, but it was a pleasant flavor and she was an 
excellent kisser; I lost track of time, space- everything seemed to just go away until, 
eventually, she released me and I fell back heavily against my seat.

“Wow,” I murmured.

She pulled back from me and seemed to be inspecting my face for a reaction.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’m trying to decide how to proceed so that I don’t blow this,” I admitted.  “See, I’m just 
a guy and you may well be the perfect woman-”

“That might be going a bit far,” she commented archly, “I can be pretty bitchy sometimes, 
just like anybody.”

“Uh-huh.  But the thing is, I really, desperately would like to… to…” I faltered.  I 
couldn’t say it to her, yet.

“Fuck?” she inquired easily.  Obviously, she wasn’t nearly as nervous as I was at this 
point.  I wondered if that was a good thing.

“God, yes,” I answered.

“So, what’s the problem?”

Her hand was playing with the top button of my jeans, making it exponentially more 
difficult for me to come up with an answer.  “I don’t want to be a one-night stand,” I 
finally blurted.

She smiled at that.  “Don’t worry,” she breathed.  “You won’t be.”

Abruptly she took her hand away and I instantly wanted it back.  I reached over for her 
but she gently pressed me back into my seat.  “Not in the car,” she giggled.

I undid my belt and opened my door.  She crawled over the handbrake and pushed me out 
of the car, supporting my weight with one arm while the other arm gently lowered us to 
the grass.  It was a cool night- the air couldn’t have been more than fifty degrees- but we 
didn’t care.  I shimmied out of my jeans, somehow managing to kick my sneakers off at 
the same time.  If there had been anybody else up here, they would’ve been in for one 
heluva show, but there wasn’t; the entire bluff was dark and deserted, the only lights 
coming from the streetlights of the town far below us and the crystal clear night sky 
above us.

She kneeled above me, her crotch hovering just above mine as she tugged off her shirt.  
She wore a bra, but I knew that was going to have to go very quickly.  I reached up but 
she snagged my hands with just one of hers and pushed me back down, smiling 
mischievously.  “Ah-ah!” she said, wagging her finger at me.  The ease with which she 
stopped my advances had me harder than ever, and I was afraid I would lose it 
prematurely.  She released my hands and sat up straight, throwing back her shoulders.  
She didn’t have monstrous breasts- not like some porn stars- but they were round and full 
and well-suited to her actual body.  She took a deep breath- impossibly deep, I could 
actually feel the suction she generated as it whistled through my hair- and her chest 
expanded.  In an instant, the fabric of her bra was pulled tight against her.  A fraction of a 
second later there was a quiet ‘shriip!-ping!’ and the two cups fell away from her chest, 
the underwire snapped in almost the exact center of her breasts.

I entered her, then- she helped me, I will admit, as I couldn’t possibly have gone so far 
without her help and approval- and I shuddered with anticipation of release.  She was 
warm and sweet and, against all expectations, both powerful and gentle.  Just before I 
came, she sat straight up on me and pressed her hand firmly into the base of my penis.  
I’d heard of this before- I’d even tried some of the tantric sex rituals in college- but 
nothing prepared me for the combination of exquisite agony and mind-numbing pleasure 
that she created with that one simple move.

“Not yet,” she whispered huskily and I groaned my capitulation.

She held me there until my orgasm subsided, unspent, then rode me again to a slower, 
more controlled release.  After, she rolled off of me and I curled up in the cool grass next 
to her, sheltering her slightly smaller body from the wind with mine.  We lay like that for 
a time- I don’t know how long, but it can’t have been too long- and eventually I realized 
she was sobbing.  Quietly, very quietly and very gently, but there were tears flowing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, suddenly alarmed.

She lay silent for a moment and, for just an instant, I thought she had stopped breathing.  
She gave a shuddering gasp, then.  “I don’t deserve you,” she said quietly.

“Funny,” I drawled laconically, “that’s exactly what I was just thinking.”

That stopped her for a moment.  Apparently that wasn’t the response she had expected.  
“Huh?”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing,” I explained; “I don’t deserve you.”

That got to her and suddenly she was laughing and crying at the same time, the tears and 
snot mixing with her not-quite-hysterical laughter.  After a time, she subsided and 
pressed herself into me again.

Later, we both dressed again.  She picked up her bra and grimaced.  “I guess this is 
useless, now,” she remarked.

I agreed.  The clasp in the back was still basically intact, if slightly bent, but the front was 
beyond salvage.  “Still,” I admitted, “that may have been the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen 
anyone do.  Just how strong are you, really?”

“I told you- I don’t know.  I can do things that aren’t physically possible- and I don’t 
mean that they shouldn’t be possible because I shouldn’t be this strong; I mean they are 
literally physically impossible.”

I thought back to how she had carried the truck.  She was right; the mass of the truck 
should have prevented her from lifting it at that angle no matter how strong she was.  
Even so, I was still a little skeptical.

“Can you give me an example?” I asked.

She pondered for a moment, then held the bra out in front of me.  “Okay.  How much do 
you know about rocket physics?” she asked.

“You’re kidding, right?  Next to nothing.”

“Okay, but you know what escape velocity is, right?  The speed which a certain mass has 
to attain in order to break orbit?”

“Yeah- okay”

“Watch,” she commanded.  Still holding the loose fabric in her hand, she flicked her wrist.  
It happened so quickly that my eyes were literally incapable of registering it.  I did not 
see the garment leave her hand, couldn’t have tracked its progress with my eyes if I had, 
but an instant later I saw a dull glow that blossomed into a very bright burst before fading 
from sight and leaving afterimages on my retinas.

“That was rather more than escape velocity,” she explained.  “It caught fire and then, 
because it had so much mass traveling at such a high rate of acceleration, it actually 
ignited part of the atmosphere.  That’s what you saw.”

I nodded soberly.  “That’s impressive,” I admitted.  “So- wanna come home with me?”

She stared at me again, then nodded.

“Good.”

We drove back into town and to my apartment.  I won’t tell you everything that happened 
for the rest of the night.  Some of the other tenants complained, but I can’t say that I 
really minded.

Elke and I are looking seriously into purchasing a house.  I still have some details to work 
out, but I’m pretty confident.  I can’t wait- somehow, I think Christmas with Elke under 
our very own tree under our very own roof will be something worth remembering…