Five Rules for Yes
 Chapter 2 of 4

Five Rules for Yes Chapter 2 of 4

Sara Anne's World Crumbles Then Rises from the Ashes

"If 'no' isn't safe, then 'yes' isn't free."

By

Donald Mallord

Author's Notes

Contents: parental infidelity, depictions of group sex, explicit acts between adults 18+, betrayal, profanity, trauma around a father's violent death, therapy, and elder-teen sex.

Five Rules for Yes contains mature themes and explicit sexual content involving adults, along with profanity, betrayal, grief, trauma, and discussion of consent, power, and family conflict. It also includes emotionally intense scenes and references to a violent death.

Thank you for selecting my story.

Copyright © 2026 Donald Mallord. All rights reserved.

Thank you for respecting the work of this author. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for brief quotations used in reviews, academic work, or articles.

About this Story

This is an erotic West Texas coming-of-age story about Sara Anne Willows, who just turned eighteen in chapter one. Misplaced papers had her turning to Mr. Randy, her widowed neighbor, to fulfill school-required service hours. When betrayal at home erupted, Randy opened his casita as a lifeline. It became a refuge where she began to learn about respect, consent, and agency--the ability to make one's own choices and have control over one's life.

Five Rules for Yes is a rough-edged story about survival, mental therapy help, self-definition, and figuring out when'yes'is real, when pants stay on, and when'yes'is just another way of being used.

The language is plain spoken West Texas English with colloquial terms and spellin'. It's brutal at times, humorous at times, and always from the heart, even if it's yer heart broken into pieces.

The Morning After

Randy encounters the aftermath of the pool party. One of 'em is asleep on his back porch. Then, after six weeks, Randy figures school will be a haven where she can finally focus again. She even seems to be smilin' more--right up until her first hour back, when one hot‑mic speech sets off a new round of fallout, deeper than Randy ever imagined.

Up early as usual, Randy sat at the breakfast table with a warm cup of black coffee, a bagel with cream cheese, and a bowl of peaches on the side. It was a leisurely morning breakfast.

Through it, he watched the wall clock as it came to half past eight. Sara Anne was late. He'd allowed a bit of time, knowin' she'd probably been up late celebrating her eighteenth. Maybe a bit sore walkin' over his way if she didn't chicken out.

He smiled as a stray thought floated through.Maybe she was out by the pool cleaning up, pickin' at the mess from the night before.

Chuckling, he set his empty cup down and peeked out the kitchen window. No Sara Anne Willows on yard duty.

At a quarter of nine, he gave up waiting and stepped out on the wooden porch, intending to begin his morning Tai Chi on the lawn. He didn't get two steps before he stopped.

Sara Anne lay curled up on the chaise lounge in those same cutoff jeans, the yellow ribbon for a belt matching the sagging balloons still bobbing over the fence. Randy felt the growing heat in the morning's faint West Texas breeze as he looked at her.

She was tucked in on herself like a child, knees drawn up, hands folded under her chin for support. Those long curly locks covered her eyes so that only the small pout of her red lips peeped out.

For a second, he flashed back in time to an old magazine cover he'd once framed for his wife--a Norman Rockwell-style painting from some long-ago issue of The Saturday Evening Post.

A cover of a girl, half woman, asleep on a porch swing after a Fourth of July party, paper lanterns and limp balloons drooping above her, smudged lipstick and all. This looked just like that: the party over, the lights going out, and one tired kid left behind in the wreckage.

He couldn't remember the year or the caption anymore, only that he'd loved how the painter captured that in-between moment--half little girl, half almost-grown.

Now, standing there on his own porch, Mr. Randy felt that same catch in his chest as he looked at Sara Anne.

He chuckled again, couldn't help it. The image of that painting was here today, asleep on his porch.

"Well, sleep a while longer, sugar. This old guy's curiosity can wait a bit to find out how last night went," he whispered as he watched her, dead to the world.

Randy stepped out into the soft grass, lifted his head, squared his shoulders, shifted his feet just so for balance, relaxed his knees, and began a series of moves he'd learned over years of practice.

Perhaps some of them might yet find their way into the still-gangly movements of a young redhead.

Gathering, lifting, and spreading, he began with the simple ones, progressing slowly to pushing water and then into an arching crane. Each one was designed to loosen and strengthen an older man's body and restore energy and balance to his chi.

Sara Anne was still out when he finished his twenty minutes.

Strolling up the pathway to the pool, he took in the scene like a detective after a melee, noting evidence scattered as if people had run for cover: a few cans of Shiner in the grass by the lounge chairs, a couple of tipped chairs, and towels scattered rather than gathered.

Thankfully, no food or glass anywhere.

'Casita door is locked,' he noted.

'No entry, Sara's got the code, so the bottom drawer might not have been used.' He smiled again. 'Did she put out the bucket to collect those used ones?' He almost laughed aloud. But it wasn't in evidence either.

What there was suggested the party had been a good time and that the kids had left things in decent order, all things considered. Peering into the pool, he smirked, "Well, look at that: a teeny-weeny bikini top and bottom." That did bring a smile and another chuckle, though.

Returning to the chaise lounge, he poked the sleeping beauty's bare toes once, twice, and then she stirred, grunted, and groaned, shifting as she worked out the knots from having slept on a hard mat overnight. The last groan came with a roll as she turned over and blinked up at Mr. Randy peering down.

"Morning, Sara."

"Morn." She mumbled, stretching again. "Time is it?"

"Ten."

"Sorry. Late." She yawned, falling into West Texas clipped dialog, where single words sometimes replaced entire sentences.

"Must've been a good party."

He tossed it out casually as he looked out at the balloons hovering over their adjoining fence.

She sat up, fully alert at that remark.

"Not exactly," she hedged.

"Hum. By chance, you know if yer mama knows where you are?" he asked, "'Cause it seems ya been outta the house all night and that might be causing Sue Ellen some concern."

"Don't know. Don't care. Don't give a...."

She stopped and left it there. It wasn't Mr. Randy she should be beatin' up right now. Wasn't nothin' to do with him,--so she zipped it.

He knew from her tone and that last, 'don't give a fuck,' that something had set her off. Times like these, he knew it was best to let things ride.

It'll come... when it's time,he thought. Randy knew that from experience.

"Hungry?"

It was met with a nod. "Coffee, too?" she asked, as another yawn broke out.

"Come on inside. Bagel and cream cheese?"

"Eggs and bacon?" she countered. "I'll cook 'em."

"Refrigerator."

He, too, fell into that West Texas vernacular. One clipped word that meant: bacon and eggs are there, the toaster is always on the counter, yes, help yourself, and dishes are cleaned up afterward.

The air in the room had grown still and heavy. It was as though a low-pressure zone had moved in and pressed upon them.

Randy sat across from her, coffee cup in hand, slow-sippin' his second.

Waiting. Watchin'. Studying.

Tracking her movements to catch up any clues about what was running through the normally cheerful girl's mind that had turned heavy today. Did turning eighteen carry that much more weight? Randy was picking up on it in her posture. Watching her from the table, coffee in hand, he could read it plain enough in the set of her shoulders and the way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes: something had landed hard. And she wasn't about to let it out just yet as she kept busy at the stove.

If it'd been his girl, Annie, he'd have gathered her up and held her until she let it out. But it wasn't his girl. He could only wait it out instead. But the pots and dishes sure got a workout when Sara Anne worked out some frustration on them.

Sara Anne ate, eyes down in silence.

Girl, ya ain't said a damned word the entire time it took to fix yer breakfast and yer still keeping it buttoned up, he thought as he watched and waited.

Now, it was just the scrape of a butter knife on wheat toast and the clink of a fork on a plate as she raised scrambled eggs to her mouth. She chased it down with coffee and slid back her empty plate.

"Time, I guess." She let the words out with a long soft sigh.

The words slid out almost inaudibly as they fell from her lips. Then she took a deep breath and held it a long moment.

Randy didn't say a word. He waited for her as her eyes rose to meet his.

It took all of three seconds for the tears to bubble up and flow down those rosy cheeks. What followed was the crying and sobbing of a young woman as her chest heaved.

Randy was out of his chair by the time the second teardrop had fallen. Sara Anne flew out of her chair and into his arms.

The next five minutes soaked his T-shirt as she bawled her heart out--cried until she couldn't anymore, sobbed until she couldn't anymore.

She finally eased her grip, too weak to hold on to him anymore.

Randy kept his, though. He wanted her to know his hug was always there to keep her afloat--and grounded--if she needed him.

When it felt right, he let go. She eased back into her chair and he into his, waiting.

"No rush, sugar. I'm here when yer ready."

"Mr. Randy," she began as stray tears bubbled up and cascaded down her cheeks, "I can't go home." Her eyes welled, but she held back from wipin' another river away.

Randy reached over and handed her a napkin. She dabbed both eyes and crumpled it in her hand in case she needed it again.

"You can stay here," he answered, realizing there was a lot to unpack in this meltdown. "Use the guest house iffin' ya want some distance. I got Annie's room too."

"Things blew up big time yesterday," she sniffed.

"So, I gather. Something fixable? Maybe not so bad that a day or two to cool off couldn't fix?"

"I doubt it," she answered, like that was an indisputable fact. Her face hardening again.

"Why don't you give me the Cliff Notes version and let me chew on it? Sometimes an intermediary can negotiate things--smooth the waters, so to speak."

"I don't think yer gonna like that version or the longer one either," she sighed.

"How 'bout in between? Start with the easy, kinda ease into what was goin' right and work our way inside the uneasy parts."

"Okay..." She breathed a couple of times deeply and began. "You know about the party already. I'd asked Nico to kinda run interference with Mama so we didn't have her meddlin', in case somebody decided to get a little..."

"Yeah... in case somebody wanted to go over the line," Randy interjected. "I remember tellin' ya about boys and men."

She nodded. "You did."

"So, Nico did," Sara continued. "He stayed with Mama most of the cookin' time. She seemed to like his company." Sara stopped abruptly.

Randy could see the flicker in her eyes, processing something she'd seen or said.

With another deep breath, she rolled on. "I liked him--he was kinda sweet on me, too--and I figured we'd do the D after everybody left. Turns out, leavin' him alone with Mama wasn't a good plan."

Sara's shoulders stiffened, her hands clenched, too, before she let it out. It came like a kick into her gut.

"Mama and Nico fucked--I heard it all outside her door. All the bed squeaks, the words..."

Randy's shoulders reared back. It sent a chill down his spine. "Jesus, sorry you had to go through that, Sara Anne."

"Yeah, it got worse." Her voice grew angrier as the image of her standing outside that door, listening to the grunts and words, replayed during yesterday's circus.

"I was spittin' nails mad. I bolted out the back door and hit the gate pissed--really pissed--thinkin' I'd show 'em.

"Guess you know what I had in mind." She looked up into Randy's eyes to see if he understood.

"But that's not what I got.

"By the time I got back to the pool--it was like I'd only been gone five minutes--Carol was in your pool naked.

"She wants to be head cheerleader so damn bad she'd fuck a duck. Guess you get the most votes if you put out the most."

Sara Anne's voice tightened as the circus of it all played in her head.

"Mr. Randy, she had every boy in the pool naked and numbered.

"Turns out they weren't prepared for that. Carol told them they didn't need protection. Laughed about it." Sara took another deep breath before continuing.

"Told 'em the chlorine in the water would kill their swimmers, so they could do her one after the other--twice if they wanted--and it'd be safe.

"They went for her like dogs after that. Bitch in heat. Mr. Randy, she took over my party like I wasn't even there."

Randy cut in. "Sara Anne, I hate to tell you this, but that girl Carol doesn't know what she's talkin' about."

She shot back, "Mr. Randy, she seemed to know how to get dicked pretty easily to me."

"Sara, I mean, she's wrong about protection. Sure, a guy's sperm don't last long in water--especially chlorine.

"But onceit'sinside a girl, that's a whole different story. A woman's body is built to keep that stuff alive, not kill it." Rand replied, pressing the point home.

"A guy's swimmers can hang around in there for days and still get her pregnant. She ain't near as safe as she thinks," he sputtered, wiping his brow.

"Just one guy's swimmers; how's 'bout five?" Sara Anne smirked.

"That ain't funny," Randy muttered, his eyes snapped up and caught hers.

"Sorry." Sara Anne huffed, sensing she'd hit a nerve by the way his head jerked around to face her.

But the look in her eyes didn't match the apology. Randy could see it, sense it in the tone of her voice. There was a whole lot of anger simmering below the surface.

"You need to call her. And the boys, too. If she ain't Catholic, she needs to get to Walgreens for a Plan B pill. Like right now, now."

"I don't think any of 'em will take my calls."

"Why?" he asked.

"Well, after Nico screwed Mama, he came back and wanted to... use the guest house like we'd planned. Wrapped his arms around me, like he hadn't just fucked my mama. I blew up." Sara spat that out like it was skunked Shiner sittin' on a tailgate.

"I screamed about knowin' he'd fucked her, and... the whole gang got an earful.

"At that point, I lost it. Cussed them out and told them to get the fuck out.

"So, pretty sure we aren't on talkin' terms," she answered, shrugging her shoulders.

"Text?" Randy asked after a moment of silence between them.

"Told ya I got mad. Deleted them all this morning by the pool. I was so pissed."

Randy's head rocked back as he slid the chair back. He closed his eyes in thought for a minute. "I need Carol's parents' names. And you know where she lives?"

Sara Anne looked up as Randy stared at the ceiling and shrugged again, "Her daddy's Rhett Rawlins. Out at The Rockin' R Ranch."

"Lord, hell no, the mayor's daughter?" Randy shook his head like he'd been stung by a wasp.

"It matters how?" Sara asked as if getting a mayor involved in pulling a train in Randy's pool wasn't some damned big deal.

Randy shook his head before answering. "Girl, Rhett Rawlins, is a force to be reckoned with. He ain't all hat and no cattle fer damned sure with that spread of his.

"Sara Anne...Plan B pill time is how it matters. You have Nico's number?"

Things had gone from bad to really fuckin' bad, then worse than fuckin' bad. The mayor's daughter of all the damned people to get tangled up with.

"No. Deleted. But you can be damned sure Mama does."

"Let's hope Nico has Carol's number so we don't have to go directly to the Mayor."

Out of the mess came a question that stopped Randy dead in his tracks. "Randy, what's a Plan B pill?"

What's that sayin'? There's no such thing as a dumb question.

That line ran red all across Randy's brow.

He went tight-lipped, wonderin' what got taught to kids these days, and with all the fuckin' internet connections, how the fuck didn't she know this?

"Darlin', the short answer is it prevents pregnancy if you take it right away--but it's gotta be the next damned day, when you wake up from gettin' drunk and realize youfuckedsomeone without birth control."

Randy didn't really communicate with all the cussin' like that. Sara knew that wasn't him talkin' in the moment.

"Randy, you're soundin' kinda pissed. I didn't do the D with anybody. My choice, like you said."

"Sorry, kid. I'm not aimin' at you." He dragged a hand down his jaw, eyes on the table instead of her.

"This happened at my place. That's on me. So, it's a big deal."

"Why? Carol's eighteen. She lined them up. Wanted it. Nobody forced her."

"Tell that to the Mayor!" Randy retorted, then chuckled without much humor.

"By the way, girl, that lined‑them‑up thing is called pullin' a train. If anybody invites you to pull a train with them, you'd better damn well say no and run the other way."

"I'll 'member," she cracked, but it had no zing.

Some of the burden lifted; gettin' the story out like that put a little salve on the wounds. Still, this was raw and undeserved, and Randy could see it wearin' on her in the tight set of her shoulders.

He realized Sara Anne might have a point, but in Texas, havin' a point doesn't mean you're outta trouble. Trouble likes to spread--across fences, across phone lines, across Sunday pews--and this mess had started in his damn pool.

He looked at the girl across from him-- red eyes, fingers worryin' that crumpled napkin--and felt somethin' click over inside. Sue Ellen, Nico, the mayor's wild child--there'd be reckonin' enough to go around.

However that shook out, one thing was certain as barbed wire and property lines: he wasn't lettin' this kid stand out in the middle of it by herself.

There'd be a talk with Sue Ellen. Maybe more than one. And if that bridge burned to cinders, well... a man could still choose which side of it he stood on.

Sara Anne stood up, fixin' to do dishes, and stopped as Randy's phone lit up on the table. It halted her mid-stride with a handful of dishes, the caller ID-Sue Ellen Willows.

"I ain't talkin'," she growled, "to her."

"Somebody's gotta," Randy sputtered as he picked up and answered.

"Yep, she's here. Found her sleepin' on the back porch a bit ago."

"Damned right, she's pissed. At both of you and that gang last night, too."

Randy listened in silence for some time, patiently letting Sue Ellen get her say in. He allowed time for her to vent. Gettin' off steam, he found, always seemed to help the adult side creep back in when the venting was done.

Sara Anne was at the sink with dishes, watching the one-sided conversation.What the hell does that bitch have to say now?she thought, then jerked at her own word.Well. My mama. Would she be sorry? Really sorry? Or is she just gonna wriggle around and cover her own ass?