Abduction

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WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexuality explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Photo Credit: W. Paul Thomas Used under a Creative Commons license. Cover Design: Varian Krylov Abduction © 2008 Varian Krylov eXcessica publishing All rights reserved

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ABDUCTION By Varian Krylov

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ONE: Little Girl Lost

She was just a girl then. She ran. As fast, as hard as she could. On and on. She didn’t know how long. It hurt. Her heart pounded frighteningly fast and hard. Her lungs burned for air. Her legs felt wobbly, like her bones were going soft. Roots and branches grabbed at her feet, clutched at her ankles. She stumbled, more and more often as exhaustion wore her down. As she slowed to a staggering walk, determined to continue, to get as far from that cabin as she possibly could, her face, her ears, her hands throbbed hot. She felt like throwing up. But she plodded on. She didn't know the forest. Even if she did, in the dark of night, under the thick canopy of the trees, there was no moon, no constellations to guide her. She just focused on moving forward in as straight a line as possible, terrified of accidentally circling back to that place. When the heat of exertion and the numbness of fear abandoned her, cold crept up her bare legs and caressed her under her thin blouse. Shivering convulsively she trudged forward as long as she could, stumbling in the dark as she tripped over uneven ground. After what seemed like hours she stopped, aching to rest and hoping that in the dark they couldn't track her. Too worn out by other fears, her whole being focused on getting warm and evading capture, she thought nothing of insects or other nuisances as she gathered a huge mound of crisp brown and soft yellow leaves, concealing herself as she lay down

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for the night. The cold tormented her for a while, but it was defeated, eventually, by utter exhaustion. When she awoke, stiff and aching from her forced march and uncomfortable bed, it was still the misty gray of early morning. A cacophony of birdsong swirled and enveloped her. Standing, she panicked. Which direction had she come from? She circled around her bed of leaves in a widening spiral, desperate for signs of her own tracks from the night before, but on the forest floor, thickly littered with leaves, branches and pine cones, there was no sign of her footprints. Standing there, trying to decide what to do, every second she grew more terrified she'd hear a twig snap in the distance, or see some movement, then see the men emerge from the trees. But then she thought she detected the faint sound of rushing water. She hadn't heard the sound the night before. Probably she'd been heading toward it all along. Her body sore and resentful, she set out in that direction. For the first time she wondered if this was really happening. Her days with him had been too real to doubt. But now. Lost in the unfamiliar embrace of this forest. Her real life impossibly remote. Her tired legs and aching feet could not remember brief brisk walks across campus on smooth concrete and even brickwork; her hands, pained by the cold, did not seem the hands that tap danced over laptop letters, scurried pens over three-hole-punched pages in a desperate effort to keep pace with the sometimes inspired, sometimes inane ramblings of a lecturing professor. Her little apartment, warm and familiar. Was she still that girl? That girl did not have her memories. That girl was innocent.

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What if they'd tracked her? Maybe they were just a few hundred yards behind. She forced herself, against stiffening cold and aching muscles, to move quickly. She worked her way nearer and nearer to the sound of water, until a large river came into view. Not yet swollen with the heavy rains of winter, it ran low and narrow, wide strips of rocky riverbed exposed on either side of its flow. If she could bear the cold, and walk in the river among the large stones, they wouldn't be able to tell which direction she had gone. With any luck, they would turn back, discouraged. If they did try to follow her, at least the odds were even that they would go in the wrong direction. With no sense for which direction the nearest road or town lay, she decided to head downstream. At least it would be easier than climbing uphill. She slipped and scraped down the steep bank, over the sand to the stony ground just next to the river, then, determined, bracing herself for a shock, stepped into the frigid water. Eager to meet this visitor, the river pushed through the accommodating seams of her boots, seeping into the weave of her socks, sheathing her feet and ankles in its squishy iciness. She gasped a deep breath and turned downriver. On and on she went, her legs growing numb with cold. Only the warm blood forced by her determined walking kept her limbs from paralyzing with stiffness. She stuck to the edge of the river, where it was slow and shallow, just far enough in to be sure that she would not leave imprints in sand untouched by the river’s flow. Now and then, though, she came to a fallen tree trunk, or a shrub growing thickly from the muddy bank, and she was forced to hoist herself up and over, or to move farther toward the center of the water, where the water flowed perilously fast.

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And then something disastrous—or fortuitous—happened. As she carefully navigated her way around one of these bushes that seemed to have grown just to block her way to safety, the stones under her feet shifted. Her numb legs failed to restore her balance. She clawed desperately, trying to catch hold of the branches that had driven her to the precarious center of the river, but the current swept her feet from under her and carried her away. No sensation. Only terror. Struggling to keep her head above the roiling water, to take a breath each time she found air, she was swept down with the ever more violent current. Hope that she would get a foothold, brake her speeding descent, evaporated. She was going to drown. But instinctively she continued to struggle, gulping air each time she managed to break the surface of the water. The world dropped away. She was flying. No, falling. She submerged, swimming, flailing, disoriented. Suffocating. Then surface. No longer immersed in a watery world, she thrashed between water and air. She gasped a desperate breath, hoping for air, not a fatal inhale of river water. Then, panting, she sucked in one grateful breath after another. Now she was drifting with the sleepy current of the suddenly deep, fat river. Above her was the violent cascade of water that had spilled her into this placid basin. Trembling with cold, her body exhausted and heavy, she struggled toward shore. She dragged herself onto the dry, rocky riverbed, not noticing how the rough terrain was raking her skin. So tired. But not safe, there, in the open. Sharp rocks and rough branches scraped and poked her palms, her bare shins and knees as she crawled into the woods

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and collapsed in a patch of tall grass where the afternoon sun distractedly considered warming her. For a while she struggled to stay awake, but finally succumbed to sleep, weak with hunger and fatigue. In the early morning she rose from her grassy bed, shuddering with cold, slow with stiffness, pained by hunger. It didn't matter. The disturbing images that kept coming to her, seeping back into her consciousness a moment after she had forced them out, like dry sand stubbornly sliding back into a freshly dug hole, they didn't matter. She pushed on, downriver. Soon, not too far, she would find a town. Food. A phone. Help. To distract herself from the insistent pangs of hunger that were tormenting her, in her effort to diligently keep the three days and nights she had spent with that man far from her mind, she recounted to herself the stories from favorite novels. The sad, impossible love of The Sun Also Rises. Jane Eyre’s rise from the cruelty of her wards and the orphanage, her employment with the dangerous, seductive, mysterious Rochester. Her wit, her will. Or the winged, Amazonian beauty of Nights of the Circus, her sword, the Siberian train wreck, elephants dying in the snow. Yes, Fevvers. Devan wanted those wings, that strength now. To fly away home. She felt so weak. When thoughts of hunger penetrated the force field of imagination she was trying to sustain, she thought of what she might be able to find to eat. She had seen no berries or edible-looking plants growing in the woods. Probably there were fish in the river, but how would she start a fire? It wasn't like there'd been a long dry spell.. The October woods were pervasively and perpetually damp, and soggy leaves and twigs didn't make very promising kindling. And her hunger hadn't reached such a pitch that eating raw fish pulled from the water seemed reasonable. She smiled as she got an image of Gollum,

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soul destroyed and body transformed by perverted desire, tearing with teeth into the soft white bellies of flopping fish. Maybe that would be the next step in her transformation? She half laughed. Then her delirious mirth evaporated. She pushed on, promising herself a glutinous meal of hot grilled cheese on sourdough, onion rings, salad, apple juice and ice cream that would be given to her by the sympathetic waitress—Alice in a bubblegum pink shirt dress with a starched white apron--who would call her ‘honey’ and look at her with eyes filled with maternal concern at the inevitable small town diner she would find, later today, tomorrow at the latest, in the town that had to be not too much farther down the river. But before a town came into view darkness closed in on her, hiding everything before her in an ever-shrinking distance. When she could no longer see where she was walking she made another bed of leaves, convinced it had kept her a little warmer that first night. Promising herself that it had. She laid down and, in a short while, fell asleep. But a sound woke her. Heart pounding, she listened. Again. The snap of a twig, the crunch of leaves. Maybe it was an animal. That thought gave her no fear. She would be relieved to see a bear lumber out from the woods. Just please. Not Conrad. She lay there, absolutely still, hoping it was not him, begging fate that if it were him, that she would be hidden by the leaves she had mounded up over herself for warmth. Please, please, please, she mentally pleaded with nothing. Footfalls—unmistakable now--padding nearer and nearer upon the thick detritus of the forest floor. But was it a person?

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Be still. Be quiet. Breathing tiny, careful breaths so no person or animal could hear the air moving in and out of her, so an inhale or an exhale would not raise or lower her chest so much that it disturbed and rustled the leaves entombing her. Closer and closer the steps came. A person. Another step. Another. The next step would fall upon her, giving her away. Her heart was hammering in her breast. Each tiny breath released with tremendous restraint threatened to get away from her and burst out in a powerful shriek of fear. The footfalls ceased. Silence. More silence. Had she imagined it? Adrenaline was pulling her chest apart. “Get up, Devan.” No. No, no, no. It can’t be. It can’t. If I stay perfectly still, he’ll go. He’ll think it’s just a pile of leaves and go. “Come on, Devan. Get up.” A hand plunged into the leaves, grasped her arm, and hoisted her to her feet. Then let go. As she stood wavering there in the darkness it seemed to her that the fearfuelled adrenaline pounding though her might literally destroy her. She had never felt more hopeless or more lost. But she did not cry. “Devan.” His voice, as always, cool. Soft. Seductive. Tinged with a note of amused derision. She knew that moment, just hearing the sound of his voice vibrating with her name, that he had her. He stepped near. She did not step back. As in her recurrent childhood nightmare, wherein she would find her feet bound inside giant concrete blocks as a terrifying

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monster approached, she could not move. He reached out. She did not recoil. He took her face in his hands, put his lips by her ear. “You must know,” he whispered, his words coming slow, “how disappointed I am that you left before I’d fucked you. You were a naughty girl, Devan, running off before I’d had a go at that tender virgin pussy.” He let her go and took a step back. The clouds above parted and the full moon’s light shone down upon the two of them. To her eyes his face had taken on the aspect of a demon, an angel cast from heaven who claims dominion of a dark underworld, thriving on the torture of flawed souls. “Now, Devan. Take off your blouse.” Not only was she incapable of running, but she felt unable to resist his command. As if he had some power over her, could control her movement through his will. Maybe it was her fatigue, the fact that she had not eaten in days. She pulled the blouse over her head, then, instinctively, covered her breasts with her arms. With a restrained but powerful grip he took her wrists in his hands and forced her arms to her sides. He stared at her bare breasts with a look closer to cruelty than desire, forcing her to feel her nakedness. Then he undid his pants and took out his cock. As he began stroking it he said quietly, with malice, “Take off your skirt.” Unable to take her eyes off what he was doing to himself, unable to stop thinking what he was going to do to her, in a very few moments, with that, she unzipped her skirt, letting it fall by her feet. His cock stiffening in his hand, he said, “And now, pull down your knickers. All the way off.”

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She pulled them down to her ankles, stepping out of them and the skirt. “Stand up so I can look at you.” She stood. Tending his erection he looked at her. Her face, full of fear and violated modesty. Her tits, a surreal blue-white in the moonlight, dark nipples erect in the cold night air. Her stomach, swelling and caving with her panicked, rapid breaths. Her hairless pubis, the beginning of her slit vulnerably naked, invitingly visible. Legs held defensively close together. His hand abandoned his carefully cultivated erection long enough to pull off his shirt. She was surprised by how muscular he looked undressed. In his clothes he'd always seemed thinner. The realization that he was strong, physically, redoubled her fear. “Are you wet?” he asked. “Wet?” She pretended not to understand. “Yes, love. Is your pussy wet?” Unbearable humiliation twining endlessly with her fear. “No.” A bare whisper. “Check for me, and see.” “What?” “Put your finger in your pussy, darling, and tell me if you’re wet.” His voice worked on her as if it were her own will. She reached down to do as he asked, her legs clenched tightly together.

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“You’re not going to be able to do it like that, are you? You’re going to have to open your legs, just a little. Go on.” She stepped her feet a couple of inches apart, reached down, curved a hand underneath herself, and feeling like she was under some kind of mind control, put a finger inside herself. “Show me.” She reached her hand vaguely toward him, but to him it appeared to have come to rest by her side, mirroring the position of her other hand. He leaned forward to take her wrist in his strong grip, lifting her hand up before his face. He ran his index finger along hers, feeling the slippery wetness that had coated it. With the tip of his tongue he licked the pad of his finger, tasting her. Then, still gripping her wrist in one hand, with his other he folded down all her fingers save the one she had put inside herself. That finger he took all the way into his mouth, sucking off all her juice as he pulled it smoothly from his lips. “You’re absolutely delicious. I’ll have to take the time to really taste you. Later.” He looked at her, savoring her terror. Watching for her reaction to his next words. “Get your back up against that tree.” “Conrad. Please. I don’t want this.” He smiled derisively. “Please, Conrad—” “Shhhh. That’s what you always say, love, but it isn’t true. And you know, as I do, that it’s only by insisting that it isn’t what you want that it becomes what you want.” “No Conrad, please, you’re frightening me.”

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A solitary tear slid down her cheek. “Back against the tree.” His mirth had evaporated. His words were staggered, broken up by gaps of impatience. She backed up until she felt a hard roughness scratch at her skin. He walked toward her, slowly, until he pressed his naked body right up against hers, crushing her brutally against the tree. She felt that the skin on her back was molding to the patterns in the bark, that the front of her was molding to the contours of his body. Then sudden shock. New fear. Her thighs were slung over his hands and he stood now between her parted legs, her naked sex exposed, vulnerable, pressed against him. She had hardly felt him move. He writhed against her and she felt the hard length of his shaft snaking along the damp valley of her sex. His lips came to her ear once more. “I’ve been…” Up and down his rigid prick glided, parting her lips, grazing her clit, thrilling her with fear. And familiar, nauseating pleasure. “…aching for so long…” Down, down, down, the root, the shaft, the head, grinding against her clit, nestling between her sensitive folds, down, then, striking her rigid with panic it ducked beneath her and rose up, nuzzling eagerly at her entrance. “…to fuck you.”

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She felt a sudden, searing pain as he forced himself inside her, plunging deep and hard on the first thrust. She pushed at his chest, trying to hold him away from her, but she remained impaled on his fierce erection as it stabbed her again and again. “Please, Conrad!” she sobbed. “Please stop.” Then he did. The pain that had been overwhelming ebbed suddenly away, and as he started moving again, she felt like a little glowing light had been lit inside of her, like its warmth was radiating from that place at the center of her where he was, sliding in and out, that it was healing her—healing the pain he had given her, healing her fear, her hunger. Restoring her to the girl she had been a few days before, restoring her beyond even the best and happiest self she had ever been. As he moved against her, the arms she had braced straight and locked against his chest to keep him away folded, encircling his neck. His motions were gentle, tender. As his hips hinged rhythmically beneath her, she felt her body surrendering to him, and the warm pulsing wave of pleasure rippled through her sex, her tummy, her thighs. He pulled back to look at her. She watched his face transform before her eyes, under the periwinkle beams sifting through the leafy canopy above, from gentle angel with a face almost like a woman’s, to cruel demon. Suddenly his penis felt like a hot iron inside of her, searing her flesh with every thrust. It seemed to be tearing her apart, battering her organs. She sobbed in agony. “Stop! Conrad, please!” she screamed. “Stop!”

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The more she cried and begged the harder he seemed to fuck her, ramming himself into her again and again. She let out a terrible, screeching scream of pain and fear that mingled with his roaring moan of pleasure as he came inside her. She was bathed in sweat, writhing and sobbing when she awoke, the memory of her own scream a fading echo. Sobbing, laughing, she fought an urge to scream a feral shriek that would drive every bird and insect, every last animal from the woods. Laughing. It was funny. She felt betrayed. By him. Still sobbing, though. In her hunger- and trauma-weakened state, she felt that he had preternaturally visited her in her dream, done that to her through an act of will. Her dream had felt so real, so immediate, the pangs of hunger racking her stomach seemed to be his wounds, his piercing and searing of her organs. She wanted to get up, to move on, to cover more ground between that cabin and the place of safety she was trying to believe she would find. But in the pitch dark she feared straying in a wrong direction, injuring herself. For a long time she lay there, crying until her tears dried up. She feared falling back to sleep, falling back into his realm, but she could not combat the exhaustion that sapped her will to remain awake. Eventually she slipped into deep, dreamless slumber. When she awoke it was morning. Or it was afternoon. She didn't know. It didn't matter. She got up, dizzy with hunger and fatigue, and went unsteadily on her way. Hours later, as she stumbled through the woods the trees began to thin out before her. She slowed. A little way ahead, beyond the edge of the forest that was keeping her hidden in its shadows, was a clearing. Cloud shadows slinked over tall

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yellow grass, a few great gray-white boulders, and a fence. And beyond these, a building. A cabin. Panic. She ducked behind the girth of a great tree trunk. Breathing hard, she peered past the edge of her sheltering trunk. A different cabin. Not that one. Of course not. That was miles upstream. Watching, all seemed still. Quiet. No lights were on It was cold outside, but no fire was lit. But it was still afternoon, the sun was out. No lights and no fire did not mean no one was inside. She stayed still, even as stiffness crept into the muscles in her neck, her shoulders, her legs. Frozen still, holding her tree, just a sliver of her face visible behind the veil of the forest shadows, she watched. As clouds turned the bright sky gray, she watched. As the sun melted through the clouds and blurred away beyond the horizon leaving her in dusky twilight, she watched. No lights came on. No flicker of firelight trembled in the windows. No scent of smoke signaled her from the chimney. At last she decided to go, to peer into the windows to be sure. Heart pounding fiercely she left the safety of the screening trees and approached the cabin. She crept forward as softly as she could, braced at every moment to flee back into the woods should a door creak, a window scrape in its casing, a voice cry out, “Who’s there!” No sound turned her back, and she reached the cabin wall. Creeping to the back porch, she lifted a foot onto the bottom step, then gingerly began putting her weight on that foot, mentally begging the wood to stay silent. The thick plank made no complaint as she raised herself and set her second foot upon it. Just as carefully she tried the next step, and the next. Shivering with fear and cold she

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stood on the porch. There was a door, with windows on either side. She stealthily peered into the first window, comforting herself that the night, with a moon cloaked in a thick mist of cloud, would not give her away, and cursing the fact that it gave nothing inside away, either. Desperate, she put the possibility of someone being inside out of her mind, and tried the window. Shut tight. It did not even make a sound to encourage her that there might be hope. The door, which gave the impression of being incredibly thick and solid, was dead bolted. The second window was equally unwelcoming. She circled around the cabin, trying every possible aperture. Nothing would yield. Weary, cold and hungry, and convinced at last that no one could be inside she finally gave up her cautious ways. She remembered a wood pile against the side of the house. She scampered back around the porch to the stack of cut logs and was about to seize one when she spied an ax leaning against the wall. Clutching it in her hand, trembling with adrenaline and fatigue, she returned to the low window and smashed in the glass. Still grasping the ax she hammered out the toothy shards growling at her from the broken maw of the cabin. She climbed through. Inside. Walking on a level floor, surrounded by walls, a ceiling overhead. Just as cold as outside. But still. The clouds had opened enough to let a little moonlight shine through. She looked around the dimness. Too frightened to turn on a light or start a fire she snatched a blanket she saw on a sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her hunger was unbearable, but she could not think of food until she had walked all through the cabin, checking every room and closet to be sure there really was no one there. The

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cabin was small. Aside from the kitchen and living room there were just two bedrooms, a bathroom and a storage closet. Having made her rounds she went to the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty except for beer and soda. Seeking to satisfy hunger rather than thirst she took a can of orange pop and gulped past the sting of the carbonation. Eyes watering, she began opening cupboards. Canned vegetables, canned fruit, canned chili, canned beans, raw black beans, white beans, kidney beans. She clutched a can of refried beans and began searching the drawers for a can opener. Seeing and seizing one she clamped the toothy gears down on the rim of the can, cranked it open, and dove in with two fingers. On her fourth or fifth mouthful she remembered that quaint convention, silverware. She found a spoon and returned to the beans with her utensil. When she had scraped the can and licked the spoon clean she was still hungry, but fearing the consequences of too much food after her long fast she forced herself to stop eating. She pulled the blanket tighter around her and walked back toward the bedrooms. She wanted to bathe, to put on clean dry clothes. The thought of a shower sounded amazing until she considered not being able to hear if someone showed up at the cabin. She decided on a bath instead. Walking into the bathroom she wondered if there would be hot water. She let the tap run for a few minutes, and the icy water gushing out slowly warmed, then she felt steam rising and clinging to her face. Finding a stopper on the edge of the tub she plugged the drain, then closed the door so she could hear better over the sound of the filling bath. Going into one of the bedrooms she began opening dresser drawers, searching for something to wear. All the drawers were empty. The closet was empty too, and the

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emptiness gave her a bad feeling. The second bedroom seemed more lived in, and she found a t-shirt and some sweats. And boxers. Men’s clothes. She returned to the bathroom and stopped the faucet. She tested the water with her hand—nice and hot. Stripping off her soiled rags, she wound them into a ball and stuffed them into the waste can next to the toilet. She stepped into the tub. The water that had felt fine to her hand was too hot. It hurt and felt comforting—sterilizing—at the same time. Slowly she eased herself down, submerging herself. The cuts and scratches on her body—her legs and arms, her back, her hands, stung as she immersed her body in the steaming water. Her poor, tired body had been tense for days, endlessly struggling to detect, perpetually ready to spring, to run. Now she was in the warm, silent womb of the tub— just the tub—the bathroom, the cabin, the woods were no longer part of her consciousness. Her muscles went slack. There was no sensation but the heat, no sound but the expanding throbbing of her warming blood, and the darkness of eyes closed against darkness. She lay there for a while, fell asleep, and woke again when the water had turned cold. She pulled the stopper from the drain, stood, and toweled off. She caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror on the wall opposite the door. Entranced she approached that strange girl. Her reflection. The moonlight drifting in through the small high window above gave her a ghostly appearance, her pale body glowing dimly. It seemed a stranger’s body. The body of a woman. Corporeal. Material. Of real, feeling flesh. Her breasts.

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She had looked at her breasts many times since puberty, first watching them swell and grow, watching monthly to see what their shape would be, and when they had seemed finished, noting with a kind of indifferent detachment that they were plump and round, that her aureole and nipples were rather dark, and that this darker, different flesh stood out raised in delicate cones, making her breasts look a little pointed, making them appear always aroused. Now that they had been touched, excited, her nipples made stiff and tingly, now that she had felt the connection between them and her sex, she no longer felt indifferent to them. They were hers in a new way—not merely features of her physical appearance, but intimately hers—part of her experiential self. But she could not look at them, now, without thinking of him. Her sex. He had changed that, too. She looked at that V at the center of her, her soft pale sex. As with her breasts, Devan had felt an objective sort of curiosity about her little difference, but it had neither disturbed nor pleased her. It seemed to have no relevance to her life. But now it was hers. It was her. She had felt it throb and ache and yearn and convulse with terrible pleasure and had felt how this very small part of her had played a part in who she had become. It had been soft and wet and yielding for him when her mind had been hard and closed to him. When she had said no, it had said yes. It had betrayed her. And yet she now loved this part of her that had been a stranger, as she loved her mind and her heart—as herself. Her hands. Hands that touched and gave pleasure.

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Her legs, legs that spread and revealed. Her belly that clenched with fear and was filled with bubbles waiting to burst in a thousand tremors of pleasure. Her feet that had saved her from him and brought her here. She could not see her body’s reflection in the mirror without imagining his hands on it—his hands curved over her breasts, his fingers teasing, tugging, pinching her nipples, his hands' small movements between her parted thighs. She wondered if that would always be. Her eyes moved up. Her wet black hair clung close like a shroud around her pale face. Her alien face. She did not recognize it. Drawn to her own strange visage she stepped closer to the mirror until she was nearly nose to nose with her estranged twin. Each feature was recognizably hers. Her fine arching eyebrows. Her gray eyes, like a child’s in their proportion to her face, slightly too large. Her nose. Straight. Unremarkable. Her mouth, almost round in its narrow fullness. All hers. Yet as she regarded herself she seemed somehow shockingly changed. Or perhaps she had never really seen herself before. Exhausted she abandoned the girl in the mirror and put on the stranger’s clothes. She rolled up the cuffs of the sweat pants that were too long for her, but let the sleeves of the enormous sweatshirt hang past her hands, keeping them warm. Stumbling with the fatigue that was now permitted she found her way to the bedroom with the empty dresser and the empty closet, climbed into bed, and fell asleep. When she awoke the next day it was late afternoon. As she got out of bed her stiffened muscles pained her with every movement. Sore in every limb, in her back and

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shoulders, she shuffled to the bathroom and gratefully, after days in the woods, used the toilet. Later, clean, rested, and fed, she began to think beyond instinct. Was there a phone? She set the bowl aside, pulled her blanket shawl around her again, and began to look around the cabin. No phone. Electricity. But no phone. And no idea where she was. Downriver from there. But no idea where there was, either. Three days in the woods, and this cabin was the first building or sign of human beings she had seen. She had heard no traffic sounds, seen no road. Not even any litter. Maybe there was a map, somewhere in the cabin, that might tell her where she was. She scanned the shelves of the large bookshelf by the fireplace, but saw nothing entitled “Hiking in the obscure backwoods of the Pacific Northwest” or other books about the region, no trail guides or atlases. She began searching through drawers, hoping to find a road map. No luck. But there were stacks of opened letters. She seized one. Maybe an address might give away the name of a county she might recognize. Filing through them, though, they all either had Seattle addresses or the name of some town in Spain. She tossed them back into the drawer. Something caught her eye. Not a map. But on the desk was a notebook, bound by a spiral wire between cardboard covers. She touched it contemplatively with an index finger. Not picking it up she used that same, single finger to tentatively lift the front cover, then to turn the imprinted facing page. The first lined page was blank. She lifted the notebook and flipped a few more pages in. Blank. Empty. She took it, and a pen. Forgetting her search for the map she plunked down at the dining table and, almost as if in a trance, began to write. She wrote for over an hour, and when she had finished her

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hand was cramping painfully, her heart was racing with renewed fear, and her cunt, her treacherous, defiant cunt, was wet and aching. Familiar self-loathing mingled with her anxiety and prodded her back to her task of getting herself out of these woods and back to safety. Reality. She returned to the sofa, curling up under her blanket, to think. She should stay at the cabin a couple more days to rest and recover from her days of privation in the woods. She would put together a pack with food and other supplies, and when she was ready she would head back to the river and follow it downstream until she found a town. It couldn’t go on forever, after all, this unpopulated wilderness. Shivering, she contemplated the dormant fireplace. Could she risk a fire? Maybe after dark it would be okay; smoke rising into the air, which might be detected from far off, would be nearly invisible in the overcast night sky. Later, when darkness had swallowed up the little cabin and the woods around it, with the help of the matches and the newspaper left by the fireplace for the purpose, she started a fire. When the blaze got going she sat cross-legged on the floor before the fire, reaching out to feel the warmth with her hands, feeling the heat on her face, comforted by the dancing light. She wished there were curtains to pull over the windows, but she tried to push the feeling of being watched, of being so lit while someone could be just outside, cloaked in darkness, out of her mind. Huddled there in her blanket, as the flaring and waning flame moved before her eyes, in her mind different images consumed her. Images and sensations from her time with him interspersed and merged with those from her dream in the woods. His hands on her. His mouth on her. Her terror. Her longing. His tenderness and his cruelty. The

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gentleness of his caress as he had taken the tears from her cheeks with his fingertips, the teasing lightness of those same fingertips as they had glided between her parted thighs, the heart-rending, aching closeness she had felt as his mouth, his body pressed to hers, the irrefutable fear of being in his power, the pain of his violation. Shaking, she longed to cease this stoking of her fear. She needed something to think about, something other than this wearing anxiety, other than him. She went to the bookshelf. In the dim firelight she could just make out the titles on the spines. Crime and Punishment. She had read it before; somewhere below conscious thought, the idea of being in the mind of the criminal appealed to her. She took her novel back to her spot in front of the fire, and read for hours, occasionally adding a piece of wood to the fire. Eventually she grew sleepy. She started a little fire in the wood burning stove and went to sleep, thinking of Raskolnikov, of the old pawnbroker woman, and of him. When she awoke it was still dark outside. She felt instantly, intuitively, that someone was there with her. Heart pounding, breath rushing, she sat up, searching anxiously among the shadows of the vaguely moonlit room. A soft voice spoke from the darkness and her eyes tracked the sound to find a dim form by the window. She froze. The shadowy man shape came nearer with a slow, softly thudding tread. “It’s all right, Devan. Don’t be frightened.” Conrad. Or was this another dream? “I didn’t mean to wake you. I just had to see you. See that you were all right.” Conrad’s voice was gentle, like a father’s voice at the bedside of a sick child. He sat on the edge of the bed, with simple calm, as if she could have no objection. She

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watched him without moving, feeling the tilt of the mattress as it took his weight, her heart still banging fiercely, her lungs still puffing with terror, but a terror she felt was already, somehow, waning. “Devan.” In the moonlight he seemed to smile as he gently put her hair back from her face, taking in the sight of her. She was surprised to find that the touch of his warm hand stirred no fear. It was strangely comforting. “You’re not hurt?” “No.” His look, his body seemed to go soft with relief. Then his eyes narrowed in a sudden look of utter caddishness. Her heart gave a heavy thump. It wasn't fear. She felt a little pulse in her sex, a throb soft and small that gathered strength moment by moment, swelling and rising into her whole body. Oh, that devious grin of his. She was stirred to see it, and through her astonishment she felt she wanted to reward it. She wanted to do what he wanted her to do and she wanted, for once, to do it unbidden. To give it to him. She pushed the covers down, off her body, and rose up onto her knees, settling back on her heels. Conrad watched, showing no sign of surprise as she slipped the hem of her tank top up, bearing the smooth softness of her belly, her navel a little pool of shadow in the dimness, up, ribs showing in bands of light and shade like ripples of sand in the desert, up until he could see the pale swells, heavy, full and firm, up, until her nipples peeked out from under the veil of rising cloth and up, over her head, then down, down, down onto the floor somewhere to her right.

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He had asked her before. He had made her. But never had she shown herself to him freely. His eyes on her made that throbbing, swelling ache roll through her over and over, surging to a thrilling pressure at the moment she felt her breasts bare to his gaze. He raised his eyes to hers now with, she thought, a look of approbation. Then fierce desire under cold restraint. She wanted him to touch her, thrill her now the way he had before when she had resisted, been afraid. She was not afraid now. She ached for him to put his hands on her. He sat still, silent, waiting to see what she would do. Testing her. She could not just sit there, under his scrutinizing gaze, her breasts bare. Her nudity still embarrassed her, and it embarrassed her that her excitement and the chill air of the room had her nipples so taut and eager. Her hands trembled as she lifted them, watching his eyes follow as they came to the soft under-curves of her breasts. He seemed pleased. She ran her palms lightly up, over her breasts, feeling her palms and fingers brush over the smooth soft skin, and felt painfully self-conscious when that hot thrilling bolt shot into her sex when she grazed her nipples. She went on with her gentle caress, bringing her hands up, then out and down. Oh, she so wanted him to put his hands where hers were, to take over this caress. She wanted to feel his mouth on her, wanted him to kiss, lick, and suck. She felt shy, touching herself as he watched, but she wanted desperately not to let that look of arousal fade from his eyes. She felt her face flush as she gently squeezed her tits, making her soft flesh swell out from her hands, her nipples thrusting forward toward him, hard and jutting. Then she relaxed her hands to a gentle cradle and her breasts went round and soft once more.

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Her sex. Her cunt. Aching terribly. Wonderfully. Just sitting there, still, she knew she was drenched. This embarrassment always excited her. He went on watching her, a challenge in his look. She would have to push herself, really entice him, before he would release her from her shame, give her his caress, his kiss. But she felt at a loss, too embarrassed to choose how to touch herself. He had always told her what to do. But she could see that he was enjoying her embarrassment as much as the sight of her touching her tits for him, and he would not diminish his pleasure by making it easier for her, telling her what he wanted. Much more delicious to make her reveal what she wanted. Her face and her pussy burning she began teasing her nipples, the first gentle pinch making them stiffen and driving a hot throb between her thighs. Conrad’s breath came a little louder, a little faster, and his arousal goaded her on. She rubbed over the darker, textured flesh around her nipples, feeling that flesh constrict in a pleasurable little tug under her fingers. Oh, she wanted his touch so badly, she wanted to squeeze her breast in her hand and press it to his mouth, beg him to suck it, to rub his tongue over her hard nipple. A little twitch at the raised corner of his smug grin made her wonder if he had read her mind. Finally he spoke. “Take off your knickers, Devan.” What a relief, to hear his voice, to know his want, to have the burden off her. She lifted herself from her heels and slid her panties down to her knees, then worked them down her calves and over her feet. She waited, then, for his instruction. He sat, silent, watching her. That was all he would give her. Now it was her again. Her doing it all.

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She went back down on her heels and, watching him watch, her heart fluttering, her insides quivering, she spread her legs. He looked pleased. Her cunt throbbed. She let her hand wander down and was about to let her finger slip over her slit, but instead she let two fingers part in a v, spreading her lips open, showing him her rosy wet creases. With a single finger then she traced for him the contours of the pale lips of her sex, the deep pink folds between, everything wet and shiny. She rubbed the delicate little nub, her clit, and sighed out loud, loving the sensation, loving the feeling of showing her pleasure. Her finger flitted again and again over that sensitive spot, and again and again she sighed, starting to writhe now against her own hand. With her eyes she begged him to fuck her. Please, oh please. She wanted him against her, inside her, so badly. Still he sat back, aloof, waiting for her to show him her desire. She wanted his cock, wanted to feel his hard thickness rising up in her, spreading her, filling her. Her fingers could not satisfy. She went on rubbing her hand between her thighs, parted wide so he could see her, how wet she was for him, how eager, how open. Her eyes pleaded with him. She watched him glance, coolly, almost indifferently, between her pleading eyes and her cunt, seeking and slicking her fingers but aching, really, for him. She tried, with her eyes, to draw him to her, but he stayed still, distant, only watching. Her need was unbearable, insatiable. Still hoping to win him to her, thinking of what she must do to earn his touch, she caught sight of something at the edge of her vision. Two candles on the night stand. She looked at them, looked back at Conrad, saw him smile. Oh, if it would please him, if he could be enticed, watching that, maybe he would give her, then, what she wanted. Her face burned hot as she reached over

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and took hold of one of the candles, long and thick and waxy white, its white cord wick, never lit, emerging from the center of a graduated dome. She put it to her opening, looking down, seeing that cream colored dome nestle into her hot flesh, then looking up, watching Conrad’s look of debauched delight at she pushed the smooth girth of the candle into her cunt. It was not him, his flesh, his cock. It was cool and smooth and lifeless, but oh fuck, it felt so good to have that thick cylindrical girth rising up inside of her, filling that aching void, and, yes, to see his eyes on her as inch after inch of the candle disappeared from his sight. Her hips were moving now, as one hand worked that candle slowly in and out like a dildo, the other teased her lips, gliding over her slit, around the girth of her makeshift phallus, petting the sleek inner folds, rubbing her throbbing clit. She looked down. Her tits, neglected now that she was tending her aching pussy, still bare to him, her nipples standing out in vivid relief, pleading to be touched and kissed. When she raised her eyes he was watching her face. He had been studying her as she gazed down upon herself, watching as she masturbated before him with the candle. He moved toward her at last. A thrill rippled through her body, from her impaled sex up, into her belly, out through arms and legs. Finally, finally. He would kiss her. He would touch her. Fuck her. Oh, yes. But no. He moved in just near enough to still her hand, to set it gently aside, and to grip the candle. He did not pump it into her, but held it still, and looked at her, his smug grin just daring her. Why was he tormenting her like this? Denying her?

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She began to move. Pulsing her hips in hungry little motions, up, down, letting the candle slide out, then moving down to drive it back in, as Conrad held it, watching her. She pulled her gaze from his to look down, to see his hand gripping that candle, his fingers out of sight, underneath her, but his thumb just below her clit, just out of reach, down low on the candle she was fucking. She rode the candle, desperately seeking his thumb with her clit. Oh, fuck, so fucking close, if she could just rub against that knuckle, rub it against her clit she would come. She pushed down, feeling the candle sinking deeper and deeper with each descent, spreading her cunt lips open, stretching her pussy so much it was almost painful. Up a little, then down, down a bit farther, not sure if she could take it, wanting, wanting, whimpering, almost sobbing with wanting to rub against him. She ground down, driving the candle hard and deep into her hole and oh fuck found his thumb at last, and whining softly began feverishly humping against it, fucking the candle, her movements small and wild and desperate. That sweet rubbing of her clit as she fucked, that wax cock sliding up and down inside her, she was right there, right on the edge, and she played with her nipple, right by his face, silently begging him to take it in his mouth, to suck it while she got off against his hand, riding the candle he was holding under her, but his lips did not come to her breast, his tongue did not stroke over her nipple. Thrusting in tiny thrusts against him still, moaning shamelessly now as she sought her pleasure, she squeezed her breast and rubbed her jutting nipple against his jaw, feeling the roughness there graze that super sensitive flesh and in a fitful frenzy humped against his hand and the candle and screamed out an agonized moan as she

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came, cunt quivering and spasming around the waxy hardness inside her, against the hard bump of his bent thumb. The sound of her own crying moan woke her and, as the throbbing of her sex slowly subsided, she fought of the humiliating images and feelings of her dream. What a fucking traitor her mind was. Conjuring up that monster then… Shit! Why in her dream had she wanted him? Wanted to please him? Stripped naked and writhed around for him like that, touching herself, masturbating with—the image of her fucking herself with the candle washed over her like ice water. She shuddered so hard she thought, for a moment, she might be about to vomit. And there was that dying throb between her legs, forcing her to recall how arousing it had all been, how exciting it had felt to rub her nipples for him, to finger her sex, to hump the candle as he held it, fucking it desperately as she sought to make herself come. She gave out a little sob to the darkness as she realized that in her dream he had not even asked her to do any of it. She had done it all because she wanted to. What the hell was wrong with her? She wanted to leave. Right then. Fuck it. But the moon of her dream was gone, hidden away above invisible clouds. It was pitch black out. No sign, yet, of the coming dawn. She would have to wait for morning. But at first light she would go, and get the hell out of the woods and back to civilization. A town, somewhere downstream. Then back to Seattle somehow, and from there, back to reality. But fate, or chance, or perhaps just her own body, had decided to work against her. Devan was tormented by her disturbing dream, unable to shake those vivid, lingering images. She was nauseated by the desire she had felt for him and the pleasure she had felt as she tried to please him by pleasing herself for him, sensations

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which seemed to cling to her even now like a cloying odor. Over and over she shuddered in disgust, as if recalling having had something putrid in her mouth. It was nearly dawn when, several hours later she finally fell back into uneasy sleep, and when she at last woke again, half the day had passed. She might not have slept so late, but the sun was obscured by dark heavy clouds, and a ponderous rain was falling. She was almost determined to leave, in spite of the miserable heavy rain, and despite the few hours of dim daylight remaining, but at last she decided it would be foolish to squander her strength in the wet and cold, slogging through the streaming mud, when she would have to give up and stop for the night in just a few short hours. As a distraction from her miserable confinement there in that cabin, in those woods, she set herself a task. Find a gun. A man with a cabin in the woods, in the middle of nowhere like this was bound to have some kind of firearm. Motivated by the idea of the comforting feeling of security possessing a gun would give her, she began her search in the large storage closet. The first thing she noticed was a big hiker’s pack, and behind that a sleeping bag. She hadn’t even thought of that. She tossed them on the floor behind her. She pulled a wooden chair over and began searching the high shelf of the closet, riffling through sundry shoeboxes filled with assorted junk. There was a box of ammo, but no gun. She climbed off the chair to resume her search elsewhere. After looking through the closet and all the dresser drawers in the stranger’s bedroom she found a handgun—a heavy, silvery beast of a thing—in a drawer of the nightstand. She had never liked guns and had never handled one. She knew those rules that people always mention when the subject of guns come up. Never point a gun at anything you don’t want to shoot, even if you’re certain it isn’t loaded. Safety on.

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Don’t look down the barrel while loading. She sat on the couch and looked down at the pistol, barrel safely pointed at nothing. She managed to get the clip out. It was full. The same bullets from the box. She wanted to practice firing it. But the sound of gunshots might give her away. Instead she set out to gather the supplies she thought she would need. Cans of fruit, cans of beans, and a pile of protein bars she had discovered. The can opener, a spoon, and two knives—a small one and a large butcher knife. She found a plastic baggie, and in that she put a few packs of matches, and she took two more novels from the bookshelf and set them by the other provisions. Then she loaded up the backpack with supplies and strapped the sleeping bag on the top. She left the gun out so she could keep it on her, ready to use. She put the pack and the gun in a corner of the little bedroom. Somehow the sight of the gun just laying there on the floor, next to the pack, made her uneasy. She stooped to pick it up and, after holding it in her hand and moment, considering its cool weight, she pushed it into the center of the rolled sleeping bag. She spent the rest of the afternoon with Crime and Punishment, soothed by the sound of heavy rain outside. When it got dark she lit the fire.

Roskolnikov was just about to commit his brutal crime when she realized she was terribly thirsty. Emerging from her blanket cocoon she carried her empty water glass into the kitchen and turned on the tap. A sudden chill breeze startled her. She turned. The glass slipped from her hands, crashed and cracked in the sink. He was there. In the open doorway, pointing a gun at her. “Hands up!” he said, loudly but without shouting.

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He’s caught me. But a vague realization that this was not him. “Put your fucking hands up.” His voice was all disgust and loathing. He was still in the doorway off the back porch. Looking at him she could see the front door to her right. Maybe she could make it to the door, open it, and get away before he could catch her. It did not occur to her that he might shoot her. She lunged toward the front door, clutching frantically at the deadbolt as it came within reach. It was in her hand, turning, but before she could open the door even a single, hopeful inch she felt him cage her with his arms. She was trapped between his body and the door. She froze there as he leaned into her, shrinking the cage, not touching her, but enveloping her in his heat and his smell. He whispered, his mouth so near her ear she felt his warm breath, ”Just what makes you think you can come and go like that, as you please?” She turned her head to look over her shoulder at the man with the hot, moist, loathing voice. Someone else. Not him. She ducked under his arm and ran for the back door he’d left open. She was through. She ran straight, jumped off the porch, hit the ground, still running, socks soaking up the mud and rain. He slammed his gun down on the counter and ran after her. He would catch her before she could reach the woods. She, putting everything into running as fast as she possibly could, heard him behind her. Closer. Closer. She strained harder, pleading with fate, pleading with her body to run fast enough to stay beyond his reach. He gained, reached out, and caught the back of her shirt in his fist. Yanking back, he pulled her off her feet. Instinctively she swung backward, hoping to hit him in the face, hoping he

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would lose his grip. He caught her arm in one strong hand, grabbed her other arm with his other hand Holding her from behind he pinned her forearms to her abdomen as he wrestled her down onto her knees. This one’s not like him. No talk, no games. He’s going to do it right here, in the mud and rain. Right now. He was huge. She felt immaterial, weightless, formless. Her legs, bent beneath both their weight, pinned between his legs, her arms crushed to her beneath his arms. He was on her, panting. She could feel him, hard, pressing into her backside. She did not cry. She did not scream. She was as frozen and immobilized inside as out. He felt her, small, frozen, trembling beneath him. He realized that he could just fuck her, here in the mud and rain. Humiliate her. Hurt her. That’s what she deserves. He held her pinned as he imagined sliding her pants down, baring her ass, pictured her struggling as he unbuckled his belt and opened his fly so he could pull out the hard-on brought on by their struggle. Disgusted by his impulse, he grabbed her by the elbows and, standing, pulled her up with him, wrenching her elbows behind her back. More violently than he had to he pushed her ahead of him, marching her back to the cabin. As they went through the door he grabbed the gun he had left on the counter, then with his other hand shoved her away from him. He turned, locked the back door behind him, and turned back to her. He looked her over, top to bottom, his otherwise stoic face betrayed by a mouth turned down with condescending hatred, the hand with the gun shaking slightly.

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Standing face-to-face with him her eyes confirmed what she had sensed with her body as he had caged her against the door, as he had pinned her down out in the mud. He was terribly large. Well over six feet, broad and strong. Whatever he wanted with her, he did not need a gun. For the first time she noticed. Mercury irises. Luminous. Toxic. Trembling slightly, he spoke with a strained voice. “Now, tell me what you’re doing in my house.”

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TWO: The Stranger

Her brain tripped. His house. She stared at him. His bulk. His gun. His hate. His house. “I asked you a fucking question.” His voice quavering. Louder. “Your house?” she responded, lamely, barely audibly. “Yes. My fucking house. What are you doing here?” Of course. How could she have failed to guess? It made sense. Much more sense than that there would be another one like him here in the same backwoods chunk of Washington... “Well…” It was his house. He was not some serial killer rapist, he was just a guy who was pissed off, and understandably so, to find some girl squatting in his house. But her fear would not abate completely under his seething stare. It was a look that went beyond the anger of a large man who has found that a small girl has broken into his house. And another thought darkening her small hope beneath a shadow of dread: when she had run, why had he not just let her go? “I was lost in the woods,” she stammered, “and I saw this place. I’d been in the woods for days, I was freezing and hungry. No one was home. Here. I broke in. I’m sorry.” Her stammering stuttering start ended in a breathless gush.

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He looked at her skeptically. Under his scrutinizing gaze she barely believed her own story. “You were just lost in the woods? You just stumbled upon this place?” “Yes.” And what were you doing in the woods?” Because the truth was impossible she lied. “I was camping with some friends, and I went for a hike.” She was talking too fast. Even to her own ear she sounded weird. “I got lost. I couldn’t find our campground. I just kept getting more and more lost, and I ended up here.” “What campground?” After a damning hesitation she could only come back with, “I don’t remember the name of it.” “I see.” He sounded utterly jaded, as if her every utterance emerged from her mouth just as he expected it, perfectly predictable in tone and content. “Where are you from?” Tense and terse, his voice just dared her to go on lying. “Seattle.” “All right. How did you get to the campground?” “I don’t know. I wasn’t driving. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m terrible with directions.” “Clearly.” He stared at her for a long time, whittling away the matchstick of composure she was clutching.

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“What’s your name?” “Devan Astor.” Devanastor. Disaster. Devastator. Devastate her. He kept her in an agony of suspense, withholding judgment. His gaze drifted, at last, from her face, where he had seemed to be trying to read her lies, and down, over her wet, shivering body, pausing on her mud-soaked shins and feet before it stopped on the mucky mess she had tracked over the floor. “Take off those socks.” After a moment of terrified paralysis she complied. It was his house. She was the intruder. But the malevolence in his look and his voice, the strained posture of his massive body, the way his trembling hand went on clutching that gun, she felt little hope that she was out of danger. Not taking his eyes off her, using his feet, he pried his shoes off. “And those pants.” Almost limp with sapping fear she pulled down the sopping, muddied sweat pants, revealing the stranger’s boxers. The man with the gun looked at her, exasperated. “Where are your clothes?” She had trouble finding her voice. When she spoke her words came out on a quavering little wheeze. “In the garbage.” “What garbage?” “In the bathroom.”

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“Go get them.” She turned and walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. He followed her, gun hanging at his side. She went into the bathroom, stooped and pulled out the wad of clothes she had discarded two nights before. “Forget it, put them back,” he said when he saw the state they were in. She did as he told her. “Come on,” he said, backing away from the bathroom door, “into the bedroom.” That phrase, “into the bedroom,” sent a fresh wave of terror crashing over her, knocking the wind out of her. She came out of the bathroom and turned to enter the little bedroom. She thought hopefully of the gun hidden in the folds of the sleeping bag. “Not that one.” Her hope crushed she halted, changed course, and entered the stranger’s bedroom. He began opening dresser drawers, pulling out t-shirts and sweatpants. “Okay, back into the bathroom.” He followed her as she walked back. “Get in the shower.” She complied, her fear escalating to a fatal pitch. Helpless. Hopeless. He pulled the shower curtain across, putting its vaguely opaque beige barrier between them. “Take off everything you’re wearing. Start with the sweatshirt. Take it off, and hand it to me.” Why? Why was he doing this to her? When she pulled off the sweatshirt the tshirt half came off with it. Frantically she pulled it down, even as she chided herself it was futile, knowing he would make her strip naked. At the same time in her irrational

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terror she was expecting him to shoot her, over and over, through the shower curtain, at any second. She handed the sweatshirt to him, sticking her arm out past the shower curtain. “Are you wearing another shirt?” She didn't answer. “Hand it to me.” She peeled off the pointlessly rescued t-shirt and passed it to him. “Now the boxers.” She pulled them down and stepped out of them. Now that she was undressed she waited for him to fling back the shower curtain, to stare at her standing there in that tub, naked, cold, terrified. Numbly shaking she put her hand, holding the boxers, through the curtain, and felt them pulled from her grasp. “And your bra.” She was silent. “Hand me your bra.” Palpable malevolence in his quiet voice. “I’m not wearing one.” She said it as quietly, as quickly, as tonelessly as possible, keeping herself from him as much as she could. She would not cry. She would not cry. A moment later the dry sweat pants and t-shirt the man had taken from the dresser appeared through the opening in the curtain. Tentatively, she took them, then put them on. She was ready to sob with sudden relief, to be dressed again, to not be struggling violently and futilely against him in one of the thousand awful scenes that had

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played through her mind on extreme fast forward from the moment he had caught her. A few hot tears slipped down her face before she could stop them. “Are you dressed?” She did not answer but wiped away her tears so he would not see her cry. Fuck him. Fuck him for scaring me this way. “I’m going to pull the curtain back, okay?” There was a whine of metal on metal as the rings sung over the rod and the shower curtain shrank away. “All right, come on out.” He directed her into the living room and over to the sofa. “Sit down.” She sat. She watched as he went to the back door, opened it, leaned out, and dragged in a large pack, shut and locked the door. He stood there for a moment, hesitating over something. His second of stillness burst into startling movement, and he stomped into the kitchen. His eyes off her for a moment, she thought of running for the door again, or for the gun hidden away in the little bedroom. From the kitchen he looked back at her. She had not moved. He took a tumbler down from a cupboard, and a whiskey bottle down from another, and half filled the glass. He walked back to the living room, threw two logs onto the dying fire, and sat on the hearth, opposite her, and took a drink. In silence he went on, just sitting there, slugging his whiskey, eyeing her distrustfully. She watched him. His body seemed to belong there, in that forest, among the huge hard trees and boulders. It looked like it could crush her. And his eyes seemed to

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be trying to pry her open. That look, unflinching, penetrating, objectifying as if she were a mere thing for him to examine, was unraveling her precariously propped-up calm second by second. “Do you know who I am?” The sudden bluntness of this disconcerting question caught her off balance. She whispered her reply. “No.” “You didn’t come here, somehow, looking for souvenirs, or hoping to see me, maybe get a photo, maybe catch me in some juicy situation?” She just stared, her mind not tracking. Then, through the sounding alarm, prodding familiarity. His face…and now that it was on this track, her mind went back to the letters in the desk—maybe the name was familiar, too. “Well, I’ll have a look around, and if I find anything missing, or if I find a camera of yours stashed away, you and I will have another talk.” “There’s no camera. And I didn’t take anything,” she blurted defensively, thinking of souvenir-like things. Then she remembered the pack filled with provisions. And the gun. He would find them. “I mean, I didn’t mean to steal from you. I just wanted to get home somehow, to hike out of here. I packed some supplies.” “Supplies?” “I found a pack in your closet, I filled it with food and stuff. I was going to leave in the morning.”

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“Leave? To go where?” “To try to find my way to a town or something.” “Show me. Get the bag.” She stood and walked back toward the little bedroom. He followed her, drink in one hand, gun in the other. She went to the corner where she had left the pack. She stared down at it, considering the gun tucked away deep in the rolled folds of the sleeping bag. What would she do if she grabbed it? Force him to put his gun down? Tie him up? What if she shot him? Murdered a man whose house she had broken into? More likely, he would see her pull the gun out from the bag and shoot her. She set the sleeping bag on the floor and lifted the pack. “Bring it out here.” They returned to their seats in the living room. “Open it up.” She uncinched the pack and began pulling out the supplies she had stashed inside: cans of food, clothes, matches, knives. He raised the gun and pointed it at her face. “Put those down.” She set the two knives, the big one and the little one, on the floor between them. She sat back up, then stayed still. He stooped, grabbed the knives, then took them into the kitchen, stashing them in a drawer. He went back to his seat, then, keeping the gun on her, reached over and pulled the pack away from her. He pulled out the remaining supplies and the books she had packed: A Light in August and The Stranger.

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He looked at her, scrutinizing her all over again, then laughed a low growling laugh. “You can’t ‘hike’ out of here. “What do you mean? How’d you get here?” ”I was driven in the twenty odd miles from the road as far as the terrain allows, and hiked in the last nine miles. We’re thirty miles from anything—any road,” he laughed a humorless, mocking laugh, “or any campground. And I’d say the nearest town is about sixty miles off.” He had finished in the tone of a summation, as if he had offered an irrefutable proof against the legitimacy of her story. But it was her turn to be skeptical. The ridiculous isolation of the cabin and his fear of her being there to spy on him and steal souvenirs seemed like megalomaniacal fantasy. She remembered, though, that going over a waterfall had been part of her journey to this place. Perhaps what he was saying was true. “Who are you?” He regarded her suspiciously for a moment, then finally answered. “Vaughn Doe.” “Vaughn Doe?” It was the name she had seen on the envelopes, but she still didn't know who he was. He smiled, sarcastically, as if he were indulging her in a duplicitous game. “Yes, Vaughn Doe. Lead singer of Halcyon.” “Oh.”

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Of course she had heard their music—they had been around forever—but she had only a hazy image of the lead singer to recall, perhaps from a magazine cover glanced at in line at the grocery store check-out. The man with the gun stood, went to a trunk by the bookshelf, opened it, and pulled out a CD case. He came back and held it out to her. She took it and examined it. There he was, standing next to three other guys in predictable album cover choreography. His huge frame, his dark hair, his strange, lambent eyes. “So that’s you. You really thought I broke in here like some kind of insane groupie.” “I still do.” If she had not been so scared she would have laughed. A groupie. She, who was left out of every idle conversation at school because she was so out of it when it came to anything pop culture. But it was impossible to feel amused under the heat of his stare. He was looking at her like he might be trying to incinerate her with his strangely glinting eyes. Burn her up like a loathsome insect under a magnifying glass. His hateful stare and the chill air were pricking her flesh, raising goose bumps on her bare forearms and down her neck and back. Under his eyes she felt naked. She wanted desperately to cross her arms over her chest, cover her breasts that to her felt so exposed with no bra, so visible, it seemed to her, under the thin fabric of his t-shirt. She was so aware of them she felt he had to be aware of them, too. But, determined not to draw his attention to her discomfort, to her awareness of her vulnerability, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to chafe off the cold of the air and his stare.

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“What about the pack? Why would I steal your backpack, sleeping bag, and twenty pounds of canned goods, and nothing else?” “Maybe you put that together so you could give me the hiker lost in the woods sob story.” A malicious look came over his face. “Maybe,” he pushed her knees apart and leaned in until his face was just an inch from hers, “you thought you’d get a fuck with a rock star out of your poor, lost little girl drama.” His heat settled on her skin, his hot breath caressed her lips. Her legs locked open by his fierce prying. His jaw flexed and she felt he might be a man about to rape her or some animal after her throat. He might bolt her down, a mastiff on raw meat. She had turned white. Her eyes welled with tears that did not spill. She was shaking. Seeing her terror he recoiled from her, looking as though he had been hit in the stomach. “Or maybe I’ve lost my mind,” he said, barely audibly. He stood. “You’re cold.” He said it awkwardly, absentmindedly, as if other words had been taking shape in his mouth. He stalked away to his bedroom and came back with a sweatshirt. He held it out to her, and warily she reached out to take it from him, not pulling it on but clutching it to her chest, watching him watch her. At last it was too much for her, she could not no longer bear his gaze, his presence, the threat of him. She felt her self-control slip away. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

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“Please,” she whispered, trying not to let her silent tears rise to a torrent of hysterical sobbing, “please just let me go.” A strange expression came over his face and stayed with him through a terrible silence. “I’m sorry.” He said it very softly, the strangeness shaping his expression creeping into his voice, and her chest went painfully tight. It sounded like the prelude to a terrible sentence. “I am sorry for being so rough with you.” He went on, still speaking in soft tones, his odd expression resolving to fear mingled with pity. “You really can’t hike out. Not only would you not be able to walk all that way to a town, it’s dangerous in the woods— bears, wolves, cougars. I can’t just let you go. But you can stop crying. I’m not going to shoot you, and I’m sure as hell not going to…molest you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” “Why on earth would I think that?” she wanted to scream, but angry sarcasm was taking a back seat to fear. She said nothing. “Look, I know I’m acting like a maniac, but you broke into my house. It’s impossible for me to buy this implausible story of yours. I can’t trust you. But I don’t want to hurt you.” Then, as much to himself as to her, “I’m not going to hurt you.” Something in his tone inspired a bit of credulity. The flood of tears threatening to burst from her subsided and her trembling lessened slightly. After a long silence he added, “You can stay here.” He had said “can.” Maybe she was free to go after all. He ejected the clip from his gun.

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“I’m going to put this away, so you can stop being terrified of me, and because I just don’t feel comfortable walking around with a loaded gun.” A long pause. Then he looked at her, and when she had met his eyes he spoke in a heavy tone devoid of the rage and pity she had heard earlier. “But I warn you. Don’t fuck with me.” This line, which smacked of trite male bravado and which would have made her laugh two weeks earlier, now filled her with real fear. He stood up, went to the kitchen and pulled the whiskey bottle from its shelf. “Want one?” he called to her absentmindedly. When she did not reply he looked her way and she shook her head “no.” Vaughn finished making his drink, went to his bedroom, closed and locked the door. After he had retreated to his room she sat there on the sofa, trembling and tired of trembling. When was the last day she had lived without being horribly frightened? A week ago? Longer? She was exhausted with fear. She sat there, watching the fire, wondering what to do. The pack lay at her feet, disemboweled. She could load it back up, grab the gun from inside the sleeping bag in the little bedroom, and run. Get away from schizoid man. Take her chances with the wilderness. She wondered if Conrad was out there, looking for her. If Vaughn was telling the truth, if there was really no way to hike out, would she die out there in the forest? Die of exposure, of starvation? If she injured herself, would the wild animals come, drawn by the smell of blood, and eat her alive? With the gun she could defend herself. Or kill herself.

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Or she could stay. She could stay and hope that this man’s violence had been a product of his own fear of an intruder. A fear she could understand. He had said he did not want to hurt her. That he would not hurt her. It was difficult to believe him. A week earlier it would have been different. But now, after all that had happened to her, she could not quite convince herself that this new man would leave her alone. She had felt him, hard against her, when he had tackled her out in the muddy field. He had hesitated—she knew it—fighting an urge to take a different course, to do something other than take her inside for an interrogation. But he had not done that other thing. If he had wanted to hurt her he could have done so already. But he had not. And he had not made her his prisoner. She had been the other one’s prisoner. But this man had left her there in the living room, free to leave. And there was the gun. If he tried to come for her in the night, there was the gun. Reluctant, unsure, she decided to stay. She went into the little bedroom and closed the door. It had no lock. She stoked up a fire in the wood burning stove, then plunged her hand into the bowels of the sleeping bag and pulled out the handgun. She double-checked to be certain it was loaded and that the safety was on, then put it under her pillow. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up under her chin. Turning onto her side she burrowed her hand under the pillow until she could just sense the cold metal of the gun against her fingertips. Laying that way, she eventually fell asleep.

In his room Vaughn assaulted his second glass of whiskey. The situation was impossible. The third one. The third!

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He didn't know why he hadn't killed her. Shot her through the window the moment he had seen her and drawn his gun. After, once she had seen him, it was her fear that confused him. Kept his fists off her. Kept his bullets out of her. And now he was trapped there with her. How the fuck had she gotten there? Found him? Judging by the state of that filthy wad of clothes in the garbage and the cuts and scratches he had seen on her legs, she had been badly chewed up by the forest on her way from wherever. As much as he wanted her gone, it would be a shit thing to let her go running barefoot back into the woods, possibly to die. He thought back over the way she had run, her terror screaming truth. How he had caught her, forced her to the ground. The way it had felt to hold her down, under him, her tiny strength struggling against his, both of them breathing hard from exertion, from the adrenaline of fear. He felt his prick stiffening. He would never have…. He could have killed her, if she had tried anything like what those others had done. But he would never…He had said “molest” when he had realized what she was afraid of. Her tears and her pleading had made him feel ashamed. He had not been able to say that other word, and so he had assured her he would not molest her. He took another gulp from his glass. In spite of his guilt, his suspicion of her was overwhelming. Even her tears, however earnest they appeared, seemed dubious. Like her bullshit story of losing her way from her campground. Again the memory of her, small and panting, caught in his arms. At the thought of it he felt his cock swell. And a little twinge of nausea. But he couldn't drive the scene

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from his mind. Her under him in the mud, her delicate neck and arms slick with rain, his total, undeniable power over her. Almost unconsciously he began slowly running his hand over the underside of his hard-on. Suppressing his feelings of repugnance he urged on his erection with thoughts of how he had felt, his hard cock pressed to her ass, knowing she was powerless against him. Then, thinking of what he might have done, he shoved down the waist of his pants and began really stroking himself. They were out there, in the mud. The rain pelting and soaking and chilling him, shrinking the world. Darker. Closer. Just damp humming and a merging of disjointed rhythmic panting. She had come to hurt him. To destroy the last shreds of a life torn apart by those who had come for him before her. With all the rage which they had earned, which he had suppressed, denied for over a year, he would punish her. Hate burned at his core, melting pity, swelling and rising up to burn away reason. He was lava, hot and heavy and searing and seeping into all her crevices and gaps. Her most desperate struggle a mere throb, a tiny warm pulse beneath his drowning force. Soon his heat would rend her—body and spirit—to nothing. Her little pulses throbbed now and again as his fingertips clawed down soft flesh until they hooked over thick gray stretchy cotton. He pulled her sweats down to her knees, then pulled down the boxers. His boxers. Her ass. Pale smooth skin. The dark shadow of the deep cleft promising revenge and satisfaction. He imagined her struggling, whimpering, crying beneath him as he undid his belt and the fly of his jeans, holding her still with one arm belted under and around her as he stroked his hard cock a few times through his boxers before pulling it out, thrusting it into his open fist, feeling it

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flex in his hand, the very feel of his own hardness, length and girth making him harder, bigger. First, her cunt. Forcing her down onto her hands, then down further, until she had to lay her pale cheek on the wet ground, wrenching her legs apart with his own, he entered her from behind, suddenly, brutally. A violent tremor shook her body against his. Ramming into her, yanking her back against him by her hips each time, huffing and grunting with each thrust he fucked her, hard and deliberate, each brutal stroke firing his need, urging him on with fresh desperation. More, more, more. He was fucking her with supreme urgency, and he needed more. Her ass. That tighter place. Shameful place. More to feel there. Fuck yes. He unsheathed his cock from her pussy and pressed the cunt-slicked head to the tight little rim of her asshole. Just the thought of pushing in, stuffing the swollen tip of his prick past that resistant clench made him want to come. Wait. Wait. With a determined grip he began feeding her ass his hard cock, inch by inch, first forcing her open with the rounded end, the tight little ring gripping and squeezing him as he finally pushed through, then, with a heaving grunt, sank into her with the full length of his shaft. The conquest accomplished he began pumping furiously, a raging climax bearing down on him, fast and hard. Her little pulses swelled and quickened as his hard heat widened her gaps, seared hidden softer hotter flesh, filled dark recesses. Her screams were incinerated as they hit the air, never sounding. She was drowning under him, her lungs filling with his

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obliterating heat roiling over her from above, rent and torn by his cold hardness from below. The incinerating hate voided his core, filling and obliterating her. He came back to himself. He was a man again. In his room again. Taking off his t-shirt and using it to clean up the mess he had shot onto his stomach and chest. His rage sated his gut rolled, and he gagged on his shame, slumped under his self-loathing. What am I, a fucking rapist now? He had not had a twinge of sexual feeling in months, and the first thing to get his cock hard had been the feeling of a woman struggling to get out of his violent grip. The first fantasy he had jacked off to was that of raping some girl who had done nothing to him. He thought he might puke. He tried to burn away his nausea with three big gulps of whiskey. Then, knowing hours of insomnia were in store for him, he set the empty glass on the night stand and went to bed. When he awoke the next morning, when he remembered there was a strange woman sleeping in the next room, a bilious mixture of rage, resentment, and remorse rose in Vaughn’s throat. This cabin in the woods had become his one place of refuge on this shitty earth, and here was some stranger, just like those others for all he knew, destroying his privacy, his solitude, his precarious feeling of security. But then, she had seemed so fragile, sort of broken, and so frightened of him. He had grown so used to being commodified, pawed and tracked, he had nearly forgotten that he was a big, intimidating man who could frighten a woman. With a gun. He remembered the fantasy he had jerked off to the night before and a clammy fist of shame squeezed his gut.

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He got out of bed and put on the a clean shirt and pants before going to the bathroom to brush the morning-after whiskey taste out of his mouth and take a leak. Heading toward the kitchen, he found her sitting at the dining table, reading Crime and Punishment. She looked up from her book to his stare. A dark shadow of beard stubble made his face seem paler. He was haggard and disheveled, and looked scarier than he had the night before. At the same time, though, that thick, towering, rough man looked…fragile. A cracked concrete column. “I borrowed this from you,” she said apologetically, indicating the novel. “I hope you don’t mind.” She wished she could evaporate from his sight. Last night she had been afraid he would attack her. Now, as he glowered down at her, she felt like she was really the intruder. She felt hated. “No. Just don’t get any ideas about the ax I’ve got outside.” He nodded toward her book and with an effort he smiled, trying for a reassuring look. Unsure what to make of his questionably comic reference and his uncomfortable smile, she tried to joke back. “I’ve no idea what you mean—I’m just here on a little errand. I’ve brought the silver cigarette case I promised you.” His smile took on a tinge of sincerity. “Would you like some breakfast?” “Sure. Thanks.” She forced a calm tone. “What would you like? An omelet? Cereal?”

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“Cereal, please.” Quiet, Stiff. Polite. “I always have cereal when I’m in the city. Somehow when I’m out here I always have to have an enormous greasy breakfast.” He was making a conscious effort to talk, to put her and himself at ease. He poured a bowl of cereal, doused it with milk, and brought it to Devan. “I’ll grab you a spoon. Would you like some juice?” “Sure. Thank you.” Vaughn made himself an omelet while she ate her cereal. He took a chair across the table from her when his food was ready. “The driver will be back for me in three weeks. If you can stand me for that long, we’ll just hike to the pickup point that morning, and you’ll be back in Seattle that afternoon.” “Three weeks?” Fresh despair at the thought of being trapped there with him for so long. “People will think I’m dead.” “You haven’t heard any search party activity?” “No.” She answered quietly, bowing her head. Of course no one would be searching for her this far down river. Or in this forest at all. Who knew where she was? Only one other person. She felt her hand trembling as she took a drink of juice. “Are you cold?” “A little.” He went to the fireplace and got a fire going, then went into the kitchen. He came back with two big lovely peaches.

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“Have one. They won’t stay fresh for long.” “Thanks.” The fruit was firm and fragrant. She took a bite, pleased by the sweet tartness. “So, what do you do? Back in the real world, in Seattle?” “I’m a student. I study literature at the university.” “Ah, yes, Dostoyevsky.” “That’s right, I’m in the Dostoyevsky department. All crime, punishment, epilepsy and tuberculosis, all the time.” Sarcasm. Her usual defense mechanism. Like him she was struggling to be conversational, hoping to put him at ease. She was still very frightened of him, not trusting his congeniality this morning after his roughness the night before. “Fascinating. I majored in Miller. All parasites, alcoholism, and STDs, all the time.” “Well, they’re only offering that as a grad program now.” They were both smiling watered-down smiles. As he looked at her he could not quite resolve the person she appeared to be with the person she had to be, to be there in his cabin. Maybe she was crazy. Really crazy. The others had been criminal, but they’d taken what they wanted like robbers. In, out. Maybe this one had a different plan. Would anyone be nuts enough to become obsessed with a stranger? Seek him out, thinking they could make him fall in love? Or worse? He started getting images from “Basic Instinct” and “Misery.” She felt him scrutinizing her, trying to solve her riddle, as he bit into the peach he had been holding distractedly as they talked. As he ate it, his teeth tearing the delicate

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skin and sinking into the tender flesh, the golden juices wetting his lips, Devan was dismayed to feel herself flush. The image of him committing that terribly intimate act had forced itself into her mind. She could almost feel his mouth on her. She had the feeling that Vaughn was deliberately being suggestive as he devoured his morsel of fruit. Flushed and nervous she got up from the table. He saw, but did not understand her sudden discomfort. “I’ll wash up if you’re finished.” She took his plate, then went to the sink with their dishes. When she had finished she returned to the table and picked up her book, anxious to return to the comforting isolation of the little bedroom. Thirsty, he rose from his chair and followed her into the kitchen, and poured himself a second glass of juice. Standing there, leaning back against the counter, his gaze drifted to her, just a couple feet from him. He noticed a small hole in the shirt he had given her to wear, just over her right shoulder blade. Through it he could see a shaded inch or two of her pale skin. The torn fabric was curling and fraying, seemingly wanting to curl and curl until her whole back was bare, fray and fray until every last little crinkly thread had abandoned her, baring her back, her shoulders, her arms, and more. Her hidden collarbones. Her breasts. Her belly. All her hot, soft flesh. Almost in a trance he moved in behind her, leaning past her to set his empty glass in the sink where she was rinsing the soap from their dishes. For a moment he forgot himself, absorbed by the sight of the wispy little hairs at the back of her neck that had escaped from the rubber bands holding the rest of her tresses prisoner in two neat pigtails, the way those

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wayward wisps quivered in the soft breeze of his breath, the way that breath altered the smooth topography of her pale neck, raising delicate goose bumps. He snapped out of it. Stepped back and walked off. He disappeared into his room and closed the door. And then he was careful to be perfectly quiet.

Under a tenuous truce they passed their day. If he caught her watching him he immediately suspected her of mentally recording his activities for illicit purposes— private or public. When she noticed his maleficent eyes on her she felt a flood of fear rush her veins, feeling her vulnerability, trapped there with this moody stranger in the remote isolation of his cabin. In reality, both were doing their best to keep quietly to themselves, each watching the other only when they sensed they were being watched. For her, that first long day, and for days after, every second in his presence felt like a moment of infinite peril. Each time she went into her little bedroom she feared she would hear his heavy tread behind her, feel him pushing her into the room. Each time she emerged she feared finding him there, in the hall, just outside her door, ready to take hold of her, push her against the hallway wall. Tear his clothes from her body, press himself to her, force her down onto the floor. She tortured herself endlessly with thoughts of him taking hold of her somewhere, holding her against the wall by her throat, staring at her with a look of immense self-satisfaction in the knowledge of his absolute power over her, of her utter helplessness alone with him there in his cabin. Her look of fear, the trembling of her body, the panicked tempo of her breath would make him smile cruelly as he took the zipper of her sweatshirt between his thumb and forefinger. He would watch her face

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contort with terrible fear as he began slowly pulling the zipper down. Then, still holding her by the throat with one hand, with the other he would slowly, calmly strip off first the sweatshirt, then, his huge fist clenched around the hem of the t-shirt he would pull it up, up, and over her head and it would give her up as he pulled it toward him and down, sliding it easily off her arms… She could not even imagine fighting him. Every thought of defending herself led, involuntarily, painfully, to thoughts of his brutal retribution. Her pathetic efforts to hit him or push him away met with a rain of terrible, violent blows. If she thought of hiding a knife on her person, which she might use to fend off an attack, the image of him snatching it away from her, then using it on her, slashing her face and body, forced itself into her mind. If she pulled the gun on him, she was sure, he would turn the tables and terrorize her, holding the gun on her as he forced himself on her, made her touch him. She suffered, choking in this atmosphere of unfamiliar vulnerability. Never in her life had she felt this way—weak, powerless, utterly hostage to the will and whims of another. But Conrad had made sure that she knew she could not fight him. That she could not defy him. And now that she was here, with this other man, she still felt defenseless. There was something else tormenting her. Something she could not understand. In spite of her anguished vulnerability, her fear of Vaughn was tinged with a different feeling. A peculiar longing—incomprehensible, yet undeniable. This stranger in the woods was a curious package of contradictions. His powerful body incongruous with his calm and surprising grace of movement and his deep, resonant voice which, except for his moments of fury when they had first encountered

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one another, was always low and soft. The sharp intensity of his eyes and the rigidity of his strong jaw and hard face went starkly against his tendency to quiet introspection through the days and evenings. And never in her young life had she been so insistently and disruptively aware of a man’s physical presence. Of his body. As much as she dreaded his attention, his touch, whenever she was close enough to sense his heat she could not resist imagining pressing herself up against him. And in everything he did, his every movement, there was an alluring sensuality. When they were close she would watch his hands, with their long, graceful fingers, watching him turn the pages of a book, or kneading dough for a loaf of bread, or deftly maneuvering over his guitar, and without wanting to or meaning to she would imagine him touching her—an innocent caress of her arm, a delicate stroke as the back of softly curved fingers surfed the curl of her throat, less innocent touches elsewhere. When she went to bed that night she lay awake, thinking about this strange man. He was so different from that other, yet he aroused the same fear. And similar feelings that were…not fear. The memory of his strange eyes, always coldly flashing, sometimes like liquid pools of mercury, sometimes like metal disks rough and faceted with shards of graphite, seemed to prick her skin with countless tiny stingers, making her itch and burn. She had caught him looking at her, watching her, many times. Usually he did not even look away when she met his gaze. She could never fathom what he was thinking as he stared. She thought of his body, so tall, and broad, and hard-looking. And his face. When he was calm, reading something or playing his guitar, he looked somehow…Homeric.

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She laughed at herself, at the triteness of likening a man to a Greek god. But with his powerful form, his abundant dark hair, his rather prominent nose and angular jaw, he invited the comparison. Yet the similarity was even more apt in his embodiment of both a fierce physicality and a brooding calm. The thought of his size, his strength, made her stomach clench with a little ticklish spasm. She found herself powerfully aroused when she considered once again that, though he was being kind to her now, he could overpower her at any moment he liked, do anything to her. She lay in bed, considering touching herself. The idea seemed strange to her. Never before, except with him. She screened Conrad from her mind. Leaving her hands at rest, folded over her ribs, she squeezed her thighs together and released. A warm pulse of pleasure answered from between her legs. She raised her knees and parted them wide, considering the feeling of openness, of vulnerability it gave her, even alone in her room, under her covers. She stretched her arms back, over her head, arching her back, thinking about her breasts sticking forward, her bottom sticking back, the taut feeling of her stomach as she extended her torso. She flattened her back and brought her hands down to her stomach. It was warm, rhythmically rising and falling. Trying to submerge herself in the still waters of the now, to drown out all thoughts of Conrad and what he had made her do, she lifted one hand and held it above her sex. Very slowly she lowered it. With the lightest imaginable touch she let her fingers drift in random motions over the thin cotton fabric of Vaughn’s shorts, sensing with her fingers the delicate rising and falling landscape of her hip bones, the little hill of her mound, the shallow basin of her belly. Reaching further down she gently cupped her hand between

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her legs, pressed her palm and fingers against herself, pulled slowly forward, pushed gently back. It still amazed her, the intensity of the sensation she could arouse from her body. Her very lightest caress, the one she could feel with her sex but not with her hand, stirred a delicious yearning ache. She was not yet open to herself there, her most delicate, sensitive places were still hidden from her wandering fingers as they teased her mound and lips through her shorts, gliding further and further back, down between her thighs, past her sex, sliding lightly down along the valley where the firm, plump spheres of her ass met, then back up, pressing a little more intensely, gently rubbing her still hidden clit between her fingers and her pubic bone. She had not touched them, but she felt her nipples stiffening, tingling vaguely as if asking for her attention. She stilled her hand for a moment where it lay at her sex. Laying still and quiet she focused her attention on her breasts, imagining how they looked at this moment as she lay on her back. Their roundness gently softened against her prone body, but her aureole still rising above, bearing her nipples up. With her two hands she took the hem of her t-shirt between thumbs and forefingers, and tugged down just a little, dragging the fabric against the tips of her breasts, feeling the subtle caress of the cotton. Just that was something. She slid her palms up her belly and gently cupped her breasts, feeling their soft warmth filling and overfilling her hands. With two index fingers, then, she traced circles around that raised, constricted flesh and felt that deliciously irritating little pulling sensation from her stiffening nipples down through her belly to her sex. She went on, gently teasing herself, letting her fingertips brush lightly against those sensitive protrusions, then, almost forgetting how strange it was to

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be doing this, all alone in the dark under the covers, she pinched her nipples, feeling those tugging strings running through her body constrict suddenly, and with each little pulsing squeeze at her tits she felt her sex cry out in response. She was throbbing, down there, between her legs. She wanted it, wanted to get herself off, spreading her legs and rubbing her aching secret flesh. She forgot her selfconsciousness. With her left hand she lifted the waistband of Vaughn’s boxers away from her tummy, and her right hand took the invitation. Her bare skin was hot and smooth and eager for her fingertips. Tracing delicate circles, spiraling out then in before gliding down to the very first hint of her slit, then back along that crevice to the little bit of moisture awaiting her, taking it up, opening herself, seeking that tiny place of enormous feeling. She was thinking of Vaughn. In her mind they were in the living room, she on the sofa, he standing by the fire, the inevitable glass of whiskey in his hand. He was looking at her intently, not looking away when she noticed, challenged his stare. Feeling embarrassed and a little frightened, she got up from the sofa. Attempting an air of nonchalance, she went to the dining table to pick up a book she had been reading. Vaughn came up behind her, pressing himself against her, gently pinning her between his body and the table. The fear his strength elicited in her was exciting. She was helpless to resist as he pushed her forward, bending her over the table before him. Through her sweats she felt his hand on her bottom, slowly working his fingers between her cheeks, rubbing her suggestively. Then the feel of his hands spreading her, his hips pressing eagerly against her bottom, his hard length nestling between her cheeks, slow suggestive grinding.

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“Please, not like this.” Her voice trilled with fearful desperation. As she lay in bed, touching herself, imagining the encounter, the threat of it ignited an electric charge in her groin. In her imagination he relented to her plea. He lifted her back into a standing position, then turned her around to face him. She struggled as he tried to touch her breasts, but he pinned her hands behind her back, then gripping both her wrists in one of his large hands, he reached up under her shirt and, pressing his palm to her, drew it slowly up along the sensitive skin of her stomach, over her ribs, to the soft curve of her breast. He stopped, taking a moment to enjoy her look of helpless submission to his caress. Then he took her breast gently in his hand, making her feel the pleasure of his touch as he teased her nipple to hardness with his fingertips. He released her wrists and, undeterred by her efforts to stop him, he lifted her shirt above her breasts, tying it tight in a knot so it would not slip down and hide her from his gaze. The stretchy cotton fabric, pulled tight in that knot, pressed in against the full soft flesh, making her nipples jut out just a little more, forcing them to turn slightly upwards. Holding her arms down at her sides he bent and took a nipple in his mouth, licking it rigid, pulling it between his lips over and over with little pulsing sucks that made her quiver with unwilling excitement. He stood back for a moment, looking her over, taking pleasure in how hard he had made her nipples, knowing she was trembling with arousal as much as fear. She watched as he undid his jeans, pushing them down low on his hips, revealing his hard cock. Then he pushed her back on the table, and pulled her sweats and underwear down and off.

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As he stood, he brought his shoulders up under her knees, holding her legs to him. He stared down at her for a moment with those silvery eyes, taking in her look of nervous anticipation. She could not see, but felt him pressing his smooth hardness to her soft wetness, sliding against her, up, opening her to him and to the cool night air, up, nudging against her most sensitive little spot, teasing out her startled moan. He smiled, amused by her reluctant arousal. He rubbed himself against her that way a little longer, and she felt herself softening, beginning to tremble, felt some of her fear and reluctance melting under a swelling wave of needful yearning. With a knowing smirk he slid his hardness down and she felt it threatening her virginity, promising pain and pleasure. Her aching body was desperate for it but she was afraid—afraid of him, afraid of the pain. Then she caught her breath as she felt him blunt and hard sinking slowly into her, his thickness pressing her open little by little until she felt him filling her and then a sudden pain and then she felt his hips pressed firmly to her bottom. He stayed like that, deep inside her, holding her legs with his thickly muscled arms, the backs of her calves and thighs pressed to his belly and chest, and pulsed in little movements with his hips, making her shudder to feel the thick length of him twitching within, her pain ebbing as other sensations swelled up. She whimpered a little. Another little smirk cracked his look of intent arousal. The little pulses of his hips went on, gaining in momentum, and the twitching of him deep within her turned to hot friction. Her breathing burst out in rapid gusts. He was fucking her. God, she was being fucked. His hips jolted faster, harder. She felt a twinge of painful embarrassment at the way her breasts were shuddering as he moved against her. She crossed her arms over her chest, but he leaned forward, pressing her wrists to

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the table next to her shoulders, forcing her to raise her hips to him. In this position his rapid thrusts seemed to plunge even deeper inside of her and, flushed with a potent mixture of embarrassment and arousal she writhed and moaned. As he fucked her he released one of her wrists and brought his hand down to her pussy, laying his palm flat on her mound, pulling the soft skin there taut as he drew his hand slightly upward. She squirmed and, unable to stop herself, let out a little gasp as he moved his thumb down, onto her clit, stroking it lightly as he slowed his fucking, drawing out, out, out, letting her feel momentarily empty where he had been before plunging slowly back in. The way he was touching her clit, so softly, teasingly, was excruciatingly pleasurable. All her exhales were soft moans now. Her excitement thrilled him, but he kept his hips in check, pumping into her rhythmically, teasingly as he worked her into a writhing frenzy with his caresses. Then, knowing she would not be able to hold out against the combination of his gentle touch on her tender little button and his hard length bowing in and out through her resonant depths he shifted tempo, moving from his gentle adagio to an exhilarating allegro, giving her a flurry of deep staccato notes. And as he went lower, deeper, fuller, her voice flew up the scale in perfect opposition, rising higher and higher in pitch but always small, quiet, a tiny accent until, at last, with a high, crying moan she came and in her moment of abandon he let his own orgasm burst from him. She had brought on her fantasy climax in sync with the orgasm she had given herself. She lay there, feeling the ebbing throbs in her sex pulse against the hand that cupped her. It felt strange, those muscles convulsing involuntarily around her finger,

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against the heel of her palm, as if they were being shocked by electrodes in a laboratory. She wondered why it was that all her life she had never had normal sexual fantasies, but always imagined some kind of coercion. She’d always felt a little ashamed about this, as if there were something wrong with her. It seemed even weirder now, after all that had happened. And how could she be so frightened of Vaughn, and so aroused at the thought of him? He really did terrify her, but the idea of the threat, of the irrepressible longing of a man too strong to be fought off was irresistibly arousing to her.

On the evening of the third day of their uneasy cohabitation Devan was curled up on the sofa, reading. Vaughn was sitting at the dining table, watching her. Considering. She had come to his cabin on purpose. Come for him. But she was playing her game very coolly. She didn't flirt. She never asked him about himself. It galled him; she was winning. His every waking and dreaming thought was wrapped up with her. Christ. Why, after months of physical and even mental celibacy, was he so terribly, darkly aroused now, with her there? Every night when he went to bed, every morning when he awoke, he found himself masturbating furiously to thoughts that twisted his gut the moment after his orgasmic spasms subsided. Even during the day he would become suddenly, unbearably aroused and have to retreat to his room to silence, momentarily, the irrefutable demands of his body. And then he would come out of his room and find her, looking at once innocent and somehow disturbed, inevitably devouring the pretty prose of a book from his shelf. Like him she seemed to prefer the Russians.

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As she sat, at the dining table, on the sofa, or curled up on the floor by the hearth, he would gaze at her, sensing that she sensed his eyes on her though she rarely met his gaze, and his mind would drag her into the dark, unexplored recesses of his imagination. He wasn't a violent man. Or predatory. Or misogynistic. Even as a teenager he hadn't been one of those guys who'd try to get girls to do more than they wanted. If he ever sensed reluctance in a woman his own interest flagged. Even after fame brought hordes of horny groupies back stage in search of him, he'd always steered clear of the ones who seemed too young, too high, too drunk. All his life he'd been wary of hurting anyone. And now it seemed that hurting her was all he thought about. It had to be the thing that had happened to him. And the way he had found her there in his house. That he knew—almost for sure—that she'd come after him like those others had. That, and her strangeness. Her quiet vulnerability, with something else lurking there. At least those things were part of it. What it really was, though, the thing that stoked his cruel passion from those quiet embers of resentment and curiosity, was their isolation there at the cabin. Only his subconscious had grasped that there, deep in the woods at his secret hideaway, he was free of the laws and mores of society. That there, miles and miles from anyone, she was at his mercy. And it was this feeling power, felt but not consciously acknowledged, that fueled an endless stream of fantasies that aroused and disgusted him.

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Seeing her before him, small, frightened, he would imagine what it would be like to simply take her. Not in the sense of the romance novel—the bodice-ripper. When he thought of taking her, he thought of taking her from herself and making her his--a thing for his use. There, away from the world he was in danger of forgetting that she belonged to herself. He imagined going to her where she sat, on the floor in the radiant heat of the fire, her legs bent beneath her, her head resting on her palm, her elbow resting on the hearth. Striding to her. Standing over her. And, as she looked up, her face an innocent question, kneeling down by her and, without a word, without even thinking to set aside the novel in her hand, pushing her back, onto the floor. He did not think she would really say no, or cry. But he liked to imagine it. Her mouth shaping the no. Her head swiveling left and right on her neck in slow motion. Her face cold and gray and streaked with tears of no. He would not be rough. Taking off her clothes would be like peeling a thickskinned fruit to be eaten. Simple. Necessary. Mundane. Calmly stripping off each piece of clothing—his sweats, his boxers. Pushing her legs apart, pushing in, pumping, slow or fast, to the end. Maybe she would be silent. Maybe he would forget that she was there, that there was more to it than his cock and how it felt. If he held her close and tight as he fucked her it would be similar to that convulsive, involuntary close tightness of his fist around his prick. That was one. Another one. As they walked past one another in the living room, maybe just by the back of the sofa he would stop. Stop her. Make her look at him. Make her see, in looking at him, what he was thinking. Then slowly, deliberately, he would turn her toward the fireplace, pin her against the back of the couch, close an arm across her

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waist. She would not fight. Holding her in place that way he would tug her sweats down, pull out his hard cock, press it to one hole or the other, thrust in, and fuck her until he came. These were just ephemera. Phantoms which barely glanced the surface of his consciousness. The fantasies were more elaborate. More concrete. And more damning. Even now his damned conscious mind was projecting a reel of these sinister images. His mistrust fed his fantasy. He imagined going out, into the woods. She watches as he puts on his shoes, opens the door, closes it behind him. She moves to the window, watching him cross the clearing before he disappears behind the shadowy screen of trees. Seizing her opportunity, the one she has been nervously awaiting, she scurries to his room. He has closed the door, but there is no lock, and she is undeterred by his silent request for privacy. She throws the door open and charges in, anxious to complete her mission before his return. She is not like the others, after all. She is a freelance journalist, just starting out, desperate for a good story, to make a name for herself. She knows the rumors about him—the speculation about why the band had canceled a whole tour the year before at the last minute, his much-publicized divorce, all the talk of his sudden change in demeanor, his reclusiveness, the buzz about his secret hideaway in the woods. She has come to find the evidence behind those rumors. She has come for information. Not for him. That is why she acts the way she does, shrinking from him when he is close. In a methodical frenzy she begins her hunt. Seeking proof. Letters. Photographs. She opens the drawers in his nightstand and dresser, looking under his shirts and

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boxers, riffling through old magazines and stacks of irrelevant scribblings—jottings of music and lyrics. She looks under the bed, but there is nothing there but bluish gray dust bunnies. She goes to the closet, pushing through jackets and jeans and scrambling over shoes and piled dirty clothes, and there, in the back, she finds what she is looking for. His journal. Too excited to wait she opens it then and there, flipping through the pages, scanning his scrawl, seeing that there, in her hands, his mystery is undone. The secrets that half-destroyed his life, ending his marriage, changing him from an affable outgoing guy into a taciturn recluse, fraying the solid bonds he had shared with the others in the band, eroding the joy he had once found in being a part of all that. She knows. She knows, and she will take it all back with her. Publish all the ugly details. Then they will all know. Then the rest of what remains of his life will be over. It is at this moment, as she stands before his disemboweled closet, his secret confession in her hand, that he steps into the doorway. Something has told him to return silently, to see what she has been doing in his absence. And this is how he finds her. She is still unaware of him, still reading the words never meant to be read. Silently he comes forward, silently pushes the door to. Then, his eyes on her, he leans back and the door closes with a snap of the latch—a small sound that rings like a shot to destroy their separate tense silences. The sound turns her from her reading, and by the time she has faced him every trace of color has left her skin. Had she been caught just sneaking into his room she would have been merely startled and embarrassed, but she understands that the gravity

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of what she has read means she is in danger. She does not try to make excuses. She does not try to rush past him. She is silent. She is still. Grave with justified terror. He steps toward her and takes his journal from her hands. His eyes move over the page she has been reading, and as he sees his words, as he is confronted with the vivid detail of what she knows about him, he thinks he will kill her. With frightening calm he closes the book and sets it on the dresser before turning back to her. Though no particular expression alters his features she sees the depth of his hate for her, and in that moment her fear is greater than any fear she has ever felt. A length of rope materializes in his hand. His fist brutally clutches and squeezes the coils. Suddenly he has caught her wrist in his other hand. She looks. From the iron grip of his huge hand on her small wrist, to his other hand, loops of rope hanging down. She understands that he will tie her up and her maxed-out terror doubles and doubles again, crushing her, collapsing her lungs. She starts crying and struggling frantically to pull her arm free of his monstrous fist, but the desperate motions of her entire body cannot even force his arm to move the least bit. He drags her to the bed, throws her down and straddles her. Pinned under him she sobs in helpless terror as he ties her wrists together, the rope rubbing and burning her skin as she struggles. He lashes her bound wrists to the headboard then begins on her ankles, tying first one, then the other to opposite corner posts at the foot of the bed. He looks at her. She is hysterical and does not seem to even see him. He goes out and shuts the door, leaving her alone to imagine what he will do to her. When he returns three hours later she is calm. She has convinced herself that this was her punishment—just a trick, terrifying her. But then he shows her the knife. A

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thick-handled hunting knife with a gleaming and jagged blade. He climbs up on the bed, kneeling between her splayed, bound legs as she cracks and falls apart. She thinks he is going to cut her. Torture her. He knew she would think that. Her terror gives him no thrill. He reaches down and grabs the waistband of her sweats and with a sudden stab and jerk of the knife he splits them up the front, snapping the drawstring in two like a worn thread. Now that he is stripping her, not stabbing her, she returns to her senses, only crying. He rips the blade down one pant leg, then the other, then gripping the fabric in his fist he tears the rent sweats from her body in one violent movement. He watches her. Crying. Hyperventilating. Still futilely struggling against her bonds. Her wrists and ankles are red and welted where they are being chaffed by the rope. He looks from her tear-smeared face to her crotch, invitingly exposed between her naked parted thighs. Her cunt visible in surprising detail through her panties which have ridden up, pressing themselves into her creases, revealing in mesmerizing relief the hills of her mound and lips, the valley of her slit. The pale cheeks of her ass left uncovered. The sight of that soft flesh makes his cock rock hard. He wants to stroke himself, but he doesn’t want her to see. Her eyes on him are a violation. Like the diary. He goes to the top dresser drawer and gets a handkerchief, folds it, and sits on the edge of the bed. As he presses the fabric to her face and lifts her head to tie the blindfold she speaks for the first time, her voice trilling desperation, smeared and blurred with tears. “Please. Please don’t do this. I’m sorry I came in here. I know I violated your privacy. I’m sorry. Please. Please don’t hurt me.”

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He finishes tying the knot, making the blindfold tight, then stands and gets another handkerchief from the drawer. This he ties over her mouth, gagging her. He watches as the folds of fabric sink between her lips as he tightens the gag, forcing it between her teeth. He notes the change in the sound of her squeals and sobs. He stands once more and looks down on her. Bound. Gagged, Blindfolded. She cannot move. She cannot see. She cannot speak. He can do anything to her, and the feeling of absolute power is a thrill beyond anything he has ever felt. His dick is aching, throbbing painfully and insistently, urging him to do something. He wants to go slow, to savor this incredible feeling of omnipotence. He wants her naked. He wants to strip her. But he is so enjoying the way her panties are showing her to him that he starts with the t-shirt. She squirms and struggles with renewed desperation as he straddles her hips. He sets the knife down, laying it next to her on the mattress, and puts his hands on her breasts. He just cups them gently, taking in her reaction at feeling his hands on her. There is no muffled scream coming through the gag. She knows there is no point. She just stiffens involuntarily beneath him, tensing against the ropes. Slowly, softly, he caresses her breasts. Full firm flesh yielding to his palms and fingers. God he’s hard. He hasn't even touched her nipples yet, but they rise up and poke at the thin cotton, pointing upward from the circle of his curved thumb and forefinger. He pinches them gently and he hears a muffled whimper tangling up in the folds of the gag. He likes that whimper and feels his cock flexing against the tight barrier of his pants as he pulses his fingers closed again, she whimpers again, as he tugs, gently, teasingly.

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He started out wanting to scare her. Even hurt her. But her reluctant arousal turns him about seventy degrees. He knows first-hand that her pleasure will punish her. And wanting to punish her, he will please her. He slides his hands up inside her shirt, feeling her hot skin under his palms, feeling the frantic rise and fall of her belly and ribs with each panicked breath. He cups her tits again, squeezing them as he rubs her ever-hardening nipples with his thumbs, feeling her writhing beneath him, squirming defiantly as he excites her body. He takes the knife from the bed and slits open first one sleeve, then the other before slicing through the ribbed collar of the tee. Then, setting the knife aside, clutching the rent collar in his two fists, he moves his hands apart in a sudden, violent motion. The threads screech in chorus, three bursts as the shirt tears open, uncovering breasts, revealing belly, then torn completely in two, and the limp garment falls indifferently from her body, onto the bed, leaving her torso naked. He just sits over her, still and silent, letting her feel his eyes caressing her body. Pale skin. Nipples dark as cherries and hard as pits. Triceps and abs flexing futilely, her full breasts swaying slightly with her body’s struggle. He is enjoying the pain of his anxious cock. He is not going to stroke it. He is going to fuck her. But he is still taking his time. He gets off of her, shoving her thighs apart and kneeling between them. She begins her struggle anew, squirming and thrashing violently but pointlessly in her bonds as he grasps her thighs and hoists them over his, spreading her wide and lifting her ass

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off the bed. Two quick swipes with the knife and her panties are off. He buries his fingers in her fur and his thumb in her cunt, fucking her a little before smearing some of her slippery juices up and down her slit, rubbing her clit, forward and back, then round and round in circles before plunging into her soft yielding wetness once more. Her breathing has altered from tense, fear-filled anticipation to fervent denial of sensation. She is trying to pant through his pleasure, like panting through the pain of childbirth. His cock is swollen to bursting with impotence-inspired fury and omnipotenceinspired lust. Kneeling between her splayed thighs he takes his hands off her. He is still and quiet, letting her wonder. Then he undoes his jeans, knowing she can hear the scratch of the zipper being dragged open, knowing she knows what this means. He shoves his shorts and jeans down to his thighs and his cock is aimed at her like a spear. He contemplates this image—her deep pink, wet and open after his fingering, his paler pink, hard and seeking, seeming to stretch toward her inviting slippery warmth. So close. One small movement and he will be inside her. And he will never be the same. Forever and ever, he will have done this thing. He plunges into her. Not suddenly. Not violently. But with a quiet, calm slowness that forces her to feel everything. The moment that the tip of him moves and settles against her, just at her opening. Knowing he is about to enter her, and that with her legs bound and splayed wide, with her arms tied over her head, she can do nothing but lie there as he drives his hard cock deep inside her undefended pussy. Through the gag he hears the softened sharpness of her gasping intake of breath. Then quivery panicky panting as she waits,

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knowing it is coming. Her nipples are pointing at the ceiling with enthusiasm that mimics that of his cock. Oh yeah, I'm going to love the sound she’ll make when I sink in to the hilt. I’m going to fucking love watching those tits shudder with the jolt of my hips against her. And that juicy little cunt of hers quivering around my prick when I make her come. Slowly he lets the head of his prick push in, just the tiniest bit, wanting her to want it to go quicker. Knowing her body’s excitement is loathsome to her, knowing she wants it to be done quickly so she won’t have to suffer her pleasure. He sinks in, just the littlest bit deeper, watching her body tense more and more with each bit of progress. Then, with a sudden forceful thrust he gives her the rest, his cock driving up into her deepest depth, his groin crushing against her, forcing that sucked in gasp of hers back out in a gag-smothered whimper that makes his rigid cock twitch in a new surge of arousal. Still filling her fully, his hips pressed hard up against her, he teases her clit with his thumb, feeling her freeze once more in her effort not to feel. This he does terribly gently, with cruel skill. Then, softly, he pushes her lips together there at the beginning of her slit, slowly rolling and kneading her sensitive clit in those warm moist folds. Then, knowing her nerves are sparking, he leaves off what he is doing with his hands, using them for support instead, and begins pounding that throbbing, swollen, wet cunt with his cock, feeling and hearing his balls smacking her bottom, her tits rolling like waves that never crash, swelling up and riding shoreward, over and over and over, never breaking. He lowers himself onto her, letting her feel his heat, his sweat, his body all over her—pressing against the tender flesh of her inner thighs, his belly on her belly, his

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chest flattening her tits and rubbing her stiff nipples, his rough stubble chafing her delicate cheek between the blindfold and the gag, his panting fucking breath bursting rhythmically in her ear. His groin grinding over hers, rubbing her aching little clit with every thrust of his cock into her embracing cunt. He whispers his pain, his ecstasy, his degradation, his exultation into her ear as he fucks her. When she tries to pull away, straining with her neck to preserve this tiny freedom, he sinks his fingers into her hair, closes his fist, and brings her ear back to his lips. He is going to come soon. But not before he has wrung a humiliating orgasm from her. He slows his thrusts, staving off his own climax. Writhing slowly against her inflamed pussy, still clutching her hair in one fist, his lips still brushing her ear as he torments her with a flowing stream of cruel words, he reaches beneath her with his free hand, grasping a handful of ass, squeezing it, kneading it, spreading her, letting go, grabbing that sumptuous handful again, pumping, pumping, fucking, whispering, clutching, writhing. Then he wriggles his middle finger between her two plump cheeks. He feels her clench, desperately trying to bar access, but her cunt juices have streamed down, slick sliding over the tender middle ground, soaking her vulnerable second hole, greasing up that luscious cleft. His finger squeezes between those firm flexing muscles, lubed and clenching him in a violent embrace. His fingertip finds her tiny opening and rubs it, massaging it with her own oil, teasing it with the miniscule motions permitted by her flexed ass. The hiddenness of this

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second hole, only just accessible behind her, underneath her, beyond the barrier of her strong flexing muscles, is a delicious challenge, an exquisite contrast to the inviting openness of her cunt between her bound legs spread so wide. His dick and balls feel ready to explode. He wants to hear her. He lets go the fistful of her hair and yanks the gag from her mouth. Her lips are red and swollen. Delicious. Almost kissable. He reclaims her tresses with his fist and whispers. “You want it to be over. You want me to finish.” He lets her feel a few more pulses of his hips driving his cock into the depths of her cunt, lets her feel his finger wiggling between her cheeks, the tip brushing over her anus. A desperate little moan bubbles up from between those parted, swollen, flushed lips. “I’m not going to finish until my finger is in that tight little ass of yours.” Three brutal thrusts shake three resonant breaths from her. “Ask for it.” He goes on rubbing her back there, spreading her gradually, forcefully with his other fingers, tapping and rubbing and gently prodding those million nerves ringing that tight little pucker. He lets go her hair and cups his palm over her breast, squeezing it up through the shrinking “c” of his hand, rubbing his thumb over the nipple that has jutted skyward with the rising swell of her tit. “Ask for it.”

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He mouths her ear, and after his breath is cold on her wet lobe. He is panting huskily with each eager thrust, aching to hear her voice. “If you stay quiet, I’ll keep on like this forever. I’ll fuck you until we’re both dead. Ask for it. Ask for my finger.” He knows she will. To end it. Her whisper comes, almost indecipherable. “Please.” “Please what?” Her mouth twists in a sob as she moans, “Give me your finger.” “Tell me to put my finger up your ass.” ”Put your finger up my ass.” Her voice is wracked with misery. Or arousal. He is still teasing that hole, knowing the sensation there is magnifying everything rubbing and fucking and bumping her cunt. “You want my finger in your ass?” “Yes.” “Beg me.” Her words ride out on successive waves of sobs and moans. “Please. Please finger my ass.” He pushes his finger in, just an inch. “You want more of it, don’t you?” His fucking is an ultimatum. “Yes.” “Tell me.” “Please give it to me. Put your finger up my ass.”

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“All of it?” “Give me all of it. I want your whole finger in my ass.” He is humping her in tiny tense thrusts, sliding up against her clit again and again and again and as she talks she can’t breath through it, resist it, any longer. The length of his finger slides in, gliding against her inner walls, filling her ass with a thrilling, frightening, pleasing pressure. Her breathing alters, her body tenses and he knows she is going to come soon. “You like that finger in your ass?” “Yes.” She sounds sincere and her voice breaks on the word. “Now,” he says, “beg me to fuck your ass.” She begs him. There is real desperation in her voice. “Please. Please fuck my ass.” “You need it.” “Please. I need you to fuck my ass.” He slides his finger out against the clinging grip of her, stirring nerve after nerve after on his way out, pumping gently into her pussy with his prick all during that slow descent of his finger. Then his fingertip glides up and down her slippery crack once more, getting wetter and slicker before it forces her open again, fills her again, makes her moan again. He is on her, in her ass, in her cunt, taunting her nipples, filling her ears with whispers and her mouth with moans and her nose with the scent of his body and their fucking. Her flesh is quivering and no longer hers it is his because he is

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controlling it and she can’t and she will come soon and he knows as he rides her and quivers her and fingers her bottom. “Now say ‘fuck me.’” “Fuck me.” “Louder. Fuck me.” “Fuck me.” “Fuck me!” “Fuck me!” Their voices are two facing mirrors reflecting an infinite series of fuck me’s as he feels her finally give up and surrender and shudder beneath his writhing body, pulsing and spasming around his cock and his finger and she is coming and having won he gives up resisting and moaning he comes and she feels him flex over her and hears his climax ride out on a surging moan and a dying breath. She is dying of shame but comforts herself with the thought, the promise she promises herself, that he will untie her now. That it is over. But it isn’t. She feels him lifting himself off of her, but no hands at the ropes on her wrists and ankles. She leaves a scream unformed in her throat as he tightens the gag anew between her lips. Then she hears the rhythmic thump of his feet traversing the floor between the bed and the door and then the door closes with unendurable finality.

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THREE: Cabin Fever

Fuck. These twisted fantasies had to stop. As he cleaned up he fell into his usual post-orgasmic dolor. The nausea welled up again. So, this really was who he'd become–a man whose dick got hard thinking of scaring and hurting someone that way. There in his remote cabin the only thing protecting Devan was his own sense of shame, and his will. Physically, she was defenseless against him, and he didn't trust himself anymore. What if he should pass her in the narrow hallway by the bedrooms, what if he succumbed to an urge, gripped her arms suddenly…There would be nothing she could do. He shuddered, cold and queasy. But his prick twitched back to life. When he emerged from his room, sated and guilty, when he was near her, he was as careful as he had always been, all his life, with everyone. Maybe more so, because of the guilt. When he could he avoided her completely. It made no difference. He was still tormented by his dark fantasies. Then, one day, as he sat, absentmindedly fingering the strings of his guitar, his head bent over a few sheets of stubbornly wordless music, he realized that there had been a shift. Stealing glances at her from under his brow, he watched her where she sat, gazing out the window toward the woods, looking lost in thought. Her delicate fingers were lazily, sensuously tracing a path up and down the smooth pale skin of the inside of her forearm. He caught himself. He was imagining her fingertips feathering over his own arm, picturing his own fingers following the invisible path she was drawing

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on her skin. When he came back to himself he found his breath fast and shallow. And his dick was hard. Damnit. What the hell was she doing there? She wasn't like any die-hard fan he had ever encountered, much less…It made no sense. She didn't even seem interested in him, really. Yes he caught her watching him once in a while, but it was never one of those creepy devouring stares he'd been trapped in so many times. Besides, he watched her, didn't he? Less and less was he forced to creep off to the seclusion of his bedroom to answer dark fantasies. But more and more he found himself thinking of her. Not as intruder. Not as scapegoat. Her, Devan, this person he was trapped with. Wondering who she was, wondering what she was thinking when she smiled as her eyes moved over a passage in the book in her hands. His fantasies, first fueled by thoughts of cruelty and coercion, dissolved into hazy images of twining fingers, warm embraces, tender kisses. And the change caused Vaughn fresh anxiety. Devan hated this—the strain between them, the thought that he believed she had come with the intention of spying on him. Or worse. She understood the pain of that kind of violation and to be the cause of it was unendurable. Especially now. It wasn't like that first night, when he'd been so angry. Almost violent. Now he did not seem brutal, or mean. He seemed…sad. And he was wary and distant and they rarely spoke except when they were brought together by his stiffly polite hospitality. He prepared every meal for two and always checked to be sure he was making something she would like. In an effort to do

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her part she always washed up after and helped out with small chores when he would let her. But he was obviously trying to steer clear of her. But he still frightened her—even if, under her fear there was that perplexing urge marked by the dull ache that throbbed in her sex and in her belly whenever he was near. Every day, some glaring look of his, or some pained expression on his face would push her almost to tears. It was just too much, after all she'd been through. She could never relax. Her body was always tense, her senses constantly straining to detect some threatening move, her mind constantly working out how she might run or defend herself if he tried anything. She was strained to her limits. She noted, though, with a certain detachment, that she was not a quivering mass, twitching nervously, eyes darting around her all the time. All her painful tension was on the inside. Outside she was soft, still, quiet. Her soul and her body barely touched. And, except for a moment of weakness the night he had caught her, she had never let him see her cry. And she never would.

Devan woke in the hazy light of late afternoon and realized, after a few dozy moments, that she was alone in the cabin. Hard and sudden, anxiety struck her. She tried to keep it vague, keep it at a distance, not put it into words or images, but she couldn’t keep away from the thought that it was Conrad. That he was close. That he’d done something to Vaughn. She felt a strange, urgent concern for Vaughn. Even telling herself she was being paranoid, she was compelled to find him, just to prove everything was all right. She checked his room and the bathroom, just to be sure she wasn’t imagining the total, disconcerting silence that meant he wasn’t there with her, then she

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peered out the windows, one after another, scanning the perimeter of the house, hoping to find Vaughn returning from a walk in the woods, or doing some chore outside. But there was no sign of him. A sickening dread took hold of her. But it was silly. Everything was fine, there was no reason to fret just because Vaughn had left the cabin. The man had a right to get out, get some air, move around. But she couldn’t get Conrad out of her mind, couldn’t stop picturing him closing on her, on them, doing something to Vaughn to get him out of the way and take her back with him. Frightened as she was of Vaughn, she couldn’t bear the thought of him being hurt on her account. In a fever of anxiety Devan bolted out the back door. As soon as the chill afternoon air hit her face, her arms, seeped in through the thin t-shirt she was wearing, her hysteria ebbed and she was left with quiet terror. It was pointless to go traipsing off into the woods in hopes of finding Vaughn. He might have gone in any direction, he could be anywhere, close or far. The only little thing for her to do was to circle the bit of clearing there by the cabin, then go back inside. And wait. Of course he wasn’t chopping wood, or near the septic system, or the generator. The final possibility was the little outbuilding on the north edge of the clearing. She had no faith that he was there, but the task of checking, at least, would delay her return to the cabin and her solitary wait there. As she turned toward the little building one fat, heavy drop of rain pelted her cheek, cold and hard. In that second, as she felt the icy wetness slide down her cheek, she felt a new twinge of fear, and suddenly she was

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terrified to approach the shack. Like she was bound to find something awful there. Or be found there. But this was dumb, too, just like her terror over Vaughn’s un-extraordinary absence. Just fucking go and see if he’s there, and when he’s not, just go back and read or something ‘til he gets back. She went up the few steps to the door and knocked. Then listened. Then knocked again. Rain was splatting on her back and shoulders, tumbling noisily on the roof, thumping softly into the dirt and plants. She knocked again. The longer she waited, the more desperately she needed to see inside, even as she felt like she was watching a bad horror film, shouting at the screen, no, idiot, just go back to the house! She tried the door. Of course it was unlocked. She opened it, actually hoping to hear Vaughn shouting at her to get the fuck out and leave him alone. But it was dark and quiet inside. She called Vaughn’s name in a pathetic, questioning tone and the expected silence came back to her. She was sure now. Positive that something was wrong. She just felt it. Dying of fear she stepped inside among the vague forms lining the walls, barely lit by the fading daylight sifting through the dirty windows. She was too focused, too frightened, to even wonder what they were. Her skin was absolutely crawling as she moved farther into the room and she made out a little cot against the far wall, lumpy with blankets. She almost cried out because the shape looked to her like a person, and now she was getting image after image—Vaughn asleep, about to wake to her prowling around his little hideaway-within-a-hideaway; Vaughn, dead, murdered by Conrad; Conrad, hiding, waiting for her. She was about ready to pass out from terror, but had to

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prove to herself that the form on the little cot was just what it had to be—a pile of blankets. Nothing more. Suddenly a voice sounded behind her. “Devan.”

Vaughn had been dying to get the fuck out of the cabin, and away from her. But each time he thought of going out, taking a walk, going to the workshop out back, he couldn’t put the thought of her there, alone, free to riffle through his things, out of his mind. Finally that afternoon when she fell asleep on the sofa, he decided to take the chance that she’d be out for half an hour or an hour, and slipped out. He’d meant to go for a walk, but in his haste and stealth he hadn’t dressed for it, so he’d ended up in the shop. Not much later, he’d needed to pee, and had gone a little distance into the woods. It was when he was coming back that he'd noticed her walking, slowly, holding herself as if she were cold, up the steps to the door of the shop. He’d lingered behind a tree, watching her, wondering what the fuck she could possibly be up to, coming out there to bug him when she’d had the pleasure of his company non-stop inside the damned cabin. When she opened the door and went inside he was amazed that he was amused, and not filled with the expected violent loathing. Not sure what he was going to do, he crossed the clearing and stood at the bottom of the steps to watch her tiptoe toward the far end of the room, toward the cot he kept there to lay and think and doze when he was bored of the cabin and tired of working. What did she think she was doing, sneaking up on him? Was she going to try to seduce that pile of blankets? And why was he so fucking entertained, when he should be ready to kill the bitch for stalking him like

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that, hunting him down, not just to his cabin in the woods, but beyond that, out to his work shop? No doubt it was the few whiskeys he’d kept warm with out there. Sort of softened the unforgivable crime of trespassing. “Devan.” He deliberately half-shouted, meaning to scare the piss out of her, just for fun. “Looking for me?” He laughed to himself at the way she jumped at the sound of his voice, but then, when she turned around, she looked so shaken up he felt guilty for being such a prick. He gave her a smile to take the edge off her obvious fear of making him mad, but it didn’t seem to do much good. He beckoned her over with a few curls of his index finger, and slowly, still shaking a bit, she came to the threshold and then, at another gesture from him, out onto the landing to take her share of the rain’s soaking. Locking eyes with her, holding her there in his sight, pale and still, slowly he came up, one step, two steps, three. A step below her he was still taller than she. He gave her a playfully disapproving look, then leaned in. With his calm whiskey buzz he took in her incredible, intense focus on him, then reached past her, and pulled the door shut. He grinned, almost ready to laugh. She deserved the soaking she was getting. “What were you up to in there?” “I was looking for you.” “Why?” “I…just…I woke up, and I didn’t know where you were…I just…I was worried about you.” “Worried?” Truly entertaining.

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“I know, it’s stupid.” She smiled momentarily, nervously. “I had a bad dream, and when I woke up, I guess it kind of stuck to me.” Even after the way he’d startled her she was looking at him with…gratitude? Adoration? Normally it would have irritated the living hell out of him, but for some reason, today, now, it was…endearing. He took a minute to look at her. “Come on. Let’s get inside.” He took hold of her arm, not roughly but, still, in a gesture completely uncharacteristic, and guided her down, past him, in front of him. Then he followed her in the direction of the main cabin. He watched her, just a foot or so ahead of him, walking, the rain soaking her clothes. His clothes. His t-shirt clinging to her shoulders, sticking to her shoulder blades, her back between, sticking and bunching slightly at her waist. His sweat pants, rolled at the waist, taking up extra length. And below, her ass, the muscles rounding with each step. Fuck, he wanted her, this girl who wanted him, who found him there in the forest, who wouldn’t take what she wanted like the others, or even ask for it. He understood, now. She wasn’t like them. Wanting, like them, but not nasty and cruel like them. Seeking and determined, but still human. Still warm. Warm and soft. Hot and wet. Hot with her need, soaked in rain. He finally got it. She’d been bold enough to seek him out, but confronted with him, with a real person in lieu of her fantasy, she couldn’t pull it off, whatever act she’d dreamt up and planned out, before actually seeing him, hearing him. She didn’t know yet, how to take what she wanted.

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It was going to make him crazy, the way the rain was soaking and curling and dripping down that dark strand of hair at the nape of her neck, between the taut masses of hair gathered in bands behind each ear, swelling and dripping every few seconds down onto the dark, already drenched, ribbed collar of his t-shirt. And then his hands were on her. Not rough. On her shoulders, pulling her to a halt. And she halted, without a word or a sound, without turning back to question with her eyes, or smile in relief. With his hands still on her shoulders he stepped close, so close his body pressed against hers. His hands still on her shoulders he bent his head to whisper, “What do you want?” She didn’t say anything. Too young. No. Too shy. Something. And something in him surged. His fingers wanted to grip, but he kept them soft. He turned her gently, walked her slowly to the big pine a few feet away near the edge of the clearing. If she wanted to be so passive, fine. He could handle that, even if it was far from his usual routine with women. He stood her a foot or so from that pine and slid his hands from her shoulders, down her arms, wet and slick with rain, to her wrists, strangely narrow in his hands. He lifted her arms and, his body pressing against hers as he leaned forward, pressed her hands against the tree, just above her head. This wasn’t the usual thing at all, and the way she was letting him move her body got to him. Already he was breathing hard, his body ready. Still he held her wrists. He looked at her right hand, her pale fingers pressed to the brown-black bark of the tree, the backs of her long, slim fingers startlingly white, the pads pink around the pressure points against the bark. The hand pattern of pale white and pink skin against the wood,

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all wet and dripping and glistening, should be a photograph. He let her wrists go, and her hands stayed, splayed on the tree. He knew she would let him do anything, have anything. Anything. It was that thought—that he could do what he wanted—that made him so hard, so hot, rather than any particular thing he could think of actually doing. That this strange, quiet girl would let him touch her, take her, look at her any way he liked, and yield to any thing he might do with nothing but breaths and sighs and that look of hers. Somehow her pigtails seemed perverse. He wanted her hair loose. Quietly, calmly, like a child with a doll who will neither judge not protest, he took one pigtail in the loose circle of his fingers and worked her wet hair free of the elastic band. Then he did the other. He put the bands around his wrist and, with both hands, combed his fingers through her wet hair until it hung heavy and wet in thick strands over her shoulders and down her back. But he missed the nape of her neck, pale and wisped with baby-fine hairs in two Vs, so he twisted her hair up in one hand and drew it up, bending her head forward, elongating the back of her delicate neck, making the pale skin go taut over the smooth rounded curves of her spine. Christ, he hadn’t even really touched her yet, and he was rock hard. What was it with this girl? He leaned into her, let his face brush against her neck, heard her suck in her breath, felt her quiver as his chest pressed against her back. Breathing in the smell of her skin, feeling the heat of their bodies warming the wet cloth between them, seeing the tiny hairs of the soft blond down of her ears he was momentarily aware of how on,

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how tuned into every sensation his body was in that moment, as if he could taste and see and hear molecules of air, of rain, of her and he felt oddly happy. It was exciting to touch, to run fingers along the bare wet gooseflesh of arms, to peel the wet, sticking sleeves back to reveal her upper arm and the first hint of her shoulder, to brush his lips against her there without kissing, to think of licking and biting her tender flesh, to feel the excitement of anticipation, the little twinge of denial. A thousand possibilities. Strip her slowly without touching her, look her over, pale and naked in the rain, make her look at him looking at her. Tug his sweats, the ones she was wearing, down just to the tops of her thighs, so the round cheeks of her ass would be framed by the hem of the tee and the waist of the sweats, touch her, finger her, spread her, take her, finger her cunt until she came with him in her ass. Eat her slowly until he reached the excruciating limit of his need, then stand, coax her wordlessly to her knees, and come in her mouth.

Fuck her hard and desperate against the tree, gripping her wet hair in his fists and watching her face through each moment, every thrust. This last image made him gasp as a wave of urgent need throbbed through his cock. Slowly, deliberately, he took hold of her wrist and guided her through a turn, so she was facing him, her back to the tree, her hands in fists up by her head. Her eyes asked what he would do. The t-shirt she had on was soaked and clung to her like gray skin, and he took in the shape of her tits, her dark areolae, her hard nipples, the vague ripple of ribs, the slight hollow of her belly. He came to her, his body pressing to hers, his thigh parting

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hers, getting a little sigh from her as his thigh pressed against her cunt. After that little noise she turned her face away and closed her eyes, and he smiled, a little amused by her shyness. He leaned into her, her body soft and trembling, mouthed her ear, felt her panting breath with his chest, and whispered, “What do you want, Devan?” One of her wrists he let go, let his hand come down into her hair, feel its heavy thickness between his fingers. Her other wrist he brought down, down, and pressed her hand to his hard, aching cock. “Is this what you want?” She only answered with a breathy sigh, her eyes closed, her lips parted. Still holding her hand to his groin, barely moving it over him, he mouthed her ear again, gently bit her jaw just beneath it, kissed her neck, breathing in the smell of her hair and her skin as he tasted her flesh. He heard his own excited breathing, panting against her face, her neck, her jaw, tasted his own saliva as his mouth moved back to the places it had been already, tasted the salt of her skin—salty chin, jaw, neck cheek. Strangely so, when her ear hadn’t been, or the smooth neck beneath, under the canopy of her wet hair. Not thinking, just feeling, feeling his way around her, he tasted the rain dripping from her chin, trickling down her smooth cheek, wetting her lashes. But the rain on her lashes was all salt. “Are you crying?” Eyes still closed, lips still parted with no answer. “Answer me. Why are you crying?” “Please.”

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“Please what? What is it? What do you want?” “Please. Please…don’t.” “Don’t what?” He was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with her. Some physical flaw—a scar, maybe, that she didn’t want him to see. That she was going to tell him not to undress her, not to look at some part of her. “Don’t what, Devan?” he panted. “Don’t…rape me.” He sort of laughed, and then he started to shake strangely, and his face burned. “Jesus fuck. Are you…are you kidding? Is that what you think this is? Is that what you think I’m doing?” The laxness in her face went taut and when her eyes finally opened he saw that she was not kidding. He panicked at her terror. He took his hands off her. Stepped back. She looked at him, maybe hopeful, maybe even more afraid. God fucking damn it, why the hell hadn’t she just said, right at the start, “don’t touch me,” “leave me alone,” or something equally simple? Why had she just stood there, mute and pliable, while he moved and touched and put his mouth all over her? At last he spoke to her, in the staccato syllables of a man gritting his teeth, trying not to shout. “Listen to me. If I had thought you didn’t want this, we wouldn’t be here. I have no interest in forcing you to do anything. All right?” She just stared at him, mute. “All right, let’s get in, out of this fucking rain.”

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She didn’t look like she was too eager to go along with him. “Come on. I’m not going to touch you.” he said, insistently but as gently as he could manage, and she stepped away from the tree and went with him back to the cabin. On the porch they pulled off their mud-caked shoes. He still could not get over her ridiculous boots. He opened the door and held it, gesturing for her to go in when she just stood there. “Your floors.” “Just go in and put on something dry. I’ll mop up the floor.” He was almost annoyed at her prissy worry over his floor until he remembered that first night when he’d made her strip because she was dripping muddy water. Then he felt ashamed of himself. And it wasn’t until she’d gone in, crossed the cabin, and disappeared behind her bedroom door that he realized she had nothing to change into. Another miserable wave of shame hit him when he thought to himself that she’d been too scared of him, just then, to ask him for something dry to wear. He went to his room and gathered up a collection of tops and bottoms so she wouldn’t have to come begging every time she wanted a change of clothes, and knocked softly at her door. No surprise when there was no answer. “I just realized,” he said in a voice soft and contrite, “that you’d need some more clothes.” When, after a few moments, she had not said anything, or come to the door, he said, “I’ll just leave them here, by the door for you.” Before he’d stooped to set them down, though, she opened the door, and stood there facing him uncertainly. “Thank you,” she said softly.

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“That’s all right.” He handed the clothes to her through the space she’d opened the door, and she took them from him, scrutinizing his face through the entire exchange. Then, when she had the articles in her hand, and he had stepped away from the door, she looked both relieved and embarrassed. “Hey,” he said softly, careful not to give her the mistaken impression that he was coming anywhere near her, “you’re probably freezing. Why don’t you take a hot shower? I’ll take one when you’re done.” “All right. Thanks.” He had the distinct impression that she’d agreed as a gesture of good will in spite of a real desire to stay hidden in her room, but he hoped that when he didn’t jump her in the hallway, or barge in on her in the bathroom, when he’d left her alone all evening and night, she would realize that the business by the pine tree was just a big, ridiculous misunderstanding. Deliberately, he went to the kitchen to audibly busy himself making dinner. The rattling of pots and pans, the chopping of garlic and onions would tell her where he was, assure her that he wasn’t lurking around her room, waiting to pounce on her the moment she opened the door. Soon enough he glimpsed her darting across the hall, into the bathroom, and heard the water start running. He had the pot on the stove to simmer by the time she was done, and after she was cloistered in her room he locked himself in the bathroom and got in the shower, He was actually shaking with what he thought was cold, but ten minutes in he was still jittery, and finally admitted it was to do with her, not the hour in wet clothes.

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How, how had he ended up is such a ridiculous situation? “Please, don’t rape me.” Good god. Yes, all right, he had a few fucked up fantasies. But Christ, he’d never, never, done anything like that. He’d never so much as forced a kiss on anyone. He was the one the guys in his first band had given shit, calling him a puritan even though he hadn’t been to church since he was twelve, because he wouldn’t fuck the high school girls who conned their way back stage after gigs. She’d come here. He hadn’t gone fucking looking for her. And he was the rapist? Of course, even as he was feeling entrapped, put upon, and misjudged, the thought of her against that tree, soaking wet, the t-shirt sheer and clinging to her caught his imagination, and the thought of taking her—not hurting her, but her really letting him—got him hard again. Her lips parted, her sighing breath, her body so open to him. He started to stroke himself, closing out all memories of the taste of her tears, of the look in her eyes when she’d finally opened them, that dark, disintegrating feeling when she’d accused him and he felt both wronged and guilty. Shutting it out, thinking of her heat, her soft body, her soft skin, he fisted his cock, needing to come. But it was useless. Every time he sank into the memory of his hands in her hair, his mouth on her, the memory of her saying please, please in that voice, that voice, made him guilty and miserable. Every time he escaped the memory and conjured the remembered fantasy, her sighing and succumbing, writhing against him, opening her mouth to him, opening her legs for him, he remembered how hurt, how scared she’d actually looked, and the shame came back and buried all the arousal, all the heat. He gave up on jerking off. And almost threw up.

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After he dried off and dressed he checked on dinner and, seeing it was ready and simmering happily, he went back to the shut door of her room, and softly rapped. “I made stew.” “Thanks. I guess I’m not hungry yet, but thanks.” She sounded like she’d been asleep.

Hours had gone by, and still her door was shut, and silence behind it. He’d managed to eat without being sick, but with every passing hour he felt more and more that he’d been in the wrong. She’d come there, fine. But when, when in all their time together had she given the least sign that she liked him at all, much less desired to be shoved up against a tree and fucked? Every notion he’d had of her desire for him had come from one of two things: her mere presence there, which was circumstantial at best, and his own perverse imagination. Not a look, not a gesture or a word of hers had encouraged him in any way. All right, it was weird that she’d said nothing, when it was pretty clear where things were going, out there in the rain. She’d been silent and compliant the whole time he’d been whispering in her ear and playing with her fucking hair and playing the Marquis or whatever it was he was pretending as he’d held her arms up over her head like that. Fuck, his face flushed hot when he thought of how he’d pulled the elastic bands out of her hair. More than anything—even more than putting her hand on his cock—the memory of the way he’d messed with her hair embarrassed him. Every book he’d ever read, every film or stupid TV show he’d ever seen where some asshole rearranged

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some woman’s hair had bugged the crap out of him. Who were these men who wanted to coif the women they were about to fuck? It was so…proprietary. But they were there—her two elastic bands still digging into his wrist, cutting off his circulation, reminding him that he was just like those morons he’d despised. He was keeping them on, pretending it was so he could give them back to her if she ever emerged from her hideaway, half acknowledging that it was some pathetic form of penance.

He was miserable, worried that she was curled up in a corner in that little room, waiting in terror for the moment when he’d come and do…well, what he’d been about to do earlier. Or even just that she was afraid and feeling alone and trapped there with him, some predatory brute who’d been momentarily deterred from his inevitable attempt to have his way with her. But there was nothing he could do. If he went and knocked, tried to talk to her, of course she’d think it was just some move to seduce her, or to lure her out under some delusion of security so he could jump her. He’d just leave her alone and hope that giving her space would convince her that he wasn’t out to hurt her in any way. The whiskey was sounding pretty good. He normally didn’t drink so damned much, and he was starting to think, this trip to the cabin, that he was becoming an alcoholic. And he wasn’t such a fan of the way he’d been acting on the booze. Every time he had a drink, and she was there, he seemed to turn ugly. But he couldn’t cope with his head. His thoughts. How fucking shitty he felt about himself and the way he’d acted with her. Maybe a little pot for a change. He silently gave himself a derisive laugh.

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He rolled a joint and started to head outside, but closed the door instead and walked down the hall to her door, and softly knocked. He’d have left her alone if that gentle knock hadn’t gotten a response, but a few seconds later he heard her soft tread, and then the door opened. She seemed wide awake. He was ready to say something like, “I’m gonna go outside and smoke a little pot, Want to join me?” But now that she was standing there, looking at him, that sounded ridiculous. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” She shook her head no. “Do you want to…can we talk?” She stood there looking at him, waiting for him to say what he had to say and go away. “Maybe out on the porch?” It had sounded reasonable in his head, but as soon as he’d said it he felt like an idiot. Gee, would you like to come back outside where you think I tried to rape you a few hours ago? He waited for her to slam the door shut and to hear the scraping sounds of her jamming a chair under the doorknob. But she gave a half-hearted smile and nodded. Then she stepped out, into the hallway with him. “Hang on a sec,” he said, then swiped into his room and came back with the thick wool throw from the end of his bed. “It’s cold out,” he mumbled as he handed it to her, and she took it with a smile that didn’t seem pretended. Maybe he was wrong, but she didn’t even seem scared of him now. They went out onto the porch and curled up in the two big wooden captain’s chairs. When he’d

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done the one-eighty and gone back in, for her, he’d forgotten about the joint in his pocket. He’d thought, in that moment, that he needed to set things straight, put her at ease, ease his conscience, rather than needing to get stoned. But now, whatever little speech had half-formed in his head had faded away, and he didn’t know what to say. She was sitting there, next to him, apparently calm, staring up into the night sky, and to bring up what had happened earlier seemed profane. Even cruel. In his nervousness and uncertainty he reverted to the original plan, and fished the joint and lighter out of his pocket. “Do you smoke?” he asked. “Pot?” She actually smiled. “I’ve just tried it a couple of times.” He lit up and took a drag, drawing on the joint until he was sure it was really lit. Then he offered it to her, relieved, almost thrilled, when she took the cigarette from him and put it to her lips, and the cherry flared up a hot white-yellow in the night. “Parties?” “What?” She said oddly, holding the smoke in. “You’ve tried it a couple times—at parties?” She exhaled, shook her head, handed the joint back to him. “No. Not parties. A friend of mine’s sort of a pothead. She’s gotten me stoned a couple times. That’s all.” He took another hit, then handed it back to her. She took a couple puffs, then handed it back to him. “That’s enough for me. Otherwise I’ll end up sleeping right here.”

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He was a bit thrown off by her apparent calm, her casualness. But, now that he was feeling nice and stoned, he felt like he could cope with her erratic behavior, and actually say what he’d meant to say earlier, at her door. He turned and looked at her, still gazing vaguely into the night, until she seemed to feel his stare, and turned to look back at him. “I’m glad you agreed to come out with me.” he said, stoned and slow, but lucid. "I thought maybe you’d be…afraid.” She kept looking at him with no discernible change of expression, but he still imagined a glimmer of suspicion had appeared in her eyes. “Devan, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I scared you earlier. I really didn’t mean to…” “It’s all right. Really. I know…you couldn’t have known, because I didn’t say anything. I let it go too far.” “Still, I’m sorry. I didn’t…did I hurt you?” She laughed. It had to be the pot, but it was adorable. “No. No, you didn’t hurt me.” She gave him another smile, but it was weaker. Sober. “Can I have another hit?” He handed her the remnant of joint. “You…” he smiled at her, afraid he was about to demolish a miraculously placid outcome to their afternoon disaster, “I don’t say this to be a dick, but, really, well…” “What?” “Nothing.” “What?”

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“Well, I fucked up. Looking back, I really don’t know what I was thinking. But you…I hope, for your own sake, that you get comfortable with telling guys no. Because, as I so aptly demonstrated this afternoon, we’re not so hot at mind reading.” There was a long silence. “I would have stopped, you know.” “You did stop.” “Earlier, I mean. If you’d just said something.” He was justifying, fishing for absolution. But she only sat there, looking at him oddly. “I just, I hate to think of …you getting hurt.” After an agonizing minute she stopped staring him down, and sucked down the rest of the joint.

Sitting there, stoned, next to him, stoned, was funny. Almost comical. Just a couple hours after she’d stood there silently sobbing as he rubbed her hand back and forth over his erection. What do you want? What do you want? His words had been echoing in her head over and over all evening. The whispers in her ear, What do you want? had been a threat. A promise. Not a question. But he’d stopped. No scream, no desperate strike or attempt to flee. He’d guessed the tears she’d tried to hide out of fear they’d provoke extra cruelty, and he’d stopped. What do you want? It had been a question, after all. He’d stopped. Angry. Confused. Hurt. Ashamed. Even in his anger he’s been very careful of her. She’d noticed it all. She couldn't exactly trust him, but she understood what had happened, and her part in it, and that she could collaborate with him to make it possible for them to exist in the cabin together for the next two-plus

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weeks. And so she’d come out of her room, come out to the porch with him, smoked a joint with him.

"I'm gonna go for a walk. Out in the woods. Why don't you come along?" With curiosity he watched her tense, then smile oddly. "Oh. That's nice. Nice of you to ask me. But maybe I'll stay here." "You can't stay cooped up in here the whole time. Come on. It's a nice day for once." It was not so much that he cared whether she was sedentary as a statue during her time there, or that he wanted her company. But he still couldn't stand the idea of her left to her own devices while he was off wandering in the woods. The thought that there was so much as a slim chance of her poking around in his things while she had the place to herself was enough to keep him from going out if she refused to come along. Or at least, that's what he told himself. Without guessing why, she sensed that he would not go without her. And what excuse could she give? With quiet resignation she tried to crush her dread of the woods, and her irrational fear of wandering off into the wilderness with him. If the guy wanted to do something awful to her, it wasn't like there was anything stopping him, there at the cabin. They bundled up and set off. Back into the woods, for a while following almost the very path she'd wandered days earlier, faint with fatigue and hunger and fear. The forest was, Devan thought, strangely lovely that day, the way a woman can seem more beautiful when she is sad. The tree trunks and needles, the low plants and ground cover

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all were wet after a damp night and days of rain, but the sun shone through in places making the greens appear luminescent. When she heard the sound of the river she relived the moment when she had heard it that morning she had awoken in her bed of leaves, lost and disoriented, and when the river came into view it seemed to her that it pointed straight back to that other cabin, to Conrad, that it ran like a ribbon between them, tying there and then to her here and now, and she struggled to stay calm, to hide her agitation from Vaughn who seemed more relaxed and natural out here in the woods than she had ever seen him. When he began clambering upstream over the half-submerged logs and rocks along the edge of the river, she set off downriver, unwilling to go even a little way back toward the place she had fled. When she glanced back a while later and saw Vaughn moving back in her direction, she turned back to meet him, and they set off back toward the cabin in complicit silence. She was drifting in and out of dark thoughts and the slanting dappled sunlight of the present. She was paralleling Vaughn's steps, keeping him in her peripheral vision. But when she drifted back, into her mind, he would fade away and other men would appear. Before anything else she heard a strange noise. Something between a muffled whimper and an inhaled scream. Then she realized why. A hand was circled around her forearm. Then a hand over her mouth. But it was strange. The grip on her arm was so light. Barely even a touch. And the hand at her mouth, just two or three fingers at her lips, not even touching her now. She looked at him in perplexed terror. He looked back, startled. Confused. Then he

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smiled. A strange smile that she would think, later, was like that of an embarrassed child. "Shhh. I want to show you something," he whispered, then took his fingers from her lips, and still holding her arm, led her to the nearly vertical sweep of a hillock, almost hidden beneath brush and behind trees. He peered silently between two thick evergreens into darkness fringed by scraggly forest. He looked over his shoulder at her, then turned to stare once more into the black. Her pulse was banging painfully in her ears and she was almost terror-stricken, panicked by the way he'd stopped her, grabbed her, then dragged her along, frightened by sudden, irrational thoughts that maybe he'd waited until now, until he had her away from his home, to punish her for intruding, to get rid of her. Even before she could dismiss those ridiculous thoughts she was filled with anxiety, dull and nauseating, that he had found something. A pack, a piece of clothing. Even a body. Some sign that Conrad was close by, that he had followed her. She looked, dreading, into the void where Vaughn's eyes told her to look. Then she heard it, over the thudding that came from inside her. A faint chorus of tiny whimpers. Like puppies. Then she saw it—a little spot of sunlight on a tiny grayish paw deep in the shadows of the hollow side of the hidden hill. And then, as her eyes focused to the proper depth and adjusted to the dimness, she saw a huddled mass of little furry bodies wriggling about. Vaughn turned back to see if she had seen. The look on his face was so innocently happy it almost hurt her, and she forced a small smile to show him she had seen the hidden treasure he had shown her. Quickly and quietly, then, they left.

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He knew he had frightened her. He had touched her arm almost without thinking, and when it seemed she was about to scream, he'd put his hand to her mouth on instinct. He'd only wanted to quiet her without speaking, to keep their presence a secret from the mother wolf who had to be nearby. When he'd seen how frightened, how terrified she was, the only thing he could think of to calm her was to let her see why, why he had taken her arm that way, in a moment of careless excitement. But when she'd seen, she hadn't softened into childlike joy, as he had. She had put on a rigid little smile. For him. But he had seen. Looking in on that little scene, those tiny pups nestled and squirming had made her…wretched. Her reaction was, for him, one of those moments when someone surprises us to the point that our understanding of human nature, of the world around us, is shaken. "Wolves?" she asked when they'd left the little den far behind, trying to seem normal, knowing how oddly she'd acted. "Mmmhmm." "What about the mother?" "Somewhere close."

Later that night she noticed him looking at her strangely. "What?" she asked softly. "Sorry." He smiled abashedly, feeling ashamed to have been caught staring. "I was just thinking about earlier." "Earlier?"

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"In the woods. Wondering what you were thinking when we saw those cubs." She looked at him a moment, not wanting to pretend she'd been enchanted, not wanting to lie and say, "I was thinking how little and adorable they were," but knowing how peculiar her actual thoughts, her real reaction had been. "When I noticed them I wanted to show them to you, you know, because I thought you'd be excited. But when I looked over you looked so…sad." "I guess," she started softly, feeling that same wave of sadness come over her again, "when I saw them there, so tiny, so helpless, and I felt myself there, so close, and I thought, I won't hurt them, but someone else could have just as easily found them there, their mother gone, and killed them all. Even cruelly. And then I thought, even I, if I were just very slightly different—in a different frame of mind, different circumstances, maybe even I might do something terrible to something so small and fragile. It was just one of those moments where I feel afraid of myself, of people." He went cold and weak at her words that echoed so closely his own fear of himself, with her. On the fourth day, after lunch, Vaughn set off for a walk in the woods. Anything to get out of the cabin and away from her. The day before he couldn’t bear the idea of her alone in the cabin, but today he could not bear to be alone with her. As he left he passed her, sitting on the back porch, nose buried among the yellowing pages of Dostoyevsky's Siberia. Devan closed the book and sealed Raskolnikov's fate. The moment she stopped reading, her gaze and her mind went to the forest, after Vaughn, back to Conrad. With the thought of Conrad a flood of images washed over her: him forcing her spread her

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legs; his hand slipping into her panties; his face, challenging, incredibly resolved; the night he had kissed her; those other men, the way they had held her down, the look on Conrad's face as the blond one had held him back… "Fuck!" Devan jumped up, her vision bleared with tears. Another book. She needed another book. Charging back inside, she stared for a few minutes at the rows of worn paperback spines, then settled on Camus. She glanced at the couch, but at this moment she could not bear the close darkness of the cabin that reminded her of that other cabin. She went back outside to try to shake her misery in the crisp air and bright sun, and plunged into the fresh mirage of her new book.

Given Vaughn's usual lone wolf habits, Devan was surprised when, an hour or so later, he came and sat down by her on the porch as he returned from his walk. The Stranger lay open on her thigh since she had fallen into contemplation, gazing across the clearing at the bordering trees. "I'm beginning to see a pattern in your choice of reading material," Vaughn said, glancing from the book to her eyes. "It's hard to get one's fill of murdering sociopaths." She found herself throwing a glance toward the woods. With his eyes still on her she felt caught out, and tried to cover her embarrassment with chatter, her words flowing from the stream of thoughts Vaughn had interrupted when he'd joined her. "It’s so rare for me to be in a place like this, really in nature."

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She paused, and then, a few moments later, picked up again with an absentminded air. "I forget sometimes how artificial my daily environment is. Everything paved. Everything clean. Water, food, everything always there when I need it. So easy. But it’s kind of like being an animal in the zoo. Walking around on concrete, sleeping in a little shelter, being fed my three meals every day, but so separated from the real world, the natural environment. Totally cut off from a life of instinct and physicality and survival. Just performing my little human tricks every day, keeping the trainers happy and the visitors amused. It all seems so trivial at times." Devan was thinking out loud. Trying, as always, to put Vaughn a little at ease, to comfort herself with the sound of voices in the long, silent voids of their confinement together. Vaughn was quiet beside her. He wanted to talk with her. It was so rare to just sit down with someone and talk. Exchange thoughts. It was always band business. Or schmoozing—those demoralizing interactions that were all small talk and fake smiles. He wanted to say, yes, he had thought those same thoughts, that he often felt he was a creature bred in captivity and forced to live in conditions utterly inimical to his nature. But the lies and the omissions were an impenetrable force field between them. He wanted it gone.

"What were you singing?" He didn't sound angry, exactly. She realized, instantly flooded with regret, that she had been singing aloud. Softly, but audibly. "I don't know, I just…"

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"That's the song I've been writing." She felt like a thief. It wasn't what you'd call a catchy tune. The melody was too complex. But there was something in the arduous progression of notes that had captured Devan's imagination as she heard them filing out one by one and leaping up in groups from the strings of his guitar and scattering in the air. Later, after he had set the guitar aside, she caught him humming the tune, end to end, over and over, under his breath. The powerful feeling she had gotten from the notes sung by the instrument was overwhelming from his body. The resonant sounds in his throat, on his lips, filled her with melancholy and, at the same time, made her ache sweetly.

When had the words begun to take shape in her mind? She couldn't have said, but they were there, clear, inevitable, as if they had been part of the song all along. Now when she heard the notes flying off the strings of the guitar, or resonating in his mouth, she heard the imagined lyrics as distinctly as if he were singling them. "I know. I'm sorry. It sticks with me, I guess. I didn't realize I was humming it out loud." As usual when she was nervous she was speaking too quickly. "You weren't humming. You were singing." He came closer. She shrank back a little. "Sing it again." "What?" Her face went hot. "If you don't mind, sing it again." "Oh. I can't. I can't sing, my voice is awful."

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"No it isn't." "No, really, I can't sing." He smiled a little. "All right. Just tell me, what was the line here?" He hummed a few notes. "A bruising beating of wings," she whispered, blushing, eyes cast down. "And here?" He gave her the next few bars. "Slender shadows steal up, cold hands with smooth skin." "Right," he said wistfully, maybe to himself. He was looking at her strangely. A studying, measuring gaze. Then he smiled softly, almost warmly—a look different from the coolly patient grin he had given her a moment earlier. "I've been killing myself trying to write the lyrics for this song," he confessed, still regarding her rather oddly. "Usually, you know, lyrics come to me, no problem. Half the time, actually, I get the lyrics before the music. But with this song, nothing." "They'll come to you, don't you think?" "I think they came to you." She flushed again. "Would you mind writing them down for me?" "Write them?" "Since you're being so obstinate about singing," he said with a teasing grin. "Sure. All right." He gave her a pen and a sheet of paper and she sat down at the dining table to write. The words appeared, line by line, start to finish, without a second's hesitation.

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When she had finished he took it up from the table. He gave her a long, penetrating look. Then he read. As he took in each word, each line, he felt deeply the feelings of her phrases, and it was as if this was her thing—a poem intimately hers yet made for the music he had been writing since arriving at the cabin. It was a thing of fragile, dark beauty. And in those lines he felt something inside of him answering her. He lifted his eyes from her words to her face. "You're a poet." She blushed. "Really, Devan. This is…impressive. Very evocative. You did write it?" "Yes." "May I have this?" he asked, holding up the sheet of paper lined with her tight, slanted pen. "Sure." "Mind if I try it? With the music?" "No." To her mind they belonged together—those words and those notes. The words would never have come to her on their own; they had been brought to her by the music. Practically all her life she had written poetry—rather decent poetry, she sometimes thought. But seeing those words in ink on paper, they were cold, dead things. Inert without the sustaining energy of his melody. He sat on the hearth, took up his guitar, and played, humming the notes as his eyes roamed over the page marked with her writing. Then he started over, from the

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beginning, and sang her lyrics. Hearing those words, her words, heavy with unnamed pain and hope, warming in his throat, brought to life on his lips, taking flight on his voice, she felt almost as though she were being physically touched. It was, in some incomprehensible way, one of the most intimate things she had ever experienced.

After dinner that night Devan watched as Vaughn poured himself a drink, and asked if she might have one, too. "Sure." She rose and started toward the kitchen. "Sit down," he said in his usual manner, terse but gentle, his voice large and soft and low all at once. "I’ll bring it to you." She sat back down on the floor before the fire, and leaned against the base of the couch. A moment later he was standing over her, handing her a glass. "What is it?" "Whiskey on the rocks." She tried it tentatively and winced. "Not much of a drinker, are you?" "No, not really." He smiled his wan smile, then went to the kitchen and returned with a can of cola. "Maybe like this," he said, pouring until the fizz almost overflowed the rim. She tasted and smiled approvingly.

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They sat quietly by the fire, sipping their drinks, she on the floor, he on the sofa. When her glass was finally empty he took it from her and went to the kitchen to make a second round. "Here you are, my dear," he pronounced chivalrously as he handed her the whiskey and cola. His words were sunnier than his tone. He was half-heartedly playing at being gallant, unconsciously trying to make up for how cold he had been to her, to paint over days of dark thoughts with a fresh coat of kindness. And, though he would only halfadmit it to himself, he felt like talking. After a moment of indecision he sat down, not on the sofa, but on the floor, next to her. Feeling flushed and sleepy from the first drink, she held the second untouched on her thigh. He was so close now. A small fear fluttered in her chest and an aching arousal followed the throbs radiating out to her limbs. Glancing at his arm, bent on the cushion beside her, she was surprised once again at its size, at how muscular it seemed, at the smooth milky whiteness of the delicate skin of his inner arm. When she glanced at his face he was looking at her and she felt embarrassed, as if he had read her thoughts. He gave her a small smile, and she nervously blurted out the first half-way appropriate thing that came to her mind. "Being here reminds me of being a kid, and going with my friend Jenny to her family's cabin." "Yeah?" "Yeah. I remember hanging out by the fire in the evenings, and Jenny and I would play monopoly or scrabble or whatever. And one time, when Jenny's uncle came

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up, they taught us poker." She laughed a little. "Jenny and I felt all grown up, playing poker with the men." "Jenny's mom didn't play?" "She died when Jenny was little." There was another long, awkward silence Devan felt she had to fill. "You know, we used to kid around about hooking our parents up—her dad and my mom, but my mom couldn't stand the guy." "Your folks divorced?" "Oh, um, no...they were never married." She raised her eyebrows to gently mock the scandal. "I'm afraid I'm the product of a youthful indiscretion. So, I've met him a couple of times, but I don't really know him." What was up with that? Why was she baring her soul to this guy who didn't even like her? "That's too bad." "Maybe. I guess you don't miss what you never had." "Maybe not," he answered wistfully. "Do you have any kids?" "No." He had a strange look on his face. There was another long silence, but Devan resolved not to start blathering away again or ask any more dumb questions. Mercifully, at last, Vaughn said something. "I’ve never shared this cabin with anyone. I’ve always come here on my own, to be alone. But it’s nice having you here." He was weary of his own mistrust, of fighting his inclination to like this strange girl. "I’m glad." Maybe he didn't hate her after all. Or maybe he was just saying that.

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"I suppose I’ve been lonely." Suddenly it seemed like the sleepiness from the first cocktail had dissolved, and she took a drink. "I sometimes feel lonely, too, in my regular life back in Seattle." She sounded wistful. Distant. "No friends?" "I have friends," she said. Not many. Not real, close friends, she thought. "No boyfriend?" "No, not really." She hoped that her blush at his question was invisible by the firelight. Then she hastily added, "But that’s not why I feel lonely," because the implication that it was sounded pathetic. "Then why?" "Well, even when you’re around people all the time, you can feel apart. I guess that’s how I feel most of the time." "How so?" She'd really put herself on the spot with her passing sympathetic comment. He was looking at her with patient interest, though. Could it be they were about to have an actual conversation? "I don't know…I’m there in the room with people, but I’m still alone. Even when I talk to people, most of the time it’s as though I’m on autopilot, just saying what I’m supposed to say, and they’re doing the same, and there’s nothing real to the interaction at all.”

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"Sure," he said, with a soft voice and a soft smile. "I know what you mean." A tiny aperture seemed to be opening in the wall between them, and Devan was nearly giddy with relief as the burden of her isolation lightened. "Sometimes," she went on, suddenly animated, "I feel like I connect more deeply with the characters in novels than with people I meet in real life—maybe because in novels you get to read their thoughts. In life, you never know what people are thinking." "You mean you don’t know what I’m thinking right now?" He arched one eyebrow, doing his best Lothario. She flushed absolutely crimson and gave a queer little giggle. He laughed, not unkindly, amused at her reaction. He had meant to make a joke, but her odd giggle and the two drinks had warmed him. Once again he was finding himself stirred in her presence. She had an innocent quality that was both alluring and perplexing. It had been a long time since he had been with a woman, but it had been much, much longer since he had been with a woman who had not aggressively worked to seduce him. This retiring girl who blushed so easily, who seemed to like being near him but never made a suggestive gesture or remark was, for him, a novelty. He had not wanted anyone in such a long time. But yes. He would finally admit it to himself. He wanted her. He fought back the creeping realization that he was feeling more than the torturous lust that had been building since he'd found her there four nights ago. That had lead to the embarrassing debacle two days earlier. After months of celibacy, he told himself, he needed to get laid. He was almost past caring that he might be giving her just what she'd come for.

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He was leaning in toward her, and she thought maybe he was going to kiss her. A little stab of excitement—half fear, half arousal—jabbed at her belly. She couldn't understand it, but she wanted his kiss. That creeping warmth of desire spread through her, stirred by her simple proximity to this man, by the mere thought that he might touch her, that his lips might brush against hers. She had never experienced arousal this way before—outside her weird fantasies, outside Conrad's coercions. Her desire made no sense to her. She barely knew this man. Hell, she was terrified of him, half the time. But then nothing had made sense since the day Conrad had taken her from her apartment. This strange moment—the unfamiliar buzzing warmth of the alcohol, the arousing nearness of Vaughn, her increasing willingness to give in to whatever impulse was drawing her to him, seemed to fit with her surreal time out of time there in that forest. Moment by moment he seemed somehow nearer and nearer. He smiled a little, now and then, as they talked, and that smile, which she had seen so rarely, made her feel soft and almost giddy. Now his eyes, dark but flashing like polished metal, seemed to be seeking something in her. A silence fell between them, and after a moment she watched as he unbent that marble arm, as his hand came slowly toward her. Softly he caressed her cheek, and this innocent touch did her heart sudden, delicious violence. Her blood pounded her pulse points with staccato bursts. Suddenly it was hard to breathe evenly. “Is this all right?” he asked, smiling, his voice low and gentle. She just nodded.

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Vaughn stroked her hair, then drew his hand down her neck, across her collarbone, and down her arm, letting his hand linger on hers. He wasn't sure if he was caving in to a manipulative woman, or attempting the seduction of an innocent girl he'd practically assaulted two days earlier. He took her drink from her and set their glasses on the hearth. Coming near, he ran his palms up her neck until his fingers were submerged in her hair. Her dark eyes pulling him in, her soft full lips, slightly parted, inviting him. He gave her one small kiss on her cheek, then kissed the corners of her mouth. He pulled back a little and looked at her. She was still. Waiting. Willing. It wasn't what he'd expected. He felt warm and soft, and looking at her face that was like a gentle welcome, so open, so beckoning, he smiled a warm soft smile. He kissed her fully, tenderly, long and deep. She was surprised by the power of that kiss, startled to find her whole body reacting to his touch and his mouth when, just days before, she had imagined she would never again want a man touching her. But now her stomach was fluttering, her knees and crotch tingling, her body feeling strangely like it had those few times she had been touched, though he was not touching her that way. Her heart’s vital beats echoed between her legs, and she imagined he could feel it, too, like the reverberations from a bass drum. She let out a tiny moan that surprised her and inspired him. He was suddenly more ardent, his kiss hotter, his hold on her trembling, his breathing rapid. Sensing his arousal she felt a fresh surge of fear. And her fear stoked her soft warmth to yearning

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heat. He could do anything to her; the idea brought a hot ache to her groin. Conrad had been right about her—the fleeting thought stung her before she drove it away. Still they were kissing as his hands slid from her hair, her scalp tingling with the memory of his fingers that were now lightly trailing over new terrain, stirring nerves along neck and shoulders, over back, bottom, thigh, the skin coming joyously awake everywhere his hand passed. “Still all right?” he asked her, his voice still gentle, though he was panting, now. She smiled, embarrassed, touched. He was making sure. After her stupid silence two days earlier. But her voice caught in her throat and all she could do was nod again. As they sank into another kiss, she didn't know what to do with her hands but they seemed to float away from her will, drifting to his dark hair, finding it wonderfully soft, floating down to his face, holding his jaw, unshaven and rough, winding around his neck, down onto those broad shoulders, harder than she knew flesh could be, muscles offering gentle curves to mold her palms against. She was drawing him to her, or drawing herself to him, that wonderful ache guiding her to seek him. His hand curved around her thigh, just above the knee, and gently drew her leg across him, his other arm encircling her back, pulling her against him. Still locked in their melting kiss she found herself straddling him, their mouths, their chests, their bellies pressed together, his hips pressed between her thighs. The intimacy of their embrace startled and warmed her. He felt her, hot and trembling against him—this same girl who had trembled beneath him when he'd pinned her in the mud, the same girl he'd been tormenting in his endless fantasies ever since. Again, that dark, fleeting thought: he could have her

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however he wanted her. But then another surge of gentle affection. Somehow all his dark desire was mingling with tender arousal as he held her now. Emerging momentarily from their kiss he held her a little from him. Her black hair was framed by a delicate halo of firelight, her face almost hidden from him. But he heard her little panting breaths, felt her body against his and under his hands, quivering provocatively with what he felt sure was arousal and desire for more. He pulled her to him once more. Under his mouth, wrapped in his embrace, pressed to his body she felt bewildered and needful and strangely elated, warm and small and seeking. And now, she not only felt his hands caressing her hair and tickling over her back and sliding over her thigh and ass; she not only felt the brush of his beard against her neck and jaw as he kissed and licked her throat in a way that made that ache between her legs swell and sharpen; now she felt him there, where his hips spread her legs. His hardness bulging against his jeans and pressing against her cunt, barely hidden from the sensation by the soft, yielding fabric of the sweat pants she was wearing. The thought of his prick hard against her sex made her tummy twinge with a fresh surge of excitement and suddenly she felt she had crested that hill and now she was hurtling inevitably down toward that delicious obliterating crash. She was suddenly frightened to feel so much with him this way when he was only kissing her, to feel her aching, seeking cunt pressed against that wonderful, dangerous bulge. Hot with sudden embarrassment, she tried to pull a little away. He let her go. When she opened and focused her eyes he was gazing at her, smiling at her.

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“Should we stop?” “No,” she breathed. “If you want to stop, will you tell me?” “I'll tell you.” Vaughn smiled and pulled her into the warmth of his gentle embrace, and took her again in a deep kiss. Again her arousal swelled up. and she whimpered softly before she could silence herself. Feeling her excitement, hearing her sweet little whimper, he sank hungrily into the other side of her neck, tonguing and licking and sucking and sighing softly in answer to her sighs. When she drew back he pulled her against him, almost roughly, bringing her neck to his lips with one hand and with the other caressing the lovely roundness of her ass, clutching her desperately to him, longing to hear another of her little moans, her shy whimpers. Even as he kissed and held her she felt herself flush with embarrassment, but then his hands were both on her ass, drawing her against him and she went with his movement, the tiniest bit closer, the tiniest drift away, just a little up, a tiny hint down, and her whole belly felt full and heavy with promised pleasure and she was panting in panicked ecstasy as the ache built and swelled and rose up in her and made her whole body still and stiff in anticipation. She was so close, she couldn't help herself. In shy little movements, almost without realizing it, she flexed her hips, so slightly, rubbing herself against him, and then that heavy aching promise burst and pleasure flooded up her body and down her limbs like a torrent of warm rushing water and she froze, her nerves listening to this amazing song as the refrain echoed all through her and she let out a

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whimper, different from the others, kind of lilting and sobbing but still so soft and then she went limp in his arms and he drew her gently against him and he was very still as he held her. He knew. He knew what had happened to her. She was sure. He had stopped everything at the very moment when his caresses would have become a distraction from pleasure rather than an instrument of it. She was mortified. He had not even really touched her. What must he think of her, rubbing against him until she came when all they had done was kissed? A flush of unendurable shame burned her cheeks. "You’re wonderful," he sighed out in a moment of warm, uncensored sincerity, surprising himself, utterly caught up in the sweet excitement of her shyness. The gentle, open tenor of his voice half effaced her worry. He slowly let her out of his cocooning embrace and gazed down at her and he looked so sweetly happy she almost felt as though she had done nothing wrong. She was trembling in fading ecstasy and the waning anxiety that she had done something vulgar and ridiculous. He smiled softly and with that tender look melted the last of her embarrassment. He did not pull her to him again but leaned a little forward to seek a small kiss. With her lax body she felt his tremulous strain and desire swelled in her once more. She answered his questioning touch with an ardent one full of desire and promise. He rose above their kiss for a moment to caress her with another tender smile and to pull a cushion down from the sofa. Setting it on the floor beside them he leaned her back, laying her softly down, wrapping an arm around her waist, holding her tight against him. "Comfortable?" he asked. She smiled and nodded her reply.

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When his lips touched hers again, it was a different kiss. He was making love to her with his mouth, fucking her with his tongue. He heard her breathing change, felt her hot body quivering beneath his. She felt this kiss, this fucking kiss. She felt his powerful thigh pressed between her legs, felt him on top of her, his body pressed lightly to hers. She felt his desire and it aroused her already sated body to new yearning. But something darker was taking shape. That fucking kiss of his felt so penetrating, like he had taken possession of her and she felt that she was losing herself, that he was taking her over. Then there was a shift and instead of one powerful thigh between her legs there were two, slowly, irresistibly pushing her thighs open and then his hips were between her legs again, his hardness pressed to her once more. Vaughn, stinging everywhere with lashing desire, felt her excitement but nothing else. Though he had sensed her come, though his body was clamoring for release, what he wanted most in this moment was to feel her trembling on the brink of climax once more, hear her tiny moan again, hold her as she quivered in ecstasy. His kisses still deep and urgent his hand sought hers, found it, folded it in his hand's warmth, brought it to the floor by the cushion cradling her head. Though the lengths of their bodies twined and pressed together, though their mouths were eagerly seeking and caressing, he wanted this other closeness, her hand in his. His right hand caressed this strange, wonderful girl who, at this moment, was somehow making his insides—the soft places in his chest and belly—ache as sweetly as his body. His fingers dove and swam in the warm currents of her hair, trembled down

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her smooth hot cheek, his thumb traced the soft curves of her jaw, his palm slid gently over throat, neck, and shoulders. He felt the soft slope of her breast. God, her breasts, he had been noticing them, curving delicious and swaying tempting beneath his t-shirt, imagining seeing them bare, imagining them smooth and soft and warm under his hands, imagining teasing her nipples stiff. Not yet. he slipped his hand light and warm down her side, feeling tiny undulations of ribs and gaps, incurve of waist, outcurve of hip. His fingers slid under her thigh, caressing, massaging, drawing it up, pressing it to his hip as his fingers glided down, behind, stroking her thigh, down toward the floor, toward her center, that part of her that had thrilled against him moments ago. He lifted himself a little, hovering over her, touching down at toes, knees and elbow, holding her small, warm hand tight in his. His other hand came between them. He had made her come, but he hadn't touched her yet. Fuck, he wanted to feel her. So, so lightly he let his four fingertips touch down between her thighs, drift back, over the hot humid fabric over her hidden hollow, and with sweetest softness his hand cupped her sex. She was softly whimpering, almost sobbing with needful desire when his hand touched down on her. It moved so lightly, so gently, stirring nerves still dazzling from her earlier climax, that her hips flexed up against his hand, seeking deeper contact. But now, with her thighs pressed open, with her hand held sweetly but firmly to the floor, his hand on her sex, that darker shape in her mind cast a longer shadow over her pleasure. Sweet surrender dissolved in vulnerability, excitement began to smother under dawning fear.

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His hand drifted away from her sex, up, and sought the hot bare flesh at her waist. So smooth and soft he thought of warm butter and wondered would his hand sink into her, but it just glided over the taut quivering smoothness, finding navel, gentle slopes at hip bones and ribs and ribs and hip bones. And the teasing, welcoming little gap inviting his hand under the tiny canopy formed by fabric stretching between hip bones and opening where belly did not rise to close the entrance. His hand slipped under the waistband of her sweats, over his boxers, between her thighs, finding the fabric over her sex warm and damp, finding the contours of her body more readable than they had been through the sweats—the firm swelling of her mound, the smaller, softer curves lower down, the enticing valley and hills of her bottom. He did not linger. He crossed the terrain just twice—down and back again, slipping out past the waist band and gently in again, this time beneath the shorts, seeking hot bare flesh. Her free hand flashed down and clasped his wrist. His hand remained, soft and warm, pressed to her belly, low and near the place he sought. She felt his wrist, thick and strong in the weak circle of her fingers. She felt her other hand, clasped tight in his, pressed to the floor. His hips holding her thighs open. She panicked. Vaughn was no longer there for her. She just felt that there was a man on her, a powerful body overwhelming hers, that there was a man in her mouth, a threatening hardness pressing against her. He felt her freeze beneath him, he felt her go cold, rigid. He stopped his kiss, lifting himself up to look down on her. Her face was like a statue, white and stony, and

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her eyes were dark and panicked, and looked insane with the firelight flickering on them. "Stop," she whispered. "Please stop." "I have, I’ve stopped." He sat up and helped her rise to sitting. "I didn’t mean to scare you. I wasn’t going to hurt you," he whispered, feeling at once guilty and exasperated. He wanted to embrace her, but was afraid to. "I know…" She looked at him, ready to flee in embarrassment. But he was looking at her so kindly, his face so open. She wanted to explain. "…I’m sorry," she whispered. "Don’t apologize." His spare words were gentle. "I’m…not very experienced." "Okay." He waited, knowing she had more to tell him. "I feel silly telling you this." "Why?" "It seems childish. But I want to explain why…I don’t know why I got so frightened." Why had she said that? She did know. "I’ve never really…I'm a…." He was stunned. He tried to strip the surprise from his voice. "You’re a virgin?"

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A pause. "Yes." Her voice cracked. She was afraid she was going to cry. "I’m sorry I came on so strong. If I’d known, I would have been different with you." A thought occurred to him suddenly, pricking him with panic. "Devan, how old are you?" "Nineteen." So young. It had never occurred to him that she could be so young. So, so much younger than he. Sure, she was in college, and maybe he would have guessed, by her face, by her body, except for her eyes. And the fog of melancholy that always lingered over her which he associated with later years. She was upset, maybe even about to cry. He could not have guessed why, though, and thought it was only something between them—hell, what did they know about each other? Nothing. Maybe she was saving herself for marriage. Maybe she had wanted it, then changed her mind. Maybe she had been afraid he wouldn't stop this time. He smiled a soft sweet smile and tentatively stretched a hand toward her and, when she did not startle or pull back, gently caressed her cheek. "Devan, it’s all right. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. We can just sit here by the fire and talk." His gentle smile, his soft words were so sweet, a new feeling began to transcend her other yearning. The hand caressing her cheek slipped lightly to the back of her neck and, rather gingerly, it seemed to her, he pulled her to him in a cautious embrace.

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Why was this happening? She wanted him. She wanted to feel that delicious surrender again. She wanted to make him feel it. She wanted his hands to erase the ugly memory of other hands, she wanted to see his face, hear his voice, smell his body as she gave herself up to pleasure. But that cold dead panic was still with her. She could not be touched. She was fighting to hold back her tears, but she felt them welling up perilously high, and when she could not refrain any longer from blinking they slipped down her cheek. She let him hold her for a little while, stopping her tears by force of will and trying to furtively dry them against his shirt as he held her, then broke the circle of his arms, hastily said goodnight, and went to bed, never letting him see her tears. He felt unbearably sad to see her slip down the hall and into the little bedroom. It had been so long since he had felt more than base physical desire for a woman, since he had yearned just to hold someone, to be in their presence. She had wanted him, he had felt it, but he had scared her. Again. He was so hard he ached, and he thought of going into his room to jerk off. He decided against, liking this painful feeling of need, humanizing, a connection with her. He sat down in front of the fire, thinking about this strange girl who had appeared so mysteriously, about their impossibly bizarre initial encounter, and how it had warped their relations. Wishing they could have met in the city, under normal circumstances, he realized that such a thing was impossible. He never met people under normal circumstances. He never let people near him. Feeling nostalgia come over him in a wave, he began thinking of his ex-wife. They had met under normal circumstances. He had not held a gun on her. He had not

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tackled her in a field. Normal. They had met at a party, at the home of a mutual friend. A few drinks, some laughter. Phone numbers exchanged. A few dates, then to bed. Then they were a couple. Then they'd married. Then they'd divorced. Restless, he rose and wandered over to the little desk by the front door, where he kept his remembrances. He opened the wide, shallow center drawer and stood there, looking down at the envelopes scattered over the bottom. He felt like he was going insane—they had been banded together, he was sure, in packets. Before, during, after. Her letters to him. Before their marriage. During their marriage. After their divorce. God. Had she gone through his things? Had she read his letters? Why was this happening? They were past this. He had finally let his guard down. She had made him trust her. Like her. Want her. But she had. She had gone through his letters. She knew. She knew what had happened to him. He had never told anyone. No one but his wife. And now she knew. This strange woman. Who would be going back to Seattle. She could tell people. The press. Maybe she had even taken a letter for evidence. He snatched up all the letters, every last envelope in the drawer. Then he stomped into the kitchen, grabbed the whiskey bottle and a glass, and took everything with him into his room. Drinking glass after glass of warm booze he put the letters into chronological order. Then he skimmed them, trying by memory to be sure they were all there. They seemed to be, but he might be mistaken. At least they were her letters, not his. His were the dangerous ones. He could never tell her, face-to-face, what had happened, so he’d written her. Now he regretted it. Never put anything in writing, he thought bitterly. Never. Then, with a sinking feeling, he remembered. His journal. The

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most damning evidence of all. Everything recounted in disgusting detail. Where had he left it? Stumbling with fury and booze he began searching—his nightstand drawers, the dresser, the closet. Back out into the living room. Back to the desk. Nothing. The storage closet? No. Not the bookshelf either. Not in the kitchen drawers, but that was a ridiculous place to look anyway. He turned, looking down the length of the cabin, at the closed door of the little bedroom. The next morning he awoke feeling positively evil. The whiskey had ravaged his head, and she had violated his sanctuary. The cabin, his one little spot of peace on this shitty earth. His letters. His journal. He got four aspirin, then gulped them down with a full glass of water. When she got up she opened the door to the little bedroom, flashed across the hall and into the bathroom for a couple of minutes, then emerged, walking over to him where he stood leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. She looked up at him, smiled sheepishly, and said "Morning." "Good morning," he pronounced dryly. "You look a bit rough," she said tenderly. She reached up and lightly touched his cheek. He did not move. He was unmoved. Her big gray eyes, turned up to him from under their thick fringe of dark lashes, her tentative smile, her touch—none of it melted his stony anger like he'd feared. She pulled her hand back. "I think I’ll go for a walk,” she said in a tight little voice that contradicted her forced smile. “I’ll see you a little later."

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He said nothing as she opened the front door, walked through it, and closed it behind her. He waited a moment, then turned to look out the window, and saw her slipping into the shadows of the trees. Now that she was gone, he was shaking. Damnit. Damn this girl who had been in his arms the night before, filling him with the most desperate longing he could remember ever having felt. He half wanted to go after her. Embrace her. And yet, she had convinced him to forgive this ridiculous story of being lost in the woods, she had played the victim, tricking him into pitying her, trusting her. And she had read his letters. The night before was probably just another ploy to keep him trusting her, to make him trust her more, let his guard down. He had to find the journal. He turned from the window and looked toward the open door of the little bedroom. With a determined step he walked the length of the cabin and entered her room. The nightstand drawers were all empty. The dresser had nothing in it but a few articles of clothing. The closet. The pack was there, still loaded up with food, ready for her to take flight. Dragging it out he ripped it open and dumped its contents on the floor. Cans went rolling, the silverware clattered onto the ground. The same two novels thumped onto the wooden floorboards. No journal. Haphazardly he jammed everything back into the pack and stuffed it back in the closet. Exasperated, he went to the bed. Leaning over, he snatched up the two pillows. A gun. Under the pillow like a tragic news story. He picked it up and examined it. He recognized it. His gun. He placed the pillows back, and slid the gun under the waistband of his jeans, the cold metal irritating the hot skin at the small of his back. He bent, jerked the edge of the mattress up. His heart

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slammed. The journal. He snatched it off the box spring, let the mattress flop down with a thump, then stomped back to his room, his pilfered journal clutched in his clenched fist. Bitch! That goddamned, fucking bitch! He'd been an idiot, a complete asshole, falling for her pathetic act. Falling for her. She had read it. She knew those things about him. Yet she seemed so different from those others, those predators. Pacing in his room, he went over in his mind every moment he had spent with the strange girl. The thought of their kiss the night before aroused him again. In his raging anger he could not believe the power of his longing for her. He wanted to purge himself of her, get her out of his system. Bitterly, suddenly he yanked his belt open, unzipped his fly and took out his cock. Seething with rage and unfulfilled desire he sat on the edge of his bed and furiously began jerking off. He was picturing her, her mouth, her full, eager breasts that were never in a bra. He thought of how she had tasted the night before when he had been on top of her, hard and pressed up against her, and how he had thought then that they were about to fuck. He imagined pulling her sweats down, over her hip bones, exposing the smooth flesh of her thighs, then off completely. He imagined what her cunt might look like, how she would smell and taste, and how it would feel to push himself inside her, to hear that tiny moan again. Something broke his reverie. He looked up, his attention drawn instinctively to the door that he had slammed shut, but which must have drifted back open. She was standing there. Looking at him. She had been watching him. He stood, rage pounding through every vein and capillary. She made a little noise, a gasp, turned, and ran. He

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felt suddenly cold, self-possessed. He put himself away, zipped up his fly, buckled his belt. Then he charged after her. She had left the front door open. He ran outside and scanned the clearing. She was just about a third of the way across, running for the woods. He took off after her. He knew he could catch her. He just ran as hard as he could, knowing he was faster, knowing he would have her in just a few moments. When she reached the edge of the woods and charged into the shadows, he did not lose faith. When he reached the place where she had entered the woods he stopped. Over the sound of his own hard breathing he could hear the leaves bursting apart under her feet, the twigs snapping in her path. He turned to track her, running full speed, slaloming between the trees. He was gaining. He could see her. Within seconds he had her. He caught her by the arm, spun her around, pressed her up against a tree. Silently he stared at her, roiling with hatred. "I didn’t mean to…" she gasped. They were both panting. "Shut up." "Vaughn, listen. I’m sorry, it was an accident, I was just passing by, going to my room, and—" "Shut up!" he shouted. Then more quietly, in a voice straining to be restrained, "I’m tired of your lies. I don’t want to hear you anymore. Come on." He jerked her by the arm, pulling her from the tree, dragging her stumblingly along behind him. "Vaughn!" she pleaded.

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He said nothing, but quickened his pace, tightened his grip. "Vaughn!" she shrieked. He dragged her back to the cabin, up the steps to the front door, down the hall and into her room. He threw her down on her bed. She sat up, wide-eyed, panting. Standing in front of her, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. Anything he wanted. Nothing she could do. Her mouth. Her tits. Her cunt. Her ass. Every hot, tight, soft, wet place his for the taking. Mounting the bed he straddled her hips. Sobbing, she tried to hit him in the face, in the stomach. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her arms up over her head. "Grab the bars on the headboard." She just stared at him. "Grab them, and hold on to them, or I’ll fucking tie you up." All the color drained from her tear-streaked face as she gripped the cold iron bars. "If you fucking let go of those bars for one fucking second, I’ll tie you up, and I may never untie you. You hear me?" He leaned over, putting his lips against her ear. "You come here. You break into my house. You read my letters—" "No—Vaughn—" "Shut up! If you say one more word, I’m going to stuff a sock in that mouth and tape it shut! You read my letters. You steal my diary. You seduce me." He laughed a tight, bitter laugh.

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"You actually made me pity you. Then you spy on me—you spy on me while I’m fucking jacking off." Then, calculating his words to frighten, "Know what I was thinking about while I was jerking off? Hmmm? I was thinking about fucking you." His voice was a growl. Not human. He felt ready to kill. Ready to cry. In his seething fury he was almost capable of raping her. But her pale tear-streaked face, all the moments she had seemed to fear him, stopped him, in spite of his doubts that it had all been an act. But he would punish her. Wanting to terrify her, knowing what would go through her mind, he stripped off his heavy flannel shirt. Then the white t-shirt he had on underneath. His largeness, vague under the thick clothes he always wore, was revealed as hard, defined muscle. He spread open the fly of his jeans, revealing the thick bulge that strained the white ribbed fabric of his underwear. He massaged himself, pushing his hand down into his jeans and bringing it back to cuff the uppermost part of his erection. Her eyes closed, her fists went white around the bars of the bedstead. "You wanted to see this. Open your eyes and watch." She opened her eyes. She watched as he pushed his jeans and underwear down, taking hold of the waist band, uncovering his erection. Frightened, embarrassed, she instinctively closed her eyes again. "If you don’t watch this, I’ll find another way to get off. Open your fucking eyes."

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When she obeyed him, looked at him, he began stroking himself. Rage, anguish and excitement tornadoed inside of him. Frustrated lust had built up to the bursting point. Violently he beat off. The sight of her watching him tweaked his arousal to a higher pitch. As his excitement rose his hatred ebbed. He forgot, almost, that he was forcing her to watch. She, terrified at first that he was about to rape her, then mortified to be seen looking at his nakedness, watching him touch himself, felt the darkest, sharpest part of her fear go gray and smooth. The sight of him before her, on top of her, his cock in his hand, his firm belly and broad chest, shoulder muscles flexing, his face reflecting his excitement, his eyes locked on hers, roused her. Her breathing quickened, not with anxiety but with anticipation, awaiting his moment of release. He clutched the hem of her t-shirt in his fist. She almost let go of the bars, desperate not to let him bare her breasts. He pushed her shirt up, baring her belly, her ribs, just up to the first hint of the soft swellings. She watched his frenzied stroking, then he stopped. Then he drew his hand slowly up the length of his hardness, groaned, and released his milky warm orgasm in surprising spurts onto her stomach. Inexperienced as she was, she knew perfectly well how these things worked. How men came. Yet she was somehow astonished to have his come, this stuff that came from inside of him, warm and wet on her skin. Still holding the headboard she lifted her head to look at the pattern of splatter on her belly. "Don’t move," he said, getting off of her, off the bed, disappearing into the bathroom.

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He came back, tucked away and zipped up, his belt open and hanging at his hips. Bowed, contrite, he sat on the side of the bed. She still held the iron bars. He had not meant for her to stay like that, when he had told her not to move—he had only worried about the mess. Already succumbing to agonies of remorse he took hold of one wrist, guiding her arm down to her side, then the other. He washed her stomach clean with a towel he had wet with warm water, then pulled the hem of her shirt down, covering her up. He couldn't look at her. He started to stand. She grabbed his wrist. "Vaughn." Her voice was soft and sad. "Don’t." His voice was tight. He was on the verge of crying. Yanking his wrist from her grasp, he stood, collected the shirts he had thrown to the floor, and left, closing her door as he went.

Every vein, every muscle, every cell seemed to be collapsing. Imploding. Slow. Excruciating. Inevitable. Even his will. With the last, sad remnant of volition he forced his cumbersome, sagging body into his room, and shut the door. What had he done? God. God! How could he have done that? To her! He'd terrorized her. Made her cry. Made her cringe and tremble. This girl who'd kissed him so sweetly the night before, who'd held him and let him hold her. And today, as she'd trembled and cried, he'd gotten off. The most revolting insult he could have imagined. Could anyone live, hating themselves this way? He'd thought he hated her, but his darkest feelings for Devan were nothing beside the violent, revolting disgust he felt for himself now that he'd 'punished' her.

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Poor Devan. What must she be thinking? What must she be feeling? She must be terrified, frightened he could come back any time, hurt her again. Do something even more violent, even uglier. And, god, she must be so hurt. Everything that had enraged Vaughn—the certainty of her duplicity, the belief she'd read his letters and journals, that she'd deliberately spied on him jerking off—paled and receded to irrelevance. Now, now that he'd hurt her, all he could see was her face as it had been the night before, so soft and close, the look in her eyes so warm and eager, her kisses, her movement shy and hot at once. It seemed impossible now that just last night he'd held her. So warm, so soft, so nervous in his arms. It hurt now, so badly, to remember how happy and hopeful he'd briefly felt with her. He'd crushed it all. His hope, what little trust she'd come to feel, with the ugly thing he'd done. He remembered her sudden fear as he'd kissed her the night before. How could he have imagined it had been pretended? Remembering it now, he knew. It was real. She had really wanted him, but something…for some reason, she'd been afraid. Only now that it was done did he sense the truth of it. It didn't matter why she'd come or what she'd done. Even if he were right about the letters and the journal, Devan—this tender girl who had trembled under his hand when he'd been his most gentle—did not deserve his cruelty. It hurt. God, it hurt so, so much, this need to go back, to undo what he'd done. Take it back, the cruel words, the way he'd grabbed her, dragged her, forced her down, and…god. He couldn't even face the memory. The image of her hiding in her room, dreading his return, wounded by the cruelty of someone she'd shown such tenderness, who'd been tender with her, pained him. He

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wished he could make himself disappear. Give her peace. He eyed the gun he'd found under her pillow, wished he'd left it there. Wished, with his whole being, she'd shot him. He went on gazing at that gun a long time. There was nothing, really, he could do, since there was no undoing what he'd done. But he couldn't stand leaving her there, in her room, imagining he still thought, felt whatever had made him capable of hurting her. It was pathetic, far too little after far too much, but he could at least go to her, tell her how sorry he was, promise he'd leave her alone, that she was safe. Immediately he imagined her shrinking away and trembling with fear at the sound of his footsteps approaching, at the sound of his knock on her door. Argh! Unbearable! Christ, he wanted a drink. Wanted to numb his feelings, blur the memories. No. He would do nothing that would loosen his already frail grip on himself. He opened his door, went to the little desk, got a pen and paper, and returned to his room. He did not think and plan, but poured out onto the sheet his sorrow and regret, careful not to seek her pity or to write a single word in reference to any tender feeling, any intimacy they had shared, feeling painfully, intuitively that it would be profane to do so. Then he went and slipped the note, folded in two, under her door.

She heard his steps in the hall, then his door being closed. The sympathy she had somehow felt as she saw his shamed posture, his hurt eyes, heard the misery in his voice evaporated once he was out of her sight and she was left in silence.

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She wanted it gone. Obliterated. What was it, anyway? An albatross. A terrible weight. If she hadn't been a virgin, would Conrad have even bothered with her? Not likely. But if he had, how much smaller his power over her would have been. And Vaughn? She couldn't guess what had happened between their interlude by the fire the night before and his violent rage today, but she knew, with an absolute if intuited certainty, that if she hadn't been a virgin, she'd have slept with him last night, and if she'd done that, the rest would never have happened. Probably they'd be traipsing about in the woods right now, holding hands, or maybe laying together by the fire, reading or talking softly to one another. Instead, the albatross had put her in fresh peril, made her the victim of more violence. And here she was, again—fuck, would it ever be any different?—terrified that it was soon to be violently, painfully torn from her. It—her unasked for, unwanted, useless virginity—made her a target, made her vulnerable, kept her afraid. She wanted it gone. It was good, maybe, that Vaughn was probably going to come back soon, that he'd shove her down onto the bed again. But this time, he'd do more than force her to watch while he masturbated and ejaculated on her belly. The image drove a hot little quiver through her. The next time, very soon, he'd put his hands on her. He'd strip her bare. Or pull and tear at her clothes just enough so he could get what he wanted. Then he'd tear into her. He'd grind her up under his huge, hard body, forcing his hardness into her again and again until he was done. Intentionally she tortured herself with these images, making them as cruel, as violent as she could, making herself cry, making her heart beat hard and fast with fear.

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Vaughn's huge hands clutching her, forcing her into position, tearing at her clothes, yanking them from her body. His mouth forcing hers open, biting her lips, violently sucking and biting her breasts, her nipples. She dwelt on the imagined sensation of an excruciating, burning pain from the first penetration, cruelly repeated, over and over with each thrust as he broke her down, got inside, used the friction of his brutal erection burrowing into her tender flesh to get off. He wouldn't though. She knew. If there had ever been a chance he could really do that to her, he'd have done it this morning. That's what he'd started to do. But something had deterred him. His own character. Her pitiful tears and pleas. Some remnant of feeling for her that remained below the hate that had surged up suddenly from…she couldn't guess where. She was almost sorry he wouldn't come and do it, put her terror to an end by doing the thing she feared most. Taking the thing she didn't want but was so fucking, terribly afraid, now, to lose. But then, just as she was half wishing Vaughn's assault, she heard his door open, heard his steps in the hall, outside her door, and her chest seized painfully. She stood, terrified, listening, watching for the door handle to turn, for the door to open, for his shadow, his form to fill her doorway. But there was only a momentary whisper of paper against wood, and a small whitish rectangle slid toward her beneath the door. Then his slow tread receded, and his door clicked softly closed. She stood there, staring at the folded piece of paper, waiting for the painful pounding in her chest to subside, waiting for her stomach to settle. Then, finally, she stooped and picked it up, opened it, and read. Devan,

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Nothing I say here is written with the hope that you'll forgive me, or even trust, believe me. But I hope you'll read this, that it will give you whatever tiny bit of comfort can possibly come to you from me. I'm sorry. Really, deeply sorry. Please, please, know that the awful things I said, the way I talked to you…don't imagine that I hate you. I know, I'm the loathsome one, not you. I know you're probably sitting there in your room wondering if I'll come back, if I'm going to do something even more awful. I wish my words were worth something, that my promise could mean anything to you, just so you could feel safe, and know that I'll never hurt you again. I know it's not possible, that I can't just write a note and earn back what little trust you might have ever had. I understand, it can't mean anything to you. But I promise. I swear. I'll never hurt, never touch you again. Vaughn

How could he have doubted her so thoroughly? What was worth betraying the fragile warmth and trust she'd shown him? His hand slipped from the door knob and his eyes honed on the journal, laying where he'd flung it on his bed. Was anything in there worth what he'd done to himself, much less Devan? What was it but a collection of stale secrets, paltry humiliations? When he heard her door open, he expected to hear her soft tread fade toward the bathroom or the kitchen. When it led, instead, to his bedroom door, a sickening cold dread trickled over him. How could he possibly face her? Her soft knock thrummed his skull like a judge's gavel.

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He forced his body up. He wanted the pain. Deserved it. All the hurt and hate he'd find in her eyes.

When his door opened the persona she'd taken on over the course of the last hour slipped from her like a discarded costume. A moment ago she'd been cold, strong, certain. Ready. Ready, she thought, to face him, to do what she'd planned, get what she wanted, no matter his state of mind, his attitude toward her, whether he was as repentant as his letter promised, or cold and indifferent. Even, she'd imagined, if he were still angry and hateful. But this? He was pale and seemed to be shaking slightly, his eyes red and rimmed with more red. Had he actually been crying? He seemed to be forcing himself, with extreme effort, to meet her eyes. "May I come in?" Those weren't the words she'd planned, and her soft voice—she wondered if she'd even spoken loud enough for him to hear—was a mile off the intended mark. He looked like he was going to speak, but just closed his mouth and silently backed away from the door. Trying not to let him see that she was shaking and almost faint, she was so nervous, she entered his room with what she hoped looked like two bold, confident steps.

He was hardly capable of even wondering what she was doing there, in his room, just a couple short hours after he'd… His brain cut the thought short. "Can we talk?"

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Her voice was so soft he wasn't sure if he knew what she'd said because he'd heard it, or because he'd read her lips. He forced what he hoped was a gentle smile. For the second time he tried to speak, to say a simple 'yes,' and for the second time, he failed. He didn't trust his voice to make a sound soft enough. In this agonizing moment he felt his size more painfully than usual. Like a Cyclops in a small cave with a wood nymph. He didn't want to be towering over her with his bulk, didn't want to be looking down at her as she spoke. Farther and farther he backed away from her, their gaze leveling a little with each step, but never enough. Finally he sank down on the edge of his bed, then blushed instantly with regret. She was watching him intently, and he was hoping she'd laugh derisively at his miserable awkwardness, show a little of the hate he deserved. But she only looked sad and nervous. "I read your note." He nodded, knowing that if he spoke, he would cry. He didn’t care if he looked pathetic, or unmanly, or whatever she'd read into his tears. But he was determined that she would have no reason to let any of her hatred, her rage be eroded by pity, or even forgiveness. He didn't deserve either. She stepped toward him. Not one step, but several, until her feet were almost between his, their bodies just two feet apart. Involuntarily he leaned back a little on the bed, putting fresh inches between them. "I know you're sorry," she said in her soft, sad voice. It hurt him, the realization that that was the way he thought of her voice as sounding most of the time, that the few times she'd laughed and sounded light and

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happy were contrasting accents in their interactions. She stepped closer, between his knees. His chest banged painfully as her thighs brushed a little against the insides of his thighs, as her body loomed so close to him. He locked his eyes tight on hers, desperate not to notice her breasts just inches from his face, not because he was thinking lascivious thoughts, but because he was terrified she'd imagine he was. "I'm sorry too." She gave him a forced-looking smile. "Please," he finally managed a rough whisper, "please don't apologize." It was excruciating, facing her as he said this, but masochistically he forced himself to endure it. "What I did was monstrous…" He'd wanted to say more, but his voice had already broken, and the tears he'd been desperate not to cry in front of her were running down his face. Clenching his jaw hard he turned his face down, hoping she hadn't seen the tears, hoping she'd only think he was too ashamed to meet her eyes any longer. He flinched. Small, soft, warm, her hands were cradling his jaw, lifting his face toward her. "Don't Vaughn. You didn't hurt me." She studied him a moment, scrutinizing his stinging eyes. "I'd guess you've suffered more today than I have." Gazing up at her she seemed angelic to him, her huge gray eyes lidded, tranquil in their downward gaze, her pale face soft and serene, framed by her long black hair, uncharacteristically loose. Startled, shaking, not knowing what to do, he let her pull his face gently against her, cradling him like a hurt child against her breasts. Utterly broken, defeated, unable

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to stop himself, he sobbed silently against her, letting his warm tears spill, soaking into her shirt. "You hold me, too," she whispered after a long while, when his shuddering breath had smoothed and slowed. He couldn't understand how she could possibly be there, in his room, touching him, inviting him to put his arms around her. The only thing he could do, he thought, was what she wanted. As if he were about to embrace a spider's perfect web so as not to damage a single gossamer segment he crossed his arms behind her, put his hands softly at the base of her back. "I wish you'd really hold me, Vaughn." Her tenderness, and its impossibility, were excruciating. Slowly, gently, he slid one arm close around her waist, his other hand curving against her neck, and pulled her close against him. Warm and pliant she pressed her body to his, still holding his head to her chest, her fingers gently combing through his hair, tenderly stroking his cheek. "Will you do something for me, Vaughn?" Afraid to speak again, sure he'd lose his frail grip on his emotions, he pulled a little back to look up at her, hoping his eyes were telling her that yes, he'd do anything, anything she asked. He'd shoot himself on the spot, if that was what she wanted. Or the harder thing--write out a confession she could take to the authorities or the press when they got back, endure public humiliation, destroy his career. Go to prison. She was looking down at him so…sweetly. Like she was nervous in a way that made no sense at that moment. Then she kissed him, very softly, on the lips. His heart seized painfully.

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"Please," she sighed softly between tender, innocent kisses, "let's forget this morning. Let's be how we were last night. Please." Despite his own shaking he felt her quivering nervously, heard her shallow, rapid breath as she parted her full lips, as her warm tongue brushed tentatively along the crease of his lips. God, he wanted it so, so much—to forget the ugliness, go back to the tenderness, to be with her, and, more than anything, to give her what she wanted. Feeling left no room for thought. He softened to her mouth, accepted her sweet, deep, kiss. Sadness and guilt gave way to hope, to want, to hunger and heat. Carefully, slowly he began to kiss her back, their mouths seeking and yielding in a quiet, urgent dance. Never allowing their mouths to part she quietly climbed onto his lap, putting one knee on the mattress, then the other, straddling him as she had the night before. The sudden heat rising in his body startled him, and he struggled to check his arousal as she pressed her body against him. An erection he'd only vaguely noticed was now throbbing urgently, straining rebelliously against the confining denim. With just a timid fraction of the need he was feeling, he deepened their kiss, and she answered instantly with her incendiary little moan. She broke free of their kiss, panting a little as she caught her breath. Vaughn gave her a small, soft kiss on her cheek, ready, happy, in spite of the painful ache in his groin, to stop there, with the relative innocence of their kisses. Fading daylight had painted everything in the room in warm tones of rose and orange, and her soft skin, her full lips were those same warm colors, the fine, long hair framing her face shimmered with them. It felt as though everything in him were being pulled into her. He looked at her, feeling a painful mixture of joy, disbelief, and fear.

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Something in her face answered his fear most of all. He looked at her, waiting. Everything was up to her now. Suddenly she looked almost frightened. He took his hands off her, ready for her to leap up and away from him. Instead she guided his hands back to her waist, her anxious look unaltered. "Show me what to do," she whispered, her voice heavy and foreboding as a rain cloud. "What to do?" "I want to…but I don't know what to do." There was a sob in her voice, and a little twinge in her bottom lip. "Devan, we…" Was she saying what he thought she was saying? "Why don't we go for a walk, get outside and talk for a while?" He drew her hand to his mouth, put a soft kiss in her palm. She smiled and copied his gesture, then nestled her cheek in his hand. Then, watching him, drew his hand slowly down. He let it curve passively against her jaw, along the sculptured contours of her neck, over the jutting curve of her breast. She held it there. Then she kissed him. A deep, hot, wet kiss. Keeping his mouth locked to hers she took his hands, guided them beneath the hem of her shirt, and drew them up, over the hot smooth of her belly, the ridge of her rib cage, and drew his fingertips up against the firm swells of her breasts. "Touch me." Her quiet plea was hot and damp against his ear. Gently, carefully, he drew his hands back.

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"Devan…" He smiled at her, framed her face in his hands. "…please. You don't have to do this." "Have to?" she sighed in a coy manner that seemed utterly alien to her. "I want to." She leaned in, put her lips to his again, coaxed him into another deep kiss. Then her hands were on him, trailing light and uncertain down his chest, over his belly. Heat surged through his whole body as her hand pressed tentatively against his erection. "Devan, please. Don't." When his words didn't stop her caress, almost too light to feel through the tight thickness of his jeans, he carefully curved his fingers around her wrist and took her hand away. God, she looked like he'd slapped her. "You won't?" Her lip trembled and her chin dimpled. "You don't want to now?" He wanted to say she was beautiful. Astonishing and wonderful. That he adored her. But it seemed disgusting for a twisted, brutal fuck like him to feel those things for her, much less express them. "Devan, please. I'm not sure why…I swear, Devan. I'd do anything, anything you asked. And apart from that…" he closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to hers, "you can't imagine how I want…you…this. But you don't have to do this, Devan, to punish me." "I don't want to punish you." When she blinked fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

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"Even a monster like me couldn't just take you to bed, while you're hurting like this. After what I've done to you." “But I want you to,” she said, her voice just a whisper. “Devan, please. I'm the last person to tell you what to do, I know. But you can't want me to make love to you like this. You're scared. You're sad." She looked away from his searching gaze. He kissed her cheek, put his lips by her ear. "Your first time should be perfect." He couldn't see, but he could feel her shaking with silent sobs. He pulled her against him, held her tight. "Please" she sobbed against his shoulder. "I know, the way you made me feel last night, you can make it like that again, show me how to make you feel that way. Please, Vaughn. Please." "Shhhh." He held her tighter and tighter as she lost control, bawling in his arms, still pleading with him to take her virginity. Then, all at once, she changed. Her body went stiff in his arms. "Let go of me." Her voice was cold, almost stoic. He let her go. She was off his lap and across the room, as far from him as she could get without turning into a ghost and passing through the wall. Her eyes fixed on something to his left. He looked. The journal. God, she looked wretched, her eyes bloodshot, her tear-streaked face pale and mottled. “Devan...” "So that's why,” she sobbed, then pulled in a shuddery breath.

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“It's no reason, Devan. I've been insane.” The hurt in her eyes was crushing him. “Devan. I'm sorry. So sorry. I don't even care about the journal. I promise.” "You read it. That's why you won't. You found out what a…" her chest heaved a few times, "…what I'm really like, and now you can't touch me." There was a change. Her hurt expression hardened. “Why, Vaughn?” she asked through clenched teeth. “Why'd you read it?” “Read?” He was slipping, for real. Going mad. “To get me back? Because you thought I'd pried into your secrets?” “Devan?” he asked as gently, as softly as he could, terrified he'd lost his mind, terrified of scaring her. “What are you talking about?” Her face was pale like death and she was shaking so hard he was afraid she might be about to faint, to have some kind of fit. She clutched up the journal from the nightstand and held it out in her trembling hand. “This.” “My journal?” he asked, feeling the world fall away from under him. “Yours?” she asked, her voice soft, her eyes less clouded. She looked down at the notebook in her hand. Lifted the cover. Turned a blank page. Held the journal out to him. Black ink all down the page, in the tight, slanting penmanship he recognized from the sheet of lyrics she'd written down for him. “Oh, God.”

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He put out his hand, and she put the notebook in it. He fumbled the pages over, all of them. Found his own journal at the other end of the notebook. He'd been half afraid it wouldn't be there. That his memory, his brain, had tricked him. He showed her. “I didn't know,” she whispered, sounding defensive, looking scared again. “I thought it was just a blank notebook. I never saw...” “It's all right,” he said as softly as he could, trying to look gentle, desperate not to let her imagine he was angry again. “I believe you. Everything. It's all been my mistake.” He wished she'd go. His grip was slipping. “So,” she said, her voice calmer. Gentle. “That's it. You were upset because you thought I'd taken your journal. And I had.” “It doesn't matter. There's nothing that could excuse what I did to you.” “Vaughn.” He willed himself to be still as she came closer. Touched his hand. Her soft touch, the kindness in her eyes wounded him. “I'm sorry for whatever happened to you, to make you so afraid of people. And I'm sorry my being here reminds you of it.” Her smile as she turned to go was so tender it sawed his heart in half. “Devan.” She turned back, looked up at him with sad, kind eyes. His gut knotting, his hand shaking, he held the notebook out to her. Mute, she took a step back. “Take it,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Read it,” he whispered. Still, silent, she stared at him. “Vaughn, you don't need to,” she finally said.

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“Please. Nothing in it excuses how I've treated you. But I'd like to know.” She came forward—floating toward him, he thought—and took the notebook from him. As it slipped from his fingers, it was like he'd let go of a lifeline, like he was falling from a deadly height.

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FOUR: Revelations Part I

January 14th Weird, fucked up shit has happened to me. And now I guess I'm a weird, fucked up person. I don't know. I don’t know what I think I’m going to write here. Just fucking write. Reading Faulkner the other day I came across this line: "MEMORY BELIEVES BEFORE KNOWING REMEMBERS." It fits, but I'm not sure how, exactly. Edi's gone. I have to tell her. Maybe she'll come back, if she knows the truth. If I can figure out what that is. Not what happened. I know what happened. What I need to figure out is…how to get back to being who I was. To being a husband to my wife, a friend to my friends, and somehow, to carry on with the band. I don't know where to start. Christ this is hard. Okay. I’ll start with where we were. Last year, last March, we played a big stadium in Austin. As usual, after the show was over, the guys all hung out, doing the backstage party thing. And, as usual, I blew it off. I just wanted to get back to my room, be alone. I made my escape and the driver took me to the hotel, dropped me off. I peeled off my sweaty clothes, rinsed off in the shower, put on a fresh pair of boxers, and got into bed with a book. I'm pretty sure I know how she did it. Before all that I'd been chugging water. I was dying of thirst after the concert. After I was in bed I was still dehydrated, I gulped down some more water, and went back to the bathroom to get a refill.

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Something was wrong. Before I even got back to the bed I knew. Things didn’t look right. I didn’t feel right. I almost didn't even make it to the bed. My arms and legs felt like million-pound melting rubber bands. I started to get scared. I was ready to call the front desk, maybe even have them call an ambulance. But I couldn’t hold myself up. I fell onto my side. I couldn't even lift my arm to reach for the phone. I wondered if this was what it was like to have a stroke, if I were dying. Then I heard the door to my room opening. In came this woman. I didn’t get it at first, why she was there, the connection between her and what was happening to me. She came in, very slowly, very deliberately, and gave me a strange smile. She turned, put out the do-not-disturb sign, and closed the door. Then she flipped the latch. So that if someone tried the door with a key it would still be locked. It was like a weird nightmare—my body dead and useless, that stranger in the room with me. I wanted so badly to wake up, for everything to be okay. My heart hammered—I didn't know if it was from fear or illness. She started walking toward me and I felt terrible, vague dread. I had no idea what was going on, but I felt something awful was about to happen. My face, the skin of my whole body felt hot, flushed, but inside, at my core I felt icy cold. She put her hand on my stomach. I felt a jolt of terror, wondering who she was, why she was there, why she was touching me. Her delicate fingers pressed against my skin. I felt her. But when I tried to push her away, to scuttle back, my legs just twitched pathetically, my arms hung limp.

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My body was a useless lump of meat. I remember thinking, though, that there was nothing wrong with my mind. Except that I was freaked out and getting a headache. She pushed against my shoulder and rolled me onto my back. "What the fuck?" My angry shout gurgled soft and pathetic in my throat, my tongue limp, my lips paralyzed like the rest of me, my words slurred beyond recognition. She said something like, "Shhh, baby. You need to be nice and quiet. " "How'd you get in here?" I couldn't help trying again, but it was another useless, slobbering mumble. "I told you, baby, you have to be quiet." Then she leaned over me, reached down and put her hand on my cock. Christ. Fuck. That moment. I froze in cold panic. She rubbed me for a minute, then reached into my shorts and I felt her fingers curve around my limp dick and give it a tug. "Come on, baby, you're gonna have to do better than that," she sighed in a revolting simper. She was really doing this thing. I could not fucking believe it. She went on for a while, trying to jerk my cock to life. It wasn't working. She looked exasperated. And, thinking back now, hurt. Turning her face from me she went over to the dresser and rummaged around in a bag for a second. I thought I heard a rattle, and her head was bent over something, as if she were examining or reading it. She tossed whatever it was back into the bag and turned around looking all sunny. I didn't get it then—what had the bitch so fucking happy all of a sudden.

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"I think I know just the thing to put you in the mood, Vaughn baby." She turned back to the dresser, sticking her stair-mastered ass up in the air as she screwed around with something. A second later one of our songs was being pumped into the room by a little boom box she'd brought. My guitar. My voice. She started a strip-tease. Crazy. At first she just swayed and wiggled and did a couple little turns, sliding her hands over her body, looking at me coyly. With her doing her weird little dance to my music—definitely not dance music—it all felt like a scene out of a David Lynch movie. Bizarre. Depressing. Scary. She pulled off her skin-tight spandex dress, slowly, rolling her hips, creepyseductive. She looked ridiculous, but the blood was pounding into my dick. I was mute and inert, but my cock was getting hard. I couldn't believe it. I watched as more and more of her legs, then her underwear, her hips, her midriff, her tits appeared under the rising dress before she pulled it over her head and dropped it on the floor. She wasn’t wearing much else—panties and shoes. She wiggled out of her black thong, bending over stripper-style, all straight-legged, rolling the little scrap down to her feet, then straightening up and stepping out of it, leaving her heels on. Naked, she sauntered back to me. I was scared out of my fucking mind. She was pretty. If I’m objective about it, I can look back now and say that. But at the time, freaked out as I was, she looked monstrous to me. Not human. Not real. Like a humanoid alien from a horror movie. Everything about her was too perfect and had a synthetic look about it. Not a hair out of place—perfectly blond, perfectly long, perfectly shiny—I thought of a wig. Her makeup was perfect too. Not overdone, but like a flawless

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mask fitted over the head of some creature or man-made thing. Her body didn’t look like it had been enhanced with silicone. It looked like it had been cast in it—perfectly firm, perfectly smooth, perfectly tan. Like a life-size Barbie. Fucking übergroupie. Everything I hated about that scene wrapped up in a spaperfected package and raised to the nth degree. God, I felt so…trapped, so helpless. I was powerless, had no say—fuck, I couldn't even talk. This stranger, this psycho had total control over me. She bent down and licked my nipple. I shuddered at the touch of her warm wet tongue on my skin. She did the other nipple, rubbing the tip of her tongue against it until it hardened, lapping and sucking it. It had just startled me at first, but now it was feeling unbearably uncomfortable. In a pathetic effort to protest I gave a little grunt. "Mmmm," she purred, stopping for a second to look at me like she was posing for Playboy, "you like that, don't you baby?" She went back to it, licking, sucking, biting. My dick already hurt it was so fucking hard, and she was making it worse. She put her hand on my cock again. I could feel it, as if nothing was wrong. She smiled this bitchy little smile and whispered in my ear, “That’s a good boy, nice and hard. How 'bout if I stroke it a little, hmmm?” She leaned back then, to look me in the face, though I couldn’t have answered her, even if I’d been inclined. She wrapped both her hands around my shaft and alternated their pulsing grip. I sucked in a lungful of air. Then she gave my cock a sudden squeeze. Jesus fuck—I didn't know if she was going to break it or make me come on the spot. Even now I can almost feel it, that awful mixture of terror and…fierce pleasure. My cock felt like a gun with too much powder behind the bullet.

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“I'll bet you've broken in a few virgins with this. Hmmm?” My anxiety spiked to nauseating terror as she started working my shorts down. Jesus Christ, was she really going do this? She struggled a little to get them off me, dead weight laying there on the bed. But she managed. My fiercest impulse to shove her back, to grab her arms and yank her hands off my shorts got me nowhere. I felt her fingers against my skin, my boxers sliding down, saw my stiff dick bob into view. She paused for a second to look at it, like she'd never fucking seen a hard dick before or something, then went back to it, dragging my shorts the rest of the way off my floppy legs. "Looks like your ready for a good fuck." Her French manicured index finger took up the pearl of liquid at the tip of my cock and slid it around the swollen head while I watched, the rest of my body limp. "But let's not rush things." I watched as she pushed my feet apart, felt the backs of my legs sliding over the bedspread. From the foot of the bed she climbed up between my legs, then spread them wider. She must have seen my terror on my face. "Just relax, baby. I just want to see everything. Every delicious inch of you." She bent over then, and all that long, shiny, blond wig hair fell down over her face, onto my stomach. I felt her mouth on me, behind that veil. Kissing my stomach. Nibbling. Licking, her tongue warm and soft. It gave me the shudders but my cock was raging. She slid down and started licking and biting my thighs and I knew where this was going, knew that in a few seconds I'd feel her mouth on my cock and the thought flooded my dick with another violent surge of blood.

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But she sat up and looked at me. I don't know what she saw on my face then. Horror? Desire? She gave me a big, plastic Barbie smile of pink pink lips and white white teeth, her big blue eyes sparkling but frighteningly vacant. No, maybe not vacant. Veiled. Like everything behind was sealed off. "I'm gonna show you what you've been missin', baby. I'm gonna show you how good I am, how good I can make you feel. You don't have to do a thing, baby. Just relax." Like I had a choice. She tucked her hair behind her ears and when she bent down again I had a clear view of her face, her tits, my cock. She took me in her hand and I caught my breath, still terrified, but Christ I was hard. I wished my cock would go limp in her hand, that she'd leave in frustration. No. That's not true. What I really wanted at that point, however scared and creeped out I was, was for her to suck me. I wanted to blow my wad in the back of crazy Barbie's throat. I wanted that at least as bad as I wanted her to clear out. Maybe I wanted it more. "God, Vaughn, you've got a beautiful cock." Holding it in one hand she traced over it with the index finger of her other hand like it was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen, and I felt every little touch as her fingertip went slowly around the head of my prick, down the shaft, and down, wandering over my balls. Then she started nuzzling against my dick, rubbing the head and shaft against her cheek, burying her nose in my pubes, sniffing in a big whiff of me, still sniffing at me as she drew her face up the length of my shaft again. It was like she

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actually fucking adored the thing, and I was starting to really want her to blow me, to stuff my impossibly hard cock between those glossy pink lips and suck me dry. Shifting position, sitting between my knees and draping her long tan legs over mine, she bent forward so my cock was framed between her tits, impossibly round and firm. Her light brown nipples were hard and jutting. I watched as she pressed her tits together, then bent to press my dick against the cleavage. She slid them up and down against the underside of my cock. It was ready to burst, it was so fucking hard. Then she let a little valley open up between her tits, leaned forward, and when she pressed them together again my cock was swallowed up between them. She rubbed them up and down, massaging my cock, and I saw the head pop up now and then between those fat globes, then sink down between, over and over. Then she stopped, my prick straining up between those beige hills. She looked up at me, watching me watch, and licked the tip of my cock. I shuddered and flushed, startled and unbearably aroused, in spite of the freaky situation. I moaned. She smiled like she was damn fucking proud of herself. Her long pink tongue flicked out again and swiped at the head of my cock, over and over, wetting the pink dome and the beige flesh of her tits with her spit. The tip of her tongue teased my hole and my body writhed weakly in uncomfortable pleasure. "Do you want me to suck it, baby?" She let go of her tits, grabbed the base of my cock in one hand, and wrapped her lips around my shaft. I still couldn't move a muscle. If I could have I might still have shoved her off. Or I might have grabbed her by the hair and rammed my dick into the

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back of her throat. I hated the crazy bitch. I was terrified, not knowing what was wrong with my body. But fuck, I needed to come. I was actually afraid, at that point, of being abandoned, left with that agonizing hard-on. She was really putting on a show, lapping my raging hard-on with her long pink tongue really like she was eating an ice cream cone, licking up the length of my shaft again and again, running her tongue around the base over and over, working her way up to the head, not missing one millimeter of my dick. Then she dove down between my legs and started licking and sucking my balls. Her technique was aggressive, bordering on rough. My limp body wanted to squirm with pleasure-pain, with need-fear. "God, Vaughn. I love your cock. I love that you're so hard for me. Just tasting you makes me wet." To prove her point she sat up, reached down, and slid a finger into her slit. "See baby?" She leaned forward and showed me her finger, shiny wet with her juice. Then she slipped that finger between my lips and wiped it over my tongue and the pungent taste of her filled my mouth. I was as aroused as I was repulsed, smelling and tasting the cunt of this crazy bitch. Then she sat up on her knees and touched herself for a while, squeezing her big porn-star tits, rubbing and pinching and tugging her nipples in front of my face, playing with her pussy, teasing her glistening slit, rubbing her clit, stuffing a finger inside herself, sliding it in and out, then spreading her lips with her free hand so I could see the deep pink of her, her shiny wet creases as she did it all again. Then she kissed me, biting my lips, pushing her tongue into my mouth.

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"God," she whined, biting her lip in another trite seductive pose, "my pussy is so hot for you. Do you want to taste my pussy, baby?" She maneuvered around and straddled my face. Fuck, that was the weirdest thing, that close-up view of her cunt, swollen and seeping, normally something that would fill me with excitement, anticipation, something that, on its own, would get me rock hard. It shocked me, how revolting and terrifying it was. My cock was still rock hard. I mean, what guy wouldn't be hard with a girl sucking his rod like it was the best thing she'd ever tasted? But I guess, well, maybe there was more going on with me. I don't know. Even through that nauseating disgust, part of me was responding sexually to her—to fucking psycho-Barbie. Not just to her mouth on my cock, but to the smell of her, the sight of her. Shaved smooth except for a trimmed thatch of light brown hair on her mound. The rest bare, her pale outer lips already slightly parted, the pink inner folds already glistening. Rationally, emotionally, it was awful. But, if I'm honest about it, the animal part of me wanted her, wanted her to press her cunt to my mouth. She lowered herself onto my face. There was nothing I could do. I was too paralyzed to shove her off, and too paralyzed to do what she wanted, even if I had tried. I felt her, her soft wetness come down over my mouth, warm and smooth. I felt her rubbing her cunt back and forth over my lips, my chin, my nose. She moaned obscenely as she ground over my face. Maybe she did that just to humiliate me—I can't believe she was getting much pleasure out of my flaccid mouth. Then she tipped forward and started sucking my dick. Except that I couldn't move, it felt like any other blowjob with a stranger. The nerves in my cock were perfectly

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alert, and the combination of her diligent sucking and the disturbing visceral reaction I was having to the feel and smell of her sitting on my face had me painfully hard. A couple times she pushed down and back hard enough that she was smothering me, her cunt glued over my mouth, my nose buried in her ass, and even in cold panic I couldn't move. Then she would grind forward again and I would desperately suck at the air. Those moments of suffocation added to my terror and nausea. And, god. Yeah. In a weird way, to my arousal. I don't know just when I finally managed to really think, beyond just reacting, and start to figure out what was actually happening. Somehow, before she started fucking my face and sucking me, it seemed like kind of a demented joke or something. It seems idiotic now, but until that moment I hadn’t really put together the girl and the fact that I couldn’t move. With her on top of me I finally got it—she'd drugged me. While I was in the shower, she had let herself in and put something in my water. So she could do this, so she could fuck me, so that I couldn’t throw her out, call security, say no. And that was why I was so hard. Not just erect, but so hard it hurt. She'd given me something for that, too. Viagra or some shit. She went on sucking my cock and humping my face. At first she'd seemed to be kind of going through the motions, rubbing her cunt over me, but she'd started to really get into it, her little grinding movements small and purposeful. With my cock stuffed in her mouth she was whining in that needful, almost-there way. "Oh god, baby—your mouth feels so good on my pussy. You're gonna make me come, Vaughn."

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I didn't take it in then. Or later, even. But ignoring this shit hasn't been working. So…okay…the thought of her actually coming, me just laying there under her, it was weird. And the weirdness, the depravity of it all, my helplessness in this, even my…my victimization…in some perverse way it thrilled me, charged my dick with new heat. She kinda pulled up for a second, off my mouth, slurping noisily on my cock, her cunt and ass hovering over me, her thighs shiny with her pussy juice. She touched down on my lips for a second or two, let out a little moan, then lifted off again, ramming my cock deep into her throat, then sliding up and sucking away at it. I was about to come. Maybe she was just waiting for me before getting herself off against my face. "Yeah baby, that's it. come for me like a good boy. I want to taste you. I want to feel your hot come shooting into my mouth." Her pathetic porn talk sent me over the edge, and when she pushed my cock between her lips again, sucking the head and sliding down until I was deep her in her mouth, I started to come. At the first spurt she moaned and plastered her cunt over my mouth, twitching against me, moaning and whining over my spasming prick. I kept shooting off in her mouth in the most violent, endless orgasm, and she kept rubbing her cunt on me, and after a few more seconds she really fucking smashed herself down on me and groaned out, and I felt her twat spasming over my lips. After what seemed like an endless minute of this she lifted herself off my face, off my cock, and turned around. "Oh God, Baby. Oh God," she sighed, dismounting. "Vaughn, baby, you make my pussy feel soooo good." Now that she was off my face I thought she might leave. Now that I'd come, now that my mind had cleared of that distracting need, the fear and repulsion I'd almost

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forgotten flooded back. I wanted that bitch to get the fuck away from me. I wanted her gone. I wanted my room and my body back. "Look at that, baby. Still nice and hard for me." My cock was stiff as ever thanks to whatever she'd slipped me. She reached down and started stroking it. I wanted her to leave, but my cock was jumping and twitching at the chance of another orgasm. If she kept jacking me like that I'd be raw meat in the morning. "Oh God, baby, I want to feel that big, beautiful cock of yours in my pussy. You wanna fuck me, don't you? Hmmm? Doesn't baby need a good fuck?" Paralyzed, I watched as she went up on her knees, her cunt hovering over me, and she took hold of my dick, sliding the head along her slit, whimpering and panting as she rubbed it against her swollen clit. "Mmmmm, my hot little pussy is soooo wet, so hungry for your cock." I felt every little thing but it was like being a passive voyeur as she pressed the tip of my dick to her cunt and began lowering herself onto it. My cock just sank into her, perfectly hard and happy, like what I wanted didn't matter at all. She talked as she began to ride me. "Aw, God!" she squealed as she impaled herself on my erection. "Huh! Hoh! Fuck, you're so big!" She moved slowly up and down a few times like it was a freakin' carousel ride. "God, you feel good inside me. I knew you'd be a great lover." It was a strange thing to hear, laying there like an inert hunk of dough. It almost made me want to laugh. I don't know if it was that, if she sensed my reaction to what

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she'd said, or if she had just followed her own train of thought into some dark tunnel, but suddenly her expression of arousal and amusement withered away, her whole face seemed to kind of melt and sag. Her mouth turned down, and a second later she was sobbing. Fucking me, and bawling her damned eyes out. It didn't matter. Riding my face, sucking me, fucking me, falling apart and crying—all I could do was lay there and let it happen. And wonder why. Who the hell was she? Was she whacked out on something, or just insane? What special psychosis would drive this girl to do such a fucked up, crazy thing? Had we met? Or was she just some whacko fan? She sat there, straddling me like a god-damned succubus, sniffing all snot-nosed from her crying, my Viagra-fortified rod of steel rammed up her cunt. I was getting more and more uncomfortable. That's a dumb word for it. Wretched, fearful, mortified. I don't know. The fucking…the assault. That was one thing. But this crying—wrenched, bodyshaking sobbing—with me inside of her, it was so ugly. So scary. Somehow it was connected to me, the pain this psychotic girl was going through, and I didn’t even know who she was. I was torn between pity and a pure, violent hate. She had snapped and I was scared of what would happen next, afraid I was about to see the seven faces of Sybil or something. Her fucking slowed down for a minute as she bawled out a few more tears. Then she swiped at her face a couple times, wiping away her tears and smearing her flawless makeup. Red-eyed and sniffly, she half-heartedly went on with her fucking. Why wouldn't she just give it up and go away? It was a pathetic sight, but my cock was oblivious to my disgust. It was just waiting for her to pick up the pace and satisfy it with a good, hard fuck.

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After a while she kind of pulled it together again and it was like her moment of painful reality had been a hallucination I'd had. Her eyes were still bloodshot, her nose red, her face streaked with drying mascara trails, but her teasing look had come back, and she started jerking over me again, jogging up and down like she was sitting a trotting horse, her silicone globes bouncing in perfect opposition to the rest of her. And then, as if she hadn't cracked and fallen apart a few minutes earlier, she started up again with the dirty talk. "Oh, God yeah." Then a bunch of little porn flick whiney sounds. Then, "Oh yeah, give me that big cock, baby." More whining. Then she threw herself down on her hands and with her tits jiggling against my face she went on in a low voice, "Oh, baby, I can't believe how big you are. You're really filling up my hot little pussy."

She kept talking, whispering in my ear. Riding me, sliding her slick cunt up and down my hard prick. I was stuck there, immobile, and she just fucked and fucked. At one point she sat up straight and spread her lips with two fingers, and I watched as my cunt-slicked cock emerged hard and red under her as she rose up, watched it disappear up inside her again. With her other hand she started rubbing her clit, looking at what she was doing, then looking at me. "Vaughn, baby, I'm gonna come with your big cock inside me." She bit her lip and wrinkled her forehead, and started whimpering as she slid up and down my pole, fingering her clit.

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"Yeah, Vaughn, oh yeah, you're so big, so hard in my wet little pussy. Make me come. Fuck me and make me come." She was whining, almost squealing as she bounced over my cock, rubbing her clit, her beige Barbie body glistening with all her effort. She came, or pretended to, and fucked some more, riding me in a total frenzy. It was killing me. I'd been on the edge forever, having just come, but my throbbing, Viagra-fueled prick raging for more. All her stroking, her frenzied fucking, the sight of her touching herself and coming and jerking over me as she fucked my miserable, needful cock with her relentless cunt. I was in agony. And it felt like it would never end, like this fucking, this pain, this anxiety would go on and on forever. Then, finally, mercifully, I felt I was about to come. She sensed me tense, or breathe differently. “That’s a good boy, you just let me fuck you until you come.” She pushed herself back up, away from me so I could really see her, moving up and down, her tits moving up and down. She took my hands and pushed them against her tits, squeezed her breasts with my hands, pinched her nipples with my fingers. And then I came. Violently. All my muscles so soft and useless, and my cock and balls seemed to throb and release with the whole power of my limp body. I was coming. And I was crying. I'm not sure why I cried then, when I hadn't cried through everything up to that point. Maybe I was afraid she wasn't going to stop there, that she'd use my cock until it was so chafed and sore I'd never be able to use it again. Or that she'd keep me doped

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up on Viagra and whatever had paralyzed me, and keep me as a Ken doll dildo for the rest of my fucking life. Or maybe…Jesus, I don't know, but maybe some little fucked up part of me didn't want her to go. I mean, I wanted her to leave but…fuck, I couldn't understand it, but I was anxious, almost afraid to see her go. And I knew, even then, even not understanding, that that fear had nothing to do with being afraid to be alone with my body not working. She got off me, off the bed, put on her panties and her dress. She was leaving. I still couldn't move. She smiled at me as she got dressed, as if we'd just had a hot one night stand. “Thanks for the lay. I’ll always have a great story to tell about the night Vaughn Doe invited me back to his hotel room and fucked me silly." And then, just before she opened the door, she laughed a demented little laugh. "You know what would be wild, Vaughn? What if you got me pregnant tonight? That would really be something, huh?" She left me there, sticky with her juice and my come, the smell of her on my face, still unable to move, still afraid I might never be able to move again, that I might die, seething with furious resentment that she had gotten what she wanted. And, fuck me if that wasn't just an idle bluff about her getting pregnant. Jesus, what if she wasn't on birth control? By morning I’d recovered from the drugs. I'd had all night to lie there and think about what had happened, what I would do. At first I was just waiting until I was strong enough to reach the phone and call the cops. But the longer I thought about it, the less

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I wanted to do that. There'd be no way to keep it quiet. The press would get hold of it. They'd make a joke of it. Even the cops would think it was funny. "Poor baby, poor little rock star comes crying to the cops 'cause some hot young girl drugged and fucked him." Even if they'd be decent about it, it was all just too humiliating. Writing this now, I'm realizing something besides the fear of exposure and embarrassment kept me from calling the cops. I was too confused about how I felt about what she'd done. I didn't think I could even tell the story without getting obviously aroused. Fuck, I couldn't even think about it without getting hard. Still, somehow I thought I would tell Edi when I got home. It wasn't something I could tell her over the phone. But then, when I was with her again, I couldn't tell her. I just wanted to forget it, pretend it hadn't happened. For lots of reasons. Yeah, it was scary, and ugly, and strange. I guess it's normal, to want to move on, even to live in some kind of denial, when someone's broken in and…raped you. I guess that's what she did to me. She raped me. It seems weird to say that about myself. But I think maybe there's more to it than that. I don't know. Anyway, in the end, I never told anyone. Instead I put lots of effort into forgetting the whole thing. When I got home I laid out a pile of cash on beefing up our home security system, and installing a home gym and hiring a personal trainer. I knew perfectly well that what had happened in that Austin hotel room had nothing to do with whether or not I was physically strong—shit, I probably outweighed that little thing by a hundred pounds, and what difference had it made? But I needed it. It helped me feel like my body was mine. And when I didn't question things too much it gave me a sort of feeling of security.

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But those feelings of security and self-possession didn't last long. January 19th That stuff in Austin was crazy. Scary and beyond belief. But it was fucking nothing compared to what happened later. I mean… Shit. I'm not going to get anywhere if I sit here crying like a fucking idiot. I can't. I can't.

January 23rd All right, I'll try this again. Good old Jack Daniels. Courage and reckless honesty in a bottle. Okay. So. Seattle, a couple months ago. November. Edi had left that morning for New York—a business trip. I'd just gotten in from a long day at the studio. I gave Edi a call at her hotel, and we talked for a while. When I hung up the phone it rang just a second or two later. I figured it was Edi, that she'd forgotten to tell me something. I picked up and a woman started talking. "Hello, Vaughn." It wasn't Edi. "Hey…" I was trying to place the voice. Throaty. Sexy. "Are you lonely?" "Who is this?" "Since you're wife's out of town, I thought we'd come keep you company." She spoke in a sultry whispering tone. "I'll see you in a minute, Vaughn."

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Before I could say anything I heard a click. I tried to get back on the line, starsixty-nine and find out who'd called me, but the phone was dead. I was still messing around with it, trying to get a dial tone, when my front door opened and a woman walked in. I just thought, 'this is not fucking happening.' I mean, it couldn't. How could it? "Get the fuck out of my house." I meant for it to be a shout of rage, a threat. But I heard myself. I sounded afraid. I charged toward her. It would be easy, I thought, to grab her and toss her out the front door. She smiled a big red lipstick smile and pulled something out of her pocket. Some kind of black device. "Don't be rude, Vaughn. Say hi to my friends." She was strangely composed for a woman being rushed by a guy my size. She calmly stood her ground, and her sultry voice was soft and low. With that little black thing in her hand she gestured past me. I turned and there were two other people standing by the patio door. A man and a woman. I wondered how the hell they had gotten past the security system. "What the fuck is this?" "Just a little party to entertain you while your wife's away." Another flash of shiny red lips and shiny white teeth. I made my move. I had to get out of there. I didn't touch her, and she didn't touch me. I got to the front door. My hand was shaking as I turned the deadbolt. Maybe if I'd kept my cool…but before I got it unlocked she jammed something into my back, and I fell on the ground. I felt like I was having a convulsion. She'd tasered me.

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When I came to my senses all three of them were standing over me Like shadows. I heard voices. Then hands hooked under my arms. My limp body was dragged, hoisted onto the sofa. God, no. Please. Not again. I couldn't. "That wasn't nice, Vaughn, trying to walk out on your guests like that." It was the one with the red lips. The one with the stun gun. "Now, puppy, let us introduce ourselves and tell you about the fun we have planned for tonight." Christ, fuck. Why? What am I talking about? Why what? I guess… just…why such ugly, using, meanness? The three of them stood a few feet in front of me, looking like characters out of a movie. The one who'd tasered me had a kind of Betty Page thing going—long black hair, short bangs, red lipstick. But her body was more Russ Meyer than Betty Page. To her left, a petite blond who looked barely out of high school. And on the other side of Taser Girl, a seedy looking guy, skinny and scruffy and pale in a heroine chic kind of way. "I'm Brigid, this is Jimmy, and this," she paused for effect, "is Miranda." I didn't like the way she said it, the other girl's name. The girlish blonde gave a huge, eager smile better suited to greeting a prom date than meeting her hostage. Right away, right then, I dismissed her. She seemed so…sort of inconsequential. It was the other two, the woman with the taser and the man, who scared me. But now I think about her, Miranda, more than the others. The red lips went on talking. "And now, about tonight's fun and games. Do you like games, Vaughn?"

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I felt my strength returning and I was waiting for my chance to get the fuck out of there. I wasn't drugged this time. I hadn't seen a real gun. No fucking way was I going to let them…touch me. "There are just a few rules you need to understand before we start playing. There are two teams of four." I started half wondering if this was some weird, extreme reality TV thing. "What are you talking about?" I was confused, hoping, needing there to be a reason, any absurd reason, for them to be there. "Be patient. I'm explaining it. Here's how it works. We tell you what we want you to do. If you do it, goodie for us. And if you don't, well, the other team gets to have the fun." I was staring at her, trying to parse. "Here, let's do a practice round." She turned to the blonde. "Miranda, what would you like your little puppy to do?” Miranda blushed, then turned to Taser Girl and whispered behind a cupped hand. “Don’t you want to tell him yourself?” Miranda shook her head. “All right sweetie.” The two women turned to face me again, and Miranda was almost wiggling with excitement as Taser Girl spoke. "Vaughn, Miranda would like you to take off your shirt."

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I jumped up, ready to shove my way through their line and get out of there. How was this happening again? Taser Girl waved her weapon at me. "Naughty boy. Sit back down." The thought of being shocked again had me scared enough. It wasn't the pain, it was the fear of being incapacitated. Of being vulnerable. Like the last time. I sat. "Now, either you take off your shirt, or the other team gets a turn. Know who the other team is? Hmmmm? Graham, Perry, Rick, and, your darling wife, the lovely Edi." Not her name in that mouth. "What? What the fuck…" Not Edi. I couldn't take it. "Sshhh." Taser Girl hushed me impatiently. "Pay attention, Vaughn. Since your wife's all alone in that great big suite in her New York hotel, I sent a couple of my friends over to keep her company, just like we're keeping you company." I don't know what I thought when I heard that. It was too much to take in. "Right when the phone went dead—just after I called you—remember? My friends were paying a visit to your lovely wife. They're with her right now, in her hotel room. So, whenever you refuse to do something we want, it's their turn, and Edi will have to do what they want." "You're full of shit." I spat my words at her. I wasn't even going to cry. It was too awful to even think of believing it. And it was impossible. "Waldorf Astoria. Room 2636," Taser Girl challenged.

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"Wrong. Wrong hotel, wrong room number." I was bluffing. Right hotel. And I didn't know what room she was in. "Oh, no, Vaughn. Right hotel. Right room number. And let me think, what else did Graham mention? Oh, yes. Red pumps, red skirt, and a tight black sweater that really hugs her tits." Red skirt, black sweater. Her clothes. What she'd worn to the airport. It was true. Someone was with her—had her. I couldn't face this. "What are you saying?" I could barely speak, my strength had all drained away. I was cold. Taser Girl's bantering manner faded away and she spoke with blunt cruelty. "Mrs. Doe, your darling Edi, is in her room with three men. If you don't play nicely with us, they get to play with her." "Please. You can't be doing this." I was ready to puke. The things I was picturing, Edi crying, men grabbing her, hurting her. "Don't snivel, Vaughn. It's not manly. Just be a good team player, and your little Edi won't suffer anything worse than a tense couple of hours. Right now, the boys are just keeping her company, sitting quietly like nice gentlemen. Sure, they've tied her hands behind her back and stuffed a ball gag into her mouth—Graham has a thing for ball gags. But, if you're a good boy, it will go no further on that end, and you can tell your precious Edi that it was just a ransom thing. You paid, they let her go." I wasn't processing. All I got was a taste of hope from her last comment. "They won't hurt her? You swear they won't hurt her?"

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"Hurt her? No. Now, whether or not they strip her naked and fuck her senseless, well, that depends on you." She shut up for a second to let it all sink in. Then she started up again. That voice, that fucking, awful, smoke and whiskey voice. "Now, you haven't taken off your shirt yet, so technically, I should call Graham, and tell him he can take off Edi's shirt. Is she wearing a bra, do you think?" I wanted so, so badly for there to be something I could do. A way to stop it. Oh god, even now, I feel that wanting, that need. To turn back. To undo. "I guess she'll be a lot more nervous, sitting on that bed, three men staring at her, if she's topless, eh?" She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and started dialing. "Don't!" "Stand up and take off your shirt, puppy, and I'll stop dialing." Nauseous with fear, I stood. I was still trying to think, to come up with some way out of it. I unbuttoned my shirt, pulled it off, and tossed it aside. “My goodness, Miranda, look at those arms! You’re little puppy has been working out, hasn’t he?” Miranda smiled, eating me with her eyes. “Now the t-shirt.” Somehow, through my fear and confusion, some little part of my brain felt an almost amusing sense of irony, like this was a cheesy Chippendale’s show, or some weird Candid Camera bachelorette party, and I was the awkward stripper they’d hired. I pulled off my t-shirt.

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“My, my, my!” Taser Girl exclaimed, almost sarcastically. “Aren’t you yummy? So muscular!" The way she was taunting me reminded me of the movies, of the way men lewdly comment on women, and I pictured Edi, sitting in her hotel room, surrounded by strange men. I tried to think of her sitting calmly, to believe they hadn't hurt her, touched her. "Now it's my turn to choose something," Taser Girl said. "Sit back down, puppy." I sat. "Miranda, wouldn't you like a nice, romantic kiss from your rock star?" Miranda giggled like a child and nodded her head. Taser Girl plopped down on the couch next to me, then slapped my thigh a couple times. Miranda heeded the call, bouncing forward and straddling my legs. Taser Girl leaned in close and whispered in my ear. "Give our sweet Miranda a deep, hot kiss. She's been looking forward to this for a long, long time." Mirada leaned in, pressed herself to me with a look of child-like anticipation. Her body was gushing heat. A weird thing to remember. She pressed her lips to my mouth and kissed me. I let her. I didn't pull back. I didn’t push her away. Her lips were soft and it was a soft, lingering kiss. "I wonder, Vaughn," Taser Girl sighed into my ear as Miranda pulled back, "if Edi's feeling bored in that hotel room." She was running her red nails up my arm. "Maybe she'd like a kiss. Not an innocent little kiss like the one you just gave Miranda. I can just imagine Graham taking that ball gag from her mouth, pressing his mouth to her

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open lips, thrusting his tongue against hers. He's a very good kisser, I'm sure she'll like it. And of course the other boys will want their turn, too." The thought of a bunch of thugs descending on Edi, her bound and scared, I thought my heart would explode with the fear. "Should I give Graham a call? Or would you like to give Miranda a real kiss?" "Don't call, don't call." I pulled Miranda to me and kissed her with terrified urgency, so hard and for so long that she finally pushed herself back from me, gasping and panting. She looked a little startled and for a second I was terrified I'd fucked up. "That's better, puppy. Now it's my turn. Up, Miranda." Miranda got kind of a pouty look on her face, but she yielded her spot and Taser Girl slid onto my lap, sliding her ass up my thighs, pressing her groin to mine, slowly pushing her soft breasts against my bare chest. "Look at me." I forced myself to meet her eyes. Pale green, made to seem even more pale by heavy black eyeliner and thick mascara. I guess she was doing her tempting seductress thing, gazing into my eyes as she moved in for the kiss. What did I feel as her face came closer and closer? My fingers curled into fists, I wanted to throw her to the floor and beat the shit out of her—the leader, I was sure, the one who'd orchestrated the whole monstrous plan. I wanted to see that red lipstick smeared over her mouth and my fist, darken, thicken, until I knew it was blood distorting her mouth, staining her skin, warming my hand.

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But I couldn't. They'd hurt Edi. And this girl's breath was warm on my lips, her ass on my lap, her tits, barely concealed in a flimsy tube top, pressing against my chest. Her lips parted, beyond the waxy red of her lipstick I saw the wet pink of her lips as they curved into her mouth. She kissed me. Her lips brushed over mine. Slow. Soft. Lewd. Her eyes were open, watching me as her warm, wet tongue licked between my lips, licked my tongue. I forced myself to kiss her back, scared to resist her, scared she'd hurt Edi. I dutifully slid my tongue against hers, into her mouth, thinking of Edi, frightened, thinking how much scarier it would be for her. I could get through this. I promised myself I could get through anything to spare Edi the fucking awful stuff I was picturing that would happen to her if I didn't play it right on my end. But then she got up. And what she said next, I didn't think I could get through it anymore. "Now, once Jimmy gets his kiss we'll all be properly introduced and we can get on with the real fun." I don't remember if I said anything. I was just…I couldn't believe, accept that this was happening, that there wasn't something I could do to change it, to make it all stop and go away. Jimmy stepped forward and gave a slimy smirk. "What do you say, Vaughn? You and me? Or Graham and Edi?" He stepped up close. He put one knee on the sofa by my leg. Then he put the other one up and his legs bridged over my lap. Up close he kind of looked like a tall, skinny, masculine version of Taser Girl. I kept thinking it was a bluff, that they were just trying to rile me. I wanted to think that. He lowered his ass onto my thighs and put his

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hands on my shoulders. Without thinking, without meaning to I braced my arms against his chest, held him away from me. "Don't be like that, Vaughn." He took my wrists and coaxed my hands down to my sides. Then he put his hands back on my shoulders and leaned in. My heart and stomach seized when I thought he'd kiss me, but his face moved past. His mouth was by my ear. "Ever kissed a boy before, Vaughn Doe?" When I didn't answer he asked me again, and I said 'no.' "Well then, I'll be real gentle with you, just like I would with a sweet young girl who's never been kissed." I couldn't believe what the fucker did next. If he was going to kiss me, I thought he'd basically rape my mouth with his tongue. But what he did was worse. Harder to take. He did it like a goddamn seduction. He sort of mouthed my ear for a second, then starting making his way toward my mouth with soft little kisses across my cheek. I wanted to tune him out, pretend it was someone else—Taser Girl, Miranda, anyone. Any woman. But he didn't smell like a woman. And I could feel his rough stubble on my face. Then his lips were on my mouth. He put them there softly and left them there a long time before he pulled back. "I'm not hurting you, am I?" he asked in a mocking voice, the way children taunt each other about being babies. Then he came back in to give me another revoltingly gentle kiss. "Don’t forget to kiss him back, Vaughn, or Edi's mouth gets tongue-fucked by her three visitors," Taser Girl reminded me.

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So when Jimmy's tongue brushed over my lips I forced myself to respond. To kiss him back. Jimmy really took his damn time about it. Just like his tauntingly gentle prelude, he was tormenting me, fucking with me, making the kiss long and sensual, and not the, I don't know, the macho pillage I'd expected. Finally he wrapped it up, got to his feet, and wiped our drool from his smirking mouth. I didn't…well…I almost took courage from that. Because, before he did it, I thought it would kill me or something. I was sure, at the very least, that I'd throw up. But I didn't die, and I didn't puke. I was still scared to think what would happen next, but after that kiss, I thought, if Jimmy would stay out of it, I could get through the rest. "Now, Miranda, what next?” Taser Girl asked as she stared at me, maybe assessing the limits of my endurance. The revoltingly cute little blonde struck a hackneyed pose she’d seen in a movie or something, one arm crossed over her stomach, the other bent, her index finger pressed to her lips. Another guileless smile, another secretive whisper to Taser Girl. "Don't tell me, silly," Taser Girl chided her, "tell him." Miranda was about to balk but Taser Girl reprimanded her with her eyes. Miranda looked at me, smiled and blushed. Her girlishness was infuriating. So painfully, stupidly incongruent with the situation, with what she was taking part in. "Vaughn," she said, then she giggled like saying my name was somehow funny, "please stand up and take off your shoes." I bent down and unlaced my boots. My hands were shaking. They were making me strip. They'd get me naked, and then…It wasn't like Austin. It was a different kind of torture. I was choosing. I was doing what they wanted me to do. I pulled my boots off.

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“And the socks, hmmm Miranda?” Miranda nodded her approval. “And the socks, Mr. Doe. Men look so ridiculous when they’re naked except for their socks.” I peeled off my socks and laid them on top of my boots. “Is it time for the pants, Miranda?” “I’ll do it!” Miranda chirped as if she were about to unwrap a birthday present rather than strip a prisoner. Miranda excitedly began to come toward me, seeming at once innocently girlish and slightly insane. She came up very close to me, and looked at my face for a long time. Then she reached up with both hands, and softly laid her palms on my temples. Then in one long, slow caress she drew her hands down the sides of my face, my neck, over my chest and down my stomach, her fingertips coming to rest on the waistband of my jeans. Her fingers had grazed my nipples, and I felt a charge of resentment at the sensation her touch had produced. This whole time I was wondering if I could grab her, get her in a choke hold or something, threaten to kill her if they didn't make the call and make those men let Edi go. I could crush that little thing's windpipe in one quick blow, I was sure. But I couldn't gamble Edi's safety. Even if no one really had her—and I wasn't totally convinced they did—the mere possibility that they did, that they could hurt her, meant that I had to do everything they wanted. Miranda slowly began to unbuckle my belt, sliding the leather through the metal, pulling the leather back against the prong, releasing it. Then she pulled it off, the belt

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kind of whistling out of its loops. Miranda breathed out a dirty little giggle that was both tantalizing and revolting. She undid the button, unzipped the fly. Instinctively, I wanted to reach down, grab the waistband of my jeans, hold them up. Taser Girl saw me twitch and uttered an admonitory, “uh, uh, uh.” I forced myself to be still as Miranda tugged my jeans and shorts down over my butt, down my legs until they were bunched around my ankles. Miranda stood up and took a couple steps back to admire her work. “Well, it appears to be a complete package,” Taser Girl taunted.” Very nice. Now step out of them, slowly.” One foot at a time I stepped out of the clothes that had been stripped off me. “Shall we have a look at his ass?” Taser Girl asked. Miranda gleefully nodded her assent, and Taser Girl made a whirling motion with her finger, giving me the order to turn. I turned around once, quickly, scared to turn my back on the three of them. “You’ve got a very nice rear, Mr. Doe. Tell me, have you ever taken it up the ass?” This question, and the mean little grin that came over Jimmy’s face when she asked it, sent a shockwave of panic through me. I was beginning to sweat. I was breathing hard. “I asked you a simple question, Mr. Doe. Has a man ever fucked you up the ass?” “No.” I hated that my voice gave away that I was close to crying.

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“I see. And have you ever fucked a guy up the ass?” “No.” “How about a woman? Have you ever fucked a woman up the ass?” “None of your fucking business.” “I’m going to take that as a yes. Now I’d like to hear you say it. Tell me you’ve fucked a woman up the ass, Mr. Doe.” “I’ve fucked a woman up the ass.” I told myself I was revealing nothing, that I was just repeating a line that had been fed to me. At this point Miranda whispered something to Taser Girl. “Oh, all right, all right. Enough chatter. Miranda's right, after all—it's much more fun to do the naughty things than it is to talk about them. And lord knows," she went on in her low, sultry tone, "I do love making men like you submit to me.” I didn’t know what she meant by ‘men like me.’ I was praying someone would come to the door, that the intrusion would scare these three off. Tell me, Mr. Doe, have you ever sucked cock?” I shook my head no, feeling a fist of nausea clamping my stomach. “But you’ve eaten pussy, haven’t you?” I think I nodded. “Well, puppy, I’ll give you a choice. You can either suck Jimmy’s dick, or eat Miranda’s pussy. Which would you prefer?” As a pathetic act of defiance I refused to answer. "Or, if you'd prefer, I'll give Graham a call. How's Edi at sucking cock? I'm sure she's a talented girl—she'd have to be to hang on to a guy like you, huh? But even so, it

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takes a lot out of a girl, sucking off three guys in one go. That's a lot of come to swallow." "Stop it!" Fuck, I couldn't take it any more, those threats, the images I was getting. "Puppy," she said in her condescending tone, "you know how to make me stop. Just tell me--would you like to give Jimmy a nice blow job, or would you like to eat Miranda’s pussy? Here, let me make it easier for you. Miranda.” Miranda slipped off the little skirt she was wearing, then shimmied out of her bikini briefs. She was hairless, waxed smooth, and I caught myself wondering, rather erroneously, if she was from LA. She sat on the edge of the sofa, facing out between me in my chair and Taser Girl and Jimmy by theirs, so we could all see. She spread her legs just enough so we could all glimpse the deeper pink glistening between the paler matte smoothness of her skin. “Miranda, take your finger and run it lightly over your pretty little slit.” Taser Girl directed her. She took a long, delicate index finger and pressed the tip to the opening of her vagina, then drew her finger forward, over her clit and up. Like a puppet on a string my cock jumped to life. “That’s very nice Miranda, and I see Mr. Doe agrees,” Taser Girl jibed. “And now, let's give him a look at Jimmy. Honey, go stand in front of Mr. Doe. Now undo your buckle. Now undo your pants.” He followed her every order without hesitation. “Now, Jimmy, take out your cock and show it to Mr. Doe.”

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Jimmy took out his cock. I felt sick with fear. I'd never seen another guy's dick so up-close like that. “Jimmy has an amazing, a beautiful cock, doesn’t he Mr. Doe? So long and thick, but with kind of a graceful shape to it, don't you agree?" Fucking bitch. Like I really wanted the docent's tour of Jimmy's meat. "Now stroke it a little, Jimmy. Mr. Doe should see it in its full glory before he makes a final decision.” Jimmy began stroking his dick, which grew hard almost instantly under his touch. It was huge, inches from my face, and I was terrified they’d make me give him head. “Well, Mr. Doe, now we’ve let you see the goods. What's your pleasure? Would you like to eat Miranda's pussy? Or eat Jimmy's cock?” “Miranda.” “No, Mr. Doe. Tell me in a complete sentence what you would like to do.” Fuck, I wanted to punch that stupid cunt's face in. “I want to eat Miranda’s pussy.” “Very good. Now tell Miranda.” Miranda was looking at me eagerly, innocently, as if she had no idea that I was being coerced, that I was about to fucking throw up. “Miranda, I want to eat your pussy.” Miranda smiled a huge smile and giggled a little. In my humiliation I was comforting myself with an image. Taser Girl lying on the floor. Me, straddling her chest, her arms pinned under my knees as I violently fucked her bossy little mouth until she gagged and tears streamed from her eyes.

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“All right, Mr. Rockstar, get over there and eat that pussy. And be sure you do a good job. I’m sure you have lots of experience in these matters. If I don’t hear Miranda moaning and squealing with pleasure, I’ll know you’re not trying, and we’ll have to switch. Then you’ll do Jimmy, and I’ll do Miranda. Because I know what Miranda likes.” I went over to where Miranda was sitting on the sofa, and knelt down between her legs. “Don’t be shy, Mr. Doe. Push her legs open a little more, so we can all see.” I pressed her knees wider, presenting her bare pussy. “Now, have a little taste.” Even under the circumstances, the smell of her cunt was exciting as I drew closer to her. I ran my tongue up her slit, following the path she had drawn a moment earlier with her finger. “Isn’t that a tasty little pussy?” Taser Girl asked. “Yes.” “Would you like some more of Miranda's juicy cunt?” “Yes.” “Go ahead, then, eat her out good. We’ll be over here, having our fun, listening to make sure you’re doing a good job.” They settled in at the other end of the sofa, where they could see us and we could see them. Jimmy was staring at me as Taser Girl, kneeling in front of him, took his dick in her mouth. She started sliding up and down, his shaft disappearing and reappearing as she worked it in and out between her lips. I looked up and saw Miranda

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was watching them, too, smiling. Then, knowing that if I didn't, Taser Girl would force me to suck Jimmy off, I leaned in, putting my mouth to her. Her hairless cunt was soft and smooth under my tongue, between my lips. I gave her a few slow, light licks, then some long, smooth firm strokes of my tongue. She gave a little gasping cry. Pressing my palms to her inner thighs, I pushed her open a little wider, and massaged the base of her clit with my lips. She began to whimper and writhe wildly, and I knew I was on to what she liked. Then I heard Taser Girl say Jimmy’s name, and Jimmy spoke. “Hold up there, Mr. Doe.” I pulled back a little. “I’m enjoying watching this. Very nice. Now put a finger inside her.” I did it. She was perfectly slippery. “Now fuck that tight little cunt with your finger.” I did, and Miranda was squirming and whimpering again. “Now take that finger, all nice and wet, and rub her asshole.” I did it, pressing the pad of my finger up against the hole, rubbing slowly and firmly around the rim. “Now put your finger inside her.” She gasped as I stuck my finger up her ass. I pulled it out and stuck it up again, as Jimmy directed me. “Fuck yeah, that’s nice,” he said, watching. “Now while you fuck her ass with your finger, I want to stick your thumb in her pussy. Fuck both her holes at the same time.” I did it.

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“Now get back to eating her, and keep fucking her.” Pressing my fingers in and pulling them out, slowly, rhythmically, I put my mouth back on her cunt, sucking and licking between the lips, the head and base of her clit. Her wetness was running over my hand and I began fucking her faster, deeper as I ate her. Her whimpering sounds were getting louder, coming with every exhale, and I was holding her down with my left arm, keeping her in place against all her writhing. She was on the edge, and I heard Jimmy say, “Miranda, Vaughn Doe is eating your pussy. Vaughn Doe has his finger in your ass.” Her writhing became a shuddering convulsion as she came under my mouth, her muscles pulsing around my fingers. My shameful erection was aching. I didn't want them to see that I was hard. Taser Girl pulled Jimmy's cock from her mouth and the two of them exchanged odd smiles. They both stood. Jimmy grabbed a chair and dragged it over, in front of the couch, and Taser Girl sat down. "Come here, Miranda darling." Mirada rose and went to her. "Take a seat on the sofa, Mr. Doe." I was sick with dread, not wanting them to see that my cock was hard, terrified at what they were going to come up with next. I got up from the floor and sat on the couch. An amused grin appeared on Taser Girl's face. "Mmmm," she purred, "I see you didn't mind so much, licking Miranda's juicy little cunt." Taser Girl stared at my stiff prick for a second. I wanted it to wither under her eyes but her look seemed to have the opposite effect. Finally she turned her hungry

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look from my cock to Miranda's face. Then she pulled down her tube top, and her full, pale breasts with dark nipples sprang free. Taser Girl cupped her breasts in her hands, and Miranda bent over, sucking one nipple, then the other, leaving them hard and shiny with her spit. My cock was getting more and more uncomfortable as I watched. "Get down on your knees, sweetie." Miranda went down on her knees before Taser Girl, who hiked up her skirt and spread her legs, showing all of us her pussy. A narrow strip of black hair decorated her mound; the rest of her cunt was bare. Taser Girl put her hand to the back of Miranda's head and pulled her mouth against her twat. "Lick my pussy, Miranda honey." Miranda seemed eager enough. Her naked ass wiggled before us as she ate the other woman out. “Now, Mr. Doe, we’re giving you a nice little show here, aren’t we?" Taser Girl panted as Miranda lapped at her slit. "Miranda’s sweet little ass and my tits in plain view while she’s down there eating my pussy. I see you’re still nice and hard. Now you’re going to put on a little show for me. You’re going to sit there, nice and still like a good boy, hands back behind your neck. Nice puppy. Now you’re going to let Jimmy give you a little head.” I jumped to my feet, ready to fight, ready to run. But in the same moment I thought of Edi. I froze. “Ah ah ah, Mr. Doe." She kept Miranda's face pressed to her snatch, and she was breathless as she admonished me. "I thought you would have realized by now that I only ask you to do things when I can think of things much worse that we could make

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you do if you don’t cooperate. For example, if you don’t let Jimmy swallow your cock for a few minutes, we could always stun you, tie you up, and let him fuck you instead." She closed her eyes for a moment and seemed too distracted by what Miranda was doing to pay any more attention to me. Her brow furrowed and she opened her eyes to watch Miranda licking and sucking her. "Put your finger in my pussy, Miranda sweetie. Fuck me a little while you lick me. Oh, that's good, honey. Just like that." She finally emerged from her haze of pleasure to deal with me. Miranda kept busily slurping away, noisily fingering Taser Girl's twat. "Oh, God. I'd almost forgotten. Edi." She gave me an ugly, cruel smile. "Graham fucking loves to eat pussy. Tell me, puppy, does your wife shave her bush?" I was panting in silent fury. "Well? Does she? If you don't feel like answering, I can just have one of the boys check for me and see." "No." "Hmmm." She drifted off again as Miranda ate her. "Well, let me tell you what Graham's likely to do." She moaned and really sank her fingers into Miranda's hair, pulling the girl's face in tight against her.

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"Graham likes a nice, shaved pussy," she went on in a husky voice. "In fact, he's got something of a shaving fetish. I suppose he'll have Rick and Perry get your pretty wife up on her feet, and they'll hold her still." "Stop it—I'll fucking do it. Whatever you want." My voice shook as I talked. "I know you will, sweetie. But first I'm going to tell you this little story. So be quiet, and listen." I was losing my fucking mind, and Taser Girl was clearly getting more and more excited as she painted this little picture for me, Miranda's tongue sliding around in her slit all the while. "Graham will get down on his knees, and slide his hands up her thighs, under her skirt, and pull her panties down. Then the boys will get her on the bed, on her back. I've seen them do this little routine more than once—it's quite something to watch. Each of the boys will use one hand to hold a shoulder down on the bed, and the other hand at the back of her knee to raise and spread her legs. Nice and wide." "Please stop," I whispered, starting to cry now. I'm almost positive the sight of my distress, my tears, just got that scary bitch hotter than ever. "Brigid…" Miranda had taken her tongue off Taser Girl's clit long enough to meekly attempt an intervention on my behalf. Taser Girl shoved her face back against her twat. "Watch it, Miranda. If you're not a good little girl, you might not get to fuck your rock star tonight after all." Miranda went back on duty and Taser Girl turned her attention back to me.

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"Of course, Edi won't realize she's just in for a careful shave and some phenomenal head—she'll be thinking she's about to get a big hard one rammed into her—so she'll be trying to break loose, trying to scream. But the boys are nice and strong, and with the ball gag in her mouth she won't be able to make much noise. Graham will sit down, right by that furry little pussy of hers, and very slowly, methodically cover her bush with a nice thick coat of shaving cream. Then he'll get out the razor—don't worry, he's very good, and never nicks—and he'll begin to shave her. Very carefully, very thoroughly, he'll shave her mound, her lips, spreading her open, getting every single millimeter of her delicate little cunt." I was trying to tune her out, to keep the images out of my head, but there was no way. "Then he'll get a washcloth, nice and hot and wet, and he'll gently wipe her clean. Then, puppy, he'll do it all again, until she's perfectly smooth. Her little pussy will be all pink and tender, the skin warm from the shaving and the washing. He'll be so hungry for her, aching to taste her. And then, while the boys go on, holding down, holding her legs apart, he'll begin licking her smooth, bare little twat." All through her monologue Taser Girl got more and more breathless as Miranda kept on eating her. And I was…I was…Christ. I've never hated myself more, at any moment in my life than I did then, as that fucking bitch sat there describing an assault on my wife and I was not just furious, not just scared she'd make the call and say the words, but the images she was putting in my head made me wretchedly, shamefully aroused. I wanted to fucking kill myself. "Give it a rest for a second, Miranda."

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Taser girl pushed the other one back and sat there a moment, panting. Then she turned to me. "Sit down." I sat. "Are you going to be a good little puppy?" "Yes." "Good. You sit there, watching two pretty girls eating each other out. Watch me rub a little ice on my nipples, think about sticking your cock up Miranda’s lovely bottom, which she’s wiggling so seductively in front of you as she licks my pussy. And I get to watch Jimmy suck your dick, which will probably make me come in no time.” I tried to not really think about what was happening, with Jimmy. I tried to will myself to watch Miranda and Taser Girl, and to forget who the fourth person in the room with us was. I watched Taser Girl reach and take an ice cube from the water glass that was sitting on the table next to her. She began rubbing the dripping cube over her nipples, which seemed to grow slightly darker as they tightened and got hard. I felt a hot wet mouth come down over my cock. I tried but I couldn't help it, thinking, realizing that a man was sucking me. A man's lips. A man's tongue. I concentrated very hard, trying pointlessly to keep Jimmy away from my brain, since I had no control over what they did with my body. I watched Miranda’s full pink lips smothering Taser Girl’s pussy, then her tongue flashed out and tickled Taser Girl’s slit a few times. And I was being licked and sucked, a firm tongue, a man's tongue winding around and around the head of my prick, then lips taking me deep into that hot mouth, all the way in.

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Miranda’s ass was pertly sticking up in the air, showing me a glimpse of her pussy, inviting me to fuck her from behind. The thought of fucking that slick little cunt, the thought of ramming my prick up that ass that had writhed around my finger, caused a surge of excitement. Almost without warning, without being able to stop or control it, I started to come. And God, no, I didn't want to. With him. But I couldn't help it. When I felt it bearing down on me I felt…annihilated. Not just afraid, not just disgusted, but like if I let myself…with him…I wasn't me any more. I strained with my whole body to resist, but there was no point. I was getting off in Jimmy’s mouth. When Taser Girl realized what was happening, she got so excited that she started coming too, grabbing the back of Miranda’s head to press her mouth more firmly to her pussy, staring at me, my face, at Jimmy's head at my groin. She sighed a deep moan of release. “Aw, puppy,” Taser Girl mused breathlessly, “that was delicious to watch." Her voice seemed to come from far away and at the time I don't think I really registered her words. Not until later. Of course now I have every disgusting word and gesture memorized, after fucking rehashing every second over and over again. A minute later someone touched me and I jumped, not ready to fight. Just raw. Taser Girl was wiping away tears I didn't know I'd cried. "Poor puppy." She sounded almost kind. "Don't take it like that. Pleasure is pleasure, you know. And there's not a cock in the world that can resist Jimmy's mouth." Then, on a dime, her sympathetic tone reverted to her earlier crass playfulness. "But now we’re going to have to wait a while until you can get hard again, aren't we?"

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Taser Girl sent Miranda into the kitchen to make everyone drinks, and she came back with a tray of vodka tonics. She insisted I drink mine, saying she didn’t mind in the least if it slowed my recovery process, she had nowhere to be. Miranda had put her skirt back on and was sitting demurely on the couch, sipping her drink and following me with her eyes. Taser Girl had pulled her tube top back up, hiding and rounding out her plump tits. She was ambling about the room, vodka tonic in hand, looking over our knickknacks and photographs. Jimmy was trailing along behind her, pants re-zipped, belt re-buckled. Only I was deprived the dignity of an article of clothing. “Vaughn?” I turned to face Miranda. “You're at least having a little fun, aren't you?" Oh my fucking god, was this girl for real? Could anyone really be that stupid? I just gaped at her, seething and incredulous. "Just a little?" she pressed in earnest, her big dumb eyes really expecting some kind of affirming answer that would make this stupid stunt of hers okay. “No.” My voice was flat. Cold. “Oh, come on, Vaughn.” Taser Girl had come over to join the conversation. "You're having fun. Even if you're too worked up to realize it yet." I was full of rage, but I laughed. "That's right, puppy. You laugh, but sooner or later you'll realize we're right. The part that's fun for you, Vaughn Doe, is that you get to do things tonight you'd never get to do otherwise. You may be a big rock star, and I'm sure women of all sorts are lining

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up to beg you to fuck them, but you’re also the kind of guy who’s terrified to let a guy give him head, then he blows his wad after two minutes in the guy’s mouth. You’re the kind of guy who’s afraid to do things he might like.” "Fuck you." "Ah, the answer of a man who has no real answer." God, I wanted to choke the life out of that bitch. "Brigid?" Miranda asked tentatively. "Yes?' "Is it time yet?" "Time for what?" "You know…" "No, dear, what?" Miranda just stood there, obviously flustered, trying to persuade the other with her eyes. "Oh!" Taser Girl finally relented, "yes, I guess we can do that now. Tell your little puppy." Miranda, after all that had transpired, had the nerve to blush. "I can't. You know I can't." "The only way it's going to happen, sweetie, is if you tell him." Miranda just stood there looking like she was going to cry. "Go on," Taser Girl urged. Miranda finally opened her lips to speak, but she was looking at the floor. "I want…"

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"Don't tell the ground, silly girl. Tell him. Miranda spent another moment in communion with my carpet, then came over to where I was standing. She looked up at me. It was plain that it was hard for her, meeting my eyes right then, with what she was about to say. I didn't make it any easier on her. I glared down at her with cold contempt, hoping she would see that I hated her. "Vaughn, I…" I went on doing my best to crush her with my cold stare. "Would you…" "Oh, for Christ's sake, Miranda," Taser Girl interjected, "just make a nice complete sentence for the man." Miranda looked like she might actually cry in embarrassment. What a fucked up world. "I want to make love with you," she finally blurted out, her eyes wet, her cheeks bright red. 'Make love,' she'd said. Jesus Christ. The girl was really deluded. "How does that sound, Mr. Doe?" I kept staring at Miranda, hating her with my eyes. “Well," Taser Girl said, giving up on me, "if you want to persuade Mr. Doe’s tired prick to join us again, you’re going to have to encourage it a little. Now, no one’s seen your titties yet today, perhaps it’s time for them to come out.” Miranda whispered something in Taser Girl’s ear. “Yes, darling, I know you’re shy about that. It’s hard to say, isn’t it, why you’ll show everyone in the world your snatch, but you keep your boobies hidden away at all

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times. Nevertheless, I would like to see them, and I’m sure Mr. Doe would, too. But first,” Taser Girl went to a little back she’d left next to the sofa, and drew from it a small bottle. “Kindly put out your hand, Mr. Doe.” I did as she said, and she squeezed a fat line of goo onto my hand, from my fingertips to the center of my palm. “Stroke your cock, puppy, while Miss Miranda unveils this hidden treasure of hers.” I think some part of me actually wanted to do this, to beat my cock stiff, to fuck this sweet, ditzy insane girl. No, not just fuck her. What I wanted was to punish her, punish her for picking me for her stupid crush, for bringing these freaks to my house. I smeared the lube onto my surprisingly responsive dick. Jimmy and Taser Girl flanked Miranda as she reluctantly began to unbutton her blouse. My dick was growing hard in my hand. When she’d gotten all the buttons undone, Miranda giggled, crossed her arms over her chest and said she couldn’t do it. Taser Girl leaned in and gave her a tender kiss on the cheek, then gently pulled Miranda’s wrist to her side. Jimmy copied this effort on his side. Still holding down her wrists, Taser Girl took the fabric between her fingers and slowly pulled it toward her, revealing one small, jutting breast with a bubble gum pink nipple. Miranda’s chest was heaving excitedly as Jimmy exposed her other breast. Watching them restrain her as they bared her tits to me, my cock grew perfectly hard. They weren’t done getting Miranda ready, though. They each drew an arm across their shoulders and bent to kiss the pink nipples, Jimmy flicking his tongue over the hardening bump, Taser Girl drawing the tip of Miranda’s tit into her mouth for a long

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caressing suck. Then Taser Girl took Miranda’s hand and drew her over to the sofa. Sitting and spreading her legs wide, she pulled Miranda down into a sitting position in front of her. Reaching around her waist, Taser Girl drew Miranda’s legs open, exposing that tender little pussy. Jimmy went to work on her, lapping hungrily at her cunt as he pushed her legs open even wider. While Jimmy sucked at Miranda’s pussy, Taser Girl reached around from behind, putting her fingers in an inverted V, spreading Miranda’s cunt and pressing the lips, pushing the clit out of its hiding spot. Miranda was panting and writhing. Taser Girl was using her other hand to lightly tease the hard, pale pink nipples. Then Taser Girl ordered Jimmy to stop, and they left her tense and panting. My cock was throbbing. "All right, Miranda, go ahead and fuck you rock star," Taser Girl said as she looked at me. Miranda looked at me hopefully, expectantly with her big dumb blue eyes. I stood there, facing her, still stroking my lubed prick, my brain charging with weird images. Miranda walked over toward me, looking nervous. She touched my arm. "Want to go into the bedroom?" she asked in a soft voice. Tentative. Expectant. I didn't want her fucking me in the bedroom. Nothing private, intimate. But I figured I didn't get a say. "Hang on, Miranda." Taser Girl gave me a weird smile. "Your little puppy's been so cooperative this evening. Maybe we should throw him a little bone, hmmm? Tell you what, Vaughn. I don't see why you shouldn't get to

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have your fun, too. So, Miranda gets to fuck you, but you get to choose how. Fuck her any way you want." Taser Girl had kind of a mean look on her face. Meanwhile Miranda looked almost excited. What did she think? I was going to come up with some special position just for her? Maybe she was just happy at the thought that I'd choose something. Maybe to her that would mean me wanting her. Anyway, I wasn't thinking yet about what I wanted. I was wondering what Taser Girl was up to. "Go on, Puppy. Take her however you'd like. So long as you fuck her, we'll leave Edi out of it. My only condition is that you have to come, with your dick inside Miranda." My little blonde fan frowned then, like Taser Girl's words had taken the polish off her cherished dream of 'making love' to me. In that instant my vision crystallized. I looked around the room a second. The floor. The dining table. Then I walked over to the end of the sofa, and when I looked at Miranda she came over to me. She pressed her small frame against me. Weird little radiator girl, her body so hot, and she looked up at me with her stupid adoration. I knew what she wanted. She wanted a kiss. I put my hands on her shoulders, stepped her a bit away from me, and turned her to face the couch. If I really try to go back, to feel what I was feeling then, something had happened. I was still thinking of Edi. My brain was locked on her, on the image of her, reasoning that I had to do whatever would keep her safe. But emotionally…I think as I stood there, stroking myself, watching them undressing and touching Miranda, I didn't feel like the victim anymore. I felt…sinister. "Put your knees up there."

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She didn't look back at me, but I felt her droop a little under my hands. After a few seconds she did it. I made her bend over so her hands were down on the couch cushion, her shoulders well below her hips. I grabbed her calves and spread her legs wide, until things were at the right height and I'd have easy access. I was going to fuck her in the ass. I wanted to be cruel. To hurt her. To make it as unlike her romantic vision as I could. But something changed my mind and I rammed my hard prick into Miranda's twat. Her wet, vulnerable little twat. She yelped. I'd driven into her hard and sudden. I stopped for a second, just sunk into her, startled by my own brutality. When she didn't say anything, or try to move away, I clasped her hips and began to pump my cock into her, hard and fast. Even though fucking me was her fantasy, even though she'd played a part in blackmailing and forcing me, I felt I was raping her. I was so filled with violent hate, I was hoping that I was hurting her, if not physically, then I at least hoped I was humiliating her, violently destroying her childish fantasy of being with me. I had never, never done that before. I’d fucked bored, but never hating. I felt like I was someone else. I hammered away at her, slapping against her, wishing I'd come so fast she'd barely feel she'd been fucked, in spite of my violence. But I'd just come a little bit before, and I just couldn't get close. I was hard as iron, and my cock needed to come, after all my greased stroking, watching them lick Miranda's tits and cunt, feeling her pussy gripping my cock now. But it felt like it was never going to happen. I just kept at it, pounding her as fast and hard as I could sustain. It seemed to be going on forever.

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I got a better grip on her hips and started fucking harder. Ramming as deep on every thrust as I possibly could, with the speed and force of a jackhammer. My heart was banging a million times a minute from the exertion. My fucking cock—I hated it. Getting hard when I wished it wouldn't, then refusing to come. Making this weird hell stretch on forever. Fucking and fucking forever. Finally I felt close. I'd come soon. I dug my fingers into the tender flesh of her hips and did the impossible. Started fucking her harder. My hips loudly smacking her ass. Her breaths were rattling out of her, staccato, with every whap of my body against hers, like I was knocking the wind out of her. So close. Fuck. Her cunt so wet, so tight, her, somewhere down there on the couch, out of my sight. All I saw was her ass and my chest belly cock, cock disappearing and appearing shiny and red. I slammed into her with all my strength. I was almost there. Violent, almost forgetting about her I thrust my hard, needful cock into the wet grip of cunt. Suddenly my whole groin clenched like a fist and I came, my cock jerking and shooting. And everything went out of me. As soon as I'd come and slipped out of her, Jimmy came forward and grabbed her arm, pulled her off the couch, made her lie down on the floor. Then he was on her, fucking her. Not thirty seconds had gone by and his dick was in her, where I'd just shot off. He started riding her, his ass bouncing up and down between her spread legs. Seconds later Taser Girl was there, lifting her skirt, straddling Miranda’s face. Taser Girl, who’d let slip only the slightest of stoic moans up until now, was hoarsely and loudly groaning. As she came, Jimmy released what he’d been holding back for hours, pumping his come into Miranda’s pussy.

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When they were done Jimmy and Taser Girl stood up, and a second later Miranda rose to her feet. She wasn't crying, but she looked sad. From that moment, until they left, she didn't look at me again. I don't know what I thought, but I felt slightly sick. That sickness. It stuck with me for days. Well, even now. That girl's expression, broken and sad. The nasty, smug look on Taser Girl's face. Those images still make me nauseous, make me cold. Why? The whole thing, I'd blamed it on Miranda. Even though Taser Girl had been the brains, the muscle, the mouth, I blamed Miranda because it seemed to be her crush on me that had brought them all to my house. But in the end, I think her position wasn't that different from mine. Taser Girl had mind-fucked her, used her for her own twisted sport. With me, they'd used Edi to get me to do what they wanted. Maybe they'd convinced Miranda that she'd get to fuck her rock star, that I'd like it. That it would be fun. Instead, she'd seen me cry, and then I'd turned her away and brutally fucked her from behind, so she couldn't see me. It could have been anyone using her like a nameless, faceless piece of meat. And then, at the moment of her disillusionment, while she was feeling used and humiliated and probably sore, Jimmy threw her to the floor and fucked her, too. He and Taser Girl had gotten off on how I'd treated her. On the poor dumb girl's misery, and then they'd used her to get off. That's the thing. What makes me feel like throwing up, even now. She was more innocent than I'd thought, and I hurt her. On purpose. And liked it. Christ. They all left right after that, Taser Girl saying that I'd been a good little puppy and that in an hour she'd have Edi freed. As soon as they were gone I got my cell phone and called Edi, and learned what I'd pretty much expected—no one had held her hostage. It

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was just a ruse to make me cooperate. I was relieved. Of course I was. Jesus, I don't think I could have taken it if the other thing had been true. But I felt something else, too. More sickness I didn't understand. Edi. For days after, I sort of pretended that it hadn’t happened. But I would get flashes, feelings, fleeting thoughts. Still, maybe I would have been okay. I don't know. But a few days later I got a DVD in the mail, sent anonymously. When I played it, there was Taser Girl, grinning at me from my computer screen, telling me she hoped I'd like her little present. Then, there we all were, each of them kissing me, me stripping off my clothes. The whole disgusting episode had been taped. From above. My own fucking security cameras. It took me a while but I finally figured it out. Taser Girl, or maybe Jimmy, worked for the security company. That was how they'd gotten in past the surveillance—they'd killed the system remotely, activating just the cameras. And that's how they'd know what Edi had been wearing when she'd left that morning. For a minute I almost laughed—the dumb bitch had put the evidence right in my hands. But then I watched the DVD. The whole vile, humiliating thing. I thought about it, very carefully. The blackmail really screwed me. There was no gun. And the beginning, the part where I'd been stun gunned, had been cut. If I went to the cops with this, the three of them could just say it was some kind of stupid role-play. Hell, they could even say I'd hired them. And then, of course, the footage would get out. The next online celeb porn, like Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson, or Paris Hilton. A bolt of panic shocked my stomach. What if that bitch had already put it online? I Googled my name, my name plus 'sex,' my name plus 'orgy,' and everything else I

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could think of. No video. I checked about thirty times that day, my guts in a knot, certain that the next time I entered my name in the browser, the horrid thing would pop up in the top listing. I obsessed about it, terrified, for weeks. It never appeared, and I still don't know why. I'm sure that little cunt could have made a wad of cash. When Edi came home I tried to act like nothing was wrong, but she saw right away that something was going on with me. And the longer it went on, the longer I kept pretending, the worse it got between us. The thought of sex was revolting, I couldn’t be with her. Of course she noticed. Started wondering. She began to believe that I was having an affair, that I had fallen in love with someone else. I couldn’t tell her the truth, and she couldn’t believe that nothing was wrong. And now she's left. Fuck. There's more. I know there's more. So what is it? What's my fucking problem? Why can't things go back to how they were before Austin? Why can't I be normal? Why can't I be with Edi? I don't trust people so much anymore. Don't like being around people. I guess that's not surprising. Edi, though. I don't know. I think maybe the problem is…those nights…I don't understand why I thought, why I felt the way I did. Why I still get hard when I think about what happened. Why I think about that stuff whenever I try jerking off—Psycho Barbie sitting on my face and sucking my cock, Jimmy and Taser Girl stripping and spreading and licking Miranda, me bending her over and violently fucking her. Christ. Even Jimmy giving me head. Even the couple times I tried to be with Edi I couldn't stop it. My mind

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always goes back to that shit. I don't even like to jerk off anymore because I don't want those images in my head. But I can't go back either. Even if I could stop picturing those things, I can't be a lover to my wife, the way we were before. Fuck—what do I mean by that? It's not that I don't want 'normal' sex. It's not that I'm not attracted to Edi. It's that there's a part of me that she's never seen, that I never knew about, that's hungry. It's ugly and it's hungry and Edi won't like it. I know it. Fuck, I don't like it, so why should she accept it? But to pretend it away and stay with her would be dishonest. It would make our marriage a lie. In a way. God, it's so sad to think it. To write it. But in way, maybe our marriage was a kind of lie already. I mean, I love her. Still. But what I'm realizing is, I'm different than I thought I was. Different than what I'm supposed to be. It's like we were together under false pretenses. Her not really knowing me because I didn't really know myself. And me being with her because she was part of who I should be. But I'm not who I should be. I think about that episode with Psycho Barbie and, Christ. I liked it. I don't mean that I came, that she got me off. I think I could live with that all right, that I came when some woman gave me head and fucked me. Natural physiological response. Fine. And I've been pretending to myself that that's all it was. But it was more. It was…hot. Not despite the creepy weirdness of it all. Because of it. I could have had that exact encounter with that exact woman, and if I'd just invited her back to my room with me I'd never have looked back, thought of it again. I liked being in her power. No, that's not it either. I liked…the depravity itself. Not the methods, not the sensations. The actual sick twistedness of being caught up in someone's fucked

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up fantasy. Suddenly my whole life, my normal life where I could talk and move, where I did what I wanted to do with my time and with my body…It felt boring. Or…false. Something. Maybe I could have forgotten, pretended it away, if it hadn't been for Miranda and the others. But I don't think I can escape it now. With all of them—with Psycho Barbie, with the others, I liked the coercion. Got off on it. I had liked pretending I was raping that girl. I had liked coming in that man's mouth. And then, well…Fuck. FUCK FUCK FUCK! I can’t even write it. I didn't want to fucking know this. I was content, happy with my life the way it was. I want to go back to the way I was, back to my old life. But I don't think I can. No. The more I think about it, the more sure I am. I'll write Edi. I'll try. But I know. It's too late.

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FIVE: Jack Rocks

Devan couldn't believe it. He had been… Of course things like that could happen to men. But this was someone she knew. Vaughn. He had held her. Touched her. Kissed her. They had almost made love. And he had scared her. Almost really hurt her. The way he had hoped he was hurting that other woman. She had taken it all in with an awful sense of cold dread. Now she felt guilty. Sick with guilt. She had hoped that his frightening behavior had some rational cause. Now that she'd seen the proof, she felt almost as though she had wished those awful things on him. And now that she knew what had happened, his paranoia, even his violence made perfect sense. Hours had passed since she'd left his room. The afternoon light was fading. She heard his bedroom door open, his footsteps. Logs clunking onto the grate. Noises in the kitchen. He was making a drink. A glass being set on a table. She wanted to go to him. She needed to see him, hear him. Longing, miserable, she opened her door.

Vaughn heard her door open. He took big, desperate gulps of his drink, feeling no effect but working toward a little comforting numbness. There was a soft, slow padding of sock feet over the wooden floor, drawing nearer. He should have stayed in his room. He couldn't face her.

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From the corner of his eye he glimpsed her sitting down at the other end of the couch. So he would not have to look at her he stared intently, deliberately into the fireplace, watching the flames feeding on paper and the blackening remains of the small splinters of wood, threatening the yet uncharred logs. "Vaughn." Her soft voice barely penetrated his rage of thoughts. Just last night he'd held her. So warm, so soft, so nervous in his arms. It hurt now, so badly, to remember how happy and hopeful he'd briefly felt with her. He'd crushed it all. His hope, what little trust she'd come to feel, with the ugly thing he'd done to her that morning. By giving up his awful secret. Never again. Never. He would never touch her again. Not brutally. Not tenderly. He felt her move closer. Just next to him. Why so close? He felt her eyes on him. He wished he were staring into the sun instead of the fire, wished he could burn out his retinas so he'd never have to face her, see her eyes condemn him. Her amazing grey eyes that had been filled with desire and tentative trust the night before. She touched him. He felt her hand light and warm on his shoulder. He was losing, he felt he was losing, and he turned to her, his eyes stinging with the tears he had already cried, filling with fresh tears that threatened to fall, but which he was fighting back with all his strength. Her look of tender sympathy wrenched him. She leaned in, pressed herself to him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her warm cheek pressed against his. He wanted to hold her, to pull her gently to him, but it seemed profane. To touch her with those hands of his.

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"Please, Vaughn. Please hold me. Just for a little." Incredulous, he took her in his arms, choking back his tears, and pressed her tightly to him. "Devan." God, what could he say? "I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m not this man. This isn’t me." "I know. It’s all right. You’re all right." "I hate that I frightened you. That I did that to you. I want to promise you I’ll never do anything like that again. But I don’t even believe myself." "Don’t promise anything. It’s okay." He released her from his desperate, penitent embrace. He wanted to kiss her, just innocently, on her cheeks, at her temples, but such simple, tender gestures between them no longer seemed possible. But then she reached up, combed her fingers into his hair the way she had done once before, and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. His heart ached with disbelief at her kindness. "How can you be so good to me, after what I did today?" "Because…" She handed him the notebook. The double journal. "I don’t know why, the first time I wrote in it I opened it from the back. Ever since, each time I’ve opened it I’ve opened it from the front, and had to close it and flip it around." He sounded like he was talking to himself rather than to her. He paused a moment, steeled himself, and spoke again. His voice soft. If she didn't hear the question, he would not have to hear the answer.

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"Did you read it?" "Yes." He heard her softly crying beside him. "I’m sorry Vaughn. So sorry." "God, Devan, don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me. When I think of what I did to you today…" He shuddered, thinking how close he had been to doing worse. "Can I tell you something, Vaughn?" Not looking at her, trying to burn images out of his brain by staring into the fire, he nodded his head. "I don’t say this to make you feel bad, but I want you to know. I really wasn’t spying on you today. I swear. And I didn’t read your letters. I picked them up, though. When I first got here and I was trying to find out where I was I found them, and I looked at the envelopes, trying to get the address here. That’s all. I just want you to know that I haven’t done anything to hurt you." He still could not look at her. He was just nodding his head, trying not to cry. "I want to tell you something else." He felt her watching him, maybe trying to gage the meaning of his tense silence. "I know you’re ashamed of the things that you wrote about in that journal." He stiffened with a little tremor. She was silent for a long while after that. She suddenly looked frightened, and he started to pull away, anxious that he was too close, that he had held her too long. She caught his hands in hers and held them on her lap.

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Her eyes teared up. She seemed miserable, and Vaughn was in agony, sure that he was to blame. "I just want you to know…I…I mean, not that you care…you didn't ask me what I think, but…I think your feelings, your reactions, it's normal." "Normal." He was challenging her. "I mean, I just wish you wouldn't hate yourself for it. And I know you wish I didn't know that stuff, but I swear to you, I don't think anything bad of you." "No?" Cold. Hard. "No." Warm. Soft. "I understand. Really I do." "You understand?" "I understand now why a small girl like me could scare a big guy like you. I understand why finding me in your house was so horrible for you. I understand why you don’t trust me." "What else do you understand?" He was speaking with a quiet control that betrayed his agony. "Do you understand that I’m…some kind of sexual freak?" "I don't think you are." She tentatively touched his hand, and he shuddered. She took her hand away. "Stop it, Devan. I know you're trying to make me feel better…" He took a deep breath to keep his voice from breaking. "You're sweet, Devan. But you should leave it alone." "Please, Vaughn. I know this is hard for you. That I'm asking a lot of you. But please let me say this." "What?"

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"I…" she half-laughed her tears. "I wasn't going to say this. I can't believe I'm saying this. But…I want you to know. I…understand getting off on things that aren’t supposed to be arousing… that are supposed to make you feel only fear or disgust. I understand the shame and the…strange pleasure of being forced to do something against your will." "And just how is it that you’ve reached such a great capacity for understanding?" he asked, bitterly and flippantly. There was a long silence. "Read it." He finally turned from the fire and looked at her. A terrible and hopeful feeling crawled through him. As he looked at her, fragile and open, the moment was a painful intimacy. Her gray eyes lovely and dark like brooding storm clouds, eternally sad, wet with tears, were asking something, offering something. She glanced from his face to the notebook in his hands. There was a one-two punch to the gut. She understood—maybe someone was really capable of understanding. And something bad had happened to her. "You want me to read it?" He felt afraid. "Yes. And no. I don’t want you read it. Everything I’ve written I thought I’d never tell anyone. What’s written here is humiliating. But I read yours It seems right that you read mine. “And maybe you’re the one person who could understand it, at least in part. And maybe you’ll feel something like what I felt when I read yours—that you’re not

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so…strange. At the very least you’ll finally have an answer to your question of why I’m here." “And it means a lot to me, that you trusted me with your secret. I trust you, too. Even though she'd meant it kindly, those words wounded him. She left him with the notebook, filled with his story at one end, and hers at the other, and went to bed. He stayed there by the fire. He opened the journal. His writing. His story. Then he flipped it over. Her writing. Page after page after page of her writing. Different pens for different days, different handwriting reflecting different moods. He closed it, sitting there with the notebook clasped tightly in his hands, his knuckles white as he stared into the fire.

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SIX: Revelations Part II

Day 2 at the cabin

I don't know where I am. I don't know why I'm here. I've torn half this place apart looking for a map, even an address, anything to give me a clue as to where this place is, how I might get to a town or a road. But all I've managed to find are some envelopes with irrelevant addresses, and this journal. I guess fate's mocking me a little, denying me a means to leave, but inviting me to write, which is what started all this in the first place. A few weeks ago it started. No, before then, but a few weeks ago is when I first saw him. In the coffee shop near campus, at Solstice, I was studying, sitting alone at a little table by the wall. I felt someone's eyes on me, the way we sense those things, and I glanced up. A man was sitting across from me at the next table, staring at me. When I met his eyes he didn't turn away, the way people usually do when they're caught staring, even if they're looking through you, not at you, lost in some thought. He kept his gaze right on me. I felt almost as if he were challenging me, playing a game of chicken. Embarrassed, I looked away. I stared at the pages of my book, but I couldn't focus on the words there. I still felt him watching me, and in my embarrassment my concentration had foundered. Completely unable to read, I looked up again, wanting to meet his challenge, make him turn his eyes away this time. He was still looking right at me, and if he moved at all when I met his gaze, it was only to let the suggestion of a smile curve his mouth,

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very slightly. I felt myself blush, but I was determined not to let him win his little game, to force me to avert my eyes. I studied his face as he was studying mine. Pale skin framed by black hair, and striking, almost feminine features—high cheekbones, full lips, light hazel eyes fringed with thick black lashes. He was extremely good-looking, but more pretty than handsome. And, even then, in that brief, wordless encounter, he was incredibly…compelling. Without breaking our eye contact he stood. He was sleek, a long lean body beneath the slim lines of a black sweater and slacks. For a minute I thought he was going to approach me. I blushed again, I think. Then he pushed in his chair and left. My study session was shot to hell. For several days after that I thought about that man a lot. Almost constantly, actually. Always with a feeling of annoyance mingled with arousal. He'd planted a little seed of himself in my mind, and I couldn't eradicate it. I thought again and again of his eyes, so intense yet playful, their soft hazel suggesting something…tender, maybe, that contrasted with his impish smirk that felt so…condescending. And, I might as well just confess it. I imagined fucking him. I imagined his long, delicate fingers touching me. I tried to guess what his voice would sound like, saying my name. I pictured his body, long and lean, how it would look nude, what his cock would look like, how it would feel inside me, how his mouth and his hands would feel on my body. Fuck—it's awful to admit it after what's happened, but my fantasy of him was just like the others.

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Weird, writing this. How self-conscious I feel. In a way I've written it all before. Just not about me. Not anything real. It's strange to think of writing it all out, of seeing it on paper, reading it, and knowing I was the girl in the story. Maybe I'll cry when I write it, and later, when I read over my words, I'll see smeared ink and remember how I felt as I wrote it. All right. Then it really began. One afternoon I drove home from school to my apartment. I remember with a weird kind of clarity pulling into my garage. I clicked the remote to close the garage door, collected my books, and got out of the car. Then, at my door, I remember the lock was sticking, and I was struggling with the key. A hand clamped down over my mouth. Another reached across me from behind, grasped my wrist, forced it down to my waist, trapped my other arm against me. I struggled, but he had me pinned tight between his body and the door. I tried to scream but my cry was muffled against his hand. I felt his breath on my ear, heard his voice. "Devan." It was a lilting purr, and it turned my stomach. "Tonight, my dear," he whispered warm and soft against my ear, "we have a date." Then it struck me. He knew my name. For a second I wondered if it was some kind of demented joke. But even through that second I knew that wasn't it. I don't really have any guy friends. Certainly not guys with British accents. I was about to be raped. Maybe killed.

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I was too shocked to cry. His hands kept me still and silent. With all my strength I tried to break free of his arms, get away, scream for help, but he held me fast. I screamed my lungs out against his palm. "Sshhhh,” he breathed into my ear, then his hand flashed away from my arms a moment and something sharp jabbed my shoulder. Before I could react his arm was tight around me once more. I felt suddenly dizzy, heavy. I was sinking, and he was holding me, sinking down with me to the cold concrete floor of the garage, holding me gently now that my strength was gone, cradling me until I went unconscious. When I woke up I was in the passenger seat of my car. It was night. The car was moving. I couldn't really move. I was slumped against the door, arms hanging limp by my side. I think I lost consciousness again. When I awoke the second time I could just manage to lift and turn my head to see who was driving my car. The man from the coffee shop. I was terrified—that sounds so dull, so obvious, compared to what I really felt. I don't know if there's a word for it. In my mind flashed images: headlines, vague notions of others who have been kidnapped, tortured horribly for weeks in the cellar of some obscure neighbor in a small town, corpse dumped in the woods, or hacked to pieces and kept in a meat locker. I couldn't speak, I just started crying uncontrollably, sobbing hysterically. We were on a one-lane highway in the middle of nowhere. No cars behind us. I got even more scared as he pulled onto the shoulder. I still couldn't move. He turned toward me and smiled—not a maniacal serial-killer smile. A gentle, sympathetic smile you would give to a child with a boo-boo. And I remember thinking that I had to be

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wrong, that this guy couldn't be kidnapping me. He looked like an angel. That sounds ridiculous, but it's true. It wasn't just his feminine features—his face soft and beautiful like a woman's, his limpid eyes and pretty mouth—he had a strange luminosity. He seemed beautifully alien and I felt as if he were hypnotizing me with his gentle gaze, his soothing smile. I decided it was whatever he'd drugged me with that made me feel mentally and emotionally tranquilized as much as physically immobilized. He reached over my lap and opened the glove box, got out a cloth handkerchief, and poured a little bottled water into it. With the dampened cloth he gently wiped my face, cooling my hot skin, soaking up my tears. "There, that's better." With his English accent—London, maybe–his "better" sounded like "betta." He spoke softly and slowly, fixing me with his compelling gaze. "I know you can't talk, love. The drugs will wear off in another hour or two." He was quiet for a moment, just gazing at me. I wanted him to stop looking at me like that, like he…I don't think I thought this then, but now I do—he was looking at me like he loved me. Even though I didn't know what was behind that look of his, it was completely freaking me out. Then his soft gaze snapped into focus and he seemed to be working something out in his head. Then he gave me a strange smile, serene and…coy. "I'm sure, dear Devan, that you're wondering what I'm going to do with you, and that a thousand sordid notions are flying through that clever head of yours. No doubt some of the things you're picturing are just what I have in mind." His eyes went sort of dreaming and his breathing changed slightly. My stomach lurched.

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"But I want you to know, I'll won't hurt you." His expression of intent concern altered, and an infuriating, playful grin turned his mouth. "With the possible exception of a spanking if you misbehave." His last words shocked me in a way I couldn't understand. I was still crying. His expression went soft and serious again. "Listen to me carefully for a moment, Devan. You're in my care, and you won't be harmed. My words will be born out soon enough, you'll see. You don't know me, and of course you've no reason to be believe me, yet. But I know you. You'll find, in time, that I know you extremely well. I've been planning this little getaway of ours for quite some time." He stroked my hair, like a lover, gave me a tender smile that made me want to punch him in the face, then put the car in gear and pulled back onto the road. Upset as I was, under the effects of the drugs I fell back asleep, and was woken up sometime later when the car made a sharp turn and we left the smooth pavement for a bumpy dirt road disappearing into the dark of a heavily wooded forest. The clock on the dash said it was almost midnight. There were no lights in sight. We were in the middle of fucking nowhere. I began to realize how well he'd planned all this. I'd been unconscious as we left the city, driving on the busy freeways, so that the people in the other cars would just see a sleeping girl, not a screaming kidnap victim. Now that I was awake and able to move we were in the middle of nowhere. My ability to scream, to run did me no good. We'd been on the road for hours, and I had no idea which direction we'd gone.

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I had to get away. Do something. I couldn't just let him cart me off into the wilderness to rape me, torture me, murder me. I thought about jumping out of the moving car. But I was so weak from whatever he'd shot me up with, I had no idea where we were, and with no light in sight, there was nowhere for me to run, no one to call out to. I reasoned, hopeless, that I would just hurt myself, that he would easily catch me, and I'd be worse off than I already was. Better to wait for a real chance. He noticed I was awake, turned and smiled at me. He asked me if I was feeling better. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I stayed quiet. "Well," he said, "I imagine the drugs are wearing off by now, so if you're not talking it's because you don't want to, not because you can't. That's fine Devan, you don't have to talk. But you had better listen. I realize, love, that you don't know me, but I'm going to tell you something about myself, and you'd best believe it. I'm a very methodical and determined individual. I've thought things through very carefully. You can't get away. And if you try, you'll only make things harder on yourself." He stared at me intently, looking to see if he had made his point. He gave me that smile, that soft, warm smile that seemed so out of place with what he was doing and which tricked my mind a little every time, making it seem, for a tiny moment, that we were just going for a ride. We drove on, jolting over the rough dirt road. A little more than an hour later we made another turn, off the dirt road, onto virgin terrain. He was driving very slowly, taking my little car gently over the rough ground. The more remote our destination began to appear, the sharper my terror. I had to get away from him. At this speed I could jump out without killing myself, stick to the woods, hide among the trees but run back along the road, find help.

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I tried to keep my eyes straight ahead, gage him with my peripheral vision, trying not to let him suspect what I was about to do. He seemed to be intently studying the path ahead, carefully navigating the narrow trail. I took my chance. With one hand I clicked open my seatbelt, with the other I pulled the door handle in and shoved the door open with my elbow, and leapt out. I was still weak, stiff from hours of sitting, and I fell. In a dead panic I scrambled heavily and clumsily to my feet and ran, stumbling, as fast as my stiff, sluggish body would go. I already knew it was hopeless. I was nearly blind and deaf with panic, forcing my body ahead. I didn't even hear him before I felt his arm snatch around my waist and drag me to a halt. I screamed, fear, hate, loss of hope raging in a screech into the night. He had me wrapped in his arms, my own arms pinned at my sides, my body pulled tight against his. I sobbed, hysterical, still screaming, struggling futilely, weakly against him. He let me go on, struggling and screaming until I'd exhausted myself. "Shhh," he sighed in my ear, rocking me slowly in his arms with a gentle twisting motion. "Shhh. It's all right. You're all right." The fucking schizophrenic psycho was being so gentle, his voice so warm, his imprisoning hold softening to a tender embrace, I felt my frail grip on reality letting go. Nothing made any sense. I went on bawling, not knowing why this was happening. "Come on, Devan. Let's go back to the car. We're almost at the cabin, and we'll get you settled and rested." Rested? Was he fucking kidding? "Come along nicely to the car. I don't want to drug you again. All right?"

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There was nothing I could do. I was still weaker than I'd realized. I couldn't fight him, or run from him. Numb and hopeless I let him lead me back to the car, put me back in the passenger seat, and close the door. When he moved to circle back to the driver's side the impulse to run again made my hands and legs twitch, but I knew it was useless. I promised myself I would get another chance. We crawled on into the night of the forest until, nearly an hour later, a building materialized in the beam of the headlights. A cabin. It was dark—a miserable, gloomy prison. He killed the engine. "Kindly stay put a moment." He gave me a warning look, then got out of the car, walked around to my side, and opened the door. He gestured, and I got out. As he led me toward the cabin, I felt like my death warrant had been signed. I was trying not to cry. I was finally beginning to feel awake and aware, and as we stepped into the cabin the desperate reality of my position was beginning to fully dawn on me. "What are you going to do to me?" I had to ask. He grinned. "I'm going to take your girlhood, and give you womanhood." I had been sure he would rape me, but hearing his words I couldn't help crying. He pulled me into his arms. I was terrified of his touch, but I passively let him embrace me and stroke my hair. Once again he surprised me with his tenderness. I think he was trembling.

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"I can guess what you're imagining, Devan, but I promised you before that I would never hurt you, and I'll keep that promise. I'm talking about an awakening, not a violation." He let me out of his arms, watching me with a strange expression. Concern mixed with eager anticipation. Then he gave me a warm smile. "Are you hungry, Devan?" I didn't answer. "I'm famished. I made some lovely leek and swiss soup last night—I'll heat some up, if you'd like." "No," I said, mainly to shut him up. The thought of food made me queasy. "Are you thirsty? Would you like some water? Or juice?" I was silent. "All right then, if you don't need anything, I'd like you to have a shower." My heart started banging. It was beginning. This real part of his plan. The rest had been logistics. The numbness that had dulled my fear evaporated. I knew I could not get past him, flee the room, run for help. I was shaking, panting, tears blurred my vision. "I…I don't know your name." I was stalling. I wanted to try to reason with him. I could see plainly from his face that he knew just what I was doing. But patiently, like a kind father with a child delaying punishment, he indulged me. "Conrad, love. Sorry, I'd forgotten to properly introduce myself." He was looking at me salaciously.

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"Conrad. Please. I'm so tired. I'm not feeling well after all that time in the car. Please. I'd like to just go to sleep." "You'll feel better after your shower. Come along with me." He walked me over to the bathroom. "There's no window in there, so you're welcome to your privacy, and feel free to take your time. I've fixed the door so you can't lock it from the inside, but rest assured, I won't barge in on you. When you've bathed, I'd like you to put these on." He presented me with a small bag with something white inside. "Nothing else please, just these. You'll find there is soap, shampoo, conditioner, everything you need in there. I've put a brush and some rubber bands in there as well. When you're done, please brush your hair and put it back into those charming pigtails you wear so often." I went in and closed the unlockable door. I turned on the shower, and as the hot water filled the room with steam, I used the toilet. My fear of his intrusion was obliterated by undeniable need. If I didn't do what he'd asked, he'd only force me. Do it himself. So I stripped off my clothes, feeling increasingly vulnerable, afraid he'd push the door open the moment I was naked. The door remained quietly shut. I got into the shower, relieved to be out of his presence, not seen by him, not able to see him. The hot water pounded my skin. I shampooed, conditioned, scrubbed. Then I just stood there for a long time, not wanting to get out, wanting to remain isolated in my little beige haven of steam. But the thought that he would grow impatient, charge

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in and yank me out, naked and wet, prodded me to get out and dress as quickly as I could. I dried myself, wrapped a towel around my head, and opened the bag of clothes he had given me. Inside was a thin little white nightie and a pair of white panties. Nothing else. Panic swept over me once more. He was making me take part in some fantasy. He wanted to dress me, then do things. There was a way out of this, somehow. There had to be. He was tall, stronger than me, but I could get hold of something, something heavy, hit him over the head, knock him out, find my car keys, get away. Clinging to that limp shred of hope, crying, shaking, I put on his little outfit, reasoning that it was more than the towel, afraid I'd get him mad and make him more dangerous if I put my own clothes back on. The white nightie was shockingly sheer. And the hem came down just below my bottom, barely covering the white panties. I felt so vulnerable. Shaking, I brushed my hair and did it as he'd asked. Then, forcing my body to move against the powerful impulse of instinct, making myself an automaton, I opened the bathroom door. I'd pictured him stalking impatiently outside the door, but he was sitting calmly at the little kitchen table, gazing placidly into space as if he were day-dreaming. When he noticed me standing in the doorway he rose with a smile I'd have to describe as serene. Totally disconcerting. With a look of tender sympathy he approached me, slowly. "My dear Devan, you look lovely." He seemed moved, as if I were offering myself to him by choice. As if compelled I stared at him a moment, at the beautiful face of this scary man. A moment later I snapped out of it. There wasn't much time. I glanced around the room—entry, kitchen,

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living room all one big rectangle, sparsely furnished. Terrified, frantic, I searched for anything I could wield as a weapon. The only thing in sight was metal sculpture atop a small bookshelf a little to my right. I felt huge, desperate hope. I'd grab it and swing it with all my strength against his head. Knock him out. Get away. I wished he'd turn his back on me, so I could hit him from behind. I feared I couldn't manage it with him walking toward me. But he was coming, and he had me in his stupid little outfit. There was no time. I swiped the thing from off the bookshelf, and with all my strength, everything in me I swung it at his face. He caught my arm. It didn't even seem to cost him any effort. With his other hand he pried the object from my grip and calmly set it back on the shelf. Then, with the same cool calm he slowly pushed me against the wall and pressed himself against me. "What a naughty girl you are, Devan," he sighed in my ear. I was quivering, almost unable to stand I was so scared. "I was planning on being very gentle, very tender with you, Devan. Would you rather have it a bit rough, darling?" I just stood there, crying and trying to wrench my wrists free. "Listen carefully, now. You've no chance of getting away. And all the delicious things I've planned for you will happen. It's only a matter of how." The next moment he was dragging me by the wrist. I fought my hardest but in seconds he had me in another room, was pushing me down. Onto a bed. Then he was on me, so fast, so strong, my arms pinned down over my head. "We can do it this way…"

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His legs forced mine apart, his body pressed down on mine. "…or, better still, I could tie you to the bed and really take my time about it. I was careful to bring along the restraints, in case you decided to be uncooperative." I was so terrified I barely understood what he was saying. I just knew that he'd stopped, that he had me pinned and helpless, but he'd stopped. Then what he'd said about tying me up sank in and I panicked. The thought, the certainty that I was about to be raped was absolutely terrifying, but to be tied down through it all, I thought the fear would kill me. "But I know, Devan, that you'd rather we did things the nice way. So if you'll promise to be a good girl, I'll let go and we can start again. Will you be a good girl?" I just lay there, mute, shaking. "I know you will, darling," he mused as he let my wrists go and lifted himself. The second he was off me I scooted away from him, to the far corner of the bed until I'd backed against a cold hard wall. I crouched there, panting and crying. "Let's be clear about our little agreement, Devan. You do just as I say, tonight and during all of our time together. And that includes not trying to run off, and, if you don't mind, not bashing my brains out with abstractions in lead or otherwise maiming me. So long as you're my good girl, there'll be no more wrestling matches, and no restraints." "However, if you become uncooperative, I'll have no choice but to tie you down, as I don't care for playing the brute, dragging and throwing you about." "Now, do you agree? Or shall I get the ropes?"

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I don't know what I was doing. Just crying, I guess. I couldn't speak, couldn't make myself consent to anything. "I'm quite willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Let's see how you do with my first request, shall we?" He sat down on the edge of the bed, his body turned toward me, and smiled, as if to a lover. Intimate. Serene. "Come here, Devan, and lie down." Terrified but past crying, I went into a withdrawn state where I simply did what he asked, trying not to think about it too much. On my knees I came toward him. I lay down beside him, on my back, holding the hem of the nightie down, trying to keep my panties covered, knowing it was pointless. I waited, kind of knowing, fearfully wondering what he was going to do to me. The first touch. He lightly caressed my cheek. Just for a moment. Then he withdrew his hand. The room was dim, silent. I could hear my own rapid breathing, feel the pulse of my heartbeat echo through my whole body. Then through the silent stillness came his voice, very soft, very gentle, but not to be defied, telling me to pull up my nightie. Too frightened to disobey, I lifted the hem one inch, two inches. I froze. "A little higher. Above the top of your panties." I complied. Every second was an excruciating eternity, me waiting, dreading the next word, the next touch. Any second I knew I'd feel him getting on top of me, ripping at the flimsy things he'd made me wear, forcing me open, hurting me… "Now, spread your legs." Breath speeding, heart pounding, I opened my legs.

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"You've got a very pretty little mound, Devan," he said in a low voice, "and I can just discern your sweet cleft where the panties indent, very slightly." I was mortified by the way he was scrutinizing me, the private, hidden part of me. My face went hot. Then the mattress shifted. He'd gotten up. I opened my eyes, not realizing I had closed them. I forced myself not to scream, not to move. He was mounting the bed, his knee coming down between my legs. Then his other knee. He watched my face as his legs forced mine open. Then his eyes slid down, over my chest, only half-concealed under sheer white fabric, down to my crotch. I wished I weren't a virgin. It wouldn't hurt so bad, I wouldn't be as scared, maybe, if I'd had sex before. For a second I felt sad. There would never be an innocent, happy first time. In agonizing terror I waited for the terrible thing to start happening. But he, he just knelt there, watching me, not moving. The longer he waited the more scared I got, until I was almost out of my mind, almost unable to keep still and quiet, no matter the consequences. "Put your arms up, over your head." My fingers had almost cramped in fists around the scrunched hem of the nightie I'd lifted to my belly. I forced my fists open and raised my arms above my head. I felt the cool air on my hot skin as the nightie slid up my torso. My fingers clawed into the pillow. I was watching him. He hadn't undone his pants. His hands were resting on his thighs. Part of me wanted him to hurry up and do it, get it over with, put an end to the awful waiting. But then his hand moved and I wanted to stop it, anything to make him stop.

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"Shhhh," he cooed back to my pitiful whimper of terror. "Put your arms back down, Devan." I don't know how, but I forced myself to lower my arms to the pillow again. For a moment nothing happened. I lay there in the still dimness, awaiting sudden violation. But when I felt him, it was the lightest possible touch that just barely grazed me over my panties. Then nothing. Then a moment later another touch, just as light, slowly wandering down between my thighs and up again, then once more, starting just where my lips start, and gliding, barely perceptibly between them, down between my legs. "Breathe," he whispered. I let go of the breath I had caught and held. Feather-light his fingers traced delicate circles over my sex. The strange sensation blooming down there, nerve by nerve, seemed somehow to grow from little seeds of anticipation he sowed rather than his physical touch. It was different than anything I'd felt or imagined. His light caresses stopped. His legs forced mine open still more, So spread, so vulnerable, the terror rushed back at me. It didn't matter how soft his touches had been. "So delicate. So sensitive, hmmm?" He touched down on my clit. I gasped, then felt my face flush hot in embarrassment. "Open your eyes, Devan."

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He was gazing down at me, kind of a tender look in his eyes, but his mouth was a smirk. He lifted his thumb from my clit, then pressed down again, just softly. I closed my eyes against the humiliation of the pleasure. "Open your eyes, Devan. I want you to look at me while I touch you. " The smirk was gone when I forced my eyes open again. His thumb started pulsing slowly against my clit, softly pressing, then lifting, over and over. The alternating pressure and release gave my crotch a swelling, aching feeling. Then, with terrible gentleness, he began rubbing my clit, up and down, then in tiny circles, deepening and lightening the pressure, subtly altering the motion. It was unbearable, an agonizing little feeling, so concentrated. I could hardly take it. I wanted to squirm away from his touch, and my whole body was rigid with the effort of forcing myself to be still. He took his thumb away for a few seconds. While he wasn't touching me I felt my clit, my whole sex, throbbing uncomfortably. Then he touched down again and it was twice as intense. I sucked in my breath to keep from whimpering. He noticed. His lips curved slightly. The fucking bastard was amused. "You're wet. Your panties are getting damp." His commentary embarrassed me. I guess it was meant to. When he touched me again he put his four fingertips lightly to me, and gently began rubbing, massaging my sex. Now that incredible, uncomfortable feeling concentrated at my clit stayed centered there, but spread out and multiplied under his touch. It was all building, building, and my whole body seemed to be softly throbbing the echo of the agonizing tension between my legs. My whole body was rigid, seeking, waiting.

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He put his free hand on my thigh—a firm grip. I looked at his hand pressing into my flesh. Then, when I looked back at him he had an expression of anticipation. He caressed, stopped, let my sex throb and want his touch again. Then he gave it, rubbing me. Suddenly I knew what was happening, and I didn't want it. Not thinking, just trying to escape, I raised my knees, tenting my legs so I could squeeze them together above his legs that had kept mine pried apart. "Yes, darling, I'm going to make you come. Now spread your legs again, like a good girl, if you don't want the ropes." I willed myself to let my knees open. His hand, still on my sex, began to move again, one finger moving in maddening little motions over my clit, pulsing against it. I tried not to. He went on, rubbing and teasing my clit, massaging the throbbing flesh around it. I kept twitching, trying to lay still but needing to move. The strange, throbbing, pulling discomfort was building, spreading through me. Then it all seemed to pull in, concentrating in an unbearable pressure right there, under the tips of his fingers where he was touching me. That strange agony exploded in a sudden surge of amazing sensation that swelled in my sex then flooded up and down my body. It seemed to go on an on. Then, finally, it faded, then stopped. I felt tears tickling down my temples and into my hair. "Look at me, Devan." I looked at him and he pressed his hand down firmly over my crotch. I arched and squirmed as another wave of sensation pulsed under his touch. It was silent for a long while, as the throbbing between my legs slowly faded.

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Then his voice came to me soft and low, "Sweet Devan. How lovely you are in your tormented ecstasy." I hated that he'd watched me. That he was still looking at me then, when I felt so…vulnerable. So…strangely exposed. Not my body, but me. Then he said something that shocked me strangely, considering what had happened. "Now Devan, I want you to tell me—and I warn you, be honest with me, now— this climax I've just given you—was it your first?" His hand was still curved against my thigh, his other hand still cupped my sex. Why had he asked me that? I thought I'd done something—made some gesture or some noise that gave away my lack of experience. I wanted so, so much to lie to him then. It was bad enough, the reality of it. I didn't want him to have the satisfaction. But I was too scared, even though I was almost sure there was no way he could know. I couldn't speak. I nodded my head. He smiled softly, a look of relief. The moment when he asked his question and waited for my answer, it was, looking back now, the only time I ever saw him looking unsure. He'd been scared he'd missed something. Maybe by not lying I missed my one chance of ever seeing a look of consternation or disappointment on that perpetually smug face. He got up, off the bed. "Get under the covers, Devan." It didn't even occur to me that he'd let me go to sleep. His movement, his order terrified me. The next thing, the scarier thing would happen now, I was sure. I forced myself to do what he'd asked, trying not to cry out loud or shake too hard, I got my legs under the covers, but I couldn't make myself lie down.

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He sat down beside me, on the edge of the bed, his face terribly close to mine. I had a weird little moment then, so strange after everything that had happened, of thinking how odd it was to be so close to a man, the intimacy of our faces being just a couple inches apart, looking into each others eyes in such a…a real way. Me so scared. Him so…tender. The look in his eyes kind and warm, the infuriating smirk softened into a gentle smile. He brought his hand toward my face. I startled, sucked in my breath, pulled back. He didn't grab at me or pounce on me. He just waited. Calm. Patient. I stayed still, tense and trembling, working hard not to cry. With his fingers he combed a few stray strands of hair back from my face. Then he just sat there gazing at me, scaring the shit out of me. Then his hand slipped down to my shoulder, and he pushed me back, down onto the pillow. "I trust, dear Devan, that you'll be a good girl and stay in your bed tonight. I should hate to have to resort to keeping you chained up like a convict." Then he stood, walked out, and shut the door behind him.

When I woke up the next day to the fresh realization of the situation I was in, I went cold and soft with miserable terror. Later, after a morning of hell, dreading him every second, I remember, I was looking at Conrad, hating him, fearing him. And he said something like, "You constantly look as though you expect me to do something positively vile to you."

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Then he gave me a teasing smile. It was so…so fucking warm. Somehow, standing there in that strange cabin with him, that man who'd kidnapped me, who'd done what he'd done the night before, I actually felt silly, like I was the one being unreasonable, shaking with fear and hate. Then, still with that taunting grin he said, "I suppose I'd better not disappoint you." The look he gave me then, from under his brow, gave me the chills. "Get over there, Devan. Back against the wall." I backed away from him, already feeling an overwhelming urge to cry. I bumped into the wall behind me. "Sweet Devan. You've never been fucked, have you?" My vision blurred and I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks. He took a couple steps toward me, a strange, determined look on his face. "Answer me, Devan. Have you been fucked before?" Even that brutal question, all its implications, in his fucking playful voice. I shook my head, more to deny what was happening than to answer his question. He came closer and closer until he was so close our bodies almost touched. His fingers brushed against my thigh. I had to force myself to be still, not to hit him, not to run. His touch slid slowly up my thigh, so light it almost tickled, over my sex, scaring me, startling my body, and up, over my belly. I was breathing so hard, but I felt like I was suffocating. Then he brought his other hand up, too, and he brushed his fingers against the undersides of my breasts. "Has anyone ever caressed your breasts, Devan?"

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I stood there, silent, until the memory of his reaction to my resistance the night before spurred me to answer. "No." His hands moved soft and light over the filmy fabric loosely covering my breasts. It felt like barely more than a breeze, but my nipples tingled and contracted. His mouth curved, and he brought his fingertips to my nipples, lightly rubbing the hardening bumps. Then he took his hands away. "When I take your blouse off, Devan, will I be the first?" I couldn't talk. I just nodded my head. I hated what was happening. It was like he was about to strip away my identity along with the blouse I was wearing. My body—it wasn't for this. I wasn't for this. His hands were at my chest, his fingers converging on the first delicate button, pushing it through. He looked up from what he was doing, confronting me. He could do, would do what he wanted. I could cry or beg and he'd still do it. The next button came undone, and the next. His fingers were slipping button after button through the neat little buttonholes, between my breasts, down my belly, until the blouse was open. His fingers lightly holding the fabric, he pulled it open, slowly, just past my nipples. He looked for a moment, but then he brought his eyes up to my face, and that's what he stared at unbearably long—my expression as I stood there, exposed and miserable. His eyes locked on mine he touched my nipples. I wished he'd look down, at his hands, at my tits, not prying into me for every little thing I was feeling as he touched me. I wanted him to grab and squeeze and maul me, even hurt me, not do what he was

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doing, touching just the very tips of my nipples so lightly, making them tingle, making it hard to breathe. That fucking little smirk was curving his lips again as he watched me. I didn't want it to feel that way. Not good, but so…strangely uncomfortable. His fingers stayed there, lightly rubbing the points of my breasts, every tiny little touch vibrating through my breasts, lower, into my belly, lower, to my sex. That uncomfortable pull, like a buzzing wire running through me. Then he took my nipples between his fingers and softly squeezed. I made a little noise and he closed his eyes for a second and sighed. I hated myself for giving him that moment of pleasure. But then he squeezed my nipples harder and my whole body shuddered with the sudden twinge of arousal. He began gently pulling and squeezing, rhythmic little tugs and I was trying my hardest not to squirm, not to let him see what he was doing to me. His self-satisfied smirk morphed into a caddish grin. Suddenly he grasped the little blouse hanging loose and open, and yanked it down my arms, baring my shoulders, leaving my chest and belly fully exposed. My strained panting from trying to resist his caresses shot up to terrified heaving breath. His gaze slid down from my face to my tits, plainly in view now, rising and falling, and down. With one hand he pulled up the hem of my skirt, and with the other he slid his fingers down into my panties. "So silky smooth," he sighed as his fingertips caressed my mound. The he opened his eyes and took hold of me again. “I wonder why an untouched virgin, like you, has her cunt waxed smooth.” Then he purred, "What do you think, Devan? Will I find you wet?" His fingers trailed lightly down, over my mound, brushing against my lips. I locked my thighs tight together.

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"Devan." I couldn't. I couldn't just spread for him, knowing how he'd touch me. My body wouldn't do it. "Open your legs for me, darling." I knew what he'd do if I defied him. It was useless. My brain knew it. But my body, my legs wouldn't move. I started to get scared, horribly afraid that he'd get angry, drag me back to the bed, tie me up. Just the thought of the first piece of rope cinching down on my wrist made me shake, almost scream. I willed my legs to soften. To open, just a little. "Good girl, Devan." His fingers glided back, over my delicate skin, the lips of my sex. I caught my breath as he moved, sliding a finger up against my opening. "Mmmmm," he sighed with a revolting smirk at finding me wet. His finger pushed slowly up into me. I had thought it would hurt, but it was only…strange. Strange to feel something up inside of me, moving, sliding slowly up, then down, then up into me again. Then his finger slid slowly out of me, and he drew it forward, along my slit, then back, and inside me again. I was panting. I couldn't help it, couldn't breathe normally no matter how much I wanted to seem indifferent to his touch. It wasn't pleasure. It was that strange discomfort that was irksome, like an itch. I wanted to rub myself, dispel the weird feeling building up wherever he touched me. "Don't be afraid to make a bit of noise, darling. You'll enjoy yourself more, if you do."

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Fuck, I hated him. Hated his hands, hated his burning yet laughing eyes and his infuriating, knowing grin. "Your quite something," he mused in an intimate tone that made me blush somehow in spite of all he was already doing, still torturing me with his agonizingly slow, delicate touch, "your tits thrust out, your nipples so vivid and hard, your cunt soaking wet and clinging to my finger." He thrust up into me suddenly and I gasped out loud. He smiled. He started fucking me with his finger. At first I couldn't breathe, then I had to pant, almost moaning every time. I forced myself to relax my brow, not wanting him to see from my face what he was doing to me. "Not so quick, darling Devan. We should take our time, hmmm? " He took his hand away for a second, watching my face. Maybe looking to see if I looked disappointed that he'd stopped touching me. The aching pulse he'd caused was echoing insistently in my groin. Still watching, he started again and the dull throb surged under his fingers. I tried to keep my face blank, my breathing steady and quiet. I was shaking, leaning back against the wall for support, my arms almost bound behind my back by the blouse he'd slid from my shoulders. Close and hot, I felt his body pressed against me, breathing in his warm smell, his face right there, eyes locked on mine, his smirk gone, his lips almost touching my lips. His finger would brush against my clit, then there'd be a moment of no contact and I'd feel a throbbing ache there, and then he'd touch again. Then suddenly I felt the pressure, the imminent pleasure swelling, swelling, until it burst and I was coming, whimpering before I could think to be quiet, agonizing pulses of pleasure rippling through my groin, through my belly, into my

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thighs, and he kept rubbing, making it go on and on, until finally it ebbed away to a tiny little throbbing ache. My body went slack, slumped against the wall. But then he slid his hand back, between my legs, and his finger slid up into me again, and I sort of jumped and yelped and he pressed himself against me, pinning me between him and the wall, and his other hand squeezed my breast. "And now, how about a good fucking? Eh, dear Devan?" I felt like the wind had been knocked out of my lungs with the sudden shock of his touch deep inside of me. He squeezed and tugged my nipple and the sensation went shooting down into my sex, rippling around his finger. I couldn't bear it, couldn't stand it all—a weird overwhelming kind of unpleasant pleasure so intense it was almost like pain. I was whimpering out loud now, letting him hear how he was tormenting me. I even tried to squirm away from him, but he pressed his body harder against me, went on massaging and tugging my nipple, thrusting his finger inside me. Then suddenly my whole body shuddered in a climax way stronger than the two he'd already given me. It was almost like I lost consciousness, at least awareness. When I came back to myself I was crying, my face pressed to his chest. I felt him put his arms around me, pulling me gently to him, stroking my hair. "Devan. Devan," he breathed against my ear. "I knew you'd be like this." I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about.

He made me shower again, and gave me another outfit to wear. As I opened the bathroom door he stepped suddenly in front of me, barring my exit. He'd caught me off

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guard, startled me, and suddenly I was more afraid of him than I had been all day. He smiled. "Sit down, please," he lilted, gesturing toward the edge of the tub. Shaking with fresh fear I obeyed, and he perched beside me. He bent his head over a small black case in his lap, unzipping, opening. He drew out and tore open a sealed piece of damp gauze, then turned to me, locking my arm in a gentle grip, rubbing the top of my arm with the cold cloth. "What are you doing?" I tried to jerk my arm free, but it was locked firm in his strong hand. "You've got to have an injection, my dear. Just hold still. It shouldn't hurt more than a little sting." "No!" I jumped up, struggling in a panic. He caught me in his arms, pinned mine to my sides, wrestled me back down onto the tub ledge, proving in seconds, once again, that I could not fight him. Still holding me tight against him, so tight that it was hard to recover my breath, he purred at me in a sticky warm tone that mocked my terror. "Calm down, Devan, darling. I assure you, there's nothing to get so upset about. It's merely a prudent precaution. I assume, chaste virgin that you are, that you're not on any birth control? And I assume, too, that you'd as soon not end our little adventure together by carrying my child. Since I do plan to fuck you," he drawled, pausing to let his words ring pleasantly in his own ears, "and since I have no intention of diminishing the pleasure of our union by putting a latex sheath between my sensitive bits and yours, this little injection, which takes affect quite quickly, seems a happy solution. I am sorry

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you're the one who must endure the prick," he said with an amused grin. "I'd gladly inject myself, if that were an option." I was horrified. For one, I didn't really believe him, that he just wanted to shoot me up with some contraceptive cocktail. I was sure it was some sedative, or hallucinogen, or maybe poison. Maybe whatever he gave me would make me sick, kill me eventually. But even if it was a birth control shot, fuck, it was so twisted. I'd half believed I was done crying, but again now I felt fat hot tears sliding down my face, dropping onto my lap, turning the thin cotton of my garment transparent in spreading circles. "Now," he said softly, "you're not diabetic, are you?" It seemed more a statement than a question. I shook my head, hopeless, again, that there was anything I could do but submit to him. "And no high blood pressure? And you're not a smoker." "What are you, a fucking doctor?" "No, darling, just a reasonably resourceful person with a few helpful friends. And of course I wouldn't want anything I do to adversely affect your health." "No. Of course not. Obviously." He gave me a strange, sad smile, and I submitted to another cold wet piece of gauze, then to the prick of the needle. "There," he said tenderly, rubbing the injection site, dissipating the pain, sticking a little bandage on, then giving me a small kiss on my bare shoulder. He left me alone for a while, almost ignoring me as he lounged around, reading and doing little chores, seeming not to care when I went on refusing to take any food.

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After a while, though, he went and sat at the little table in the kitchen, and called me away from the window where I stood, staring out into the woods, dreaming up impossible escapes, and made me sit down across from him. "Don't you think you'd better have something to eat?" He pushed a plate of sliced pear toward me. "Just imagine if you did manage to escape…" he said, gazing at me significantly, as if to convey that he had, indeed, been reading my thoughts, "…and you could do no more than run a short little way before you fainted away from hunger?" I knew he'd never give me the chance to get away, but the smell of the pear was torturing my empty stomach. Seething with resentment I swallowed the first slice almost without chewing, and in what seemed like seconds, the pear was gone. My digestive system resuscitated, I was drooling over the plate of cheese and nuts at the center of the table, but there was no fucking way I'd reach over and take them. The thought of the look that would come over Conrad's face made me want to throw up what little I had eaten. I watched him as he sat there, calmly nibbling at his snack, staring placidly back at me as if we were the happy couple at table. I hated it, that warm, adoring gaze of his. It perverted my hate for him. And it scared me. "Go ahead, Devan, my dear. Say what's on your mind." His voice brought me back to myself, and I realized I was on the brink of tears. "What's happened to them?" "To who?" "The others." "Others?"

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"The other women you've abducted. What did you to with them? In the end?" He looked almost sympathetic for a brief second before that amused grin of his reappeared. "I suppose you're picturing dozens of shallow graves all around this place. And perhaps a wall adorned with bone saws, and shelves of lye in a cellar, right below this table, hmmm?" He'd neatly composed a pretty accurate account of the images in my head. "You've got it all wrong, dear Devan. There are no others. There's only you." Quelle chance. My characteristic sarcasm made a surprise return to my internal monologue. "And I promise you, I haven't brought you here to snuff out your young life. "Then why don't you just fuck me and get it over with?" It came out soft, my voice smashed down as I struggled not to cry. "I will fuck you, sweet Devan. But not just yet. When I do fuck you, it will mean a great deal more than it would if I were to simply drag you back into the bedroom and ravish you right now. I didn't choreograph this elaborate production just to fuck you. If a fuck was all I wanted from you, I could have had you a thousand times over by now." "A thousand times in the span of a day and a night. Impressive," I threw back in irritation at his smugness. I didn't understand until a few minutes later why he laughed at my lame retort the way he did. "There's nothing particularly challenging in getting laid, darling. People, by and large, are quite eager to strip naked and writhe about with other people, you know." The laughter in his eyes cooled, then, and his look got really intense.

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"But you don't know, do you?" He paused with a long, significant stare. His lips curved a little with suppressed excitement. "Sweet, innocent Devan. Nineteen years old, isn't that right?" I didn't like the smarmy, rogue tone he'd suddenly adopted, and I stiffened. "Isn't it?" he pressed when he tired of my silence. "Yes." "And a virgin." "None of your fucking business." "Why so shy now, when you confessed such a short time ago that you'd never been fucked?" My jaw clenched. "Never fucked. Never really touched. Never even really kissed, unless you count childish pubescent party experiments, isn't that right?" I stopped breathing. It felt like my heart had stopped beating. "In fact, for the longest time now, you've not even slipped those pretty little fingers down inside your panties to curiously, hopefully caress your pussy, to rub your aching little clit, to see if you might get yourself off, have you?" My brain was too busy working the puzzle of his knowledge to deliberate whether or not to answer him. "Now, Devan, I want you to tell me why." "Why?" It was my question, not his.

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"Tell me why, at a tender young age, you gave up on a healthy pursuit of physical pleasure." "What are you talking about?" "Don't by coy, Devan. It's entirely pointless, and, to be frank, it doesn't much suit you. Now, I want you to tell me why it is you've never gotten yourself off." "You know so fucking much, you tell me." "I will, if need be. But I promise you, if it comes to that, you'll wish you'd told me yourself." His voice and eyes had turned cold and threatening and I felt suddenly like a hundred little icy droplets were running over my skin. I really didn't get it. Twenty-twenty hindsight and all that, but looking back now it all seems so obvious. But I failed to grasp, or admit, what was going on. I figured that my blurted, forced admissions, combined with my trembling, frightened kitten responses had given him the idea that I was a perfect innocent, through and through. So I made something up—something that would explain why I'd become what he imagined me to be. I told him, with a perfectly straight face, in a voice which rang with angelic sincerity, that I'd never masturbated because I believed that doing so was wrong. A sin, I clarified, when he pushed. "So, it's one of our Lord's virgin saints I've been banging, is it?" My face went hot with shock and with the certainty that he knew I was a liar. "Since by skipping the mere fib to give me a tall tale, you've amused rather than angered me, I'll give you another chance to tell me the real reason." "Fuck off. I don't have to confess to you." "Yes, Devan. You do. And you already have."

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Conrad rose from his chair and with a playful grin, went over to a leather shoulder bag laying on a sideboard in the living room, drew something from it, and came to stand by my side. He laid the object on the table in front of me, and gazed down, waiting for me to look and see what it was. "Fuck you!" I choked on my words, starting to cry. I stood, my fists clenched, trying to decide whether to punch him or run out the door. "Why Devan, it's seems you're more protective of your diary than you are of your body." I just stood there, panting and shaking. "Sit down, Devan." I glared at him. "Sit down." He said it slowly, a challenge. Then he stood and reached out toward my shoulder. I hit his arm away. Then, I remember, he got this look on his face like…like it was the moment he'd been waiting for. Hard and sudden he grabbed me, spun me, took hold of my arms and thrust me ahead of him, into his room. I couldn't get away, couldn't stop him, couldn't even slow him down. He shoved me toward a desk. Got me right against it, pinned me there. Bent me over. He was on top of me, holding me down. I was thinking about him, his body on me, I didn't realize. But then I felt the first restraint close tight on my wrist. I panicked. I flailed, I kicked. But a second later he had my other wrist bound. Then he was off me, his hand on my leg. I kicked hard but he held on, wrestled me into the third rope. Then,

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then he was forcing my legs apart, wide apart, and got my other leg into the fourth restraint. Then his hands were off me. "Naughty Devan. See the position you're in now? Quite inviting, from my vantage point." I heard him step close. Then I felt him, raising the back of my skirt. "No!" I screamed it, desperate. I was thrashing hard, terrified, pulling at the ropes. I felt him come down over me, his groin against my ass, his chest on my back. He put his mouth by my ear. I felt his hot breath. "Shhh, Devan. Don't struggle like that. There's no getting out of your bonds. They're designed not to chafe, but if you thrash about that way, you'll bruise yourself." Then, his body still pressed to mine, he laid my diary down, right in front of me, and opened it to one of several pages he'd marked with a little yellow plastic tab. Then, his hot breath on my ear, he read out loud words I had never admitted to anyone, confronting me with his knowledge of something much more intimate, much more embarrassing that the trite fact of my pathetically complete virginity. "So," he sighed, closing the diary on my humiliation, pressing his groin threateningly against my ass, "you not only gave up on the probing tongues and awkward fondling of fumbling boys, but even stopped your own exploratory touches, because even awareness of your own furtive caresses under your bed covers intruded on the fantasies in which your mind was immersed. And finding yourself pulled unwillingly into reality, consciousness that you were merely laying there, in your own bed, your hand pressed eagerly between your thighs, was such a pathetic contrast to

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the arousing images, the imagined sensations that felt almost real, that you abandoned the physical for the conjured dream." He slid his hand down my side, over my ass, along my thigh, then raked his nails up the bare skin at the back of my leg, sending a buzzing aching tickle into my groin and belly. "Well, sweet Devan, among other things, during our time together, I promise I'll demonstrate to you just how closely reality can reflect your fantasies." Then he got back up and his fingers slipped under the elastic of my panties. "Please." I was crying. "Please Conrad. Don't." He tugged at my panties, pulling them down, off my hips, down my thighs. For a minute, nothing happened. I just heard my own panicked breathing, my arms stretched wide, the cool surface of the desk under my face, my breasts, my belly, my legs spread, my thighs and ass bare. "What a lovely bottom." He touched me. Just above, one of his unbearable, light caresses. Then his finger trailed softly down the center, barely grazing my two cheeks, then up. He sighed. "You know, Devan, when you're in a position like this, I suggest you arch your back and offer your cunt, unless you're hoping to get fucked in the ass." The thought that he might rape me that way hit me with sudden, violent shock. My terrible fear jolted harder as I lay there shaking, sweating. He was offering me a choice—a terrible, cruel choice. I felt as though to do anything, even to choose the less frightening thing, was a kind of consent, and I didn't want to do it—to offer him a part of myself, even to avoid the worse thing. But the fear, the humiliation overwhelmed me,

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and finally, in desperate resignation, I arched my back, crying, waiting to feel him on me, waiting for pain, waiting to be raped. "Before I can give you the kind of pleasure you've been imagining all these years, sweet Devan, I'm afraid I have to teach you a bit of reverence for this special relationship of ours." There was a loud noise: the first smack of his hand hitting my ass, then stinging pain and sudden heat spreading from where his hand must have left a reddening print on my skin, then the warm flood of adrenaline washed over me. Fresh tears started to my eyes. I gasped. He struck me again, landing the second blow on the other cheek. I began to whimper. Another slap, another, another. I was silently sobbing, more from relief than pain, but still, flexing my butt muscles in a pointless effort to lessen the sting of his blows. Each lash landed with the same cruel, stinging pain. The sixth, the seventh, the final blow. Between sobs I gasped for breath. "Now, Devan. Are you going to be a good, obedient girl?" "Please," I heard myself sob, not caring anymore how fucking pathetic I sounded. "Please untie me." "Promise me you'll be a good girl." "I promise." I almost forgot to feel humiliated, I was so desperate to get out of those ropes. "Good. You do just as I say now, with no protests and no hesitation, and I'll free you from this compromising position. But any naughtiness, it will be more of the belt, until you learn to behave. All right?" "All right."

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He reached down and picked up my defiled diary, and the sound of his footsteps faded off in the direction of the living room, then grew louder again as he came back to me. Where the diary had laid he set a thin, stapled stack of papers. "Have a look, darling, and tell me who wrote this." I looked, and went limp with a fresh wave of unbearable humiliation. It was a short story I had written years earlier. On instinct I almost denied authorship, but my ass still stung from his belt, reminding me to 'be a good girl,' as Conrad so loathsomely put it. "I did." "Ah, how refreshing. A bit of forthright honesty, at last. Now, Devan, my darling girl, you're going to read your pretty little story aloud, word for word, from beginning to end. I shall keep busy by turning the pages at the appropriate moment, and busying my hands elsewhere. Now, please begin." An hour before, I could not have imagined what would have persuaded me to do it, but now, my ass stinging, my wrists and ankles bound, Conrad looming behind me, I began to read my story out loud. It was one of the first I'd ever written, and the very first I'd had the nerve to publish online, under the first of many pseudonyms. Even though it was an old story of mine, and the prose was embarrassingly trite, making me cringe a bit every time I'd go online, pull it up and read it, it was a fantasy I continued to play through often, and it still got me terribly aroused every time. And now, as I started to read aloud, the embarrassment of Conrad's presence intensified my usual excitement. And then, when his fingers trailed lightly up the insides of my thighs as I spoke, instantly an unbearable ache began to throb inside me.

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"Mmmm," he sighed when his finger brushed over my sex, "so wet already. Was it your little discipline session that got you so aroused? Hmmm? How delicious." Over the sound of my own voice I strained, wretched with fear, to hear the inevitable parting of his fly every time one or both of his hands left me. Then I'd see him turn the page of my little manuscript, or feel him hiking my top up, slipping the fabric from beneath my breasts so they pressed against the cold surface of the desk, making my nipples contract. In tune with the action of the story he touched me, simulating the caresses, the kisses, and the penetrations I quietly, obediently recited from the page. He caressed my pussy, gently circling and stroking, lightly rubbing my clit, pushing his finger slowly into me. When I reached a certain point I read slowly, softly, with fresh dread and I felt his hands spread my cheeks, felt his finger faintly touch me, heard him tell me to go on, so I read on, and his finger pressed there more firmly, making me catch my breath, then he went on, teasing, rubbing me there, reaching around to finger my cunt with his other hand. Touching me like that, me tied beneath him, bent over his desk, Conrad made me come three times. Just like the story. When I'd finished reading I felt his body brush against mine as he let me out of the restraints, and I tried not to cringe, not to do anything that would change his mind. He held my shoulders and helped me up. I almost couldn't stand, I was just so emotionally wrung. He turned me to face him and put his arms around me. As he held me I cringed a bit at the realization that his embrace was comforting, that his tenderness as he pressed soft but lingering kisses into my hair soothed me after the intensity of all the fear and pain, the arousal and violent climaxes. I sort of didn't want him to let me go,

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but to keep cradling me in his arms where I felt suddenly, strangely safe. But then he let me go, stepping back from me, and his eyes looked oddly dark. Guilty and hurt, maybe.

The next day I awoke feeling like I'd been pulled into some alternate universe, where I wasn't me anymore. I was no longer Devan, the quiet if secretly perverted nerd with a few close friends, who didn't date much or think about guys very often—at least not real guys, the men I knew. I was this other girl who had orgasms while reciting aloud pornographic fantasies she'd never shared with anyone, except anonymously. I felt kind of lost. At the same time, though, it seemed strangely simple to slip into this new role, into this unfamiliar reality. Looking at Conrad, my kidnapper, the man who had knocked me unconscious, who'd invaded my privacy and forced his caresses on me, I found him incredibly attractive, even movingly beautiful. I was torn between a readiness to surrender myself to his twisted fantasy, and a tormenting revulsion at having been moved to orgasm by this manipulative psychopath. And I was appalled, as the morning passed by, to note that I was almost anticipating our next encounter, growing…anxious…maybe disappointed…when afternoon arrived and he hadn't come near me. "Why did you pick me?" I blurted at him suddenly, startling myself. He smiled, amused by my confrontational question, tantalized by his recollections. "I picked you, love, because of that fantasy. And the others. You posted them on the internet, in a way, I'm sure, that you thought they could never be traced back to you. That first one captured my imagination. Then, when I came across another, I was

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certain both had been written by the same person, though they were published under different pseudonyms. I did a little research, confirmed my suspicions. I wanted very badly to find out more about you. I have certain skills, certain privileges, and certain contacts which, when put together in a strategic manner, yielded a great deal of information. I accessed your emails, threads from chat room conversations in which you'd participated, entered your apartment while you were at school, read your diaries. I realized several things about you, love. One was that, as that first fantasy reveals, you've got a deliciously dirty mind. None of that making love on a mattress covered in rose petals crap. Mmmm?" He looked at me for a moment, challenging me to face him, to acknowledge my perversion. "Then, when I discovered that you were a virgin, and even for a virgin, rather inexperienced, I wondered at the incongruity between your vivid fantasy life and your flaccid personal life. I've performed something of a psychoanalysis on you, in absentia, and determined that you're an innocent introvert who yearns to be a dirty little slut." His ugly words had the ring of admiring praise. "I know the pejorative connotations of that word, love, but believe me when I tell you I mean it as a true compliment. The real you is a sweet, dirty little exhibitionistic slut who wants to be dominated. And darling, I believe that through all my surveillance, I've come to know you better than anyone else knows you. Not that any of your school pals know you all that well, from what I gather. And over the year and a half that I've been learning about you and planning this getaway of ours, I've come to care deeply about

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you. And it is my hope that, in a short time, you will have embraced your real self—or, more truly, your multi-faceted self, and perhaps learned to like me. Just a little." He smiled a big impetuous smile. I was, in part, won over by his rationale. But I was also indignant at his presumptuousness. "I'm tired of you tapping into my secret fantasies. What about yours? Why don't you tell me your darkest, most secret fantasy frame by frame?" "Certainly. In my darkest, most secret fantasy I transgress all moral and legal boundaries to discover a woman's deepest, most shameful desires, ones that she would keep to herself and never act on, and I go to unimaginable extremes to help her live them. Our last two nights together have been scenes right out of my waking dreams." "So you kidnap me? Who are you to decide that I need to act on my fantasies? And if I do, who are you to decide that now is the time? Did it not occur to you that in time I would have a normal first sexual encounter, that my sex life would catch up with my fantasy life naturally, as I grow older, more experienced? You fucking drugged me! You've broken into my house, stalked me for over a year. Can you even imagine what that feels like?" "I imagine, darling Devan, that it's infuriating. And frightening. And also rather thrilling. All your little secrets discovered. It's the ultimate undressing, isn't it? The secrets of the body pale rather pathetically beside the secrets of the psyche, hmmm? And so the arousing fear of being stripped naked by a stranger is only a little thing, compared with being…discovered. Caught. My fingers touching your flesh is not so great a violation, or so great a thrill as my poring over your diarized confessions, your

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prosified fantasies. And all the feeling aroused by such an exposure was made more intense, felt more deeply, because you did not choose it. Because I've forced you. "I know how twisted that sounds. I do. But just think. You would have never surrendered yourself to me the way that you have if you hadn't believed you had no choice. And if you're honest with yourself, I think you'll come to realize that you would never have had an experience like the ones you've had with me without that level of surrender. As for a normal first sexual encounter, indeed that did occur to me. In fact, for some time I considered doing the much easier thing, and simply seducing you. I don't doubt that I would have succeeded. I could have approached you in the coffee shop that day—I'm sure you remember—and made some clever remark, made you laugh, chatted you up for a bit, asked you out on a date or two, and taken you to bed. I would have pleased you, made you come. But it would have been nothing, for you, compared with this." "I don't buy this benevolent sexual savior crap. You just get off on terrorizing me. On raping me." "Oh, I beg to differ, love. I haven't gotten off. And I haven't raped you. You will kindly recall that not only have I not fucked you or made you so much as stroke me, but during our little sessions I've not so much as masturbated. You've come again and again during our little getaway. I've not come at all. As for rape, you would undoubtedly have a case in court. But you have to agree that, except overcoming your shyness, I've not done one thing to you, or asked you to do one thing, that did not give you pleasure. I know you've had mixed, guilty, confused feelings about letting yourself enjoy my caresses. But I've been paying very close attention. To the damp crotch of your

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knickers, to your barely suppressed moans, the wriggling you can't control when you're almost ready to come. Everything I've done, I have done to please you, not to hurt you." "Yes, and why haven't you fucked me? Are you impotent? Were you castrated for past sex offenses?" "My, she's feisty now. I assure you, I'm quite potent. I should be commended for my restraint, actually. It hasn't been easy, keeping things all zipped in down there these last couple of nights." The next moment his whole demeanor changed. He got...slightly breathless, and he gave me a smile that was…well, even through my anger it was…sexy. Compelling. "Give me your hand, Devan." He held out his hand and waited patiently until I lay mine in it. "I've not so much as kissed you, have I Devan?" His eyes. They had, always, a strange power over me. They fixed me then, and I waited, already feeling I was bound to succumb to anything he might do. Slowly he drew my hand to his mouth and very softly pressed his lips to my knuckles. Then he gently turned my wrist, and with his two hands he coaxed my fingers open and placed a warm, lingering kiss to my palm. Suddenly his grip on my wrist became rough and his rakish grin became…cruel. I tried to jerk free but he held my arm tight, watching with a smirk as I struggled. "Let's put your doubts to rest, hmm?" With one hand vice-like around my wrist he forced my hand down to his groin, and with his other hand he pressed my palm against him. I'd never touched a man that way, but I knew what I was feeling. He was hard.

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"Do you still doubt my potency, love?" he whispered. He squeezed my hand a little, forcing it to curve vaguely around the clothed girth of him. "Perhaps you'd like to have a look? Maybe you'd even like to touch it. Or taste it. Hmmm, Devan? Do you wonder how it would feel to have the full, warm, length of me in your mouth?" In that impossible moment I felt…no fear. Only a bewildering mixture of overwhelming arousal, and resentful humiliation. My cunt was absolutely throbbing and I wanted, wanted him to unzip his fly, show me what I felt through the confining, obscuring fabric of his pants and underwear, wanted to see it, wanted to touch it, to feel it warm in the circle of my fingers, wanted to put it in my mouth, feel it with my lips and tongue, taste it. But fuck if I'd tell him that. He knew though. He gave a little grunting laugh and let my hand go. "Fear not, little Devan. No physical defects will prevent us consummating our special bond. But I've resolved not to put my cock inside of you until it is explicitly and warmly invited. A 'Fuck me now' will do, when you're ready." "You have a fascinating morality." "Oh no, dear. You're mistaken. My not fucking you has fuck-all to do with morality. It's pure ego. You begging me to fuck you will be a reward, a much-coveted reward for having opened a few doors of pleasure to you. Anyone can rape someone. It takes no skill of mind or body. Maybe strength, maybe catching someone while they're vulnerable, maybe some drugs or some rope. But to make someone ache for you, fantasize about you, beg you, means you've got something valuable to offer. That's what you did to me with the writing, fictional and biographical, that showed me an

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intelligent, fascinating woman, at once lascivious and pure. You made me want you. And that is what I hope, eventually, to do to you." "And what if I tell you I've had enough 'doors of pleasure' opened to me? Would you let me go?" "Not yet love. I've a little more I'd like you to experience first." I'm sure he could see that I was torn between loathing and appreciating what he'd done to me. I felt a nauseating shame over my conflicted feelings. I wanted to hate him. Even if he were right, about everything, it didn't give him the right to break into my house, to kidnap me, to drug me, to terrorize me into letting him do those things to me. But at the same time I sensed that I could never live out my fantasies, live them rather than play them, except with him. That night, after the predictable routine of a gifted garment and a shower, Conrad did not make me lay on the bed. He said nothing as I emerged, warm and damp from the steamy bathroom, but guided me to a strip of bare wall and pressed me to it. Still saying nothing he pulled up the hem of my little night dress and ducked his fingers down, inside my panties. As soon as he touched me I knew—I was already wet. My body had betrayed me again. It wanted him, was inviting him inside. A despicable grin came over his face as he pressed his fingers inside my wet, wanting, traitorous cunt. He asked me for no story. He just watched my face as he caressed me, as my breath quickened with the pleasure of his touch. His power over me was strange-infuriating, intoxicating, arousing. I felt my shameful climax bearing down on me. At last he spoke. "Shall I stop?"

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What an asshole. I hated him. I wanted him. I didn't want him to stop. What I really wanted was for him to take me to the bed and fuck me. And he knew it. The fucker. His hand went still between my legs. "Shall I stop then, Devan?" I said no. He resumed his caress, his fingers delicately teasing every sensitive millimeter of my sex, touching, spreading, filling. His face was so close to mine, our lips were almost touching. His hand was moving terribly, terribly slowly now. I was in agony, afraid at every second that he would stop, leave me wanting. I felt his breath, hot on my face. His eyes were boring into me. I wanted to give in. Let him win. Ask him to fuck me. I was dying for him to fuck me. As his finger pushed inside me, pumping in and out with taunting slowness, I imagined how it would feel to have the long, thick hardness I'd felt with my palm earlier that day driving slowly inside me, filling me with urgent, throbbing heat. Even the thought of the pain of that first penetration made me hotter, made me sigh. But I couldn't say it. Instead I moved the tiniest bit, and our lips touched, just for a second. He did nothing. His caresses had me trembling, and each time I exhaled I had to try very hard not to cry out. I was overwhelmed. Shame, resentment, unendurable arousal all mixed up together. I moved again, our lips touched, lingered. A little closer. A little longer. It was a plea, a clear invitation I would not be able to deny later. He kissed me. His full mouth closed gently on my lower lip, then on my top lip, then his tongue pressed between them, caressing my tongue. The tender heat of his mouth on mine did something to me none of his caresses had done, made me

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feel…close to him…joined to him. With a sudden, violent spasm I came, kissing, crying, crying out. I was way too embarrassed to say anything, but the truth is, I wanted to spend the night in his bed. In his arms. I wanted him to hold me, to whisper to me as I fell asleep. But he put me in my own bed, tucked the covers close under my chin and all around me, kissed me tenderly…platonically, even, on the forehead, and left me alone in my dark little room, to think about him, and what he'd done to me, what he might do next. The next morning Conrad seemed odd. His caddish little smirk never appeared. He was only very tender, and maybe a little sad. Now, of course, I know why. But then, I was naïve enough to wonder if the kiss had thrown him off kilter, maybe derailed whatever vision he'd had about how I would behave, how I would feel. Around noon, though, his whole demeanor changed. Looking back, I guess he'd resolved to go through with his original plan. Until then, maybe he'd thought about skipping what he'd scheduled for the afternoon, but for whatever reason, he rejected his doubts and went ahead. When he told me to, I showered, then dressed in the outfit he gave me. It wasn't a nightgown this time. Instead, I'd been given a little beige, short-sleeved blouse. It had to be pulled on over the head, but it had four little buttons running from the top of the low scoop neck to just below my breast line. It was tight around my waist, but a bit looser and slightly gathered about the breasts, revealing in almost obscene detail their natural contours. The other articles of clothing were a knee-length blue skirt and a pair of panties of a similar color.

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"You look lovely," he told me with a gentle smile when I emerged from the bathroom. With an odd expression he tipped his head to kiss the crown of my hair, then took my hand and led me to my car, opening the passenger door for me and closing it. I think it's funny now, it didn't even occur to me to try to get away. "Now, put this on." He handed me a large black scarf which he had folded into a swath about four inches wide and several layers thick. Startled and enticed at the same time, I pulled the scarf across my eyes and tied it behind my head. I sensed that it aroused Conrad, seeing me blindfolded like that. There was a long silent pause, and I felt him looking at me. Then he started the car, and we were on our way. My little car crawled over the bumpy forest floor until we emerged on the dirt road, went along for a while, then eventually I felt that we made a turn, and the ride got bumpier again. We went on for twenty minutes or so before coming to a stop. Conrad asked me to wait in the car. He got out, and came back for me a few minutes later. He opened my door, helped me out, and walked me for several minutes over uneven ground, then up some steps. Through the blindfold I sensed sudden darkness as he guided me through a door, into a structure. We walked across a wooden floor, our shoes clomping. He told me we were entering the bedroom, then told me to get on the bed.. "No, don't lay down. Kneel. This way. Good. "Now Devan," he said when he had me positioned and oriented the way he wanted me, "I'd like you to meet our hosts. This is Tom." I heard a man's voice say, "Hello."

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"This is Jake, and this is Peter." "Hello Devan," came a second voice. "Hi there," came a third. I started trembling, terrified to think what Conrad had planned for me. A physical enactment of my fantasy? I wanted to run. I felt Conrad's hands come to rest lightly, but firmly on my shoulders, a touch meant to reassure and to check me. "Say hello to our friends, Devan." I breathed out a hello. "Devan, these handsome young men are here to enjoy the favor of one of your charming stories." I finally realized what, beneath my immediate panic at my situation, had seemed weird about Conrad since we'd arrived. He was speaking with a perfect American accent. He sounded like any West Coast native. "Now let me tell you the arrangement we have come to. You are going to be here, on this bed. They, meanwhile, are going to sit tight, right were they are, in their chairs about five feet away. They are here to watch, to jerk off if they want to. They are not going to touch you in any way, unless you expressly ask them to. All right?" "Conrad, please. I can't." "Don't disappoint me, Devan darling." He'd said it tenderly, no note of threat in his voice. And I was actually moved, sad at the thought of letting him down, not living up to whatever strange idea he had of me. I can hardly believe it, writing this now, but I wanted to please him. "All right," I whispered.

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I felt my chest heaving with rapid, frightened breath and I was trembling, not with fear for my safety—I believed Conrad, that the strangers wouldn't hurt me—but out of a kind of stage fright, intensified by a feeling of being caught at something naughty, but also incredibly aroused at the thought of a room full of men watching what Conrad would do to me. "Good girl," Conrad purred in my ear, "I'll bet you're wet already, thinking of those men stroking themselves while they watch you getting off." His words sent a tingly sensation buzzing through my crotch. Then louder, so everyone could hear, he said, "Tonight, love, we'll have a different story. The story of the virgin bride, hmmm? But first, spread your legs nice and wide, and pull up your skirt so we can see your panties." I did as I was asked, hiking up my skirt and spreading my legs. "What a naughty girl, it looks like you've started without us. Those nice fresh panties you've just put on are already getting wet." I felt myself blush for the thousandth time. "Now, carry on with your story." Nervous with the thrill of exposing my body and my fantasy to these unseen strangers, I began in a quiet, wavering voice, to narrate my story. My face was burning hot, I was unbearably embarrassed to be sitting there, my legs spread, knowing they could all see the stain of arousal darkening the crotch of my panties. But even more embarrassing was saying the words, telling the story. They knew it was mine, that I'd come up with all of it. Whatever they might have thought of some girl who'd let them

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watch while her…what did they think he was? My boyfriend?...undressed her and got her off, my story gave away what a pervert I really was. After a while, though, as I told the story, I gradually forgot a little of my embarrassment, and more and more I drifted off, excited by my story, aroused by the thought of Conrad and the men listening to me, looking at me. Conrad interrupted. "We are all enjoying your story very much, Devan. Now, I want you to touch your pussy, very lightly, over your panties, the way I showed you." A fresh blush of shock burned my cheeks. "What?" "You heard me, Devan." "No Conrad," I whispered, "please. You do it." I'd almost prepared myself to repeat the routine Conrad and I had, but wasn't ready to masturbate in a room full of strangers. "Not tonight, Devan. We want to watch you make yourself come. Now do as I've asked. Blushing unbearably, I reached a trembling hand down between my legs and lightly stroked my mound. I felt my sex responding to my fingers, telling them where to go next. I saw that I could give myself incredibly intense sensations by stroking over the base of my clit, or I could cause a warm, easy pleasure by lightly cupping the whole area in my hand, or running a light stroke around the outside of my lips. As I caressed myself I continued my story. After a short while, Conrad's voice broke into my monologue.

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"Now, Devan, put your hand inside your panties. Let us watch you rub your wet slit." I know I was shaking as I pressed my hand flat against my stomach, slipping it down into my panties. I couldn't imagine what those men could be thinking of me. I didn't know what to think of myself. I tried to push all self-recrimination from my mind, to enjoy the touch of my fingers, to bask in the dark thrill of their anonymous gazes. I felt the smooth contours of my sex, pressed one finger gingerly between the lips. I yielded to myself, my finger felt the slippery wetness of my slit. I began to move my hand lightly back and forth between my legs. Then I heard a clatter of belt buckles, the zing zing zing of three zippers going down. Then I knew they were jacking off to the sight of me masturbating. "That's lovely, Devan, dear. Now, pull your panties down. Show us that wet little pussy." I ceased my narrative for a moment, tugged my panties down to my knees, then over, and off over my feet behind me. "Spread your legs wider, darling." My heart pounding, my cheeks burning, I opened my legs farther, giving them all a clear view of my wet, swollen cunt. When Conrad told me to, I went back to masturbating, sliding my fingers between my lips, back toward my vagina, then forward, over the clit, and back again. Then, at his command, I put my finger inside myself, feeling the strange texture of my vagina. It was an odd feeling, registering all the information being recorded by my fingertips, and at the same time remarking all the sensations they created on my body. I put two fingers inside myself, started fucking

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myself. My embarrassment was completely gone, and it seemed like my whole body was throbbing with arousal. "You've got the boys pretty worked up here, love. Why don't we give them a peek at those gorgeous tits of yours, hmmm?" I felt Conrad's fingers at my chest, unbuttoning the little buttons of my blouse. My heart beat faster as I felt the fabric part, as he tugged the shirt down to release and reveal my breasts. Then he was gone. I was on my own, on the bed, breasts bared, the cool evening air tickling my hot skin, making my nipples tingle and harden. As I finished the story, I replayed the final climactic images while I slid my finger slowly but with a desperate urgency inside myself, then out, between the sensitive, wet folds of my sex, against my throbbing clit, and back again, feeling that unbearable pressure, that aching yearning swelling, building, second by second, dying for it, terrified I'd somehow fail to bring it on as Conrad always had, aching, aching, and finally I cupped my hand over myself, letting two fingers nestle deep between my wet folds, and desperately writhed against my fingers, rubbing my clit needfully against the heel of my hand and finally bringing myself to delicious orgasm, crying out with a joyful moan of release as I came. In darkness and silence I knelt, listening to the waning echoes of my pulse as the throbbing in my sex slowly subsided. After a moment Conrad came over, pulling my skirt down over my legs, then putting an arm around my shoulders and planting a soft, lingering kiss on my cheek. "That's my good exhibitionist," he whispered in my ear so the others could not hear. "Button up now, love." I pulled my blouse closed over my breasts and began fastening the little buttons.

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Then I felt, or heard, a sudden movement, scuffling and knocking, a grunting sound. Panicked, I jerked the blindfold from my eyes. A man's face filled almost my whole field of vision. I glanced to the side and saw, for a tiny second, Conrad struggling with someone, as hands grabbed my shoulders from behind and jerked me down on my back. "Just take it easy, now," I heard the man struggling with Conrad say. I turned from the sight of the huge man looming over me toward Conrad, where he seemed to be in a choke hold in front of a man much taller and broader than him. "There's three of us, and one of you. And even little Peter there's got to have a good thirty pounds on you. Now, you can do the smart thing, and let us have our fun. Or you can be stupid, and try to stop us." He looked at his big, muscley friends and started to laugh. "But I guess we'd just stomp you," I watched, astonished, terrified, as one of Conrad's little grins appeared, and he answered in a cool voice, "So dramatic, Tom. Really, all you had to do was ask. The tavern brawl was hardly necessary." Tom looked down at Conrad, choking in the crook of his elbow. "I don't need to ask you nothin'." "No, clearly you're right there. All I meant was that the dramatics of the wrestling match are just…ahem…a waste of precious energy." "You mean, you'd just let us fuck your little girlfriend." "To tell you the truth, Tom, she isn't really my girlfriend. She's just girl I've been fooling around with a little. Go ahead. Have your fun with her. Don't mind if I stick around and watch, do you?"

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"Shit," Tom said, releasing his hold on Conrad, "you're an even dirtier bastard than we gave you credit for." It was all slowly coming together for me, what was about to happen. And beneath my terror I felt a crushing sort of pain at the idea that Conrad would just stand there, grinning, and watch it all. The one in front of me shoved me down onto my back again and starting climbing over me. When I hit him and tried to get out from under him, the one behind me grabbed me by the wrists and pinned my arms down by my head. "I supposed you've talked it all over? Planned it all out?" I heard Conrad say to the man beside him. "The, er, pecking order, you mean? Course, I'd be goin' first, but, eh, I think I'll be havin' a go at that little ass of hers, when they're done with her." The one on top of me yanked my blouse back open, baring my breasts as I struggled futilely to break free of the other's grip on my arms. "You might be interested to know," I heard Conrad saying, "that she's a virgin." "You're fucking shittin' me. With that mouth on her?" "I promise you, Tom." "You guys hear that? Our little Jezebel there's a virgin!" "Bullshit!" The one holding my wrists blurted in a disgusting chuckle. "We'll know soon enough, won't we darlin'?" the one on top of me breathed in my face as he roughly pawed my breasts. He sat back on his heels, flung the hem of my skirt up over my hips and started undoing his belt. Hard and fast as I could I kicked him in the side of the head. Before I

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could land another blow he wrenched my knees apart, so wide and so hard I thought he'd torn ligaments in my legs, and slapped me so hard across the face my ears rang. "Want to play rough with me, do you?" He raised his arm again, but Tom leapt forward and grabbed the man's forearm. "Don't get her all bloodied up, huh, Peter." Tom stood there, looking down at me. "You hear what Connor said? She's a virgin. Maybe we ought to rethink things a little." "What difference does that make?" the one on top of me whined defensively. "If she's a virgin, you can bet her ass is virgin, too. You're not losin' anything. "Hey," the one behind me called over to Conrad. "She ever suck your dick?" "Nope," Conrad called back, his revolting grin intact, his eyes avoiding mine. "Heh heh," the third chortled as he clutched my wrists painfully, "we could have her well broken in by the end of the night." "What the fuck's wrong with you, Connor? What you been doin' with her all this time?" Tom's question went unanswered, but maybe it was rhetorical. He stared down at me for another moment, his eyes roaming over my face, my breasts, my bared sex, so violently exposed between my splayed thighs. "All right, Petey. You go ahead and pop her cherry. Just don't rough her up so much that she's not still lively when we have our go, 'kay?"

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A big, nasty smile split the face of the man on top of me as he yanked open his fly and pulled out his hard penis. I was paralyzed, wanting to close my eyes but unable to look away from what he was about to do to me. "What the fuck?" Tom hollered, reeling around, swatting insanely at his neck. What the fuck!" Then Peter yelled and jumped up. A moment later the hands on my wrists jerked free. I jumped up, fast as I could. Tom and Conrad were wrestling. I thought maybe I saw a gun. The other two stomped into the fray, Pete stumbling and struggling with his jeans. I ran. I ran out of that room, toward the door, and out, down the steps, into the woods. As I charged into the trees, running as fast as I could, I heard gun shots. After wandering for days in the woods, yesterday I found this little cabin, where I am, at the moment, as I write. I don't know where it is that this cabin is situated, whether I am half a day's walk from a town where I could get help, or whether, if I try to find a way out, I'll end up lost for days in the woods. I guess maybe there's a chance I won't get out. But tomorrow or the next day, when I'm feeling better, I'm going to try. I don't know if Conrad is dead or alive. I don't know if he really shot that man, and maybe the others, or whether one of them shot him. All the time I was in the woods I felt I was being hunted. But whether by Conrad or by those other men I don't know. Probably it was only my imagination, fueled by the trauma of everything that's happened. I dream about Conrad every night. Sometimes he's like a rescuing angel who finds me, loves, me, cares for me. Other times he's a kind of horrible demon who

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terrifies and tortures me. Though while I was with him I let him lull me into submission, a submission that went beyond obedience to a twisted kind of trust, and even affection, now that I'm out of his reach, out from under his spell—away from his gaze, his words, his touch—I …I don't know. I guess I hate him.

Day 3 at cabin It seems a significant coincidence that, after all that has happened to me, I'm here, alone in this little cabin in the wilderness. Instead of escaping captivity and returning to a familiar world that might have helped me back to normalcy, I am left here, alone with my memories of Conrad, his words, the things he did to me, the things I did for him, and the realization that between the episodes of fear, Conrad, my kidnapper, gave me moments of pleasure more intense than any I'd imagined in my most perverted fantasies. If I had gone back to Seattle, back to school, maybe I would have focused on other things, distracted my mind from the impact Conrad has had on me. But here, despite the hours of distraction I get from reading novels borrowed from the stranger who is unknowingly hosting me, I dwell endlessly on the thrill, beyond my previous imagination, that I felt at telling my fantasy aloud to him while he touched me. And, though I can't recall the little cabin and those men without a pang of terror, sometimes I can look back, past the moment when things seemed to slip out of Conrad's control, and recall how deeply aroused I was to be masturbating in front of strangers, touching myself in front of them while revealing a fantasy I had, for a long time, felt guilty for even creating in my mind. Conrad released me from that shame, I think.

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Day 4 at cabin The owner showed up here today. At first, when I felt the cold air reach me through the open door, and turned to see him standing, I thought it was him—Conrad. The microsecond of relief I when I saw it wasn't was shattered by his look of hatred. I didn't understand, didn't think or try to understand why a man, a different man, had broken into the cabin where I'd taken refuge. I was operating on the pure instinct of selfpreservation. I thought he was there to hurt me, only for that. I tried to get away, but he caught me. I thought, when he forced me down in the mud, and later when he made me change clothes in the shower, and yet again when he pushed his gun between my legs, that he would rape me. Not like Conrad, not by getting inside my mind, stripping my most secret thoughts bare, but a violent, physical rape. This man, Vaughn, didn't plan this, our strange encounter here. It happened to him, as it happened to me. I sense him struggling, caught between a need to protect himself and the effort to restrain himself. I sense that if the balance tips, if he decides I am really some kind of threat, that he might really hurt me. Kill me, I mean—brutally, violently, in blind rage.

Day 11 at cabin Over the last few days as we have lived our uneasy coexistence, Vaughn has tried to stay away from me. I know he still doesn't trust the accident of my arrival, that he resents my intrusion here. Maybe, too, he's afraid that he'll relapse into his initial violent

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tendency toward me. I don't understand how, but I sense that I frighten him. And, even though I find myself…drawn to him, he still frightens me. Vaughn's so quiet. His melancholy brooding is such a contrast to Conrad's grinning loquacity. And he seems so…still. Even though I've seen him angry, even enraged, even though I'm always a little on edge, waiting for that rage to surface again, I feel like the quiet stillness is his true nature. That he's very gentle, almost delicate, inhabiting this incongruously enormous body. Sometimes, when we sit side-by-side out on the porch, or stand talking in the kitchen while something is cooking, I feel aroused, and at the same time intimidated, by the realization of how large he is. Typical me, even though the fear is real, almost unnerving sometimes, at the same time it intensifies my arousal. Sitting next to him, his arms, his thighs, are so big compared to mine. Standing near him, the center of his chest is at my eye level. When I look at him, so tall and broad and hard—not like a bodybuilder with bulging muscles, sinews and veins everywhere, but like a man designed by nature to be large, who has toned and developed his natural bulk with physical labor—and when I think of how I ran from him that first day, and how he caught me, out in the mud, forcing me to the ground, holding me from behind, I feel myself twinge with fear at the same time an arousing warmth spreads through me. Remembering that night, imagining what he might have done to me, imagining other, similar encounters with him, for the first time ever I've gotten myself off with thoughts of being with a real person.

Day 12 at cabin

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Tonight we sat together by the fire. I had a drink, and it made feel warm and soft inside. I felt myself getting very excited, with him next to me, so close to me, as we talked quietly. Every accidental touch felt like a tiny electric shock, startling and on the verge of being dangerous. I thought, what if he made love to me tonight? The images that played behind my eyes in short sequences of him taking me, possessing me, thrilled me and made me ache sweetly between my legs. It was something I'd never experienced. Desire. Something beyond physical want, anticipation of pleasure. It was a physical sensation of…I don't know what to call it. A deep, tender affection. Then I felt him touching me, caressing my face. Then his tender little kisses, that made me think of a shy schoolboy on his first date, frightened of rejection and, at the same time, a man who's experience told him how to handle a frightened, inexperienced girl like me. The feeling his kiss aroused in me surprised me—not only in intensity—but by its nature. It was joy. A sweet, warm joy, orange like sun spots left to view on lids closed against a bright sky. When he lay me back and I felt him on me I believed that I would give myself to him tonight. That we would go to bed together, make love, fall asleep in each others' arms. But that next kiss terrified me. I don't even know why, or how. It was masterful, perfect in sensation. But its power, felt at the moment I felt his strength, sensed his erection, panicked me. I tried to remember Vaughn, that I was there with Vaughn, that this was Vaughn kissing me, holding me. But it felt one moment as though Conrad had taken his place, at the next like I was back in that cabin with those strange men, that one of them was on me, the others waiting their turn. Sweet Vaughn. He noticed right away that something was wrong, he stopped so quickly. I knew I was trembling, that after all that had already happened Vaughn would

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fear he had hurt me, that he had frightened me, done something wrong. But I felt utterly incapable of telling him what I was going through, what had happened. I left him so abruptly, I so wanted to ease his mind, tell him that he was wonderful. But I just mumbled good-night and hid myself here, in my room. I'm scared now that I've lost my chance with him. I'm sure the last thing he needs is some ingénue, some utterly inexperienced, flighty child seesawing like a schizo, implicitly promising everything, then scaring and running off. I feel indescribably sad, like I had something, for a brief moment, that I'd never even dreamed could be mine, and then I destroyed it before even experiencing the having of it. I mean, I'm not stupid, I'm not kidding myself that there'd be some big romance between the two of us. I get it, that for him this would be a little dalliance. But for me, it's enough, a monumental thing, to find myself feeling so deeply for him, to find that with him I'm capable of feelings of real desire, and maybe tiny little seeds of something like love.

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SEVEN: Someone Wicked

Vaughn hadn't read more than a paragraph or two before he'd had to close the journal. A cold fist squeezed his stomach as his grip on the binding turned his knuckles white. God. Oh god, something awful had happened to her. In one miserable moment the meaning of it all crashed down on him. Someone had hurt her, sweet, strange Devan. And she'd had the terrible misfortune, after, of being trapped there with him, with all his ugly mistrust, his violence. He was terrified to open the notebook again, to face what she'd been through, to read, knowing the whole time what he'd done to her. What a fucking coward. If she could survive it happening, he could damn well take reading about it. Willing his shaking hands to turn back the cover, Vaughn forced his stinging eyes over her slanting words. Sitting alone by the fire he read her story. Went for her ride. Rage and pity welled up in him as he thought of the gentle, fragile girl he had come to care for as she was tormented, touched by that man, forced to confess her fantasies. How could anyone do it? Take someone so innocent, so shy, bare her body that way? Touch her, talk to her like that? Even though she'd escaped, still a virgin, and even though she had admitted her own confused excitement at being touched and watched, he felt she had been raped. Even worse, in spite of her own words suggesting that it had been some kind of liberation, he felt the tracing of her fantasies to her, her forced recitals, was in some ways a crueler violation. A rape of her mind.

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But the whole time, as he burned with bitter anger another heat suffused his body. He didn't want to admit it. He tried to pretend it was just his rage. But the images she described prodded him with the stirrings of dark arousal. Her hem lifted to reveal the soft curve of her sex, its contours discernible through her panties, the kidnapper’s gentle caresses of this girl who was a virgin to such caresses, her first climax. Her, blindfolded, masturbating to her own vivid fantasy before those aroused men. He felt like an asshole, a lascivious voyeur, wondering about those fantasies of hers when the point was what had been done to her. When he got to what she had written about him, he stopped. Maybe she hadn't meant him to read it. He badly wanted to know as much as he could, what she'd been thinking about him, but maybe she'd forgotten that she'd written about their time together at the cabin when she gave him the journal to read. In the end his curiosity defeated his self-restraint with the rationalization that she'd intended the presentation of the journal as a message to him. He read. He read how he'd scared her. How she'd thought, that night of his arrival, that he would rape her. Beat her. God, even kill her. It was the worst pain he'd ever felt, knowing that after all she'd been through he'd caused her fresh fear, made her feel overpowered and imprisoned once again. He felt sick. Even though he had deliberately threatened her with his size, with his strength, he almost couldn't believe he really had that awful power. His was such an odd life of isolation through solitude juxtaposed with isolation through population—he was, almost inevitably, either completely alone or surrounded by groups, sometimes mobs of people. With the exception of his wife, in the last few years he had seldom been alone with a woman.

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And, big as he was, one thing he'd never been accused of was being scary. But Christ, the way he'd been with her… After a while, when he'd tired of torturing himself with thoughts of all the ways he'd hurt her, he opened her journal again, and read on. Knowing he'd ruined it all, let himself feel the torment of a little joy as he read how she'd started to feel about him. He even laughed at himself a little, feeling silly that the tentative affection of a woman, barely more than a girl, could actually make his belly do that little flip. He'd been sure, for a long, long time now, that he was far too jaded to feel anything like this. But there they were. Butterflies. Like ninth grade or something. And, god, she'd really been about to…give herself to him. The idea, so remote, so impossible now, instantly drove a painful ache into his groin. That he had been the source of strange new feelings for her, that he had been the object of her desire, that he had given her even a few moments of pleasure almost made him forget, for a moment, how completely he had ruined whatever had been unfolding between them. There was no vain spark of hope that there would be a reprise of their attempt at romance—at least none he did not snuff out immediately. He only hoped that his baseless, reckless brutality had not done harm to Devan's chances of happier romances in the future. For hours he sat there by the fire, his mind jumping from thoughts of what he would say to Devan in the morning, to the erotic images indelibly transferred from the pages of her journal to his mind, to the imagined face of Conrad, to the images of all the ways he had hurt her, too. Punished her that day for imagined transgressions. He really

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had been about to rape her—not her in his mind, but the other woman, the woman he had believed she might be. Like those others. An intruder, a spy, a rapist. But he'd been an idiot. No. Worse. Deluded. Insane. It was her, Devan, that he had done that to. Already sick with shame, he was caught in a violent undercurrent of sudden grief. As quietly as he could he slipped outside to cry where he wouldn't wake her. He hated himself. He was poison. The things he'd done to her. Behind him he heard the door open. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, then turned, found her standing in the doorway, framed in fluttering firelight. "I couldn't sleep," she said simply. Seeing her there, hearing her voice, his impulse to hold her overwhelmed him, but his guilt, the thought of her cringing at his touch held him back, frozen. All there was room for in his thoughts was the slow, painful reconciliation of this girl standing before him, this girl he knew, for whom he felt so many conflicting things, with whom he shared such a brief but intense history, with the girl in the journal. The girl who'd been abducted, molested, and—Jesus, he had to fight back tears as he thought of it—almost brutally gang raped. That was who he'd been living uneasily with these last few days. That was who he'd held in his arms by the fire. That—he clenched his jaw and his fists against a whimper of useless regret—was who he'd chased down, dragged from the woods, wrestled to the bed, and… "Mind if I stay with you a while?" she asked. "Would you rather be alone?"

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Her voice was so soft he wasn't sure if he knew what she'd said because he'd heard it, or because he'd read her lips. He forced what he hoped was a gentle smile.. He didn't trust his voice to make a sound soft enough. "No. No." He stepped toward her, almost without thinking, then stopped. In this agonizing moment he felt his size more painfully than usual. Like a Cyclops in a small cave with a wood nymph. He didn't want to be towering over her with his bulk, didn't want to be looking down at her as she spoke. Farther and farther he backed away from her, their gaze leveling a little with each step, but never enough. She was watching him intently, and he was hoping she'd laugh derisively at his miserable awkwardness, show a little of the hate he deserved. But she only looked sad and nervous. "I'm so sorry, Devan," was the best he could come up with. "I know you are." She said it so sweetly, so sincerely, in such a gentle voice, with such warmth in her eyes that he felt as though she were offering her sympathy, rather than accepting his. He took one little nervous step nearer to her. "I wish there was something I could do," he said lamely, making some awkward, incomplete gesture. She looked shy and sad as she smiled at him, then slowly came toward him, watching his face as she did. The thought of her coming near him made him happy and afraid at once. Maybe she read it in his face, maybe that was why she looked so unsure, why when she rested her head against his chest and put her arms around him, he could barely feel her there, as if her embrace were a timid question.

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He put his arms around her, pulled her to him. Just to feel her pressing herself warmly to him, soft and trusting, soothed him, overwhelmed him with joy. This was all there could be, after what he'd done, but it was so much. To comfort her, to let her feel safe, to be her friend until she could get back home. It was so wonderful to hold her he didn't want to let go. But he began to feel guilty anxiety creeping in, and opened his arms. She went on, holding him tightly, and he wrapped his arms back around her. He was trembling. Or she was. Maybe it was both of them. "Do you want to go inside? Where it's warm?" "No, let's stay out here a little while. It feels good to be outside." She smiled sweetly. It was a crisp but dry October night. When they finally let each other go, they sat down at the edge of the porch, their feet dangling. "Devan…" He didn't know what he could say. No words were up to everything he was thinking and feeling. "You don't have to say anything, Vaughn. Especially…well…I hope…" "What?" "After I gave you the journal I was afraid…" "You regret letting me read it." "No, I…I wanted you to know…how I got here. And I wanted you to see that I really could understand some of what you'd been through. I guess, when I read your journal, I just couldn't believe how much the things you said you felt were like what I was

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feeling. I was so sad that it had happened to you, but it was such a comfort, thinking that maybe to one person…" She turned to him, met his gaze. "…to you, what I'd experienced, the way I'd been through it all, wasn't so strange. Does that make sense?" "Yes." "But, what I wrote at the end…" she was blushing and nervous, "I don't want you to think…" He knew. God, she didn't have to say it. She couldn't want him, care for him now, after the things he'd done to her. "It's all right, Devan. I understand." He spoke softly, smiled gently, being a friend to her, hiding his feeling of loss. She looked at him, uncertain. "You wrote those things before…things are different now." She nodded her head, her eyes welling with tears. Why did she look so sad? He thought she'd be relieved. "I know I've been…unpredictable, Devan. But you're safe here, with me. I promise, I swear I won't hurt you." "I know." "You're shivering. Let's go inside." "You go ahead. I'm going to stay out here a while." She sounded so sad, He wished he knew what to say to stop her pain. But he didn't. He stood and went inside. He went to his room and pulled the heavy wool

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blanked from the end of the bed, and took it with him back to the porch. She was standing now, her back to the door, gazing into the darkness at invisible woods. She turned to him when she heard his tread on the planks. "Here, keep warm." He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, pulling it close around her. Even that, just feeling her back, her arms under the blanket as he cloaked her made him ache for her, just to hold her, stay near her, feel her. He brushed a strand of hair back from her face. She was looking up at him with an expression of such…openness. Such a wave of tenderness washed over him that, before thought could intervene, he bent and kissed her softly on the lips. He went hot and limp with shame and regret the moment their lips parted. What had he just said to her? He'd promised she was safe with him, and already, a moment later he was pushing himself on her. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know…" He was backing away. Staring up into his eyes she reached out and clutched his shirt, halting him. He imagined that she was pleading with her eyes, begging him to tell her. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry." "Why?" He'd barely heard her, she'd said it so softly. "Why?" "You said you shouldn't have. Why?"

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She looked like maybe she was going to cry. Fuck. When was he going to stop hurting her? But she still had a fistful of his shirt in her hand, and her question, so timid, so soft, somehow sounded like a challenge. "I…after what I did…" "Forget what you did." "Forget? God, Devan, I must seem like a monster to you. To be touched, kissed by me, it must be…" "Vaughn. If I didn't trust you, if I didn't…" she blushed and her eyes turned away toward the woods, "…care for you…" the words came out as if they were awkward substitutes for something else, and then she met his eyes again, "I wouldn't have agreed to read your journal. And I wouldn't have shown you mine." He thought he knew what she meant. Conrad's words, recorded by her, echoed in his head. More protective of her diary than her body. She'd opened her secret to him. His transgression was forgiven, and his touch, his kisses were…not repellent. Maybe welcome. Desired? His imagination couldn't go that far. He said what he thought she'd want to hear. "Please, don't worry, Devan, I don't want anything from you, except to be your friend." Her eyes were sad, but she smiled as she nodded. "All right," she said, after a moment, "let's go inside." They sat side by side on the sofa, sharing the blanket, sticking their feet out toward the fire now and then.

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"I hope you know," she began quietly after a long silence between them, "that I would never, won't ever…tell anyone those things about you." "I know." "Even though it's helped me, knowing it, I'd go back, if I could, if my knowing gives you something to be anxious about." He was silent for a while, and she grew tense. Finally he turned to face her, and gave her a small but genuine smile. "I was going to say that it's all right, that I don't mind. But that's a lie. I don't want to lie to you. It's hard, having you know that about me. Not because I think you'll tell anyone. I don't think that. It's just hard, you knowing. But at the same time, I'm glad, if it helps you. I feel bad, Devan, that you've got no one to talk to but me, after what's happened to you. I wish I could get you to your friends, home, where you'd feel safe." "I don't think I have a friend I'd tell about that." "No. I didn't." "I don't think anyone could understand. Except maybe you." "God, Devan. I can't imagine how scared you must have been, how awful it must have been for you." "Why? Why do you think it was worse for me?" "Because…you're so…young." It wasn't quite what he meant. "Yeah. Maybe…maybe it would have been easier if I'd lived just a little before he took me. That's the…" "What?" "Nothing. Never mind."

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"Devan." He caught her gaze, took her hand. "Don't tell me anything you don't want to. But say anything you feel like saying. I want to be here for you, be your friend." "I've just been such a loner all my life, and even more so with guys. With men." She blushed. "I mean…" she looked at him, as if to gage whether she should really go on, "I'm not a prude. I guess you can tell that, by what I wrote, the fantasies. But I've just never really been close to men. You know, I grew up with my mom, and my friends have always been girls. Women. So, when he took me, when I was with him, it was just…I feel like he was the first man I ever really knew." She gave him a nervous, searching look. "That's strange, isn't it?" Vaughn nodded his head in understanding. "I feel like I should hate him. But I don't. I don't know why." "He never really hurt you. Physically, I mean." "No." "And he…gave you a lot of pleasure." She blushed and nodded. "He played to your fantasies." "Yes." "He didn't want you to hate him. He wanted you to love him." "Maybe. Yes." "Do you?" he asked, very softly. She stared at him, startled. Then frightened. Then she calmed. "No. I don't." She was looking at him, showing him with her eyes that she was telling the truth. "But he's…touched me…changed me."

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"Are you…glad?" "Sometimes." He nodded, calm, understanding. She was looking at him strangely, hovering on the edge of something. "What?" he asked softly with a gentle smile and patient eyes. "With you..." He saw that she felt shy, talking about whatever she felt about him. He touched her hand. "With me?" "I've never…wanted someone real before. To actually experience something, instead of…imagining. Maybe…I think it's because of what happened, that I'm…I don't know how to put it…being real." Because he wanted to, and so she would know that she could go on, he took her hand in his. Her words, being real, echoed in his mind. Present tense. "And that makes me glad. But…" with her free hand she tentatively touched his arm, "…I think—I mean, I know—it's because of what happened, too, that I got so scared with you last night. I'm scared I'll never…be okay with being touched." She wasn't crying, but she looked so sad. Afraid. Slowly, carefully, he put his arms around her. She pressed herself against him, soft and trusting. "Devan. It's so soon. Only days. You'll need time. But you'll be all right. And the other night, you know, I didn't realize. I went too fast. It was too much." After a pause he went on in an even softer voice. "Someday, when you're ready to be with someone, talk to him, so he'll know to be slow, to be gentle with you."

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She pulled away. Looked at him. So nervous. "You know." Her eyes probed him. Looking at her now he knew, he was certain, she wanted him to kiss her again. Quivering with his effort to restrain himself, to give her the gentlest possible kiss, he touched his lips to hers. Her mouth, her whole body responded, asking for a deeper kiss. He gave it to her. Her pulse rushed under his palms as they pressed her delicate neck. He wanted to encircle her in his arms, pull her trembling body to his, feel the length of her against him, but he resisted his urge, determined not to frighten her this time. Her urgent seeking kiss, her rapid breath, her tiny moans tested his restraint. Feeling he would be overwhelmed by his desire, succumb to his urge to press himself against her, to take more from this encounter than her kiss, he ended it, leaving her panting. "Devan." He whispered, bowing his head against hers. "It's so hard. I don't know what you want." "This," she whispered back. "I thought…you mentioned your journal, what you'd written about us, like you'd changed your mind. And I was sure, after what I'd done…" "No," she said emphatically. Then, softly, with less certainty, "I just…I wrote those things…how I felt about you. I didn't want you to feel…obliged. I don't know. I'm…I'm sorry…I'm not the person you thought I was." "What do you mean?" "My…the way I am. The way I was with Conrad. The things I wrote before…" He pulled back so he could look at her.

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"You're not different from who I thought you were. We just barely know each other, we're just learning about each other." "I'm so…strange." "Maybe." He caressed her cheek, smiling at her affectionately. "Maybe that's what I like about you." They put their arms around one another, nuzzled in close together. They were like that for a long time. The sun was coming up. They both dozed, woke, heard the sleepy breathing of the other, dozed again. Finally they both fell into deep sleep, curled up together under the blanket before the dying fire as daylight slowly filled the room.

The following afternoon they woke and had breakfast together. Later they sat before the fire, she on the sofa, he in the armchair, and read, now and then sharing interesting passages with one another, or setting their books aside to chat for a while in soft tones. With a couple hours of daylight left they went walking in the woods. Still frightened to go out among the phantom shadows of the trees, where her potent fear of Conrad and the other men still lingered, Devan felt braver now that Vaughn was her friend. “Devan?” “Mmm?” “Do you think Conrad’s dead?” Did ten minutes ever go by without her asking herself that question?

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“I don’t know what happened after I ran. But somehow, no, I don’t think he’s dead.” "Does that scare you?" “Sometimes. Sometimes, no. I don’t know, from one moment to the next, what to think. Sometimes I dream about him, and he’s this…this beatific being whose presence makes me feel a profound joy beyond anything I’ve known, beyond anything I imagine is possible in reality. Other times I dream about him and he’s so terrifying, so cruel, I want to be obliterated, because it seems like the most violent, painful death would be better than letting him touch me, even in the smallest way. I don’t know which dream is closer to the truth of who he is, of what he wanted from me. Sometimes I think I willed him into being, or called him to me. Sometimes I think…” “What?” “I think he loves me.” “That’s a strange love.” His voice was neither not sarcastic or angry. Not even jealous. When they reached the river, romantic vista, flowing with her silent fears and memories, they spread out a blanket and sat there together, watching the water, the sky, the naked twigs and branches of the trees who had yielded all of their leaves in the last few weeks to the river and the forest floor. He was gazing at her, wondering about her, wanting to know her. “Tell me something about your life in Seattle.” That life seemed remote. Part of a past existence. Her mind flew back, past Vaughn’s cabin, through the woods, beyond that other cabin, over the road she had

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traveled with Conrad, back to Seattle. The little world that had held her when she was innocent. “Well, I’ve got a little studio on Capitol Hill.” She caught a strange look passing over Vaughn’s features. She smiled at him inquiringly. “I confess,” he said, grinning, “that I’m relieved to hear you don’t live with your mom.” Great. As if she didn't already feel like enough of a kid around Vaughn without him thinking she lived like a child in her mother's house. “No, I’ve been on my own since I started college, almost three years ago, when I was seventeen.” “Do you work?” ”I’m employed by my department at the university, transcribing lecture notes, things like that. Not very glamorous, but I can mostly work from home.” “And what about school? Tell me more about your program.” She smiled, amused at all his questions. “Don’t you laugh at me. I’ll have you know this is routine dating procedure. I interrogate you about your life, you interrogate me about mine, and we each do our best to answer while carefully hiding any clues to our chronic bad habits. “I see. Thank you for taking a moment to explain the rules to your novice opponent in the dating game.” When he had said the word ‘date,’ it had made her feel a little giddy, and it was titillating to repeat it.

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“I’m getting my degree in Russian literature.” She was watching his face, waiting for the usual reaction. He was simply listening, waiting for her to go on. “A lot of people think it’s frivolous, studying literature.” “A lot of people are morons. I can’t think of anything more important to study.” She looked at him, grinning incredulously that he could feel that way. “When I first started studying literature it was because I loved reading it, just for entertainment. I’ve always loved the classics, and I seem to have read a novel a week ever since I can remember, and when I started college I wanted to take classes in literature so I could get all the subtext I knew I was missing as a novice reader. But now I see literature as a fundamental element of society, as something to study as a way of understanding the way people relate to each other, the ways that history happens, the way human beings are fundamentally the same across time and cultures, even when the surface aspects of societies seem radically different. And I see literature as a way that certain ideas get perpetuated, inscribed in our ways of thinking and being.” She giggled nervously, feeling she had gone on too long, a bit too seriously, because she was excited about the subject, excited to have a sympathetic friend with whom to share her interest. “Don’t be embarrassed. You’re charming when you talk so earnestly and enthusiastically. People rarely do.” He gave her a reassuring smile that warmed and calmed her, but he sensed she no longer wanted to talk about herself. “So, now it’s your turn to give me the third degree.”

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She smiled, but remained quiet. He guessed why. He had been so protective of his privacy, it had been a source of so much painful conflict, she could not bring herself to ask a question. “I suppose I haven’t really been fostering your inquisitive nature where I’m concerned, have I?” She smiled softly, saying nothing. “It’s incredible, in a way that’s maybe impossible for you to imagine, how I find myself wanting to tell you about myself. I truly cannot remember when I last wanted to talk to someone the way I do with you. With you I feel like you don’t want anything from me except me. If that makes sense.” “Yes.” She was touched, but she did not know what to say. She was still incredulous that Vaughn had taken an interest in her. The idea that he was seeking, offering, emotional intimacy in addition to a physical intimacy was surprising to her. He saw her unease. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to confess that I tortured puppies as a boy, or that I’m secretly a member of the Moral Majority.” He had made her smile. “All right. Since you bring up your childhood, when you were a boy, what did you think you’d be when you grew up?” Her question was carefully calculated to avoid his hot buttons. “When I was small, I thought I’d be a doctor, like my dad. But from the time I was nine or ten, I thought I would be an artist. A painter.”

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“Really? You painted?” “I still do.” “What sort of painting?” “Abstracts, mostly in oil.” “You don’t paint at the cabin?” “Some. But the urban environment is sort of my inspiration. And painting is my way of relaxing. I don’t need it so much when I’m here.” He chuckled a little. “What?” “You see, I’ve already told you something about myself that nobody else knows. Except Ali, my ex.” “None of your friends know you paint?” “No. It’s a private thing, something I do for myself. It’s cathartic.” “Is making music cathartic?” “On a certain level, maybe. But I rarely write music on my own. It’s almost always a collaborative thing, so that’s very different from what I get out of painting. And I seldom write music just for the sake of the music itself. I used to, before we became so successful. Somehow that took something away from it for me. I think that’s part of the reason I keep my painting a secret. Once you start creating something with the expectation of sharing it with the world, whether a commercial public or even your own friends, it changes how you feel about what you’re doing, it affects the decisions you make. With painting I never ask myself what anyone else would think about it. It’s utterly and completely mine.”

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Devan thought of her writing. With her erotica, she always wrote it with a promise of privacy. And afterward she always published what she had written, anonymously, online. She was good at persuading herself, over and over, and believing her own false promise again and again, that no one but she would ever see what strange scenes she had conjured up in her mind, and this way she kept her writing honest, uninhibited. As open as she was closed. As dangerous as she was safe. She wondered if she would ever be able to write that away again, after Conrad had traced her writings to her. Thinking all of this she simply smiled at Vaughn and quietly told him that she understood what he meant. “Devan? May I ask you something? Something very personal?” “Yes.?” “Why have you never slept with a man?” This question took her by surprise. She had never explained the answer to anyone. She had only a vague understanding of it herself. "Don't answer me, if you don't want. I don't mean to be nosy." He laughed at himself. "Or I do. I just…want to know you better, understand you." "It's all right." She smiled, embarrassed. "I mean, you are…well, you're only nineteen…" Only nineteen. He couldn't help wishing she were older. "It's not that it's strange, being inexperienced at your age. Not at all. But you've made choices…I was just wondering what was behind them." “You read what I wrote in my journal.”

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She thought of her fantasies, of her confession that the idea of dating and the world of normal relationships bored her—repelled her, almost. She was embarrassed to speak of it. “Yes.” “I suppose I’m just strange. I’ve never been attracted to the guys I’ve known, never really dated. My sex life has always been mental rather than corporeal.” He reached over, took her hand in his. He twined and untwined his fingers in hers as he spoke. “So you’re…really as inexperienced as you told Conrad you were?” She looked down and nodded shyly. “I mean, I was then.” He felt a stab of guilt. “I know I'm weird.” “You mustn’t think I’m judging you.” “What does that look mean, then?” “I’m sorry, I was just thinking about something.” “Oh.” “I’m not thinking anything bad about you.” Now he was flustered, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s none of my business.” “What?” “I didn’t mean to bring it up. I have no business asking. I just find myself wondering if something happened to you, when you were younger.”

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“Oh.” She laughed a soft little laugh. Her hurt feelings were unhurt. “You mean, maybe I was molested as a kid or something, and that’s why I've been writing volumes of porn while living like a nun?” He looked at her with quiet understanding. “No, nothing like that ever happened to me. No illicit touches from uncles or mother’s boyfriends or neighbors.” He smiled very sweetly. “I’m glad.” “Yes, my perversity is perfectly organic.” “I don’t think you’re perverse.” “No?” “No.” She thought to herself that someday, maybe, she would tell him things about herself. Maybe let him read something of hers. And then they would see. “Can I ask you something else?” “Yes.” “You wrote that normal sex didn’t interest you.” God, she was pretty when she blushed. “But when I kiss you, you seem excited.” His line of questioning was embarrassing her, and the embarrassment was tantalizing. The heat in her belly, in her face, was fueled further by Vaughn's intent, penetrating gaze.

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“Yes.” “Because I frighten you?” “No,” she blurted instinctively, then forced herself to be more honest with him. “Or, partly, yes. But that’s less and less of it. I know you’ll…you'd never hurt me. I know you’ve come to feel tenderly for me.” She looked down shyly as she said this, unable to meet his eyes. There was something, still, that aroused her fear when he held her. Not that she didn't trust him. It was, she reasoned, like a child being tickled by a grown-up. Or like lover being bound by lover. Even in the presence of trust there is a giddy fear that comes of knowing that really, control has been surrendered. Or taken. Of knowing that in the next second one may cry out, ‘please, no,’ and that cry might go unheeded. And in that second the illusion of safety will be obliterated. He smiled at her shyness. “I don’t mean to interrogate you. I’m just nervous with you, after all that’s happened. After all that Conrad did to you. All that I’ve done to you.” “I know.” “I’m a little in awe, actually, that you let me touch you, much less…” He had begun to say “make love to you,” but he realized how presumptuous that was. She had not invited him to sleep with her. At least not in so many words. He was an ass for even suspecting that that was where things were slowly headed. “I know that I’m not supposed to be able to forgive you for the way you treated me that first day, or for what happened yesterday…”

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The image of him coming on her belly strobed though her mind, sending a surge of excitement through her stomach and groin. “…but, honestly, in a strange way it all makes me feel closer to you.” She noted his look of uncomfortable surprise. “I know how perverted I sound. I probably shouldn’t tell you these things. I must sound like…some kind of freak." “No, Dev.” Worried that more words of reassurance would have sounded perfunctory, he leaned over and drew her to him, kissing her warmly, deeply. Sealing that kiss with a tender, more innocent kiss of affection before letting her go. She smiled, reassured by his kiss that she hadn't freaked him out. “I’m glad too," she went on quietly, "because if all that hadn’t happened yesterday I would never have read your journal, or shown you mine. I know you probably still wish I didn’t know those things about you, but I’m glad I do. That makes me feel closer to you, too. Like, in a way, you’re the only one who knows who I really am.” Later, as they walked back, talking, he took her hand in his. Just this innocent touch was thrilling to her. Every moment they were not in contact she hoped he would touch her, and now that they were holding hands she longed for him to embrace her, to kiss her, to…every instant a new image of the ways he might touch her, kiss her appeared and momentarily filled her head. When, some time later, he paused and pulled her to him, and kissed her, she was astonished, yet again, at the power of the feelings, physical and emotional, the

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tender caress of his mouth evoked in her. She felt almost as if she would cry, as if her body were melting into a rivulet of hot tears. Her response, so strong, so earnest, excited him, made him feel vital. When their kiss ended and they looked at each other, each was met with an expression of hopeful happiness. When they got back they ate dinner, or lunch—whatever meal it is one eats when they've only been up for four or five hours, but it's already getting dark. They read, and talked and cuddled, and later took turns showering, and when Devan emerged, her wet hair in two neat braids behind her ears, Vaughn had lit a fire and poured them two glasses of wine. Seeing the inviting bed of pillows and cushions beside the hearth Devan blushed, because it looked such the cliché love nest. "I know," Vaughn said with an embarrassed grin as he handed her a glass, "I feel a little like a teenager showing his date the waterbed in the back of the van. I just thought it would be nice to be able to lounge together by the fire. And I don't know about you, but I think I still have an imprint on my ass from the hours we put in on the couch recently. She was charmed just about out of her mind that he actually seemed nervous with her. Almost as nervous as she was with him. They sat on the cloud of cushions he'd arranged, leaning back against the sofa, sipping their wine, sometimes talking, sometimes exchanging little touches, innocent kisses, and now and then drifting into easy, contemplative silences that were strangely comfortable for two people so new to each other. When they finished their wine they set their glasses aside and settled down into the relaxing warmth of the fire and the little nest of pillows. Just lying there next to him

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her whole body was hot, her blood thrumming pleasantly through her. The way he was looking at her sent a ripple of nervous excitement into her stomach. He took her in his arms, kissing her warmly. They were still new to each other, she learning the sensations and the art of kissing, he learning the taste, the smell, the feel of her under his mouth. They vacillated between tenderness, ardor, and playfulness. Lying side by side at first, he turned onto his back, pulling her astride him, wanting to feel that kind of closeness but not wanting to startle her as he had that night when he had lain on top of her. She felt awkward, nervous, controlling their kiss more now that she was atop him. It was she who began and ended each kiss, who made it light or deep. She buried her fingers in his soft hair, he ran his hands over her back, from her neck and shoulders, down into the dip of her arched back, lightly over the luscious curve of her bottom. Sensing their excitement swelling beyond the limits of his self-restraint, Vaughn pressed his mouth to her cheek. She heard his breath gust in rapid bursts near her ear. She lay her head on his heaving chest, felt and heard the gung-gung, gung-gung of his heart. As strange and new as the kisses and caresses were, this closeness was even less familiar. Embraces, physical affection, the tender attention of a man was novel to her. She felt safe. Happy. She slipped down, onto the nest of pillows. Lying on her side, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm holding her close against him, she watched her hand rise and fall with the dip and swell of his belly as he breathed in and out. Through his shirt she felt the heat of him. She breathed in his scent, feeling in herself a pleasant, almost physical reaction to the faint aroma of his freshly laundered shirt, the almond of the shower soap, and his own warm scent. Looking down she noticed the hem of his t-shirt was just

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starting to come undone, a crinkly little thread zigzagging above the black cotton. Absentmindedly she fingered the thread, pulling it lightly, just to the point where all the tiny kinks came straight, then letting it contract again. Her pinky brushed against the bare skin of his stomach where his shirt had ridden up a few inches. She gazed down, fascinated by this narrow expanse of his vulnerable flesh, pale and smooth, soft looking now, with him lying on his back, relaxed, though she'd seen before how lean and muscular he was. She wanted to feel that soft skin, and lightly let her fingertips run along the edge of his shirt, watching as they traced the curve of side and belly, as they trailed over the faint line of dark hair around his navel. Her fingers made the return trip against the waistband of his sweats, feeling the little hill of hip bone, then the dip, his hot, smooth skin, the texture, again, of that faint line of hair, then back to the soft, warm flesh. She liked this intimacy, this closeness. Lightly, she pressed her open hand to his belly, made a gentle circle with her hand, amazed at how…vulnerable, how alive he felt to her hand. Then she snatched her hand back, feeling a hot blush scald her face. "I'm sorry." She sat up, backed up. "I didn't mean to…I'm sorry." What had she been thinking? Could she be any dumber? Any more of a stupid child? "Devan…" She wanted to run away, she was so embarrassed. And she was almost up. But the sound of his voice, her name, slowed her flight. "Dev."

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She forced herself to meet his eyes. He was giving her the warmest look, the gentlest smile imaginable. "It's all right." His soft voice had the faintest warble of laughter, and it soothed her instantly. Then it died, that little laughing lilt, and he sounded suddenly concerned. "I didn't…you're not afraid? Of me? "No. No no." The last thing she'd meant was to make him feel guilty, worried she was still afraid of him. "All right," he smiled, seemingly instantly reassured. "Come here." He sat up, put out his hand, and she put hers in it, still blushing. "I'm sorry," she said again, close to tears for some unknown reason. "For what?" He asked so gently she felt almost as though she could say anything to him. And yet, somehow, she couldn't speak. "I didn't mean to…" was all she could manage. "Get me aroused?" She nodded. "You didn't do anything wrong, Dev." "It's just…I didn't realize, didn't think…touching you that way…but I'm not ready…" "I know you're not, Dev. Don't worry. I'm happy, more than happy, holding you, holding your hand, kissing a little now and then. I don't expect, need anything from you. And I swear, I don't want anything you're not ready for. All right?"

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"All right." "Now, can I be blunt for a moment?" She looked at him shyly. "You can do anything, Dev. Anything. Kiss me, touch me. Strip me naked, whatever. And if you say 'enough,' we stop. No matter what. And nothing for you to feel bad, or guilty about. Believe it or not, I actually have reasonable control over my libido. But, I can't help…getting aroused." He smiled, laughed softly. "If you want to know the truth, that's probably happened about fifteen different times today." "I just feel bad. This must all seem really juvenile to you. My frigid virgin routine." "Devan, I'd rather be here, with you, than anywhere else, doing anything with anyone. I can't even remember the last time I was in a position to say that to somebody."

So, so slow she emerged from sleep to the feel of his body warm and close against her, his hand curved to her belly, his breath faintly stirring the hair at the back of her head. Such a feeling of sweet happiness rose in her it was hard to be still. She felt buoyant, expansive, as if the molecules making up her body were inevitably about to rise into the air and blow blissfully apart. Hurriedly, without allowing a real thought to breach her consciousness, she pushed away the certainty that it was only for a few more days, that whatever this was between them, it couldn't survive outside this secluded cabin, could not be transferred intact to the reality of her life and his in Seattle. Everything was here. Now. Nothing else existed.

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She needed to pee. Wanted to brush her teeth and smooth down any flyaways, then slip back under the blanket with him. Carefully, trying not to wake him, she slipped out from under his arm, but didn't get far. His arm re-captured her, pulled her back to him. When she rolled over to face him he was smiling, gazing lucidly at her like he'd been awake for a while. In a voice just above a whisper he said, "I've been waiting for you to wake up. You can't just sneak off, now." Their faces just inches apart they lay there in the early afternoon light, looking at one another. His pewter irises were maybe the most beautiful color she'd ever seen, seeming brighter in their frame of black lashes. Everything about his face was strong— his heavy but strikingly arched eyebrows, his straight but prominent nose, his wide but beautifully shaped mouth, his angular jaw. Yet he seemed soft to her now, his skin smooth and pale, his expression so warm, his body lax. His gaze seemed to reflect hers, his eyes tracing her features, his fingers gently taking the same path, combing a stray strand of her hair back, tracing the curve of her ear, her jaw, her lips, her nose, her brow. Then his lips brushed over all those same places. Finally he came back to her mouth. In three warm, slow kisses he took her top lip, first at the left corner, then the right, then the full center, only then making her lips part just slightly. Then her lower lip, one, two, three. His kisses were so sweet, so soft, they somehow made her feel a strange melancholy. She didn't think he…loved her. But when he looked at her that way, when he kissed her like that, she felt loved. "I like waking up with you." "Me too." Her quiet reply faintly rasped with sleep.

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Would the dear girl never finish in the shower? He smiled at the thought that his darling Devan might be in there this very moment, thinking her deliciously wicked thoughts, possibly even touching herself. Thinking of him, perhaps. Or the other. Or both of them. He smiled despite his impatience. At last the sound of the water shutting off, the metal rings singing over the rod. It would only be a moment, now, and she'd be there before him. Then in his arms. Ah…there. The door. The sound of her bare feet padding down the hall, toward him. He waited until she was nearly in the living room, then stepped from the shadows. "Hello, Devan." Poor thing, that look on her face. "Conrad." Her voice was ash. How quickly her face had gone white as flour, already those dark, sad eyes of hers sheathed in tears. Just staring. In shock. She had only to turn to her left. Yes, yes. There he is, darling. He almost regretted cuffing Goliath to the door like that, she looked so thoroughly terrified. "Please, Conrad." Fuck's sake, he'd never heard that desperate tone in her voice before. Not even when he'd first caught her. Her tears were fairly familiar by now, but that look on her face… "Please. Please don't hurt him."

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"Devan." He used his kindest voice, gave her his most soothing smile. This was no time for toying with the girl. "I'd never harm anything, anyone you cared for. I assure you, he's fine. A tad groggy, perhaps, but unhurt." Actually, her woodsman didn't look at all groggy, despite the double dose of tranquilizers. Of course it was impossible, but it was hard not to suspect he might be about the wrench the iron screws right out of the wood and…what? Crush every bone in his body. Then eat him, perhaps. Much nicer to look at, think about her. "Come here, Devan." She was apparently in no great hurry to tear her gaze away from Polyphemus there, and, it seemed, even less enthusiastic about a reunion cuddle. But of course she was afraid, and so she'd do what he told her. Like a virgin to the sacrificial altar she floated toward him, already a ghost. But warm, oh, so warm and soft in his arms. Even her damp hair, warm to his lips. Not for one moment after she'd fled had he allowed himself to think that anything had happened to her in the woods. He'd known, all along, with an essential, desperate certainty, that he'd find her, and find her safe and well. But now that he was holding her, feeling her, smelling her, the horror of the possibility of harm befalling her caught Conrad in a sudden, painful hold. He shook it right off, though. It wouldn't do, going all gushy just now, particularly not in front of that one straining every tendon in his body to break out of his cuffs so he could snatch Devan from the arms of her wicked kidnapper. "Vaughn, isn't it?" He let Devan go and turned with an amused grin toward the panting lumberjack.

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"Don't strain yourself just yet. I'm sure a more opportune moment for murdering me will come in the not too distant future." Turning back toward Devan he observed the most interesting thing. She'd stopped crying, her body was no longer rigid and trembling. Except that her eyes were still red and her skin pale, she very nearly appeared serene. He allowed himself a small smile of amusement. "Conrad," she said softly, the tremor nearly gone from her voice, an effortful smile slightly curving the corners of her pretty mouth, "please. I'll go with you." She moved a little so her warm body pressed slightly against his. "I want to. Untie him, let him go, and I'll go with you. Do anything, everything you want." Any lesser man would find her offer most tempting, her sweet face tilted up to him in supplication, her body close and promising to yield to his every touch, to his mouth, to his body. But it would not do. Her calmly, resignedly giving herself to him back at his cabin, or in the woods somewhere, with calm melancholy. He smiled down at her, then pulled her to him. He loved the way her body always quivered slightly when he put his lips by her ear and softly whispered his dark promises. Loved knowing the other things that happened to her body in those moments. "Yes, Devan. You will do everything I want. But let's have our fun here. It would be a pity to leave Vaughn out." He held her away from him then, to look her over. Even buried in the folds of Vaughn's huge sweats she looked adorable, but really it wasn't the look he had in mind for the evening's festivities. He turned and retrieved from his pack a tiny white bundle, and offered it to her. Stoically, she took it from him.

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“I want you to go back into the bathroom and put this on. You have exactly ninety seconds. Go.” He couldn't have her messing about in there, looking for razor blades and such. He glanced down at his wristwatch and she spun round and charged back toward the bathroom. The door slammed shut before five seconds had ticked by. This Vaughn was an odd one. No vain threats of brutal retaliation. No pointless pleading. No name calling. It was quite possible, in fact, that he was thinking. This was going to be fun. Just wait…when he sees Devan in this outfit … Devan emerged, her face gorgeous, flushed with embarrassment. She'd almost grown used to wearing such things around him—though not quite this revealing—but before Vaughn, who was used to seeing her in layers of baggy cotton, her modesty was ripe for fresh violation. She halted in the hallway, still out of Vaughn's view, her fingers fidgeting absently near her waist. "Come in here, Devan, so we can have a look at you." Reluctantly, obediently she came forward, her eyes locked on Conrad, perhaps in a desperate wish to avoid the other's eyes. But Conrad looked, and Vaughn was looking. Blushing almost as pink as she. What a character, this one. She was a sight, though. A filmy beige, her little garment was strapless. One band of lacy elastic circled above her breasts, and second below them. Between the elastic bands was the most transparent of fabrics, encircling her in loose gathers that did not distort the shape of her breasts, but left them unrestrained and almost completely visible, down to their inviting, creamy hue, and the alluring darkness of her plum colored nipples. The same shear fabric draped loosely from the bottom band, the

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hem just reaching the very tops of her thighs. And no panties. Could Vaughn tell? Just knowing, himself, drove him mad. “You look just lovely, my dear, as always,” Conrad whispered to her reassuringly, loud enough for Vaughn to hear. Conrad gestured and she went to him, let him pull her to him, her back pressed against him as his arm folded over her chest, his hand curving possessively over her shoulder as they faced Vaughn. Conrad put his lips to her ear as he looked up from beneath his brow at Vaughn. The mandibles of the goliath flexed. “Now, my darling, tell me. Has he fucked you yet?” He felt her body stiffen a little, felt her quivering deliciously against him. It took her a long while to answer, and he savored his anticipation. “No.” It really did seem as if he always got what he wanted. My, my. Was it his smile that was making Vaughn look suddenly as if he might be sick? “I’m pleased to hear it. And I think now might be the perfect moment for us to take our leave of you, Vaughn. Devan and I have a bit of catching up to do, and need our privacy. I hope you won’t be too uncomfortable. We shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.” With that Conrad turned Devan toward the hall, into Vaughn's room, leaving poor Vaughn to watch in helpless horror until Conrad closed the door.

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From the moment he had tracked her down, found that she was living in this little cabin with a man, and seen that they cared for one another, a new, delicious plan had taken shape in Conrad's mind. But before he could implement it, he needed information. Before he set about the task at hand, though, he had to hold her, really hold her, now that they were safely hidden from Vaughn’s judging eyes. Not that he minded an audience for most things, but Conrad knew better than to show any weakness, even his deep, tender affection for Devan, in front of a man who was most likely waiting for his chance to kill him. And so it was only now, behind that closed door, that he put an end to the little show of possession he had been putting on for Vaughn, and gave himself up to her sweet presence. She stood there, trembling, waiting to see what he would do. She saw the change come over him as hardness and humor slipped away, as his face softened, as his body slacked from disciplined rigidity to a slightly trembling seeking. He reached slowly out, waiting before trying really to touch her to be sure she would not leap back in fear, and gently caressed her cheek. Then, again very slowly, very gently, he moved nearer and took her in his arms. She submitted to his embrace without returning it. She felt it already. His power over her. Terrified as she was to imagine what would happen with the three of them, she felt that her hate of him was softening and melting away, felt her body reacting to his voice, his touch, the way he looked at her, the feel of his body against hers. She caught herself thinking—a half-conscious thought that was close to a wordless feeling— that whatever torment Conrad inflicted, she would ultimately succumb to everything with the intense pleasure he always got from her. He let her slip from his arms.

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“Sit down,” he said, indicating the edge of Vaughn’s bed. When she complied Conrad seated himself in the large leather armchair he moved from its spot by the window until it was just a foot from where Devan sat. “Tell me, Devan, about this little romance of yours.” Her eyes welled with tears of indignation. She was miserable that she had led Conrad here, to Vaughn—another humiliating sexual episode, here, in the very place he had built as an escape from the world where those things had happened to him. After everything they had shared in their few short days together she felt protective of him. And she could not bear the thought of sullying their intimacy by discussing it with Conrad. But she knew, too, that she dare not evade or lie. He had a plan, she was sure, for discovering everything he wanted to know, and any transgressions against his wishes would be punished. She feared nothing of her own safety. All her fear was for Vaughn. “What do you want to know?” “Let’s start with the easy questions, shall we? You haven’t fucked?” “No.” “You’ve kissed.” She hated this. It was like turning herself inside out, giving Conrad even a superficial glance at what she had with Vaughn. “Don’t waste your effort on this of all questions, Devan. I saw you two, when you hadn’t yet seen me. Just say the words.” “We’ve kissed.” “When did you share your first kiss?”

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“Two nights ago.” “And did you do more than kiss?” Had they? She did not know what to say. “Well?” “No, we only kissed.” “And why was that?” The images played for her, she remembered the sensations, the excitement, the fear. Vaughn’s incredible kiss, how the mere proximity of his body, his most innocent caresses, his mouth had aroused her a way she had never felt before, how she had been overwhelmed with feelings both physical and emotional, how she had come without even being really touched. “Come along, Devan, let’s have it. I’ve had a good look at this lad of yours.” Conrad gave a little good-humored laugh. “Though, I should hardly call him a lad, as I’d guess he’s five years my senior. How old is he?” “I don’t know.” “It’s not important. In any case, he’s a very handsome man, in his way. A bit brutish, perhaps, with that hard face and all those muscles, but good-looking nonetheless. And in the brief few moments I’ve spent with him he seems an intelligent fellow, and clearly cares for you. So why, on that night you first kissed, did it go no further? I know it’s not a matter of morals, for you anyway. Is he the saintly type, then?” “No.” “Did you not want him?”

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She recalled how she had ached for him, how she had thought that she would give herself to him that night and how she wanted it, and she remembered her sudden surge of fear. “Is he, perhaps, not very skilled in the seductive arts?” Her deep blush gave her away. He knew she would not have blushed at boredom, but her excitement always shamed her. “Ah, so you were aroused then, were you? Hmmm?” “Yes.” Her voice was flat. He'd make her tell what happened. Fine. But fuck if she'd ice the cake by letting him sense her every feeling. “Very aroused?” “Yes.” “He made you come?” Her blush deepened. “I want to hear you, darling.” “Yes.” “With his hand?” “No.” “His mouth?” “No,” she blurted, blushing hotter still. “With his body?” “Yes.” “Pressed against you.”

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“Yes.” “You were dressed?” “Yes.” Conrad was smiling introspectively, considering it all, savoring the images her revelations were conjuring. “So, my sweet Devan, you were just kissing, ever so innocently, and the excitement of that kiss alone, and the feeling of his body pressed to yours was so intense that you came?” “Yes.” “That’s rather encouraging, for a girl with your history, isn’t it?” She treated that question as rhetorical. “Still, I must know why you didn’t let him bed you that night.” She finally gave it up. “I got scared.” “Of him?” “No.” “At the thought of losing your virginity?” “Obliquely, yes.” Conrad was pleased to hear it. Not out of cruelty, but because it meant that she was still ripe to experience his intervention to the fullest. She would experience an intensity of sensation wrought to delicious perfection by intensity of emotion. “And, in the days since, you’ve done nothing more than kiss?” “No.”

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“He’s not seen your body?” “No.” “And you’ve not seen his?” She faltered, and there was no way to recover. “You’ve seen him? How?” God, this, of all things, she could not bear to tell. Vaughn was so ashamed. This incident between them, she felt, had jeopardized everything already. Not for her, but for him. He could not forgive himself. To tell Conrad felt like a terrible betrayal. But to hide it from him was to risk Vaughn’s safety. “So, he’s a brute, after all,” Conrad said with an ironic grin when Devan had told him, softening the scene as much as she could. “Please, Conrad,” she begged, reaching forward to touch his knee in supplication, her moist eyes finally shedding tears, “please don’t torment him with that.” She was so earnest and desperate that Conrad relented from his taunting manner for a moment and gently touched the hand she had laid on his knee. “Don’t fret, Devan. I won’t be cruel with him, any more than I would be cruel with you. Our time together won’t be easy for him, but like you, I’m sure he’ll be the better for it in the end.” He sat there, gazing at her for long moments. Playing her words and their implications through his mind, thinking over what was missing and his best approach to retrieving it. She, meanwhile, stared blankly off into space, trying to anticipate what was about to unfold, to reason how best to manage herself and Conrad to expose Vaughn to

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the least possible danger, the least harm. She had wanted so badly to be good for Vaughn, to help him. But instead she had brought Conrad here to torment him. “Devan?” Conrad’s voice stirred her from her thoughts. “Have you written anything since you’ve been here?” “Written?” Panic. She had been wrong, before. It was not what had happened between them, the day Vaughn had held her down and taken himself in his hand…that was not what most had to be kept hidden. It was the journal. Vaughn’s journal. The journal in which he had recorded his life-destroying secrets, and in which she had written the only words she had written since arriving at the cabin. She felt, literally, that Vaughn would rather be dead than be subjected to Conrad’s torment over the content of that journal. On this matter she was ready to lie. To risk all of Conrad’s wrath on the chance that she could save Vaughn that torture. But she trembled violently and went limp and ashen when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that the journal was laying in plain sight, right there in that room, atop the dresser by the door. Conrad, of course, noticed everything. The stalling, questioning repetition of the word ‘written,’ the silent pause, just a second, but so pregnant with meaning, as Devan must have been struggling to come up with an answer better than the truth. Then her sudden twitch and pallor, not following directly upon his question, but caused by something else. “Yes, Devan, written. I’m sure, since arriving here, you must have written a little something. You, who’s written in your diary every day without fail since adolescence,

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even under circumstances of sheer routine and inactivity, must surely have written a few words following the rather dramatic events preceding your discovery of this little nook. I’m not mistaken, am I?” He suspected her, she was sure. It was not just his certainty that she had to have written. He had caught her pained hope of hiding something. Knowing it was futile, she had to try. “I haven’t written anything.” “You didn’t feel compelled to write, to work through all that had happened between us?” “No.” She thought, suddenly, that it would have been much better to have said she had written, just as he imagined, but to add that in a fit of rage over what he had done to her, she had thrown the pages into the fire. But it was too late now. She watched as he rose, and she felt as though she were melting, softening into a dead waxy lump, as he stepped toward the dresser, as he honed in, seemingly inevitably, on the little wire-bound journal sitting atop it, hanging slightly over the edge. Inadvertently she had let her eyes point him right to it. “Is this anything that might interest me?” he asked, taking the journal in his hand. Her look of misery told him plainly that he held what he had been looking for. Still, he took a look inside to be sure. Seeing her familiar handwriting he grinned smugly. Then he frowned and turned his eyes on her. “I’m disappointed, Devan. I was sure, at this stage in our relationship, that you knew better than to lie to me like that. And so clumsily, and with this lying right in plain

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sight. I look forward to reading it as I suspect whatever is inside must be quite something for you to take such a chance. But this does mean you’ll be punished. I’d hoped to avoid such unpleasantness. But perhaps it will be a good lesson to Vaughn, as well. Come along.”

Vaughn's agony had gone on for over an hour. He'd stood there, his eyes locked on the dark wood of the door that had closed between him and Devan. On its surface his mind played a series of images that tortured him. Conrad undressing her. Undressing himself. Kissing her. Touching her. She succumbing to everything out of fear for Vaughn’s safety. He pictured Conrad making her lie on the bed, then mounting her, then forcing himself inside her. There was no escape from the handcuffs, from the heavy iron fixture to which he was chained. The seconds expanded to unelapsable proportion. They would never pass. His heart aching with fear and sorrow, his blood raging with murderous hate he stood, shaking, sweating, waiting for that despised door to reopen. Finally, to his eyes in slow motion, the door opened. Devan emerged, followed by Conrad. Devan, in helpless misery, gazed on him in tender sympathy which to him looked like something else. Conrad’s eyes met Vaughn’s confrontational glare. His smug look and Devan’s sorrowful eyes sealed Vaughn’s certainty that Conrad had raped her. He was ready to cry. The agony of suspense that had been building during the last hour burst open, releasing a flood of heart-rending sorrow. He had not helped her. He had failed her. He had handed her over to that monster, and he had raped her.

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Conrad, coolly observing Vaughn’s torment, seeing that he was struggling not to reveal the depth of his pain, put his hands on Devan’s shoulders and whispered in her ear, “Tell him, love.” “What?” “Tell him what he needs to hear, put him out of his misery. I can hardly bear to see it.” “Vaughn,” she said, softly, “he didn’t touch me.” Vaughn looked at her. Looked at him. Now it was his relief which almost made him cry. “It’s true Vaughn. Your darling Devan’s virginity is quite intact.” Then, feeling cruel, he added, “For the moment.” Then, with a stern face but a playful light in his eyes, he went on. “I’m afraid, Vaughn, than Devan has been caught in an unfortunate lie.” He held the journal he had carried from the bedroom up before Vaughn’s eyes. “This item, it seems, was worth risking my anger, though I doubt she had much hope of getting away with her little deceit, and though she knew very well she would be punished for her transgression.” Conrad noted something about the look on Vaughn’s face when he saw the journal. He turned, then, to Devan. “And now, Devan, it’s time for you to take your punishment. Come over here please.” He indicated the end of the dining table, just a few feet from Vaughn.

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“Now bend over, and lay your tummy nice and flat on the table. Turn your head toward Vaughn, and let your cheek rest on the table. I want him to see your face as you receive your punishment. Hands down by your side. Good.” Vaughn was hyperventilating, clenching his teeth against a scream he knew would do no good. His arms strained ineffectually against his restraints. The journal. She had lied about the journal. He felt ill thinking she might have lied in an effort to protect him, and that it was for this Conrad would 'punish' her. God, he wasn't going to…" Devan, bent in a tipped over “L,” was looking at him, her face strangely serene as Conrad moved behind her and slowly lifted the gauzy fabric, folding it back, revealing the curving profile of her bottom to Vaughn. Watching Vaughn, Conrad unbuckled his belt, amused as his prisoner struggled in vain to wrench himself free of the cuffs. Vaughn was crying, terror-stricken at the thought that he was immobile, that he would be able to do nothing as this man raped Devan. Unable to look away, he watched as Conrad pulled off his belt, doubled it, and brought it down with a loud whack on Devan’s backside. Vaughn felt a momentary euphoric relief as he told himself Conrad was not raping her, only whipping her, before he was struck by a fresh wave of hatred and outrage that Conrad would dare to flog her. Devan continued to look at Vaughn, that same serene look on her face, even when Conrad’s beating brought tears to her eyes and a hot flush to her cheeks. She was trying to calm him, to let him know she was all right. Then the beating was finished. “You think I’m cruel.” Conrad spoke to Vaughn as he put his belt back on.

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“But you see, I understand some things about Devan that you may not realize yet. For example, this whipping I’ve just given her hurt her. If you were not here, she would probably have cried out in pain. But she’s also quite excited.” Vaughn went on looking at Conrad with unmingled hate. “I realize you are disinclined to believe me, so I’ll offer you a bit of proof.” Facing Vaughn, with Devan between them, Conrad pressed his right hand down on the small of her back, forcing her to raise her bottom slightly. Then, in the manner of scout’s honor he held two fingers up for Vaughn to see before lowering his hand between Devan’s legs. He gently pushed his two fingers inside her, then slowly pulled them out. He showed Vaughn two glistening fingers. “You see? While I don’t deny that all of this gives me great pleasure, I want to assure you that Devan’s pleasure matters a great deal more to me. And while you may not agree with my method, you can’t deny that I achieve my ends.” He had made a plan. But as he looked at Vaughn, pale, trembling, miserable, a fresh thought occurred to him. A wicked grin widened his mouth. “Stand up, Devan.” She stood, trying not to let Vaughn see that she was in pain, and Conrad turned her to face him. She saw his cruel smile. And at the edge of her vision, Vaughn. Conrad’s arm curled about her waist, pulled her tight against him. Then his hand was on her thigh, sliding up, gliding between her legs. She stiffened. God, how could she endure it? Knowing Conrad would touch her so intimately with Vaughn right there, seeing everything?

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Conrad’s fingers tickled over the soft smooth skin of her inner thigh, brushing upward, touching her sex. She felt his delicate touch lightly grazing her lips, caressing a little before gently spreading them, a single finger sinking between, into her moist heat, slowly stroking along her wet folds, sliding against her clit, making her tremble reluctantly. Then his fingers were inside her, pulsing rhythmically, his palm brushing over and over her. Already, within seconds, she was succumbing to his touch. She could not bear it, to surrender to him with Vaughn just feet away, watching. But she could not resist. She could not thrust him away because of her fear of what her disobedience would mean, and if she could not end his touch she could not be indifferent to it. She could not take Vaughn’s eyes upon her as she was defeated by Conrad’s caress. Already she was melting under that touch. She was ashamed, and in her embarrassment she clung to Conrad, hiding her face from Vaughn’s eyes as the excitement she could not evade expanded, overtook her, overwhelmed her. Her hands and her face pressed against Conrad’s chest, the thrill of her captor’s touch swept over her in successive waves, carrying her far, far away from Vaughn and the nascent affection that had been flowering between them. As she came—not quite succeeding in her effort to be silent about it—and after, Conrad held her to him, savoring the delicate pleasure of her bittersweet climax and Vaughn’s pathetic torment. For while Devan had turned away, hiding from his gaze, Conrad had watched his face, second by second, as he held Devan to him, as he touched her, bringing her to orgasm. He had watched as Vaughn’s seething wrath

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metamorphosed into confused torment as he took Devan from obedient submission to ultimate pleasure. For Conrad this was nirvana. He wanted more.

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EIGHT: A Heart of Darkness

They were both staring at him, Devan seemingly trying to read his mind, Vaughn somehow managing to hold on to that perpetual glare of violent hatred without which, at this point, he'd be almost unrecognizable. Fun this. Being the center of attention. Conrad gave his hostages a little grin and went back to his reading. Delicious. Indescribably gratifying, not to mention damned fucking arousing, reading this new diary of hers. Her familiar hand, slanting so narrow and spare, her familiar diary voice, not like her prose voice. All about them. The things he'd said to her. The way he'd touched her. How he'd made her feel. All those moments they'd shared, gathered up together on the pages in his hands, giving themselves up to him, every little sensation and emotion he'd guessed at as he guided her from one experience to the next, laid bare for him. And then the cabin. Tom and his fucking droogs. He should never have taken her there. But it was all right now. Better than all right. Really bloody interesting, this new…situation. Conrad closed the cover on Devan and Vaughn's odd little burgeoning romance. "Well, well, sweet Devan. It seems you wanted me to fuck you, after all." Her burrowing gaze withdrew, and her hot cheeks and stunned eyes made her look as if she'd just been slapped. "I suppose I could take this" he held up the diary, "as that invitation I've been waiting for."

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Her little mouth was so pretty, with those softly parted lips, whenever she panted like that. He stood, stepped over to her, offered his hand, waited until she reluctantly took it, and drew her up from the sofa. Vaughn's hot stare only piqued Conrad's arousal as he turned her away then pulled her hard against him, feeling his stiff cock pressing eagerly against her scantily covered bottom. "How does that sound, Devan?" He pressed his hand to her belly and drew it slowly up, until the curve of his thumb and forefinger met the curve of her breast. He relished the tense anticipation of her body as she waited in vain for a more intimate caress. Down. His hand slid down, slipped under the hem of her gown, and teased her, fingering the border of her knickers just at the tempting crease where thigh meets pelvis. "Hmmm? Are you ready for a nice, slow, sensuous fuck?" He would have bet that her lovely gray eyes had gone bright with tears but he knew, knew absolutely, that his words made her wet elsewhere, as well—Vaughn or no Vaughn. "I think you are, darling." With one long, slow tilt of his hips he slid his stiff prick along the tempting crevasse between her pretty, round ass cheeks. "Let's not rush things, though." Conrad let her go and returned to his armchair. "For starters, Devan, how about a nice blowjob?"

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He watched that just-slapped look alter her features again, but it was a memory almost before he was sure it was real. Her momentary shock morphed into stoicism, then into something he'd never seen with her. Brazenness. She strode to him, one corner of her mouth subtly raised. Her eyes locked on his, she dropped to her knees and reached for his fly. "Well," Conrad said, catching her hand in his, "aren't you the eager little vixen all of a sudden?" Somehow those dark eyes of hers didn't match her confident little smirk. "Don't think I'm not touched by your enthusiasm. But I can't help wondering what's brought it on. Besides…" He turned from Devan's perplexed visage toward her ever-enraged lumberjack. "…we haven't decided yet who should receive your…attentions." There, that changed his expression. "We can't just leave Vaughn eternally cuffed to the door while you and I have all the fun, now can we, Devan?" Ah, the poor girl. Just when she'd mastered herself. Ready to cry again. Back to Vaughn. “Now, I’m going to ask Devan to release you from your bonds. But I warn you…” With a smile he waved the tranquilizer gun before Vaughn. "…if you're not nice and cooperative, as Devan's learned to be, you'll feel the sting of a couple more darts. And when you wake up, I promise, you'll find yourself, and Devan, in a much more challenging predicament." He turned to Devan. “Go ahead and uncuff him, love.”

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She stood and, with an unsteady hand, took the small key being proffered by Conrad, then walked over to Vaughn. After a long, serene gaze she began working the tiny key in the metal cuffs. “Devan—” “Please be quiet, Vaughn. I can’t have the two of you chatting just now. Tell him, Devan.” “Vaughn,” she said in a soft, sweet voice, pressing a palm to his cheek, “just do everything Conrad asks, and everything will be all right. And don’t—” Conrad cut her off. “Come back over here by me now, Devan. Vaughn can unlock the second cuff on his own.” When Vaughn was free of the cuffs, Conrad instructed him to stand in the center of the floor, in the open space between the dining table and the hallway leading off to the bedrooms. Vaughn and Conrad stood, facing each other, Devan between them. Conrad’s hands were resting lightly on her shoulders. Vaughn’s body was a rock ready to shatter. “I have a question for you, Vaughn. You’ve been living here, all alone, with this lovely girl, whom you’ve not fucked. Tell me—and be very sure you don’t lie, or it is Devan who will be punished for your transgression—have you been dreaming of the day when your sweet little Devan would take you in her mouth, and give you a nice, long blowjob?” Rage and embarrassment flushed his face. He had imagined it. Of course he had. Over and over he had pictured her mouth on him, just as he had imagined going down on her.

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Devan, next to naked before his eyes, gave Vaughn a small smile, half comforting and half suggestive, to encourage and guide his reply. Vaughn, remembering what Devan had written in her diary, mindful of the flogging he had witnessed a few hours earlier, believing Conrad would do something to Devan if he gave any other answer, said “yes.” “Yes. Of course you have. It’s only natural, isn’t it, for a young, virile man like yourself to imagine a lovely girl like this, down on her knees, sucking you off. I suppose you’ve masturbated, thinking these sorts of thoughts?” “Yes,” Vaughn growled through clenched teeth. “What a fine, honest gentleman you’ve found yourself, Devan,” Conrad cooed in her ear, all the while keeping his lascivious eyes on Vaughn, watching his reaction. “I’m beginning to like him immensely. Vaughn, take a cushion from the couch, and bring it back to where you’re standing now.” "No." Damnit, it was hard not to smile at the poor fellow's futile challenge. "No?" "No," Vaughn repeated. "Tell me something, Vaughn. Is it really the case that your imagination is so limited that you can't conceive of anything worse I might conjure up for the two of you?" Conrad savored a quiet moment as Vaughn stood there, silently shaking. "It would be no trouble at all, for example, to arrange to have you cuffed back to that door. Then, perhaps it would be fun to have Devan suck us both off." Vaughn's look of horror was really quite amusing. "Can't you just picture it? Sweet Devan down on her

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knees, my cock in one hand, yours in the other, as her warm, wet mouth goes from your prick to mine and back again? Of course, that's an awful lot to ask of a girl as inexperienced as Devan, but I know she'd manage." Conrad let Vaughn's lack of real options sink in for a moment. "Now, if you don't want to bring out my really nasty side, I suggest you get that cushion." Vaughn did as he was told. “Now drop it at your feet.”

Jesus fucking Christ, what was the twisted fuck doing? Vaughn’s heart was racing with anger at not being able to stop this. God, poor Dev. “Devan, go over and kneel on that cushion Vaughn has put there for you.” She knew where Conrad’s deviant mind was going, what was certainly about to happen, and she felt overwhelming fear rising up in her. She did not want it like this. God, not like this. She could have borne the humiliation of it with Conrad alone, or her nervousness at the newness of it with Vaughn patiently, gently teaching her. But all of it mixed together, no. No, no, no. Her dread seemed to have drained all the blood out of her. She felt light and empty, like she might float off, unconscious. But then she glanced at Vaughn. Oh, she wanted to cry, he looked more frightened, more miserable than she felt. There was no way of stopping this, of deterring Conrad from the thing he had planned. All she could do was do her best to make it easier on Vaughn. Holding Vaughn’s gaze with hers, silently willing him to accept what was happening, she approached him, then dropped to her knees before him.

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“Are you aware, Vaughn, that our sweet Devan has never had a prick in her mouth? Hmmm? That she’s never so much as held a man in her hands? Conrad let that one go unanswered. “For the sake of aesthetics, Vaughn, let’s have you take off your shirt.” He complied. “Now, Vaughn, unbuckle your belt.” His fingers trembled as he brought them to his buckle. With Devan kneeling there inches in front of him as he unfastened his belt, Vaughn could not suppress the stirrings of an erection. He hated Conrad for doing this to them. He hated himself. “Now unfasten your trousers. Are you getting hard, Vaughn?” Vaughn was silent. “Please don’t make me remind you again that your disobedience can only hurt Devan. Kindly answer my question. Are you getting hard?” “Yes.” His voice was broken with resentment. “Don’t sound so upset, Vaughn, Devan would have been disappointed with any other reply. Now, pull out your cock and let Devan have a look.” His hands cold with fear Vaughn pulled the band of his boxers down below the base of his cock. It stiffened with a twitch in such proximity to Devan’s mouth, her full, soft lips. He hated this—the humiliation, the coercion, but God, the sight of her there, the thought of it, aroused him with terrible force. She knelt there, watching as Vaughn unfastened belt and jeans, as he slid his shorts down. Then, when it emerged, as if through its own volition, a thousand

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sensations and emotions seemed to bombard her at once. Some visceral urge tormented her, making her feel an immediate, urgent, yet vague need, while her body went warm all over and most especially her sex, suddenly throbbing with urgent excitement.. And fascination. She had seen pictures, of course. Hundreds, probably, as she had sought them out time and again in the glossy pages of books of photography, and less artistic renderings online. But this one was his, Vaughn’s. This thing brought him pleasure. She felt a kind of adoration for it, for being his, the way she loved all the parts of herself for being hers. This thing that was a part of him seemed to her to be so like him—beautifully delicate and terribly powerful at once. The skin, unlike the skin on any other part of the body, looked so delicate and smooth, such vital shades of fleshly hues. And the way it seemed so alive before her, swelling and flushing and twitching, now and then, reminded her that it was the complement to that part of herself, so feeling that the very lightest touch could make her whimper in pleasure, and that such sensitivity deserved the most tender care. As she knelt there in silent fascination, longing, almost, to touch it, she remembered that she was on her knees, remembered that Conrad would make her take it in her mouth. She took in the size of him. It seemed, frankly, impossibly large. And suddenly it looked terribly hard. Fiercely erect. She fought back an urge to cry as she began to panic. All these thoughts, all these feelings, swept through her in two or three brief seconds before Conrad’s voice broke in on them.

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“Well, well. Look at that Devan. I know you’ve not encountered a nice stiff prick before, not in the flesh, so to speak, but trust me, darling, you should be impressed. Now, Devan, I want you to relax your mouth, and let those pretty, full lips of yours part softly. That’s lovely. Now, Vaughn, with your left hand cradle Devan’s chin. And with your right hand, take hold of the base of your cock.” Vaughn’s prick was solid as rock but the rest of him felt like Jello. His Jello hands hung helpless at the ends of Jello arms. But then Devan looked up at him with a sweet and reassuring grin, and put her hands on his hips, pulling him a little toward her. She looked nervous, but not frightened. Not as though the thought of taking him in her mouth revolted her. Just nervous. Even a little aroused, it seemed to him. He glanced at Conrad and the determined stare and the steady hand on the tranquilizer gun at his side reminded Vaughn he had no choice. His heart hammered at his ribs, pounding his blood through him so fiercely he felt almost faint as his fingers circled his cock. Looking down into Devan’s eyes that seemed to be promising trust and submission he lifted his hand under her chin and his chest ached sweetly with this gentle contact. “Now, Vaughn, put the tip of your cock to her lips, and trace the outline of her mouth.” Brutal excitement swelled past his fear and angst as Vaughn lightly touched the head of his prick to Devan’s full and sweetly bowed upper lip and as he followed the delicate curves of her mouth, slowly, dipping gently down and to the corner, across her luscious bottom lip to the other corner, and up again, watching as her lips parted a little

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under his flesh. Remorse mingled with remorse as he realized that he was going to come very quickly once he was in her mouth. "Now, Devan. Slowly, softly, circle your tongue around the head of Vaughn's cock." For a moment she couldn't move, but it was only that one short moment. Then, nervous and embarrassed as she was, she opened her mouth a little and put her tongue to him. Tasted him. Inhaled the scent of him. A warm pulse throbbed in her crotch as she began to swirl her tongue along the ridge of the smooth plump dome, taking in the strangely appealing texture and shape of him. Then, at Conrad's command she licked the whole head, letting her tongue curve over it, holding and caressing it. She looked and saw it, a deeper lavender now and shiny with her spit, and her sex throbbed more insistently. Very lightly, as Conrad told her, she touched just the very tip of her tongue to the hole a few times, then licked her lips, pressed them gently to him, and slowly slid the head of Vaughn's prick into her mouth and softly sucked at it for a few moments before pulling back while still exerting that soft sucking pressure. “Now Vaughn, I want you to put one hand to the back of Devan’s head, and with the other hand, feed her your cock.” Vaughn wanted to block the knowledge of Conrad’s presence from his mind, but as he did as he had been asked, holding his cock for Devan as he pulled her toward him, Conrad spoke, denying Vaughn his self-deception. “Be gentle with our girl, Vaughn, she’s never done this before. And you would be a lot for even an experienced girl to handle. Now help her take you all the way into her mouth.”

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As Vaughn reluctantly fed her his excited prick, then, following Conrad’s command pushed it deep into her mouth, Devan felt the twinge of a gag reflex. But she had read about these things, and made a conscious effort to relax her throat, to receive Vaughn’s cock to the hilt. “Now pull it out, Vaughn, give her a little rest. Now take her head in both your hands, and in again, Vaughn, all the way.” Again and again, following Conrad’s direction, Devan felt Vaughn’s reluctant hands pull her to him, until her face was right against him, his whole cock in her mouth. Each time she really gagged, and felt her stomach clench in a reflexive spasm. Then Conrad would relent, and Vaughn would pull out, and for a while he'd only push into her mouth part way, driving between her lips, sliding over her tongue, then drawing back before that twinge pulled at her stomach. But then Conrad's insistent command would come, and she would feel Vaughn, hard and thick, driving slowly toward her throat. Finally, when she thought she couldn't take it any more, as she felt his prick slid in between her lips, slipped back over her tongue, she had figured out how to relax her throat muscles, and she took the whole of thick length. “I see our girl is a natural,” Conrad commented. She’s already mastered a very important skill." Devan followed Conrad’s instructions, running a flat, wide tongue stiffly up the underside of his shaft, licking at the little ridge just behind the head, plunging him back into her mouth, sucking and tonguing. Vaughn had received a lot of blowjobs—most of them from very experienced women. Devan was noticeably a beginner. But the thought of her, Devan, on her knees

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before him, swallowing his cock, was so exciting that her lack of experience was more than compensated for. And the thought that this was her very first time, that she had never had a man in her mouth before, as he felt her sucking him, sliding him back into her mouth over her slippery tongue, charged him with an extra thrill. Devan. On her knees. Mouthing his hard cock. She was going to make him come. Now that he was in her mouth though, now that he'd been forced past his guilty horror at participating in her coercion, the thought of ejaculating in her mouth struck him with fresh guilt, and he willed himself to hold back. She went on, sucking and licking him less and less tentatively, sliding the tight ring of her lips up and down his hard shaft, taking him deep into the moist heat of her mouth with increasing eagerness, making it harder and harder for him to resist. Conrad must have observed Vaughn straining because he suddenly came out with, "What are you trying to do to the poor girl, Vaughn? Give her lockjaw? She's going to taste your come sooner or later, whether it's now or an hour from now. So you may as well do her a favor and let go. And when you come, Vaughn, I want you all the way back in her throat. Hold her right to you." God, he hated that man. God, he needed to come. He couldn't hold out forever, not the way she was holding him, her hands curved against his ass, caressing him now and then, pulling him to her, her fingers flexing now and then, perhaps unconsciously with her own anticipation of his climax. Not the way she was using her mouth on him more ardently every moment. Not when he heard her little groan that convinced him that she really was excited by what she was doing. Suddenly the thought of getting off in her mouth excited him beyond the limits of his self-control and his climax surged through

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him. Vaughn stifled a moan as his came, pushing himself all the way into her mouth, pumping his orgasm into her throat in pulsing waves of pleasure that seemed to ripple in sync with the feelings of guilt, excitement, anger, and adoration successively washing over him. Devan felt Vaughn stiffen, felt the hard cock in her mouth spasm and contract, felt the first spurt of warm liquid, then three or four more pulsing spatters. “Swallow that come like a good girl,” Conrad told her. Spinning slightly with a feeling of mingled power and pride, overwhelming arousal and concern for the guilt she knew Vaughn must feel she swallowed the strange tasting stuff. There was something elusively but undeniably intimate in taking that stuff of Vaughn's into herself. Conrad waited a moment, letting Vaughn recover, allowing his breathing to return to normal. Then he told Devan to stand, to return to him. He took her to him, under his wing. He deprived Vaughn of the chance to seek her forgiveness with his eyes. “Zip up, Vaughn, then get the fire going again, please.” He watched Vaughn carefully, keeping a cautious distance while he had the long iron implements of the fireplace at hand. Devan, he knew, would not gamble with Vaughn’s life. But Vaughn might very well gamble his own. When Vaughn had finished his chore Conrad told Devan to sit on the center cushion of the sofa, in front of the fire. She did as she had been told. Then Conrad told Vaughn to kneel in front of her. Vaughn gave Conrad a cold, determined look, a look meant to warn Conrad that his deeds would not, ultimately, go unpunished. Then he

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went down on his knees before Devan. Conrad moved up behind Devan, leaning his elbows on the back of the sofa so his face was just next to hers. “Have you seen Devan’s tits, Vaughn?” Vaughn looked up at her, saw her blush. “No.” “Tell me something, Vaughn. When you straddled her the other day, held her down and jerked off over her, why didn’t you pull her shirt up just a little higher and come on her tits?” Vaughn was in a paroxysm of rage. Of utter humiliation. How had Conrad known? Why was he asking this question? No doubt to remind Vaughn that he was no better than Conrad. They had both assaulted Devan, terrified her, molested her. “I see I’ve struck a nerve. You feel guilty, ashamed for having done that to her. But knowing dear Devan as I do, and seeing how well the two of you have been getting on the last couple days, I know you needn’t feel so bad.” Then putting his lips by her ear but keeping his eyes on Vaughn he purred, “I’ll bet the memory of you shooting your come all over her belly is making her hot as we speak. Am I right Devan?” Her voice was quiet with guilty excitement as she breathed out a "yes." “Now, answer my question, Vaughn. Why didn’t you pull up her shirt and come on her tits? It is the obvious choice, after all.” “Because I knew she didn’t want that.” “She didn’t want you to see her tits?” “No.”

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“Let me understand. She runs from you in terror. You chase her into the woods, catch her, drag her, pleading for mercy, back to the cabin, throw her on the bed, threaten her, whip out your dick and beat off, making her watch. But you didn’t come on her tits because she didn’t want that?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry, Vaughn, I don’t follow.” Devan was looking at Vaughn, her eyes filled with tears of sympathy for the agony Conrad was inflicting on him. “She’s shy. Modest.” “And even as you jerked off inches from her face, you wouldn’t violate that modesty?” “No.” “But you know, Vaughn, it’s the violation that’s so exciting. For Devan, I mean.” He reached back and tucked the tranquilizer gun into his belt. Then, reaching over the back of the sofa, over Devan’s shoulders, he delicately took the top of her garment in his fingers. Devan stiffened, closed her eyes. It had been far easier for her to give head to Vaughn than it was to sit there and let Conrad expose her to him. It had even excited her, hearing Conrad’s orders, feeling Vaughn respond, pushing himself deep into her mouth. But this was almost unendurable. “Don’t look away, Vaughn. The point of this scene is for you to watch as I bare her breasts.” He slipped the elastic down. In a reflex she crossed her arms over her chest.

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“Put your arms down by your sides, Devan. Let Vaughn have a nice long look at you.” Reluctantly she let her arms drop back to her sides. The long silence in which she was hyper-aware of her nakedness was torture. She felt her nipples tighten in the cool air, knew that Vaughn was looking, noticing, and that Conrad was reading everything in Vaughn’s face. Then Conrad’s hands were on her, caressing her before Vaughn’s eyes. She was on the verge of embarrassed tears. Unbearably softly, like a lover, he curved his fingers around the outer curve of her breasts, then ran his fingertips up, over her nipples, making them stiffen all the more. He ran his fingertips round and round the dark taut circle of skin, and lightly squeezed. Her breath was quickening with arousal now. Then new embarrassment as she knew that Vaughn would sense her excitement. As she began to subtly squirm, as her breaths metamorphosed into soft sighs, Conrad ceased his maddening caresses and pulled the sheer fabric back up, covering her breasts once more. The quiet after was as excruciating, as humiliating as the act itself. She could not look at Vaughn. Conrad watched as Vaughn’s face was contorted in successive waves by his hatred for this man holding them hostage, anguished longing for the girl sitting between them, and consuming self-loathing. Conrad was enjoying Vaughn’s torment as much as Devan’s reluctant, conflicted excitement. “Now, Devan, my darling, please scoot up to the edge of the sofa. Good girl. I’m putting an extra cushion here for you. Now recline back. Are you comfortable? Good. I want you nice and relaxed.”

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He had arranged a cushion behind her so that while her hips rested at the edge of the sofa, her back inclined gently upward and her head, supported by another pillow, was inclined to look down, toward Vaughn. Conrad let his lips graze her ear as he whispered, “Now Vaughn is going to go down on you, love.” “Conrad, please—” She had long ago stopped protesting Conrad’s requests. Or, rather, his demands. But this one, she couldn't take it. Of course if Vaughn had initiated such a course of adventure on his own, because he had wanted it, last night, later this night if their attraction had been allowed to unfold along its natural course, she would have been eager. But to have him ordered to do it, tears of humiliation welled up, her chest heaved with a barely suppressed sob. “Sshhh. Of course you’re shy, love, but I’m dead certain that Vaughn has been aching to taste you. Am I right, Vaughn? “Yes.” Vaughn’s voice was not tight with resentment, as it had been until now. It was soft now. And warm. Even seductive. Vaughn would not let his fury at Conrad suggest itself at this moment when it would make Devan feel less desired. Vaughn knew that he would be made to do this to her. Made to force her over the threshold of her shyness. So he acted before Conrad had to tell him, before Conrad’s order could make her feel any more that he was being coerced, as if pleasing her would be an unpleasant task. He wanted her to feel, even through the barrier of Conrad’s presence, his gaze, the fact that he had orchestrated

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this, that he was eager for her. He decided that, despite Conrad’s violent interruption of their fragile courtship, he would make this, her first oral caress, as tender, as erotic as he could. He came forward, nearer to her, and tenderly kissed each of her knees. Then, very slowly, very gently, he pushed her knees, apart, opened her thighs. Nuzzling tenderly at her softly parted knees he kissed again, this time where her knees had pressed together a moment before, then just a kiss higher, moving his soft, parted lips over soft, parted thighs, then letting the tip of his tongue brush against her, here and there, before giving her a gentle, rousing bite that made her suck in her breath and tense her body against the tickling ripples radiating through her from the spot where his mouth was. Though she was trying to calm herself, her sharp intake of breath was like a gasp. Slowly, slowly, he pressed her legs further apart. She knew that her sex was exposed to him. Even more than the shame of her utter nakedness before him she felt mortified that Vaughn would see that she was wet, know how excited she had been at being forced to suck him, at having her breasts exposed, caressed by Conrad. She felt him spread her legs, open her, expose her cunt. His broad shoulders came between her knees, and the closer in he moved, the higher his lips and tongue and teeth trailed up the delicate flesh of her thighs, the farther his shoulders forced her legs to part. He ran his hands up the outsides of her thighs, laying his palms to rest on her hips, his fingers pointed inward, toward her belly button. Then, just a tiny little inch from her exposed, fragrant sex, he kissed her inner thighs— light little kisses at first, then a gentle bite that sent chills down to her toes and up, through her groin, to her belly. Then, the lightest, softest little kiss, on the smooth soft

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skin of her mound, just above her slit. Her breath came fast and shallow. He made her wait, wondering when he would touch her again. She thought she might orgasm just from the excitement of her anticipation. When she felt him again, it was a gentle wet tongue, softly touching down at the base of her clit, just for a moment. Then another pause. Another tiny kiss. Then, just as softly as he could he let his tongue drift along her moist folds, tasting her delicately, holding back from sinking into her with his hungry mouth. She was absolutely aching for him now, dying for him to press his mouth to her. He kept her in unbearable suspense, giving her just a hint of what she was waiting for. With every little touch of his tongue she let out a tiny, irrepressible gasp—that little gasp that had made him weak with desire the night they had first kissed. The smell of her, that taste of her was stirring him deeply, making him ache for her, resurrecting the cock she had drained with her mouth such a short while ago. Gradually he was opening her, exploring her, stroking into her deeper and deeper, still only with teasing forays among the delicate crenellations. He knew that she was deeply aroused, and he was being very careful not to let her come too quickly. Between kisses he would pull back, look at her, her face, her expression flickering moment by moment between shocked embarrassment, startled rapture, and heavylidded, almost drowsy submission as the sensations of her body overwhelmed the tormenting thoughts and conflicting emotions. He'd look, too, at her cunt, flushing deeper and deeper pink with arousal, flaring in vivid contrast to the pale flesh of her thighs and belly, and the sight would drive a fresh surge of arousal coursing into his groin. Then he would come in again to caress her slit, end to end with his tongue, draw

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her between his lips, licking at her even as he sucked and pulled and gently nibbled. Then he would back off again, watch her belly rise and fall with her excited breath. She was aching to come so badly she wanted to reach down between her legs and touch herself, rub her fingers back and forth over her clit until she climaxed. But she held on, waiting for the touch she was ready to beg for. Finally, finally he began to really eat her. He put his lips to her slit, moving his tongue back and forth over her aroused clit. She was moaning now, almost sobbing. He wrapped his arms around her, embracing her hips, holding her immobile against the kisses that were driving her wild. Then, shocking her with a brutal thrill, he thrust his tongue into her, fucking her startled virgin cunt with his darting tongue. Her back tried to arch, her hips tried to buck, but she was frozen there, clasped in his arms as he tongued her to a writhing frenzy. She came, crying out, his tongue still thrusting into her as she shuddered, breathless, almost crying, against his mouth. He did not stop. It was unbearable. He left his fucking and came up to nurse at her swollen clit. Now his tongue, which seconds earlier had been so firm and urgent, had gone soft, tenderly caressing her. Every now and then he'd relent, take his mouth from her, let her hot wet cunt feel the caress of the cool air, then stun her all over by bringing the wet heat of his mouth back to her, licking her delicately, all along her sensitive folds, finally returning to her throbbing clit. Then he settled there, teasing her, brushing the aching bud with his tongue again and again. Suddenly her spasms hit again as she came a second time, his mouth greedily lapping and sucking until she collapsed.

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Vaughn wanted to take Devan into his arms, to hold her as the tremors of her climax subsided, but Conrad would not permit it. Conrad found himself almost jealous, watching his Devan succumbing so deliciously under the mouth of this interloper. But overwhelming any such thoughts was an arousal almost beyond even his endurance. With a barely suppressed sigh he ordered Vaughn to stand. Then, keeping his eyes locked vigilantly upon Vaughn, who easily had five inches and three stone on him, Conrad told Devan to rise and come to him. She stood, a little unsteadily, glanced briefly and shyly at Vaughn, then made her way around the sofa to join Conrad. Letting his guard down for just a moment he let the sight of her face, still flushed and soft with pleasure, the fear in her eyes momentarily displaced with quiet wonder at what had happened to her body. He smiled gently down on her in an almost fatherly appreciation of her execution of her lessons. He was like a father no more as he drew her against him, crossing an arm possessively across her shoulders. “Now, Vaughn, let’s adjourn to that bedroom down on the left. Kindly lead the way.” Every shift of scene brought Devan and Vaughn new fear as they wondered what Conrad would make them do next. The two captives sought each other’s eyes but had only a brief second to try to assure and soothe one another. Vaughn moved down the hall and Conrad brought Devan along behind, maintaining a safe distance. When Vaughn had stepped into the bedroom Conrad ordered him to sit on the bed, back to the headboard. Then he tossed the handcuffs to Vaughn and told him to cuff himself to one of the iron bars. When it was done he sent Devan over with a second pair of cuffs to secure Vaughn’s other wrist, and to verify that the first was truly bound. When her

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task was done Conrad called her back to him and took her with him into the other bedroom. “On the bed please, Devan, just like Vaughn." He savored her fear for a moment before adding, "I may be gone for a while, so be sure you’ve got the pillows arranged so you’ll be comfortable.” She didn't like it—the thought of Vaughn chained helplessly to the bed in that other room. The little bit of mellow calm left by all the pleasure of a few moments before evaporated and she went stiff and scared once more. But she did as she was told. “I’m sorry to have to do this, darling, but this way I’ll be able to focus on other matters, knowing you’re not getting up to any trouble.” He produced another set of cuffs and locked her to her headboard. “I’ll try not to be too long, love.” He kissed her warmly on the cheek and left, closing the door as he went. Anxiety numbed and chilled her body as she listened to Conrad's steps as he went out into the hall, turned, entered Vaughn’s bedroom, and closed the door. Conrad seated himself in the armchair he had moved earlier to the side of the bed. Knowing Vaughn’s eyes were on him, but not meeting them, he drew forth the journal. Vaughn’s face contorted with fresh hatred and anxiety, just as Conrad had known it would. Conrad smiled a big, beaming smile. “My Devan, or, I should say, our Devan, is a strangely, wonderfully unique girl. But I think you’ll find, as you know her longer and better, that like everyone, she has predictable aspects to her personality. This journal, for instance.” He tapped the hard cover with an index finger.

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“I knew, really without a doubt, that she would have written an account of what had passed between us. Knowing that, of course, I’ve been looking forward to reading it with great anticipation.” He smiled again, a mischievous, almost boyish smile, and he leaned in a little toward Vaughn to go on in a softer voice with an air of confidentiality. “As eager as I’ve been to read what’s here, I confess that I’m really excited now. Rather like a child on Christmas Eve, or the night before his birthday. You may have guessed why. Have you?” Vaughn sat in silence, knowing Conrad’s interminable self-indulgent monologue was bound to continue. “Answer me, Vaughn. Have you guessed what’s got me so intrigued?” “No.” “She lied, Vaughn. She lied! I punished her quite lightly for her transgression. In fact, really, it wasn’t a punishment at all, since I knew from times past that she enjoys that sort of lesson. But she couldn’t have known that would be her comeuppance. At the moment when she lied to me, swearing to me that she’d written nothing since arriving here, I sensed she was deeply afraid. Yet, whatever’s in here she felt worth risking my anger. I’m positively giddy with curiosity.” Conrad saw that Vaughn was trying to discern the meaning in his penetrating gaze, and wondered if Vaughn realized how much he had given away, earlier when Conrad had first shown the journal, and just now, when he had brought it forth once more. Yes, there was definitely something delightful awaiting him in those pages—

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Devan’s behavior and Vaughn’s teased and promised. He opened the notebook and his eyes fell once more on Devan’s script. "I confess I'm at a loss, though. Nothing of what Devan wrote seems worth such a gamble. She was embarrassed, of course, to watch me read over her words about how she felt as I took her, as I touched her," Conrad savored the anguish on Vaughn's face as he went on, "and especially, I'm sure, her admissions of how much she enjoyed those illicit caresses, and, best of all, the way my coercion and her fear intensified all those arousing sensations and emotions." Conrad gave Vaughn a teasing grin. "But I'm fairly certain she had no illusions that she'd managed to hide any of that from me in the first place. She knew perfectly well that, however satisfying it might have been, I didn't need to read her journal to know that well before she ran off, she was dying for me to fuck her." What a poker face on the man—barely a twitch. "So what could it be, then? Hmmm? What about this diary had our darling Devan so daring and defiant?" He looked over and smiled knowingly at Vaughn, as if they were two boys with a clubhouse secret. Still smiling at Vaughn, his eyes full of mischief, Conrad closed the journal. Vaughn froze in anticipation, still holding that stare. He forced his eyes to remain locked on Conrad’s, forced them not to drift down, to look at the journal still in that man’s hands. Was he satisfied? Did he think he’d seen it all? Then Conrad’s smile went up a bit more at the corners and he had the aspect of a child who has solved a riddle and who is eager to show off his cleverness to his classmates.

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Conrad’s eyes left Vaughn’s and drifted down to the notebook. He pressed the article between two splayed palms, scrutinizing its narrow profile. There, between the cardboard covers, were the white pages between. Vaughn watched as a revolting look of smug satisfaction crept into Conrad’s features as he studied those pages. That expression might be knocked off his face with a tire iron, Vaughn thought. Conrad was teasing himself, drawing out the delight he was now certain still awaited him. Those white page edges were not uniform. Those closest to the front cover, those covered with Devan’s writing, had turned a soft gray and gone a bit ragged from being turned and handled. Then, where her writing left off, the white edges were crisp and pristine. And then, beyond that borderland of perfect white, more pages had been slightly sullied with use. There was more. Conrad opened the journal once more, from the back cover this time, and he laughed a silent little laugh as he turned to the first page covered in writing that was not hers. It was Vaughn’s. He looked up at his prisoner, whose face was now resigned, gave him a smile, and fell to reading. Vaughn watched, burning with fury and indignation as Conrad’s eyes moved over the pages. A little over an hour later, it was done. Conrad knew Vaughn’s painful secret. “I hate to appear self-centered,” Conrad said, not without an ironic note, “but at moments like this I wonder if I’m not the best living proof that there’s no god. If there were, could such a wicked character as me be met, always, with such delicious good fortune? To find Devan living here with you of all people! And to have it revealed to me, so neatly, with this double journal, like a gift!”

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Vaughn looked on with a vague sense of astonishment, not at Conrad’s unabashed glee, but because in that moment, he could not deny, there was something almost endearing in Conrad’s eager display of his happiness. “I’ll tell you, Vaughn, things went wrong, before. All my carefully laid plans went amiss, Devan was endangered and she ran, and I thought things had truly been spoiled. And I found myself doubting whether I had really been doing the right thing for our girl. But this, frankly, puts all my doubts to rest. I could not have orchestrated this better if I’d had perfect omniscience. Truly.” All of Conrad’s childlike charm had been swallowed up in a moment of unforgivable hubris. After all he had done to Devan he had the gall to take that journal— the site of their purging of all the pain they had shared, like paternal twins separated at birth but feeling each other’s deepest emotions—and take it as a sign from fate that the universe was in accord with his will? “Goodness, Vaughn. I wish you could see yourself. You look like you might be about to actually disintegrate with hate. Do I really seem like such a monster to you?” Vaughn could almost feel a tickle of incredulity percolating up through his thick, filling rage. “Yes.” Conrad allowed himself to feel duly impressed by the mastery Vaughn had achieved over his voice. “Come, now, Vaughn. Take a moment, take a breath, and give a little thought to what’s really going on here. Have I physically hurt either one of you?” “Yes.”

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“If you’re thinking of our little discipline session with the belt, I’m afraid I can’t allow that to count. Devan enjoys it far too much. Now, kindly answer me—the belt aside, have I hurt either of you?” “No.” “Have I used either of you for my own sexual gratification?” Vaughn was silent. “Have I?” “Just because you haven’t gotten off doesn’t mean you’re not using her for your pleasure.” “I don’t pretend not to be enjoying myself, Vaughn.” Conrad laughed a low, warm laugh that would have been utterly charming and disarming under other circumstances. “I am, of course, enjoying myself immensely. But not, ultimately, at your expense. Or Devan’s. You’ll just have to have a little faith in me. I’ve been planning for a very long while now just how to break Devan of the chains that might have held her back from a full and interesting life. And now, knowing what little I do about you, I feel fairly sure that I can do the same for you, though I’m afraid I’ve not had the chance to give your liberation the same careful planning.” Vaughn barely heard what Conrad had said about him. He was consumed with concern for Devan. “You really believe you’ve helped her? That you’re helping her now?” “Yes, Vaughn. I do. I am giving that magnificent girl exactly what she wants.” “You’re wrong. You don’t know her.”

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“You’re mistaken, Vaughn. It’s you who does not know her. And the amusing thing about that is that the parts of her you don’t see are so like the parts of yourself that you deny.” “You didn’t see her. She’s trying to be brave now, because of me. But I’ve seen her fear—the fear you put into her. She’s terrified of men. Terrified of being touched.” “I know she is Vaughn. And I know it’s me that made her so. And I know that to you I seem cruel. But as I’ve said, you don’t know her. Not really. You’ve read this?” Conrad held up the diary. “Have you?” he pressed when Vaughn glared in silence at the pilfered trove of both of their secrets. “Yes.” “There’s a hint of the truth here. But only as much as she herself is consciously aware, only as much as she is willing to admit. Her deep, erotic association with fear. She realizes it’s a turn-on for her. But she thinks it’s just about fantasy. What she doesn’t realize, what she’s avoided admitting to herself, is that she needs the fear in her real life. Already she’s changed—I’m sorry you couldn’t have seen her before. This girl who since puberty has written the most delicious, vivid, wonderfully perverse erotica lived a sexless existence. You read what she’s written here, so you know. Not only had she never been touched by a man; she’d never even touched herself. Not once had she experienced sexual pleasure. Everything was in her head, and to see her walk down the street, to watch her talking with the men around her you would think no notion of herself as a sexual being had ever entered her head.”

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“But look at her now. I’m sure you see at least a shadow of what I see. You are a man to her. I’ll hazard a guess that you have been from the moment you encountered one another. From the moment you chased her down and tackled her and she thought you would rape her. If you had not been such a brute with her at the beginning she wouldn’t care for you as she does now.” “You’re insane.” “I see that you mean that quite literally. And I understand why I frighten you. Confuse you. It’s not easy for someone like you to understand a person like me. But I’m right.” “You’re wrong. Devan isn’t –what—pathologically drawn to rapists.” “You’re not a rapist. And neither am I. And if you’d raped her, if you were that kind of man, she would hate you and you would have harmed her horribly. But it’s her fear of each of us that has awakened her real desire—something she had never experienced.” Vaughn was worked up to a painful frenzy. He felt that Conrad was listening, actually engaging and deliberating. And he was sure, after watching Conrad with Devan, seeing how he looked at her, and watching his face as he had read her words that Conrad actually cared for her in his own, twisted way. He really was after more than prurient gratification. Vaughn began to hope, fretfully, desperately, that if he could just find the right words, a compelling rationale, he might actually be able to alter Devan’s fate. To save her. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe, on some level, fear is a kind of aphrodisiac for her. But that doesn’t give you the right to force a particular experience on her. You may think

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this is the most exciting first experience she could have. I may think that her first time should be sweet and tender. But neither you or I should dictate how she experiences sex for the first time. She should.” “Perhaps you’re right, Vaughn. In fact, I’m certain you’re correct. It’s wrong for one person to assume control over another, dictate what’s best for them. Devan’s a grown woman. Inexperienced, and a bit naïve, but still, she’s an adult and should be free to make her choices, just as I got to make mine. Just as you got to make yours. That’s right, isn’t it?” “Yes.” Vaughn felt a euphoric but precarious sense of hope. Was Conrad really about to relent? “There’s a flaw, though.” Vaughn’s insides felt as though they were slowly melting. “May I ask you something, Vaughn?” Vaughn just looked at Conrad, knowing his acquiescence would be superfluous. “You say that Devan should be allowed to choose the nature of her experience. But don’t you agree, that there are certain experiences which, by their very nature, are unchooseable? Beyond the realm of choice? If one longs to be controlled, one can’t enlist a master and set his tasks. Some experiences are only to be had by withholding consent, by having free will taken from you.” Conrad held up the diary. Vaughn’s whole body—every muscle, fiber and corpuscle—tightened.

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“This is something you know about first-hand, Vaughn, though I might not go so far as to say you understand it. You, Vaughn, could not enjoy a consensual sexual encounter with a man. Hmmm? No, you’re basically a straight guy who, thanks to a comprehensive regime of cultural programming, has ingested the notion that sexual contact with other men is unmanly. Repugnant, even. It’s fundamental to your identity, and any breach of your heterosexuality literally threatens you as a person. Vaughn Doe would never fuck a man. Vaughn Doe wouldn’t take a man’s cock in his mouth. Vaughn Doe would never let a man give him head. And yet…” Conrad waved the diary before Vaughn. “Take away his free will, tell him he has no choice, tell him he’d better submit or else, and Vaughn Doe comes, his prick buried in the throat of some bloke.” Vaughn was panting, tight-lipped and pale with his need to silence Conrad with a bone-crushing blow to the jaw. “If you ask me, Vaughn, it wasn’t that the fellow was so brilliantly adept at fellatio. And it wasn’t even the sight of those women writhing about before your eyes. It was the idea. The knowledge that it was a man’s mouth you felt hot and wet on your cock that made you come so hard and so quickly.” Conrad laughed low and soft from behind closed lips. “Poor fellow. I’m torturing you so cruelly, and without even a small effort on my part. I won’t pretend I’m not enjoying it a little, but I swear it’s not the point. I only wish to point out that this experience…” Again he indicated the diary, “this delicious, intense experience, would never have been possible for you had someone not forced it upon you.”

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Vaughn’s raging, hate-fuelled adrenaline was pounding his veins like a flooded river at a dam. It was hard to form a thought from the myriad voices of memory and emotion, but his hope and fear for Devan drove him to rise above his base reaction to Conrad’s torment. “It’s true" he finally managed in a hoarse whisper. "You’re right. It was amazing. The way I came in that guy’s mouth was, maybe, the most intense sexual experience of my life. Those three people, holding me hostage at gunpoint, took away my free choice and gave me that. And it lasted about forty seconds. A minute maybe. A minute of perfect, forbidden ecstasy. And that minute of ecstasy cost me everything. Everything. It ruined a whole life. Everything I’d built in my nineteen years of adulthood. My career. My marriage. My friendships. All of it. Is that what you want to do to her? Give her an hour or a week of unbounded pleasure, and leave her so fucked up, so confused and full of self-hatred that she’ll be incapable of having a normal relationship with a man?” With an effort he softened his voice. “You can’t know, Conrad, what you’ll be doing to her. You don’t have the right to mess with her head like this. The best orgasm in the world isn’t worth not having a normal life. “A normal life? Devan wasn’t meant for a normal life. She’s an extraordinary girl meant for extraordinary things. That doesn’t mean easy. It may not mean happy. But Devan was never going to be the girl who finished college and met a nice boy and settled down and got married and had kids. If I hadn’t come along, Vaughn, that girl would have spent the rest of her life fucking the phantoms in her head, and died a virgin.

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“And you know perfectly well that I’m not talking about one or even a string of brilliant orgasms. I’m talking about teaching her a way to experience herself. Maybe she wouldn’t have died a virgin, you know. Maybe, one night, she might have sat there in her little apartment, penning another delicious fuck scene, and finally decided to taste a tiny sample of what she’s been writing about for years. Maybe she would have gone out to a neighborhood bar, struck up a conversation with some dullard, and gone home with him. Can you imagine it? Picture our Devan, our quiet, marvelous, strange Devan, her mind filled with all of her fierce, erotic, high-strung liaisons, submitting to the platitudes and clumsy gropings of some plebian mongrel. ‘You’re really pretty, Devan. Here, let me just shove this pile of dirty laundry onto the floor. There, now let’s fuck.’ Conrad animatedly portrayed his notion of the Don Juan of the Seattle bar scene. “Why, Vaughn, why should Devan be relegated to such a fate, when it’s within my power…” Conrad paused to grin meaningfully at Vaughn. “…no, when it’s within our power to make her dreams literally come true?” “Because they’re fantasies. Christ, even you must be capable of understanding the difference. People don’t want to do every single thing that excites their imagination.” “We’re not talking about ‘people,’ Vaughn, we’re talking about Devan. And Devan, I assure you, very much wants sex to be what she has dreamt it to be. Yes, she’s frightened. And her fear makes that sweet girl so wet between her thighs that her panties are soaked through before she’s touched. You know, I’ve read every one of her erotic stories, and there isn’t one, not a single one, which omits an element of coercion. She wants to be taken, Vaughn. And I regret now that I didn’t bring her diary, her real diary from home, along when I tracked her here, just so you could read it now. There,

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though she never quite gets around to admitting that she wants to live the life she’s dreamt up, she most certainly acknowledges that her fantasies are her vision of love and sexuality. She wants to be held down. She wants to be tied up. She wants to feel hands on her knees as her thighs are forced apart. She wants to say no and have her cry of refusal smothered with a brutal hand over her mouth. Not by some indifferent or misogynistic rapist, but by a man consumed with desire for her, desperately driven to give her pleasure. And this is why, when I take her virginity tonight, it will be in such a way that her fear is ensured, and with it, her greatest possible arousal.”

In the next room, cuffed to her headboard, Devan sat in the waning light of late afternoon and the murmur of male voices drifting about her ears like disembodied phantoms seeking her from elsewhere in the cabin. Those voices were both a comfort and a torment. That they were talking told Devan that Conrad was not doing…other things to Vaughn. She did not know what to imagine, Vaughn under Conrad’s gun, the two of them closeted away from her sight. She felt she knew what to expect from Conrad where she was concerned. Torment, but no violence. What he might do to Vaughn she feared to guess. She believed, half because he had convinced her of it and half because it comforted her where Vaughn was concerned, that Conrad’s mania was not general, but focused upon her. That it had been born of her strange stories and their incongruity with her as a person. Conrad’s only interest in Vaughn, she tried to believe during this anxious separation, was in their bond.

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That they were talking worried her, too. She adored Vaughn. Adored. That was her word for how she thought she felt. Deep caring for him as a person mingled sweetly with her swelling desire for him as a man. And in that adoration there was a trust. She believed faithfully that he cared for her. She felt that she had an effect on him that, in spite of the wealth of sexual experience she knew he must have, he did not take for granted. She felt that for him there was something special, incredible, in what had been happening between them before Conrad’s arrival. But she would not deceive herself that Vaughn’s trust in her was more than fragile, and that Conrad’s ability to seduce, to mystify and construct convincing new realities was less than powerful. What she feared most, the anxiety that began to gnaw at her, draining her blood and chilling her, the moment she had sensed that they had settled down together in Vaughn’s room, was that Conrad might try to turn Vaughn against her. Especially when she thought of the journal. Panic squeezed her heart each time she pictured Conrad’s eyes taking in Vaughn’s words. What derelict notions would bubble to life in that deviant brain with Vaughn’s troubled past for inspiration? Her darkest fear, the fear she would not even permit to be fully formed in her imagination, was that Conrad would undo all the fragile trust they had built over that last two days, and convince Vaughn that really she had come, knowing all along that the famous Vaughn Doe was cloistered away in this little cabin in the woods. If Vaughn were to become her enemy now, what an accomplice he would make to Conrad’s plans. She tried to stay calm but at the thought tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She struggled to put the thought from her mind but she could not. It thrust itself into her consciousness with fresh force each time she fought to push

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it away and she felt the calm she had fought to sustain for Vaughn’s sake melt away in a stream of tears as she began to silently sob. Now that it had taken this track she could not divert her mind from images of the two of them tormenting her—Conrad with his eternal look of triumph and selfsatisfaction, and Vaughn with a look of bitter resentment and cruel lust. She recalled his confession of how he had enjoyed the feeling he had been raping that woman who had broken into his house and, with her friends, forced Vaughn through all those humiliating, exhilarating sexual experiences. If Conrad succeeded in convincing Vaughn that he and she were lovers, that he had agreed to some elaborate ploy so she could act out some rescuer fantasy with Vaughn, that Conrad had become jealous and decided to reveal everything out of fear of losing her to Vaughn, would Vaughn do Conrad’s bidding? Would she have to look into eyes filled with hate and betrayal as he violated her, relishing her fear and torment? Poignant regret taunted her with the thought of them forcing themselves on her when earlier that day—oh, it had been just that afternoon!—she and Vaughn had woken up in each others' arms, whispered tenderly to one another, unfamiliar, un-hoped-for happiness warming and tickling her. If Conrad hadn't come, right this moment they might have been in Vaughn's bed, him tenderly introducing her to love, with sweet kisses and gentle caresses, his fabulous glittering eyes charged with desire and softened with sweet devotion. She was really falling apart now, thinking of what would not be, imagining what would be instead, Vaughn brutally claiming what she might have offered so earnestly, his mind poisoned by Conrad, his eyes boring into her with a violent loathing that can only come with the cruelest of betrayals.

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She felt she could endure anything to come if Vaughn were still her friend, if they were allies in whatever Conrad had in store for them. But as those low murmurings swirled around her as she sat there bound to her little bed she gradually let go all hope that she was not alone, a prisoner once more in a cabin in the woods with men about to unleash their cruel will upon her. Her pain at the thought of Vaughn’s hurt at her fictitious betrayal flowed, a tributary to the turbulent confluence of confusion, fear and hopelessness. She gave up fighting the flood of utter misery and felt herself crumpling, her strength seeping from her body with the tears that poured from her eyes like a flooded river bursting an aged and weary dam. She sobbed for a long time, quietly, still careful to hide her fear from Vaughn. At last, her tears exhausted, she composed herself once more, and waited. At last those deep voices fell silent, Vaughn’s door opened, her door opened, and Conrad appeared before her. He looked at the face she had hardened against fear and hurt, steeling herself for the moment when Vaughn would see her. Whatever he thought of her now, she still would not add to his torment by letting him see how frightened she was. Conrad smiled down on her, delighting in the appetizing sight of her, cuffed helplessly to the headboard, her sheer little garment offering her body up to his eyes. He felt sure that all was going to go deliciously, and he savored this moment, redolent with anticipation. Then he spoke. “Well, dear Devan, it’s nearly time. Let’s get you ready.” He uncuffed her, took her hand, and led her into the bathroom. Entering with her, he closed the door.

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“I’m afraid, darling, that since I’ve not had a chance to secure this place to ensure that all items that might tempt you to disobedience are well out of reach, I’ll not be able to give you the privacy to which you’ve been accustomed. But we’re past that, in any case, aren’t we?” He bent and turned on the shower faucet. “Do you need the toilet?” Her bladder had been agonizingly full for over an hour. She shook her head no. He smiled at her with tender patience. “You’d better go ahead, love. Otherwise, later, when we go to Vaughn’s room, you’ll regret it and wish you had. Here, I’ll turn my back.” He turned and faced the corner. The water gushing from the faucet had pushed her endurance to the edge. Her face went hot as she sat and emptied her bladder. She was relieved, at least, that the sound of the shower gave her some cover. “Now,” Conrad said when she had finished, “off with that little nothing you’re wearing and into the shower.” He made no pretense of giving her privacy now. He watched her coolly as she hesitated, then, resigned but still trembling with fear and embarrassment, lifted the sheer gown over her head and put it in the hand Conrad had stretched toward her. She stood naked before him now for the first time and he wistfully regarded her pale, nude form. His soft smile seemed tainted with regret. “Perhaps I tell you too often, Devan, but you really are lovely.” He said it softly, almost as if he were telling her about a piece of art he admired rather than assessing her naked body. She seemed a mirage in that moment, pale to

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the point of illusory transparence, wavering in the rising steam from the shower as she trembled with nervous dread of whatever Conrad had planned. Conrad struggled to maintain his composure as Devan bathed. He was almost in pain with his overwhelming desire as she washed herself, doing as he told her, shampooing her hair, washing her face, her body. Flushing a most delicious pink as she washed with trembling hands her delicate hidden places when he ordered her to. She watched him very quietly, very intently, as she washed herself, as she finished rinsing the soap from her hair and body, and turned off the water, as he handed her a towel and she dried herself. When she had dressed, when Conrad had taken her through that door into some other part of the cabin…a thousand images flashed through her mind. When she had finished drying herself Conrad proffered a predictably sheer, small garment, and she put it on. Her eyes were warm and pleading, and as he bent to give her a small kiss on her forehead before starting it all she went all soft and pliant and pressed herself to him and his body raged against the bitter obstinacy of his mind. His cock swelled hard and angry against her quivering body. His hands closed around her upper arms and only with a tremendous exertion of his will did he defeat the animal urges of his body. He took hold of her shoulders and set her gently away from him, turned her toward the door, opened it, and guided her through. "Come along now, darling." Conrad took her arm and started for the bedroom. "Wait—" "What is it, Devan?"

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"Where…why…" He smiled in that placid, indulgent way that made her feel he was fucking with her. "No more games, dear Devan. I'm going to take your virginity." "What—now?" "Not so unceremoniously as that. Not just here in the hallway, darling. I'm trying to get you into the bedroom, like a proper gentleman." She'd known this moment was coming. It's not like it came as a surprise. But at the same time, it was. Only now that it was happening did she realize, she'd somehow half-convinced herself he wouldn't really do it. She didn't think she could walk, she suddenly felt so weak and shaky. But then, without really knowing how they went those last few feet, they were in the bedroom. "Sweet Devan." Conrad's fingers were lightly combing through her hair, his eyes gazing warm and soft. He bent to kiss her and she recoiled. He smiled. Almost laughed. "You aren't going to fight me, are you Devan?" he asked mirthfully. "No." "Good girl." The humor drained from his face. He sunk his fingers deep into her hair and drew his hands into fists, and cocked an eyebrow at her look of shock at her sudden immobility. Then he took her mouth with a hungry kiss that presaged the way in which, a few moments hence, he'd claim her body.

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"All this time, everything we've done, and you still pale and tremble this way. You really are something." He finally broke off his penetrating stare, and his eyes flicked off toward something. "Isn’t she, Vaughn?" Vaughn! She hadn't seen him, half-hidden behind the door, as they entered. He looked so sad, so afraid. She could take it, she could get through whatever it was Conrad would do with her. But not knowing Vaughn was being forced to watch it all. "Conrad. Please, Conrad. Anything you want. Anything. Just please. Please. Not like this. Not in front of Vaughn." "Devan, darling. You must realize that I've put a great deal of thought into all of this." When had Conrad ever yielded to a plea? It was pointless. But she stood there, desperately hoping with her whole being as Conrad calmly gazed back, seemingly considering her appeal. "You really don't want him to watch?" "No," she whispered, just managing to hang on to her calm, for Vaughn's sake. "All right, darling. As you wish." Conrad drew a tiny key from his pocket and handed it to Devan. "Unlock him." She made herself as calm as possible, and faced Vaughn. She would have done anything to ease the pain that was plain on his face. As she worked the lock of his cuffs she attempted a little smile of reassurance, but was almost sure it never altered her face

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at all. Vaughn was free of the cuffs, now, and she followed his gaze toward Conrad. What was he doing in a chair all the way across the room? And no instructions detailing the minutiae of how to detain Vaughn elsewhere. She looked back at Vaughn, looking sadly down at her, and she knew.

As he stood there, knowing what he had to do, still, at this moment hardly able to imagine himself capable of it, Conrad's words flooded Vaughn's head. "She wants to say no and have her cry of refusal smothered with a brutal hand over her mouth. Not by some indifferent or misogynistic rapist, but by a man consumed with desire for her, desperately driven to give her pleasure. And this is why, when I have you take her virginity tonight, it will be in such a way that her fear is ensured, and with it, her greatest possible arousal.” “What?” Vaughn’s question had been a heart-broken sob, and Conrad had smiled at him with tender sympathy. “How like her you are, Vaughn. Look at you, pale, trembling, on the verge of tears. Yet I see plainly your cock is stiff as stone. Just as Devan’s little virgin cunt would be slick and swollen were she in your place right now, hearing me say that you were to take her virginity in a short while. Tell me something, please. Have you ever fucked a virgin?” Vaughn had had many chances, certainly. At least, many girls had offered themselves to him, telling him he would be their first. But he had never taken these girls to bed, not wanting to feel the weight of responsibility of playing such a part in the life of someone he did not care for. Before he was a rock star, and before he was the beloved

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lead singer of a popular local band in his home town, when he himself had been relatively inexperienced, he always seemed to have wound up with women far more experienced than he had been. “Have you, Vaughn?” “No.” ”Ah,” Conrad had smiled with real, warm joy, “how delicious! I’ll be giving Devan her first time, and giving you your first time with a virgin.” “Christ! You’re really—” “Do you believe in God, Vaughn?” “No.” Then you should choose a different epithet. That one hasn’t any sting.” “I won’t do it.” Vaughn shook with impotent determination. Conrad smiled smugly. “You will Vaughn. You’ll take her, trembling and panting, as I watch. You’ll do it for one reason. Because if you don’t, I will. With you watching. And I know you couldn’t bear that. Not out of jealousy, though I’m sure seeing Devan writhe in pleasure under my hand earlier stung your ego a bit. No, you won’t let me take her virginity, Vaughn, because you know very well that she wants it to be you. I may be the one who awakened her to the possibility of love, but it’s to you she’s attached all her young, eager devotion. It’s to you, Vaughn, that she wants to give her chastity. Not to me.” Vaughn knew it was true. He had no faith in Conrad’s certainty about Devan’s real desire for coercion, but he was sure that she had wanted to give herself to him, certain that she would feel bitter regret if Conrad were the first man to have her, rather

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than he. It would mean that for all time she would recall that her first time had been with her stalker. Her kidnapper. This strange cruel man. If Vaughn were the one, then for all time she would remember that, however strange the circumstances, her first time had been with a man she had cared for, and who cared for her. “I’m going to get Devan, now, have a little chat with her, and get her cleaned up. Meanwhile, I’d like you to read this.” Conrad had tossed a thin stack of paper into Vaughn’s lap. “It’s one of Devan’s delicious stories. Read it carefully, Vaughn. There is the manner in which you will take her virginity. On the back I've written a few additional…guidelines. You're to adhere to them exactly, or I'll consider our agreement broken. I’ll be back with her in a short while. When the time comes, Vaughn, you’d best cooperate, promptly and with appropriate enthusiasm, or I promise you I’ll tie you right back up and do it myself. And though it won’t be my first choice, I’ll be thrilled to do it.” Now Devan was standing before him, gazing up at him, questioning, frightened, and Vaughn was breathing hard and his hands were shaking as his long, strong fingers curved lightly around her upper arms, as he guided her slowly backward. "Get on the bed, Devan." His voice was low, quiet. But not exactly tender. There was something scary in the way he was acting, talking, in spite of that look of sadness, of fear. Fighting to hide her panic she sat on the edge of the bed, and Vaughn loomed larger than ever over her. Without a word he bent, slid a forearm under her knees, and swung her legs up onto the bed. Then, with no smile or caress to reassure her, he put a knee on the mattress beside her, and a moment later he was straddling her thighs.

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Fighting to stay still, calm, to quiet her ragged breath, Devan knew she was shaking, that her eyes must be pink with the tears she was fighting back. But she wanted him to know… She attempted a serene smile. "It's all right, Vaughn. I'm—" "Sshhh." His hand covered her mouth firmly and a look of panic flared over his features, then faded before he took it away. She turned to see Conrad watching them intently. How like him to come up with that. No talking. All of it. How Vaughn was acting. She'd show him, though. He'd know, she was all right. Glad it would be him. She gazed at him, willing him to see how she trusted, how she cared for him, and reached up to caress his furrowed brow, his pale cheek. Before she'd touched him his hand clamped down on her wrist. Her arm went limp with her sudden confusion and as if they were one that moment his huge hand became a soft cradle for her wrist. He reached past her, under the pillow behind her, and seconds later he slid a soft noose of sheer silk over her hand and pulled it taught. No. No no. She pleaded with her eyes, forgetting it wasn't him. It was Conrad. Watching it all. She wanted to beg. Not tied. She felt all the calm she'd mustered evaporate in one swift second, felt the smooth rhythmic quiet she'd forced over her lungs drop away as her breath went erratic with panic, felt the hot tears she'd fought back slip suddenly down her cheeks.

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Why? What did it matter? She wouldn't fight, anyway. Couldn't stop anything even if she did. Why should it scare her so, being bound when she was powerless either way? No talking. No touching. Completely mute. It would all be done to her. Nothing for her to do but feel. Let it happen to her. To struggle, to try to speak would only force Vaughn to fight her. The thought of Conrad's smug grin at Vaughn having to keep his hand brutally clamped over her mouth dissuaded her from thoughts of another attempt at consoling Vaughn. For Vaughn's sake she struggled to regain her composure as he took in her tears and trembling, then turned to tie the other end of the silk to the iron bed post. She felt his hand, cold and unsteady, curve soft around her free arm, his soothing touch as his hand slid down to her wrist, then the faint tickle of delicate fabric slithering over her fingers, her palm, the back of her hand, then snug around her wrist. Vaughn's knees still planted on either side of her hips, the weight of him pinning her legs firmly to the mattress, his torso stretched toward the other corner of the bed, and she was bound, her arms spread wide like wings in flight.

God, she looked so scared. So small and pale and vulnerable. She'd seemed bigger to him, all those long days they'd been alone, when she'd been in his clothes. In these delicate garments of Conrad's, though, she seemed suddenly fragile, and he felt like a walking sledgehammer. Why couldn't he shrink and soften?

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Or at least be able to whisper to her, promise he'd be gentle, tell her he was sorry. Put his arms around her, pull her against him, hold her. But if he spoke, if he held her too soon, Conrad would…he'd have to do as he'd been told. As gently as possible. Did she know? Her eyes were wide and shimmery with fear, but they held his gaze. Her face was smooth, her body softening. Almost lax. He wanted so badly for her to know, to feel how he cared for her even as he bound her, did all Conrad had told him. Vaughn was ready to cry with pity at the thought of stripping her bare. Sweet, shy Devan. And the two of them in the room with her, no way for her to know if it would be just him, or both. It stung—that trust he thought he read in her eyes. Because all his pity, his fear, his tender concern didn't undo his violent, physical want. To be with her after all he'd come to feel for her. His urgent desire to possess her, pinned and bound helpless beneath him, her little garment doing more to reveal and display than cover her. Her pale arms drawn taught between the lengths of cloth, the subtle curves and lines of muscles and tendons exposed and emphasized. Her throat and chest bare to well below the first sweet swell of her breasts, their dark tips showing through the sheer fabric. Her legs bare beneath him, right up to the very top of her creamy thighs. And just three thin ribbons, and even this little scrap of protection would be gone. How could he be so fucking hard, so fucking hot with need for her, and feel so sad, so limp with remorse at the same time? Without thinking he glanced at Conrad, with a half-conscious, half-hearted hope the man would suddenly smile, laugh, and tell them it was all a joke. But the bastard just raised a threatening eyebrow and stared until Vaughn looked away. Back to her.

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Her big gray eyes followed his hands as he took the little beige ribbon between her breasts in his trembling fingers and pulled until the delicate bow holding the gown closed came undone. It seemed unreal, that path of bare skin between her breasts, along the center of her abdomen, only stopping at the edge of her sheer beige panties. She was panting quick and shallow. He wanted to calm her, untie her, hold her. Instead his hand lit on the second little ribbon, the strap at her left shoulder, and pulled it loose, and then it's mate at her right shoulder. The sound of his own nervous panting mingled with hers and he caught her gaze with his, tried to hold her that way. He could feel the shudder running through her as he slid his hand to the back of her waist and slowly slipped her garment from her body. He wanted to hold her, wrap his arms around her, warm her, shield protect her. He ached to kiss her, touch her, taste her, take her. She was looking up at him, watching him look, watching to see what he would do. Without touching her he slipped from the bed. She seemed more vulnerable, more naked, now that he was not sitting over her, practically pressed to her. He knew how afraid she must be. How was she managing not to cry? Feeling like a criminal he perched on the edge of the mattress and, forcing himself to face her, carefully curled his fingertips at the edge of her panties. He saw the effort she exerted to keep her face calm and felt fresh guilt as she lifted her hips from the bed and let him slip her panties off. Her eyes locked on his she pulled her knees in close and they dropped a little toward the far side of the room in an instinctively modest pose. He stood and, hating how it felt like a cruel threat, pulled off his t-shirt, unbuckled his belt, undid his fly, and pulled off his jeans. Then, hating his erection, hating himself,

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slid down his underwear. She took in the sight of his naked body with the same intense, focused calm. But when he mounted the bed, when he took hold of her ankles, forced her feel apart and moved between them, her forced calm fell apart. By the time he had forced his hips between her thighs, his own thighs under her ass, and driven her legs apart until the hard, aching shaft of his cock was pressed firmly against her, she was shaking and softly sobbing. And only now that he'd worn her down by performing all the little duties Conrad had prescribed in such fucking detail was he allowed a little freedom. He wished he were allowed to talk, and wondered if his touch, if his kiss would comfort her, or frighten her more. Slow, slow, he lifted his hands and soft, soft, stroked her silky hair. She watched him with questioning eyes as he let just his thumb lightly brush against her wet cheek. Only when she seemed a little calmer did he risk slowly putting his arms around her, pulling her gently to him. He wanted her hands free, to know if she would return his embrace or try to beat him back. But when he let her go and looked at her again, she seemed soothed and he let himself hope there was still a chance he could somehow manage to make this less like a rape. Tentatively he kissed her cheek, feeling her tears on his lips, tasting their salt. He tried to ask permission with his eyes, but how could she give it? He gave her the smallest, gentlest kiss he could, barely brushing her lips with his. Waited. Softly kissed again. Kissed with three kisses the length of her left brow, then her right, wanting to kiss every centimeter of her until she calmed, 'til she was soothed, comforted, felt loved.

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Soft. Wanting. He didn't dare hope, but he wanted, wanted so badly for her to want him when the time came. He gave her lips another soft kiss and almost whimpered when she kissed him back. Her mouth soft. Yielding. Then open. Seeking. Still soft and slow and careful he made his kiss deeper. Tasting her full lips, tasting her tongue. Breathing in her quavering breath. When he drew his hands slowly from her hair, lightly down her neck and back to hold her bare waist he felt her trembling and hoped arousal and anticipation were displacing her fear. When he sighed by her ear, kissed and licked and gently bit the tender lobe he heard her sigh, husky and low, and blood surged in his stiff prick. She made a different little noise then, and went stiff for a moment in his arms at the feel of his erection twitching against her. Maybe to assure him, she kissed his neck, a wet, rousing kiss that flooded his eager cock again. He kissed her mouth again, tenderly, but letting her feel his urgent excitement. She met it, answered it, and second by second he wanted her more, almost forgetting that he was Conrad's instrument, following Conrad's explicit, minute, mad orders. Pausing their kiss, leaning a little back, he gazed at her, trying to read her, caressing her face, hoping to reassure her. Then his fingers trailed slowly down, tracing her jaw, the contours of her throat, the architecture of her collar bones, along her smooth, soft skin, down, between her breasts. Like mirror images of one another his hands moved, his fingers so light on her skin as to just maintain contact as he traced the gentle curves of her breasts.

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Her already excited breath sped as she felt his touch, as she watched his eyes following the motion of his hands. Taking in the sight of her. Gently curving his huge hands over her breasts, warming them, taking in their softness, their shape, so firm and full, her nipples hardening enticingly against his palms. Wanting to know what it would do to her, he brought his gaze back to her eyes as he gently pressed her nipples against the sides of his index fingers with his thumbs. Her cheeks pinked beautifully, her eyes fluttered half-closed and she gave a sharp little gasp. Wave after wave of anxious pleasure rippled through her features as he subtly pulsed against her swelling nipples, then gently rolled, then just lightly pulled them, every movement small and delicate since the tiniest touch had such impact. Her lips were alluringly parted, her excited breath panting rapidly in and out, her pale brow furrowed, her expression one of mingled surprise and need. He hesitated. Bowed his brow to hers. Snuck a glance at the psycho. He'd have to.

His touch, his body pressed to hers, so large, so hard, but so warm, so graceful—everything about him and what he was doing had her soft, throbbing everywhere. Especially her sex, pressed against his; that thought amplified every sensation swallowing her body. Now and then she felt it stir against her—the hard, thick length of him—driving a thrill of arousal and fear into her. He'd bowed his head to hers. He'd kiss her. Or give her a look. Or… He leaned back and his hands slipped from her breasts, leaving them bare. To his gaze. To Conrad's. Her nipples full and hard with obvious arousal.

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Warm and gentle his hands girdled her waist, pulling her hips forward, pressing her harder against him. Stretched between the silk ties spreading her arms wide, and Vaughn's firm hold, her torso felt taut and long, and her modesty was utterly violated— her breasts thrust forward as she was forced to arch her back, her thighs splayed around Vaughn's hips, her naked sex sliding warm and wet against his each time either of them made the smallest movement. Keeping her immobile with a single arm crooked behind her waist he brought a hand to her nipple, and pressed it between thumb and forefinger. A bolt of jarring current surged from Vaughn's touch, electrifying her nipple, radiating through her body, settling with rippling aftershocks in her sex. Her face went hot and she gasped and helplessly writhed under Vaughn's touch, painfully aware how her squirming made her slick cunt grind over Vaughn's erection, how Vaughn must have felt it, how it must have looked to Conrad watching them from his corner. Vaughn pinched her other nipple, and she was hardly any better able to control herself as another unbearable, delicious jolt shot through her. He'd stopped. Just looking at her, at her face, flushed with arousal and embarrassment, his gaze driving down, to her bare breasts rising and falling with her heaving breath, her nipples so vivid and erect. She whimpered as he bent forward, his hard prick driving up against her wetness, and she felt the faintest touch of his lips on her breast, his hot breath moistening her nipple in panting gusts. Her sex contracted with sudden fresh arousal as the wet tip of his tongue grazed the very peak of her nipple. Another tiny wet brush of his tongue, another excruciating, wonderful spasm in her sex. When his mouth closed

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on her nipple, when the hungry pulses of sucking pressure tugged at it, drew in between his lips for his firm wet tongue to lathe, she whimpered and shuddered, and went on gasping for breath and moaning as he licked and sucked the sensitive tip of her breast, wondering if he knew how close she was to climaxing. Releasing her nipple, wet from his mouth and harder, darker than ever, Vaughn leaned back again, looking at her. She was torn between relief and humiliation, knowing her arousal was apparent, that Vaughn could easily see what he was doing to her. He looked down, and her eyes followed. The sight of his cock pressing against her belly startled her, somehow, even though she'd looked at it so long and so closely earlier that day, even having had it in her mouth. Now, even with her body stretched out long and taut, seeing the length of his erection reaching from where the base of it nestled between the wet folds of her sex, well up to her navel where the swollen lavender head pressed, she went hot with fresh panic. It couldn't—could not—fit inside of her. She watched as it slowly retreated, felt it gliding warm and firm against a million seeking sensitive nerves between her legs, and she bit her lip to stop from pleading with poor Vaughn when he had no say either. Fixated in fear she went on watching, and groaned out loud as it bowed back upward, teasing her clit with a long slow stroke instead of threatening to enter her. Slowly he played over her singing nerves, up, then down, fretting her swollen clit, arousing and embarrassing her, the way he watched her face as she whimpered and sighed through the overwhelming pleasure. When his hands slid down to cradle her ass, when he leaned in, again a blow of sudden fear struck with the promise of imminent penetration, but instead she felt his

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mouth on her again, kissing her breast, and the mingling sensations of his tongue swathing and flicking her nipple, and his stiff prick sliding back and forth along her wet slit had her flexing and arching and writhing and whimpering against all her efforts at being quiet and still. She was near tears, and almost sure it was for pleasure and want, a mounting, desperate need to come, rather than fear. His hips were pivoting, slowly, subtly, between her thighs, like fucking, but not inside, as the pulsing pull of his mouth on her nipple had her writhing against her bonds, against his firm grip. She was going to…any second… He stopped. Chill air tickled her wet nipple, her sex throbbed against his suddenly still, stiff prick. He gave her a tiny, tender kiss at the corner of her upper lip. He was looking at her so sweetly, she almost felt as though he were inside of her—like he felt her fear, her aching need, and she felt his. She wanted her arms free so she could cradle his face in her hands, pull him to her, kiss away the worried furrow between his eyebrows. She wished she could tell him she was ready, even if she wasn't. He held her gaze and she felt how he trembled as he pulled her close and his hips tilted back a few inches. She felt the length of his shaft sliding down along her moist creases, then caught her breath as she sensed the head of his prick pressing against her. Seeking entry. Stiff, still, she waited. One arm holding her tight against his chest, Vaughn's other hand coaxed a little tilt from her hips, his hips subtly shifted in answer. She listened to his strained breathing, knowing how he must be straining to be slow. Gentle. Careful. A dull, insistent pressure grew where his hardness pulsed, slightly upward, relented, returned,

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slow but determined. He was opening her, getting slowly, gradually inside, the dull pressure sharpening to pain as he pushed past the barrier of her virginity. When she flinched and gasped he looked hurt, went stark still, panting. It wasn't so much pain, she wished she could tell him, wished she could calm, be lax, take him in with a sigh and a soft smile. She looked at him, trying to show she was all right. They held one another's gazes and with a few final firm pushes he was inside her. A torrent of sensation washed over her. Her aching need answered, him, his hard length suddenly filling her, a swirl of hot pleasure mingled with pain. A small sharp pain at the center of swelling aching delight, her sex constricting in a throbbing grip around him. God, he was inside of her. Not a virgin anymore. He was still, deep inside of her, holding her, their chests pressed close, their panting falling almost into synch. He kissed her cheek, her ear, her hair. Met her eyes once more and in tiny, subtle motions began to move, inside her, against her. Hardly any pain. She'd expected more. The shock was how much she felt him inside of her. Moving inside of her. The way Conrad had touched her had not prepared her for this. So filled. So connected. Together. She felt...with him. And it felt fucking amazing. Her fear ebbed away and her pain died with it and hot need rose up urgent and fierce as she sought him with her body. Strange discomfort that was a form of pleasure she'd never guessed at. Deep. Moving. Touching her insides. Stirring her. A sensation so intense it was like a warning of pain, but one that made her push herself against him seeking more. She didn't realize how she was writhing with him until she saw that he didn't look so scared anymore, that he was

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searching her face for something other than permission or forgiveness. Their eyes connected she felt a flood of joy wash over her dawning relief and building pleasure. She smiled. A flicker of an irrepressible, true smile that, for the first time since Conrad had found them, wasn't designed to ease Vaughn's fear and guilt. At that instant Vaughn's whole body changed from rigid, pained restraint as he softened and gave himself over to her. His body was hot. Hard. Almost still, save his panting and trembling. She was rigid with her body's aching need to feel him move, her sex pulsing around his hard thickness, seeking his next thrust. He watched her look of fear melt to tenderness and want, and he ached with relief. Then her look went hot and hungry and her whole body seemed to soften, to seek him. Holding her gaze, his fingers in her hair, he began to move, his body against hers, seeking her hot depths. She groaned with each pulse of his hips between her thighs, pressing up against him. He'd had her so close to the edge before he'd entered her she was already back at the brink, every deep, slow thrust promising imminent, ultimate pleasure. His hot skin glided smooth against hers, the scent of their bodies mingled, his low panting moans whispered to her. Any second she was going to…so good, so, so good. She had almost forgotten Conrad, forgotten to feel ashamed of her excitement, her enjoyment. Every pulse of his hips got a moan in answer as his full, hard length moved deep into her, as his groin brushed against, pressed her clit, made her shudder as the flood of overwhelming pleasure swept over her. Then he'd wait, letting her savor the diminishing ripples of

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each wave of sensation. Then he'd draw slowly back, millimeter by millimeter, and she'd feel cool air on her sweaty skin, feel the sweet fullness of him leaving her empty. An almost desperate need would rise in her, and she'd fret, anxious for the moment he'd press himself to her again, drive his cock into her. He's fucking me. Vaughn's fucking me, she thought. The image, the internal verbalization of what he was doing to her doubled the thrill of it all. She whimpered, felt on the verge of tears with the aching need for the climax she felt just out of reach. Almost as if he was keeping it from her. His eyes were right with her, watching every change on her face, reading her. Taking her up against the edge, taking her back with him, over and over. Fuck, she wanted. Wanted. Every groan was a plea, begging him to end the torment, the need. He shifted, one hand palming her ass, holding her hard to him, their noses nearly touching, eyes locked, breathing in each other's sighs, and hit a rhythm, subtle, pulses on a beat, hitting her clit, hitting her deepest depth on every tiny thrust, and suddenly the tight knot of heavy pleasure came undone, and her sex, her belly, her whole body collapsed in spasms. He pulsed against her, thrust into her, and she cried out—a naked, unleashed cry of unendurable pleasure.

Relief. Almost happiness. He hadn't known if he, if she'd be able to, under the circumstances. God, she was so…Still inside her, he felt an ache to somehow be closer to her.

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Through it all she'd held his gaze, let him see her after she'd let her mask of stoicism slip, let him see her fear, her pain, her arousal, her pleasure, her naked need, then her submission, the obliteration of pretense and safety as she'd succumbed to her climax, and then that sweet vulnerability that comes after. Devan. Dev. Now he'd have to. He wanted to, more than anything he could think of at the moment. And he'd have to. It felt selfish. Wrong. But the moment he moved against her he felt her straining toward him, her body seeking his, and he almost forgot his guilt. It wouldn't take much. He'd been straining to hold back almost since he'd entered her. He'd wanted her, differently but overwhelmingly, since that first day. And those days together felt like months, months of yearning need. Now he was inside her, her body hot and damp against him, her eyes seemingly watching his face for pleasure now as he'd been watching hers, and even the tiniest movement made her catch her breath, her bottom lip quivering, making him soft, and hard and hot all at once.

The feeling of him inside of her was different now that she'd come, Unbearably sensitive, terribly uncomfortable, but in a way that made her seek him needfully. He had stopped, held her still and close through her climax, and after. Now he was moving, slowly, and every tiny movement, away, then driving slowly back inside, made her pant and writhe. His face. So different now. New torment. His need. His eyes seeking hers, revealing, vulnerable.

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His whole body trembling, flexed and quivering against her. His broad chest heaving though he was barely moving. Forehead pressed to hers, his fingers deep in her hair, their breath breezing over each other's faces she felt his body go rigid, felt one sudden deep thrust as he pressed himself hard against her, heard his long, low groan, a look like bewilderment in his eyes. She could feel it! The pulsing of his cock deep inside her as he came. Totally amazed she listened with her whole body to Vaughn's climax—his groaning breath, his quivering body, how his arms, his hands were holding her so tight, his seeking eyes, his cock twitching deep within her. Kiss, yes, kiss, His mouth on hers now was so good. Warm and sweet. She wished she could hold him, stroke his hair, his back, his arms. Caress his face. The kissing stopped. Why did he look that way? Startling, the feeling of him sliding out of her. Her sudden emptiness. The chill of cold air on her hot, damp skin as he let her out of his arms, backed away, slipped from the bed. Back to the chair by the door. And then she watched with dawning horror as he latched the cuff locked to the iron pipe down on his wrist. She couldn't look, couldn't look. His footsteps approaching from the chair in the corner, slow, steady, closer and closer. "Devan." She forced her eyes up, to the sight of Conrad looming over her with his familiar grin of anticipation.

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NINE: Cat and Mouse

Conrad wanted very badly to press a tender kiss to her forehead, and he'd started to bend over her to do just that. But she was looking at him…well, with real horror. He'd not seen that look of mingled terror and revulsion since she'd come to in the car, when she'd first realized he was abducting her. So, instead of pressing his lips to her brow, as he wanted, he tried to calm her with a tender smile. "Shhhh. I'm just going to loosen these." Conrad opened the silk noose around her right wrist, then her left, and gently set her arms down at her sides. Hardly any marks. Just a tad pink. "Get up, Devan darling. Here." When she stood he wrapped her in a finely crocheted throw of Vaughn's, and led her out, closing the door softly behind them, not failing to notice, of course, Vaughn's fretful and unabashedly threatening look. He guided her into the bathroom, then pulled that door to. "All right, love?" He hadn't managed to sound quite as light as he'd intended. She studied his face a moment, then nodded. "Good girl." Now that she was untied and off the bed that look of horror had faded. He cradled her face in his hands, and she let him, and didn't pull away when he pressed a kiss to the warm crown of her head, her hair soft against his lips.

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"Let's run you a warm bath, shall we?" He opened the hot water faucet and stoppered the tub when the water started steaming. Then, for a makeshift bubble bath uncapped the big bottle of shampoo on the edge of the tub and poured a measure out under the steaming stream of water. A cursory search, during which he pocketed a couple sharp objects, satisfied him there was no reason not to give her a bit of privacy. "Go on love, get in. I'm just going to uncuff Vaughn and let him get dressed. Take your time." He left her standing beside the steaming, foaming tub, huddled nude beneath her wrap of beige angora, gazing after him with a most peculiar expression.

Much later, when she'd finished bathing, she opened the bathroom door. Conrad promptly rose from the armchair by the fire and came to her. "Come along, Devan. Let's get you to bed." She went cold and rigid with fear as he took her arm, afraid of the meaning behind his words. He drew her into the bedroom, turned down the covers, and coaxed her into bed. Like a parent he tucked her in, pulling the covers up close by her chin. She let out a long, silent sigh of relief. But then he lied down beside her, his head propped on one hand, his other hand settled lightly on her belly. She froze in fear once more. She wouldn't look at him, stared desperately straight above her, at the ceiling, but she thought she heard him chuckle, low, soft. He moved closer against her, the lengths of their bodies touching through the bedding, his face on the pillow beside her.

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"Sweet Devan," he sighed. "Not a virgin any longer." After everything, how could five words, the simple truth, make her blush so hot? A blush she felt through her whole body. Conrad's hand lifted from her belly. His delicate fingers gently brushed her hair back from her face, traced her hairline, her eyebrows, brushed over her lips as she panted, trying to be calm, trying to be still. "Your Vaughn is quite something. In spite of everything, he did manage to take you very gently. Didn't he?" The expected manifesto on Vaughn, on her and Vaughn, never came. Conrad kissed her warmly on the cheek, rose, cuffed her wrist to the headboard, and just as she was about to go crazy with revived fear, quietly left the room, closing the door behind him.

Hearing Devan's door close and Conrad's footfalls receding in the direction of the living room, Vaughn's whole body—every strained muscle and sinew, his lungs, his ears—collapsed in sudden, desperate relief. Conrad hadn't…" But he had. God. Dev. Poor Dev. Sitting there, cuffed to his headboard, Vaughn felt his façade of stoicism dissolve in a sudden flood of tears. Never in his life had he so longed to be kind, to be tender and gentle with someone as he had with her. Sweet Devan who he'd held, trembling, fighting back tears, and forced onto the bed, who he'd bound, whose virginity he'd just taken By force. He'd terrorized and hurt her, this girl he loved so much. He did. He loved her.

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Silently he cried until he was exhausted, finally sinking down in the bed. What would happen next? Tomorrow? Maybe Conrad would disappear. Go away, now that he'd stripped Devan of her virginity. Not likely, but Vaughn comforted himself with the fantasy. A soft knock on his door in the morning. Devan, a key in her hand. Cuffs unlocked. "He's gone," she'd say. "I'm so sorry, Devan," he'd say. "Shhhh." Devan perched on his thighs as they held each other in hazy morning light, their bodies warm and soft and naked. Her face before him, the only thing in frame, filling his eyes with her strange beauty, smiling, eyes happy and adoring. "You were so gentle. It was good." And her saying it made it so. All his guilt and fear melted away, and he felt happy and full of love. "Be with me again," she sang, her voice like a low note on a violin, and he was inside her, their bodies pressed close, their arms wrapped tight. Everything warm and light and gentle and good. "I love you, Vaughn. I love you. I love you. I love you." Sometime later he woke, panting, sweating, his body taut and fierce. His hard-on and the images from his dream lingered. Her, outside, running. Like the night he found her. Just out of reach. His want goading him. Her arm frail in his grip, her body light as he dragged her toward the cabin, her screams, her pleas like a siren's song urging him on. The stump in the yard—the chopping block. Her, bending under his force, her body hot and trembling beneath him.

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The following morning Conrad rose from the sofa by the fire, where he had slept and where, since waking, he'd lain, thinking. Buzzed, nearly, with a head full of fresh notions and certainties, he went to the room where Devan had spent the night. Quietly he opened the door and peered in. She was awake, sitting up, one hand resting on her lap, the other down at her side, cuffed to an iron bar. Conrad sat down next to her on the bed and freed her wrist. She looked particularly lovely to him at that moment, her black hair tousled, her expression soft with sleep, the covers pulled up high under her arms for warmth. For modesty. He contemplated her with a degree of satisfaction. And with a tinge of regret. "Sleep all right?" "Yes." Her voice was soft but terse. As he drew closer she looked…hard. Like she'd be hard and cold if he should choose to take her now. He could smell her skin, her hair as he leaned in so she'd feel the moist heat of his breath, and now and then the faintest brush of his lips against her pale pink, downed earlobe as he whispered. "What do you think, sweet Devan—now that you've been…intimate with Vaughn, are you less mine? Or more?" He leaned back to take in her indignant glare. Adorable. "Hungry?" An apathetic shrug. "Don't be silly, Devan. You must be famished. Come on, I've made breakfast."

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Poor Vaughn was there already, bound to his chair, watching her intently as Conrad led her to the table, seated her directly across from her fellow prisoner. Devan gave him a lingering, soft smile, promising him she was all right, and he seemed to return it. In a strange way she felt they were connected in that moment, holding each other warm and safe. "Go ahead, Devan. Help yourself." "What about Vaughn?" There was a plate in front of him, but both his hands were bound to the chair. "I'll see to him." Conrad pulled a chair up next to Vaughn, spread a napkin over his captive's thigh, and picked up the fork that lay beside his plate. "What do you fancy? A bit of cantaloupe to start?" Conrad speared a piece of fruit and held the fork by Vaughn's lips. "Conrad…" Her voice came out low and it wavered with a new angry feeling. Conrad turned to her attentively. "Can't you just untie one of his hands?" "I would, Devan, but I just don't think it's prudent. I'm not keen on the thought of getting a fork the eye, and I'm afraid that, although your Vaughn performed admirably last night, we're still working through some trust issues." She was livid. Shaking. The idea of Conrad spoon feeding Vaughn like an infant…

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"It's all right, Devan." Vaughn's voice was unfathomably mellow. "If he wants to tie me up and pretend I'm helpless so he can play nursemaid, let him." He took the piece of fruit from the fork in Conrad's hand, calmly chewed, and swallowed. When he'd had a few bites of cantaloupe Vaughn evenly said, "May I have some eggs, please?" and Conrad replied, "Certainly," and fed him eggs and a few bites of toast until Vaughn was full, then sat down and ate his own meal. "Would you mind clearing the table, Devan?" Conrad asked when they'd all eaten. She stood, gathered up the dishes and went slowly to the kitchen. Slowly, because she was trying to decide if she could possibly get hold of a knife, somehow get Vaughn untied… "Just put them on the counter and come back, Devan. "I'll do the washing up later." He'd stood, and was watching her intently. Of course. She set the dishes down and returned to the table. Conrad had taken her seat. "Come here." She stepped up to his outstretched hand, let him guide her down, in front of him, on the seat of the chair opposite Vaughn. She felt the weight of his chin on her shoulder, felt his cheek against hers, and knew he was staring at Vaughn, watching his reaction, the fear bubbling through his stoic facade. "Tell us, Devan." Conrad's lips faintly tickled her ear. "Do you feel different this morning? After Vaughn's fucked you?" Vaughn's jaw twitched. "Yes."

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"How so, darling?" She held Vaughn's gaze. "I'm less afraid now." "Less afraid of what, darling?" "Of you, Conrad." She'd meant to sound brave, but wasn't sure she'd pulled it off. "And why is that?" "If you rape me now, it won't mean as much." "Are you sure, darling?" She was sure. But now she doubted, suddenly, with a sickening, miserable doubt. She wasn't a virgin anymore. But she'd been with Vaughn. Now that was what she didn't want taken. Bruised. Dirtied. "Hmmm?" Fucker. Did he ever let a question go unanswered? "Yes." Damn, why did her voice sound so weak? So broken? "No. I didn't think so." Then, the seductive lilt suddenly gone from his voice, he said, "Tell me, Vaughn. Which is your favorite of Devan's features?" Conrad's touch tickled over her ear, her jaw, her throat, then played along the low scoop of the fabric between her shoulder blades, raising goose flesh all over her body. Then he was kissing her neck with the faintest, most stirring little kisses just by her hairline, sending a cascade of tingles down, down, down. "Hmmm? And for pity's sake, don't say 'her soul' or any of that sort of drivel." "I don't know," Vaughn answered softly, with no detectable note of bitten-back resentment.

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She could hardly take looking at him when Conrad was touching and kissing her, but when she braved a glance at him, Vaughn calmly caught and held her gaze. She couldn't guess what he was thinking, but somehow his look always comforted. "I know what you mean," Conrad let his lips lift from her skin. "Everything is so pretty, and so, so sensitive. Her delicate little ears, her graceful neck, her lovely, pale breasts…" Over the loose, sheer fabric of her gown Conrad lightly traced the contours of her breasts with his fingertips. "…with their dark, eager nipples, so quick to swell, to stiffen." Rubbing the hardening peaks through her garment, circling them, then cradling and faintly squeezing her breasts, in short seconds Conrad had her panting, quivering. "And then, of course, her sweet little cunt." His hand slipped down to her lap. "Spread your legs a little for me, Devan." His hand slipped between her thighs the moment a gap permitted. Over her panties he teased her, sliding a finger or two slowly down and slowly up again. Then, very softly, very sweetly, as if he really cared, he murmured, "I'll be very gentle, darling, in case you're a bit tender after last night." Back and forth, slow and taunting, his fingers teased her, first gliding lightly over the silky fabric of her panties, then slowly rubbing the slippery silk over her slippery slit. His other hand cupped and caressed her breast, only now and then teasing her hard nipple, letting her feel just a hint of his finger brushing over the very tip, or the faintest little squeeze. She clenched her jaw, resentful of this familiar feeling.

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"I wonder what you wish right now, Devan love," he whispered. Could Vaughn hear? "Do you wish I'd stop?" His fingers went still, then abandoned her. She felt a throbbing ache where his touch had been a moment ago, and she caught herself hoping he'd touch her again. When his fingers brushed against her again, still agonizingly lightly, it was hard not to groan out loud. "Or do you wish I'd slip my hand inside your knickers, slip my finger inside of you and make you come?" His fingers kept working on her, making her cunt and her nipples ache for a firmer touch. "Or do you wish I'd make him fuck you again?" Vaughn's face twitched slightly, and a humiliated blush burned her face. "Or have him go down on his knees, under the table, and lick you?" The sound of Conrad's voice, his words, his teasing touch, the heat of his body, and, worst of all, the sight of Vaughn looking on, watching it all, had her warming and softening like butter in sunshine. Why couldn't she be hard? Cold? Why did the revolting things Conrad did always make her so…so…how could she be so close already? "Oh, darling, you're quite something. I'm hardly even touching you, and you're almost ready to come, aren't you?" That heavy, aching pleasure was swelling, swelling, ready to burst in her. Vaughn was watching, now, it seemed, with a look of anticipation that said he knew, saw from her face that she was going to, and a fresh flush of embarrassment burned over her flush of pleasure. But just when she thought the next subtle stroke of Conrad's

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finger would release her, undo all those tense cords of anticipation binding and suspending her, he stopped, lifted his finger from her swollen, throbbing clit, and she bit her lip because she'd almost groaned out loud in frustration. She forced herself to relax the brow she realized had been furrowed in needful anticipation, tried to deepen and smooth her breathing. But then he started again, as soft and teasing as before, his touch only at the edge of perception, instantly driving her right back to the edge. She fought not to whimper, not to writhe against his teasing finger that held back, held her back. Fuck. Fuck, she needed to come. Almost past caring that Vaughn would see. There was just want. Need. "What do you think?" Conrad purred, "Shall I go on? Or shall I stop?" She opened her mouth and his hand—the hand that had been toying with her swollen, tingling nipple—clamped down on her answer. "Sorry, darling," he said, still teasing her cunt with his finger, his hand still keeping a firm grip on her silence, "I was speaking to Vaughn." Poor Vaughn. He looked horrified. Terrified. Again. Fucking Conrad. Why couldn't he leave Vaughn alone? Bad enough, making him watch this…spectacle. The look of horror softened. "I don't speak for her." His voice was low. Calm. "Of course not. What would you like, Vaughn? Shall I let the dear girl finish? Or no?"

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"Get your fucking hands off her!" Vaughn wanted to scream. "Let her go! Get the fuck away from her! Get out!" But as he opened his mouth, his certainty slipped away. Did he want that for her sake? Or his own? "Well, Vaughn?" "Ask her," he finally managed without losing all control. "I'm asking you Vaughn." He couldn't. It seemed so easy, obvious, as the question had left Conrad's mouth. Devan didn't want this. Stop it. But a moment later he didn't know anymore. He hated Conrad touching her like that, forcing her. But did she? Really? He couldn't believe his doubt. Hated it. But her journal. The things she'd said to him. Something in her look when Conrad took hold of her, touched her… "Until you answer me Vaughn, I'm going to keep touching her. But I won't let her come. It's up to you to put an end to it, one way or the other." What if he told him to stop? She'd suffered everything already—the touches, the coercion, the embarrassment. What if she wanted it? That small reward after enduring everything else? It was what she'd chosen, back at the other cabin. In the end, without knowing why, he answered out of a fear he didn't understand, or even suspect. "Let her." "Let her what, Vaughn?" "Let her come." Conrad's triumphant smile was grossly indecent. "Here that, love? Vaughn wants you to come."

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Vaughn was queasy with sudden guilt as he watched Conrad go on touching her, his hand still clamped over her mouth. But, once again, in spite of everything, he was hard, hot, almost panting, the scene between Devan and Conrad, and even his role in it, had him so aroused. Just a few seconds later she shuddered hard and a strained, muffle cry seeped out from under Conrad's hand. Vaughn didn't know, after, if he'd betrayed her, or assented to what she'd wanted. "Since you were so generous to Devan," Conrad's loathsome, purring voice broke in on Vaughn's self-torment, "I think it's only fair you should get to have a bit of fun, yourself." Conrad was grinning at him over Devan's shoulder as he finally took his hand from her mouth. "Name your pleasure, Vaughn." The pit of Vaughn's belly went cold as he allowed himself to understand where Conrad was going next. "What would you like to do with our sweet Devan?" No fucking way. The things the fucker came up with. "Another blowjob? Or perhaps you'd like to fuck her again? Maybe try out her…other virginity?" Oh god. He couldn't. Even Conrad couldn't be so awful to her. "Come, come, Vaughn. Let's have your answer." "Fuck you."

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"I'm afraid I'm not on the menu, Vaughn. Though I might reconsider, if you keep talking dirty like that." Vaughn sat, silent and frozen with rage and terrible fear. Staring at Devan staring back at him, trying to keep her fear hidden from him. God, Dev. All the sweet things he felt for her seemed more potent, more poignant now. He'd been insider her. Her first. "Still waiting, Vaughn." Vaughn turned deliberately to Conrad. "I don't want anything from her. Not like this, you fucking monster." "No?" Conrad lifted Devan from his lap, rose, and coaxed her back down into the chair. Then he slinked over, behind Vaughn, put a hand on his shoulder, lips to his ear, his palm on his fierce erection. "But you're so hard. Are you quite sure there's nothing you want? Perhaps to play the monster, yourself, for once?" Vaughn was speechless with hate. With fear. Fear of something other than Conrad. "Oh, well. If you don't want to play, Devan and I shall have to manage without you. Don't worry, I know we'll have a lovely time, though I do think it would be more fun if you'd join in." With that Conrad's hand slipped from Vaughn's hard prick, and a moment later he was dragging Devan back into the bedroom, and closing the door. In a fit of sudden alarm Vaughn strained pathetically at the cuffs chaining him to the chair, until the futility of it sunk in. His terror slowly faded to a sickening anxiety. He hated it—Conrad cloistered behind that closed door with Devan. But Vaughn was rescued from the worst of his fear by the growing certainty that whatever it was Conrad planned to do with

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Devan, he'd do in Vaughn's presence. The head case got off on it—Vaughn's fear. And Devan's. She'd be afraid, on her own. But it was infinitely harder for her, he knew, with him witnessing it all. And that's how Conrad wanted it.

She hardly resisted as Conrad dragged her back to the bedroom. What was the point? It would only make it more awful for Vaughn, seeing her struggle futilely. She heard the door latch click to as her wrist slipped free of Conrad's grip. "Get on the bed, darling." Now. This was it. She couldn't move. Conrad took a step, closing the space between them, put his hands on her shoulders, and guided her back, until she felt the bed against the backs of her legs. Hopeless, she sank down. "Give me your hand." Her arm felt limp, like her body, but she lifted it, gave him her hand. From his pocket he brought forth a pair of handcuffs, and latched one bracelet closed on her wrist. "Please, Conrad," she sobbed, trying to be quiet so Vaughn wouldn't hear. "Please don't tie me. I won't fight. I promise." His hand on her shoulder, he slowly pushed her back, back, until she was lying down, then stretched over her and closed the other end of the cuffs on the headboard. Methodically, slowly, he climbed onto the bed, gently pushed her legs apart, knelt between them, and using his legs, pushed her further open. "Won't fight?" he cooed down to her. "No," she breathed, her heart tearing her chest apart.

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"Won't fight what, love?" "You." He drew forth another pair of handcuffs and held them dangling above her. "Give me your other hand, Devan." Physically, she didn't know how she did it, lifting her hand to him, holding it there as he clicked the cuff closed. If he'd released her wrists, told her she could go, that she could take Vaughn and go, she didn't think she'd even have the strength to sit up. The metal cuffs clanged against the headboard as he locked her second arm overhead. "If I uncuff you, darling, what will you let me do?" The frail hope that maybe he'd free her wrists brought on a sudden flood of tears that blurred his face looming over her, then trickled tickling down into her hair. "Anything," she whimpered. Why not? He could do anything he wanted, anyway, with her cuffed to the bed. Only it would be a thousand times more terrifying. "Such as?" Playing with her. Again. Let him. Just get him to take the cuffs off. "I'd let you," she almost said 'rape,' but edited, "fuck me." "Would you?" "Yes." "What else?' "I'd…use my mouth on you." She caught his disapproving look. Remembered how he hated her coy euphemisms. "I'd…suck your cock. Let you come in my mouth."

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"Mmmmm," he sighed, closing his eyes for a few seconds, then opening them, seeming to study her. "And would you spread your legs for me, nice and wide, and let me open this pretty little flower with my mouth, and taste you?" His finger brushed over the wet crotch of her underwear. "Yes." "Yes," he echoed back in a sigh. Then he smiled. "Such lovely images. They'll be with me all afternoon, dear Devan." He rose, pulled the covers up under her arms, and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him. It wasn't until he was gone, until Devan's terror began to ebb away that she felt the hot throb between her legs. What the fuck was wrong with her? He hadn't even really touched her.

When he returned to the kitchen Conrad saw from Vaughn's face that he'd succeeded in allowing enough time to elapse so that Vaughn couldn't be entirely sure Conrad hadn't taken his liberties—however hastily—at last. No reason to let him off the hook just yet. He gave Vaughn a teasing grin, then slipped around back of him and uncuffed one wrist, then dropped the key on the table in front of him and stepped carefully out of reach. "Come on, Vaughn. Let's get out of here for a bit. I'm going a tad stir crazy in the coziness of your little cabin." He watched as Vaughn cast a fretful glance toward the closed bedroom door. "She'll be all right. We won't be gone long."

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With the air of a man who hasn't any choice, Vaughn unlocked the cuff at his wrist, then untied his ankles and stood, obviously a bit stiff. "I shouldn't have left you tied up like that for so long. A bit of a walk will do you good." Conrad briefly waved the tranquilizer gun. "Just don't do anything annoying. I don't fancy having to drag your unconscious body back here." Off they went, into the woods, Conrad ever cautious to keep Vaughn at a safe distance. Vaughn never ceased to amuse. Conrad knew the man was ready to perish with anxious curiosity, not knowing what Conrad might have done to Devan while he'd had her alone in the bedroom. Still, he walked along in silence. "I'm curious, Vaughn. Why the gun?" "What?" What a nerve. Vaughn had almost sounded bored. "When you discovered Devan here, in your cabin. What was with the gun?" "You've read my entire fucking journal. What do you think was with the gun?" "Devan hadn't drugged you. She was here alone. What is she, half your size? Hmmm? What in bloody hell did you need a gun for? Were you trying to make the poor girl piss her pants?" Poor fellow was apoplectic. "I didn't want to hurt her." "Oh, Vaughn. You don't really believe that, do you?" Vaughn's eyes had gone red, his pale skin had paled another shade or two. "You remember, Vaughn. That's all you wanted. To hurt her. You don't have to tell me. You didn't have to write it in your diary. I know you. I know. After everything that

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happened to you, you found her, here, in your little secret hideaway, and everything in you wanted to hurt her. Wanted her to be worse than those others all put together, just so you could do to her what they'd done to you. Use her, with no regard for her as a person, to realize your darkest fantasies. With total justification." No defensive retort. "And that, Vaughn, is why it was so hard for you to let go of your delusions about her motives, even once you'd gotten to know her. Begun to trust her. To care for her. Why even after your tender interlude that night by the fire you managed to convince yourself she was just putting on some act, spying on you. Conrad actually hated to see him like that. But he was sure, just as he'd been sure with Devan, that Vaughn would have to face a certain amount of pain, face what he thought of as an ugly side of himself, before he'd be able to live fully and honestly. And before the real fun could begin. Conrad felt strangely drawn to Vaughn in that moment, a pale echo of the way he was drawn to Devan. They really were strangely alike. "The sad irony now is, you're so afraid of hurting her, you risk losing her." Conrad waited, but Vaughn made no protest. "You know it's true, don't you? It's not a protector she wants. Or some gentleman who'd just hold her hand for five years, leaving her a chaste virgin." "No danger of that, now." Poor Vaughn sounded more sad than angry. "No, but that's my doing, not yours. If you aren’t careful, Vaughn, at the end of all this, you'll have lost through tenderness what you briefly captured through brutality." Conrad had a notion that some little part of Vaughn knew it was true.

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"You fucked her last night. You tied her up, stripped her bare, and fucked her. Your innocent, frightened, virginal Devan." It looked as though every muscle had tensed, as though every tendon in Vaughn's body had gone taut. "I won't ask you if you enjoyed it, Vaughn. But, given your no doubt vast wealth of sexual experience, how would you say it was for Devan?" Judging by the set of Vaughn's jaw, a head on Mr. Rushmore was more likely to reply to that question. "Have you ever, in your whole life, had a woman so completely in your hands? I don't mean physically helpless. A man can tie a woman up, have her completely in his power, physically, and never manage to touch anything deeper than her skin. "But you had her. She was entirely yours. She gave herself over to you in a way she never could have in one of your romantic interludes by the fire. She was truly naked to you last night, and so you touched her more intimately, more profoundly, than you could have if you'd come to her…asking her permission." Conrad probed with his eyes until Vaughn finally looked back. "And I think you know it." Vaughn met Conrad's knowing gaze with a look at once sad and fierce. "I'll tell you what I know. Devan trusted me. I didn't deserve it. I hurt her when she was a stranger. I hurt her when she was a friend. And after everything, she gave me her trust again." His voice was breaking up. "And then you came, and made me hurt her again."

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"Get off it, Vaughn. Stop lying to yourself. You didn't hurt Devan. And she still trusts you." "She shouldn't." Conrad elected to ponder Vaughn's cryptic response, rather than prod further. He was fairly sure, in any case, that he had a good idea what it meant.

When Conrad returned to Devan, after he and Vaughn returned from the woods, after he'd gotten the reluctant suitor settled in the dining room, she looked at him strangely. He couldn't know, of course, just what it was she was thinking as those dusky eyes tracked him, but it seemed reasonable to hope that she was succumbing to his…little manipulations. And somewhere in that forest, as he'd walked guardedly alongside her lumberjack, he'd settled on his next move. And so, later that night, after they'd eaten, Conrad settled them all around the fire, enjoying their anxious anticipation after hours genial abstinence. Vaughn in the armchair, and Devan on the sofa. He was about to take his place beside her when a brilliant bit of inspiration struck. With a calm, "Pardon me one moment," he slipped over to the kitchen and poured a single glass of Cabernet and returned to the intimate little party. "Here, darling. Drink this. Take your time." He handed the glass to Devan, then seated himself beside her. Close enough to feel the heat of her body. She and Vaughn were looking at him with the expected expressions of anxious uncertainty. "Only me?" "Yes love, just you."

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"I don't want it," she said, not whispering, but her voice so nervous and low it was only just audible. "Drink it, Devan. It'll calm you." Cruel, that. But irresistible. Their faces—priceless. She tipped the glass to her lips. Conrad looked at Vaughn, let him futilely threaten with his eyes for a moment or two, then turned to Devan. And did something he'd never allowed himself to do. Touched her like a lover. Yes, yes, he'd touched her many times. Touched her body, teased and given pleasure. But all to a purpose. Never, not once had he indulged in the little touches of the sort that go on between two people who are intimate with one another. But now, their bodies touching, they were so close to one another on the sofa, with his fingers he delicately combed a few stray strands back from her face and then, in an almost absent-minded fashion, began fingering the lace hem of her short night dress. Already she'd gone all rigid and her breathing came in rapid, shallow gusts. "Drink you wine, darling." Staring straight ahead into the fire she tipped the glass back and took two big swallows, her hand noticeably shaking. He brushed his lips over the smooth skin of her pretty shoulder, then lifted his head and met Vaughn's threatening stare. "Just think, Devan. About this time last night, Vaughn was taking your virginity. This is really a kind of anniversary. I wonder what we might do to mark the occasion?" He nuzzled against her warm, fragrant hair and sighed, "Hmmm?" Feeling her body tremble against his, seeing Vaughn's chest begin to heave, Conrad fought back a grin. Leaving the both of them untouched since morning had them wound up to a delicious pitch.

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"I know what you're thinking, you naughty girl. But I've got something entirely different in mind. A nice, fireside chat." She looked nervously at Vaughn, then back to the fire. "I don't know if you realize it, but Vaughn and I have been having some rather heated discussions about…what shall we call it? Your true nature." She was drinking the wine now without his prompting. "As you can well imagine, Vaughn's perspective is rather different than mine. And, it isn't that he hasn't made some good points, but I just can't come around to his way of seeing things. And though I like to see myself as a broadminded fellow who can be persuaded to other's points of view, I can't help thinking that, where you're concerned, Devan, I'm something of an expert." "Don't misunderstand—I do value Vaughn's opinion. I fear, though, that he's at a disadvantage, because, though he's had the happy privilege of getting to spend a good deal of time with you, he hasn't had the benefit of knowing your most secret thoughts. Unlike me, all Vaughn's seen of you—" Conrad suddenly caught himself and laughed softly. "well, of your thoughts, that is—is what you've chosen to let him see." She knew what was coming. He could tell, the set of her mouth, the way she was staring ahead into that fire, the way her body had gone from trembling to rigid. "It seems unfair that I should have such an advantage. Don't you think, darling?" Her look of fearful resistance—her set jaw, her rigid posture—slowly settled into one of resignation. She took another big swallow of wine. Obviously, the thing to do is to let him in on your secret desires. Via one of your lovely stories. Not like the one he read last night, in preparation for you…deflowering."

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Again he laughed gently. "I know, and you know, that was just about the tamest thing you've ever written. And besides, I took out all the context and left him with nothing but action. And context is so important. Isn't it?" "I had a bit of trouble deciding which story he should read first. I actually managed to bring quite a few along, and they're all so arousing, and so enlightening. In the end I decided to go with this one…" he reached over the arm of the couch and plucked the little stack of paper from the end table where it had been in plain sight but apparently unnoticed since before dinner. "'…because…well, for now let's just say I've chosen it for reasons of my own." Devan didn't turn her head, but he caught her furtive, sidelong glance at the title at the top of the first page, and took in the way her brow furrowed and her breath suddenly quickened. True, it was one of her darker stories. But far from the most perverse. He couldn't imagine there was a single one that she wouldn't be mortified to have revealed to Vaughn. "Read it for us, Devan darling." One last little flinch as his words no doubt crushed a futile hope that he'd simply hand the document to Vaughn to read in comforting silence. He'd thought she'd protest, beg not to be made to read it aloud. He'd been certain that at the very least there'd be a tear or two. But Devan simply drank down the last of her glass of wine, handed him the empty vessel, and took the story from his hands. Knowing that in a strange way, his presence beside her was a kind of comfort, Conrad rose and reseated himself across from her, on the hearth beside the warm fire.

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Brave as she was being, the pages trembled noticeably in her shaking hands, and as she attempted to commence her reading, her voice cracked, and he knew she was struggling not to cry as she sat silent for a moment before clearing her throat and trying again. Conrad looked over to see Vaughn gazing at Devan with both sympathy and anticipation as she finally got the first sentence out in a quiet, wavering voice. "She resisted waking, but she was cold." Devan drew in a deep breath, looked at Vaughn for a long, silent moment, then read them her story.

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AWAKE

She resisted waking, but she was cold. And her arm was asleep. She tried to roll over, but something was wrong. Something didn't make sense. The pulling through her arms and torso. The cold pressure on her feet. Fuck, fuck, she wanted to wake up. Even knowing it was a dream, the way you do, it was too terrifying. She dreaded the next horrible moment her subconscious would conjure. And then, almost as if she'd brought it on with that terrifying moment of selfawareness someone stepped from the pitch of the shadows before her. She tried to change it. Go somewhere else. In her dreams she did that sometimes. Became conscious of her power to alter the setting, the action, the plot. But nothing was happening. He came closer. Yes, it was a man. His shape, his walk. A man. "Good. You're awake." She tried to shift her stance but her legs wouldn't cooperate. "Here." He squatted down and became just a black shape, somewhere between a circle and a square. Then she felt his hands on her ankles, pleasantly warm on her cold skin, and felt the soles of her feet press more firmly to the cold floor. The black shape rose up before her and turned back into a man. "You'll be all right in a few minutes. The drugs wear off fast."

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She really didn't like this dream. She rarely did this—even scary dreams and sad dreams were like intense alternate realities which she valued, no matter how ugly they got—but now she tried to wake herself up. "You can hear me all right, can't you?" "Yes," she heard herself mumble, which was confusing because she hadn't meant to answer. "Thought so. Your eyesight and your muscle control just take a little longer. You'll be yourself in another minute or two." His voice was calm. Cool. Detached. She tried to make her eyes focus. Tall. He was tall. Pale. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Now she felt him against her, and willed her dream not to be a rape. His fingers combed into her hair and he began talking to her in a soft voice. "In a moment you're going to realize what's going on. And you're going to be scared. So listen to me. I brought you here just for one thing. And when I've done that one thing, I'm going to let you go. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to kill you. Do you understand?" Now that she was standing and they weren't bearing her weight any longer, her wrists ached. Bending and straightening her elbows she felt the familiar pain of a joint punished by prolonged hyperextension. She felt the man's breathing—warm moist breath in her hair, his chest swelling rhythmically against her. She was awake. "Shhhh, shhhhh," the man hissed in her ear, his arms winding around, constricting her, pinning her against his too-hot body as she collapsed in shrieking sobs,

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once more dangling from the ropes secured to her wrists. "Shhhhh. You won't be hurt. In two or three hours, you'll be back in your bed. I promise." His anaconda arms slowly released her, and the man stepped a pace away from her. Slowly he began circling her, letting his eyes and his hand wander over her body. "Please," she sobbed, "please don't do this." Ceasing to circle his prey, he came to a stop behind her, pressed himself to her, reaching around to cup a breast with one hand while his other slid down against her stomach and curved against her sex. "I'm sorry, lover. All my life I've wanted to know the feeling of having absolute power over someone as I fucked them. You get to go home after I find out." Again his hands slipped away as he circled back before her. "But…you…" she was gulping air through her sobs, "look at you," she choked out, desperate to reason with him, "you don't need to…God, it must be easy for you to…" "To what? Get laid? Sure, hon', but that's not what this is about." He leaned in close, whispered in her ear, "It's about experiencing something different." He leaned back an inch or two, took in her look of terror, then looked down at her breasts. She was wearing the little white tank top she'd worn to bed. He hooked his index fingers behind the spaghetti straps and slowly, firmly pulled down, and inch by inch the front of the top sank down, the pale swells of her breasts, her nipples, hard in the cold, coming slowly into view until finally the neckline of the tank top settled under her breasts. She felt more lewdly exposed than if he'd torn her shirt off and left her torso bare.

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She thought of biting. Of kicking. Sure she could really hurt him. Make him bleed. Make him scream. But it wouldn't stop him. After, he'd only be angry. She'd still be bound. At his mercy. His breathing quickened as he looked at her, aroused, it seemed, by her bare breasts, by her tears, her fear. His eyes flickered up and down between her tits and her face as he brought his hands to her, cupping her soft, tender flesh, running his thumbs along the undersides, taunting her, coming close again and again but never touching her nipples. His look of aroused anticipation answering her expression of dread expectation. "Don't worry, lover. I'm not going to fuck you like a dog on a bitch in heat, all hard and frenzied. I'm going to take my time. Let you really feel everything." His hands were off her tits now, slinking up under her tank top, slithering over her waist, gliding over her belly, her ribs, up her spine, down again, down beyond the elastic waist of her pajamas, palming her ass, the backs of her thighs, sliding forward, up, his fingertips trilling up over her pelvis, her belly. Touching everywhere, but touching nothing. A kind of vicious promise. The cold embraced her as he backed off, and she felt her pajamas and underwear sliding down, over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees and calves. He left them heaped around her ankles. "Please," she sobbed one last, futile time. The way he closed his eyes and sighed, as if her plea had aroused him more than the sight of her naked body, almost made her retch. She didn't beg again.

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He locked his determined eyes on hers, and she thought he was going to kiss her, he came in so close, his hot breath on her lips. But he just stayed liked that as his two big hands curved around her breasts. This time his thumbs found her nipples, and as he watched her he began rubbing them. She hated that it felt the same, that her body didn't know the difference between this rapist's touch and a lover's. She tried to keep her face blank but she knew he could see that she was feeling. Their panting breaths parried. His hands drew in, capping the peaks of her breasts, then drew back. He caught her nipples between his fingers, pinched them, soft, then harder, then so hard she whimpered. When he took his hands away her nipples throbbed, hard and full, and she realized with a resentful pang that the throb he'd created in her nipples was reverberating in her sex. He leaned in, his slightly raspy voice low. "Is that little cunt of yours getting wet?" Then he pulled back to see the expression on her face. She tried to hide everything--her embarrassment, her hatred, her arousal. Let him. Let him touch her. Rape her. She wasn't going to help him get off by crying and screaming and begging. He could go fuck himself. "Hmmm?" He stooped and caught her nipple in his mouth, squeezing her breast with his hand so all the tender flesh was taut against his lips. Her core went hot as he began to suck eagerly at her tit, pulling her throbbing nipple into his mouth and releasing it again and again, her other breast still imprisoned in his other hand, her hard nipple poking out into the cold night air until he turned to it and slid the warm, wet surface of his tongue

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against it, letting it feel the cold all the more as he went back to suck her other nipple again. Then he straightened up until their eyes were level. "Let's check on that pussy and see." One hand went on tormenting her nipple as the other hand abruptly curved against her sex, a finger working its way up, between her lips, seeking her opening. The length of his finger slid unceremoniously into her with mortifying ease. "Fuck, that's a slick little cunt, lover." His finger slipped out and he came back into her with two fingers, watching her face the whole time. "This…sweet…little cunt," he huffed as he banged her…"is gonna feel fucking great…around…my cock…when…I…fuck…you." His words excited her fear. "But first, lover, I want to feel your pussy quivering around my fingers as I make you come." No way. She wouldn't let him. Fuck him. She'd always had to make it happen, thinking certain things. He couldn't just make her. He'd see. "I know you don't want that…" With a sudden, deep thrust the fingers that had been slowly sliding in and out of her wrenched an involuntary gasp from her. "…that you want to fight me…" His fingers plunged into her again. "…but I think…"

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As his fingers slipped out of her he dragged his thumb over her clit, and she grunted, angry, desperate. "…you're going to lose." He finger fucked her, two digits thrusting in and out hard and deep, his thumb rubbing maddeningly at her clit. Too much. Too fucking much. She hated being touched like that—that concentration of sensation bordering on pain. Let him. Let him fucking hurt her. Better, easier that way. But then, fuck, no, fuck, she was coming before she even realized. Fuck, coming hard. Her cunt, her belly, her whole body shuddering around those three hated fingers touching her. She screamed her hate, her anger, her climax, tears streaming down her face. "Mmmm," he sighed revoltingly, thrusting into her a couple more times, wringing a few more spasms from her quivering body. "Baby likes a good, hard fuck, doesn't she?" His fingers slid out of her, leaving her throbbing cunt empty. "You know, lover," he whispered against her ear, "you've got the juiciest little snatch I've ever had." She looked down and watched as he undid his pants and took out his hard dick, pistoning it in and out of his fist once, leaving it gleaming with her slick juice. The sight of it horrified her. It looked so…meaty. Raw. So revoltingly biological. He took in her look of disgust and smiled. "My turn."

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He took a step toward her and she clenched her jaw, refusing to scream, to give him any more pleasure than he could get from her limp, silent body. It was all she could do. From the shadows just to the side of her he maneuvered a weird little piece of furniture that made no sense to her until she saw it's mate materialize from the other side of her. What were they? Sawhorses? With leather straps screwed down. He bent down, grabbed her knee and her ankle, and lifted her shin onto the platform, strapping them down. Then he did her other leg. "Now isn't that a pretty picture?" She knelt before him, spread wide, her pelvis elevated precisely to the height of his. Sick fucker. He raked his gaze over her, up from her conveniently exposed cunt, over her bared breasts, to her face. He went on watching her as he unhurriedly stripped off his clothes. She hated that his body was young. Strong. Lean. She wanted her disgust to be pure. Total. Without another word or gesture he stepped between her splayed thighs, took hold of his hard cock, and slid into her. "Mmmmm," he sighed, "such a warm, close embrace." Nothing touched except his dick in her cunt as he slid it slowly out then slowly in again. A sickening feeling, that sliding of meat on meat. It was almost better when he put his arms around her and squished her body against his, because it blurred that other feeling. "Your cunt…" he sighed as he drove his hips between her thighs, "…feels like a tight, wet fist. Pumping my hard cock."

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As he thrust into her, again and again, harder, deeper each time, the place where they were filled up with sounds, all the noises ricocheting off the walls she sensed were close, bombarding her ears. His panting. His raspy, grunting panting. The flesh of their sweaty thighs clapping. The wet sound of his cock pistoning in and out of her cunt. Her own ragged breath gusting through her clenched teeth. He stopped. Leaned back. Looked at her. Still, studying her face for long, silent seconds. Then, still inside her, he gripped her legs, at the backs of her thighs, just above where her knees were strapped down to those sawhorses, and dragged her and the props forward. Her arms, still tied to something overhead, kept her shoulders back, so now she was forced to lean back. His eyes roamed over her, locking on her tits as he started fucking again. Spread fingers grasped her ass, gripping as he rammed his cock into her again and again, as he bent and took a nipple in his mouth, sucking, gently at first, then nipping, making her whimper when she wanted to be silent, sucking hungrily, making her whine, almost sob as he fucked her. "Don't come yet, lover. We're just getting started." While her rage and indignation burned he descended on her other breast, teasing her nipple with his tongue, slowly circling, prodding, strumming, then finally sucking it between his lips, tugging at it as it hardened in his mouth. Nursing. Suckling. Sending waves of loathsome feeling into her cunt to mingle with the feeling of his reaming cock. Then his mouth was off her. His gripping hands went soft, caressed her ass, slid over her hips and down the fronts of her thighs as he slipped out of her. Repulsed but

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compelled, she looked down at his cock, shockingly hard-looking, revoltingly red, shiny with her slick juice. "Just getting started," he repeated. He turned his back on her, then slowly stepped away, around the wood prop supporting her right leg, disappearing behind her. She heard herself breathing. And him. Then his hands were on her ankles, dragging her and the wood props backward. Back, back, and inch by inch as her legs slid back, her wrist restraints pulled her torso forward until her chest faced the ground and her ass was suspended between her bound ankles. Oh god. No. His hands. Exploring her shape. Her contours. Spreading her. Her whole body suddenly rigid. His touch came sliding between. "Please," she sobbed, breaking her vow of silence. "Please don't." "But," he pressed himself against her, his sweaty chest and stomach against her sweaty back, his hard-on sliding between her cheeks, "this is my favorite." He backed off, leaving her hot, sweaty body to the cold air. Then, one hand slid against her waist, down her belly, cupping her sex, a finger or two sliding into her, then back, rubbing her clit, forcing her to writhe involuntarily as his other hand traced the valley of her spine down, down, between her cheeks, until one finger wiggled up against the pucker of her anus and began rubbing her. He reached a little further, stuffed his fingers into her cunt, smearing her slick wetness back, lubing her ass with it, rubbing her as she squirmed, helpless, still teasing her clit as his finger slick from her cunt, taunted her ass, pressing, promising, threatening, and finally pushing slowly inside. Millimeter by millimeter his finger opened her, filled her, driving slowly in to the first knuckle, the

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second, sliding a little way out, then in again, until the whole length of his finger was in her ass, sliding slowly and minutely in and out, wiggling inside her. He gave her clit a little pat and she shuddered and groaned. "See? You say you don't want to, and look how much you like it." He went on fingering her ass. "Just think how good it's gonna feel when I slip my finger out, and slide my hard cock in." "I can't," she sobbed, "I can't take it. Please. Even your finger—it's too much." "Lover. Don't tell me you've never been fucked in the ass before?" She just cried, saying nothing. "Really, baby?" he sighed in her ear, pressing himself close. "Not once?" "No," she finally sobbed, hoping, taking the tiny chance that maybe he'd be a little kind, relent, get off inside her cunt. He sighed, his hot body trembling against hers, and she knew it was hopeless. "Don't be afraid, lover. I'll be gentle." His finger slid out of her, against the grip of her own body which seemed determined to hold him inside. Then she felt him moving against her, his arm holding her waist, his hand and his cock brushing against her thighs. She wished she'd faint, the fear was too much, the pain would be too much. His cock drove into her. Her cunt. Maybe…maybe…relief spilled down her cheeks. But then he pulled out and she felt the pressure of the head of his cock at the tight clench of her ass. Harder and harder, the pressure more and more. Her body denying him, his body refusing to relent. "Do yourself a favor, lover. Open to me. Let me in. "

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Did she do it? A moment later she felt him easing past her tight barrier. The smooth, thick head of his cock dilating her, pushing inside, stretching her. She wanted to be quiet, to deny him everything but the body he controlled, but a little whimper squeaked out of her with every tiny movement of his cock as it drove slowly into her. Deeper and deeper until she was stretched so tight, filled so full she thought her body would come apart. But it wasn't pain. He drew back, sliding slowly out over a million firing nerves she hadn't known were there, then in again until that too tight, too full feeling was back and she was panting like a caught bird. Slow, slow, he eased himself in and out of the tight grip of her ass, not talking, but softly groaning each time. She felt him shaking and wondered if he was holding back. Drawing it out. Just come, you fucker. But he didn't. Instead he curled against her, and with one hand on her stomach and the other on her shoulder, held her to him as he straightened, forcing her into a slight backward arch. His hands slid over her burning, sweaty skin, one curving against her breast, the other gliding over her mound, a finger or two sinking between her lips, into her wet folds. And as he moved, he touched her. One hand cradling her breast, caressing it, teasing her hard nipple, the other hand working between her legs, fingering her cunt, rubbing her clit as his hips pumped his hard cock slowly, rhythmically in and out of her ass. Now that he was inside her, fucking her, her anxious terror ebbed. The unknown known, the anticipated agony mercifully absent. Now there was only the humiliation of what he was doing to her, and how it felt.

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"Don't worry lover. Good as it feels, my cock sheathed so tight in your ass, I can wait. I can hold on until you come for me one more time." Fucker! She'd fucking kill him! His hand drifted across her chest to torment her other breast, pinching her nipple again and again in rhythmic pulses, tugging and squeezing, while below a second finger slid into her slick, swollen cunt. More and more it felt like she was being fucked as his fingers filled her, driving in deep, his hand pressing against her clit with each thrust, his cock pistoning her asshole. Every exhale came out a whining whimper so she tried to hold her breath, resist everything, hold on until he came. But when she opened her throat to gasp for air she let out a long, desperate moan more damning that her little panting whimpers. Fucking her harder, more urgently, he groaned in her ear, "You need to come, don't you, baby?" He tugged her nipple, gave her clit a frenzied rub, making her practically yelp, unable to bear so much sensation, before sinking his fingers into her pussy again. "I want you to come for me." He was huffing and grunting now as he fucked her. Her body was ready to explode but she strained against it, hating the idea of it, wanting to beat him, deny him. His hand left her sex, and the next moment he had both her breasts in his hands, caressing them as he rammed his cock into her over and over, squeezing her tits, toying with her nipples, pinching and tugging them so maddeningly that she actually sobbed in relief when his hand went back between her thighs and he delicately fingered her clit and slid his fingers back into her throbbing cunt. As he pumped into her, his fingers in

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her pussy, his cock in her ass, she felt her climax explode through her groin, concentric, throbbing convulsions seizing her, shaking her, wringing her. "That's it, baby. come for me. come for me." He seemed almost to be sobbing as he groaned out, gripping her hard against him for a final two or three deep, penetrating thrusts, then went still, pumping his come into her ass. He stayed like that for a long time, holding her tight, quivering against her. Then he pulled out of her, circled around the sawhorse supporting her right leg, and stepped in close. She was too shaken, too exhausted, too used up to resist as he cradled her jaw in his hands an took her mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. Then he smiled, stroked her hair, and said quietly, "Time to sleep, now." Before she realized what he was doing, he'd stuck her with the syringe and the plunger was going down, down, down.

She woke up with a nasty hangover. And the weirdest memories. Fuck, what a crazy dream. Damn, she was sore. Just turning over in bed and getting the covers over her shoulders again, her arms and thigh muscles screamed. What the hell had she done to herself? Drowsily she looked over at the night stand and contemplated the mostly empty bottle of tequila and, a blush burning her already hot face, the dildo that had come mail order the previous afternoon.

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Had she? She could have sworn she'd given up in a wave of humiliating defeat after a couple half-hearted, drunken attempts. But her tender bottom testified that, on the contrary, somewhere into that fifth, she'd pillaged her own anal virginity. She wished she could remember if she'd liked it. Well, she thought, if it was half as good as that dream... She immediately felt disgusted with herself for even thinking such a thing. But for years after, when she masturbated, or when she was with someone, it was that dream that she called to mind. It made her come, every time.

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TEN: The Possessed

Devan finished reading. Sat there in the silence after, dreading to look up. Afraid to face Vaughn's expression. His eyes. "You must admit, the girl's got a certain knack. Hasn't she, Vaughn?" She stared desperately at the paper in her hands, knowing that when Vaughn spoke, his voice would betray his disgust. But he was silent. "Goodness, Devan, you've struck the man speechless. But there's another way to gauge his reaction." Devan couldn't resist following Conrad with her eyes as he rose from the hearth and circled behind Vaughn's chair, then bent over and put his hand on his groin. "Fuck's sake, Vaughn, it's like gripping a baseball bat. Does that hard on of yours ever go away?" She cringed and blushed at the thought of Conrad touching Vaughn like that, and exhaled with sudden relief when just a second later Conrad stood and wandered toward her, casually dropping onto the sofa beside her. "Well, it just testifies to Devan's talent, doesn't it? What's really remarkable, though, is that she wrote that—what was it, Devan? Four years ago?" Conrad gave her a penetrating look. "She was just fifteen. Hadn't so much as touched herself. Quite an imagination, eh?" In a sudden and swift move Conrad turned, scooped her up off the sofa, and settled her in his lap.

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"What do you think, Vaughn? Does that story, written so long ago, still work for her? Do you suppose she's as aroused as you are?" She couldn't look at him. She just took in his silence. What was Conrad doing? With one forearm hooked under her knees he lifted her ass off his lap, and with brutal effectiveness yanked her panties down around her knees. He lowered her back down, but kept his arm locked behind her knees, holding them tight by her chest. A humiliating certainty about Vaughn's view made a salty sob rise in her throat, but she kept it there. "Naughty, naughty, Devan…" Just the tip of Conrad's finger lightly touched her opening, then slid, gentle, slippery, along her slit, smearing her slick wetness over her folds, finally rubbing her clit, making her squirm against all her effort to be still. "…does my darling girl need to be fucked, hmmm? Should I string you up, just like that girl in your story, and have my way with you at last? Part your soft, creamy thighs, press myself against you, slide up into you..." He slowly slid his finger inside her, and her desperate silence came out in an anguished groan. "…slip around behind you…" His finger slipped wetly from her throbbing cunt and slid down. She tensed and gasped as his finger brushed against her again. "…slowly drive my hard cock into the tight, virgin grip of your ass…" His finger teased her sensitive pucker as she waited, tense and fearful, to feel his finger penetrating her.

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"Honestly, Vaughn, look at her. Tell me your little Devan isn't dying for you to fuck her right now." Conrad slipped a second finger back into her cunt, pumping his finger slowly in and out of her as he went on taunting her ass, making her writhe, fearful, unsatisfied, needful. "Just admit that you want her, Vaughn, and she's yours. I promise you, loathe though she may be to confess it, she'd love nothing more, at this moment, than for you to take her in your arms and fuck her into orgasmic oblivion. Or maybe…" his finger slipped out of her and touched down on her clit, and she gasped in her breath, sharp and audible, "…you'd rather she come to you, there in your chair, get your pants down around your ankles, climb into your lap, and lower herself, nice and slow, onto that raging hard-on of yours, and ride you until you come. Hmmm?" Everything Conrad said filled her brain with images that mingled with his taunting touching of her sex, and she was ready to sob with want. Willing Vaughn, through all her need, to say, yes, he was dying to fuck her, so she could feel him against her, inside her. His breath on her skin, his tongue in her mouth, his arms encircling her, his hands on her. The silence piqued her fear. He wouldn't say it. Never. He'd never take her, let Conrad give her. Unless Conrad forced him. She hated, wanted to kill the little part of her that yearned for that—for Conrad to threaten some worse punishment so Vaughn would have no choice, have to take hold of her, hold her down, force himself between her legs… "As you wish, Vaughn."

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Conrad's finger lifted from her thrumming, aching clit, and he lowered her legs onto his own, kissed her shoulder, his lips soft and lingering, and slid her panties up her thighs. "Bum up, darling." She felt…bereft. Empty. Or hollow. Something was very wrong, in her head. Conrad's hands came to her hips and gently suggested a rise. Dazed, she planted her feet on the floor and raised her hips, and Conrad slipped her panties into place. "Pardon us for a moment, Vaughn, while I get Devan off to bed."

The moment the door latched she felt the tears spilling down her cheeks. "Devan? Darling, what's wrong?" Fuck, Conrad had a nerve, pretending to give a shit about her. About anything except his little games. His psycho fantasy. She could hardly bear to let him touch her, but somehow didn't care enough to push him away. So she let him gently comb her hair back with his fingers, let him caress her cheek and kiss her forehead. When she finally looked at him, his expression startled her, it looked so like genuine concern. "Tell me, Devan. What's upset you?" "You're making him hate me." Her confession, her accusation came out a garbled sob. "Devan," he sighed, pulling her into an embrace. "I'm not. You can't really believe that Vaughn's capable of hating you?" "That story…"

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"Devan. Darling. Trust me. You can't protect your love by hiding your real nature." "You think you know my real nature? You're just using what I've written, what you think you know about me, to justify living out your own fucked up fantasies." She tried to struggle free but he went on holding her until she gave in and went limp in his warm arms. "Say what you like to me, Devan. But stop pretending to yourself. Those stories reflect something real about you. About what you need. Until he understands that, Vaughn—anyone—can only love a pale facsimile of the real you." Conrad didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. Vaughn knew her. Knew her better than fucking Conrad ever would, no matter how many stories and diaries he'd read, however many little confessions he forced out of her, or how he tried to pry into her soul with his eyes as he pinned and touched her. Vaughn cared for her. The real her. But as her mind rebelled against Conrad's words, she felt something inside of her dimming and shrinking. All the fight seeped out of her. Without understanding why, she finally came undone, and let herself melt in a violent flood of tears, let Conrad hold her through it all. She was only vaguely conscious of him putting her to bed a long while later, and slipping out of the room.

That story. Conrad was right. He didn't know her.

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All this time, again and again, mentions of her stories had brought to mind…what? Bodice rippers. Beautiful women futilely defending their chastity and voluptuous charms against rogue men desperate with passion. Corsets and pirates. But her story, her mind, she was dark. Violent. Frightening. Like him. His cock was still hard, aching. It seemed like he'd been like that all day. In strobing flashes Vaughn recalled the image of the kidnapper sliding his fingers in and out of his victim's cunt as he fucked her ass, and half-consciously knew he'd masturbate to that mental picture once he'd been cuffed to the bed for the night and left alone. It was so like his own dark fantasies. A variation on his own theme. Then Devan. Then Conrad. A flash, an image from her story, Devan the kidnapped woman, Conrad the rapist. Then guilt. Then fear. They were talking. He heard the indistinct hum of their voices seeping through the wall. Conrad wouldn't, not like that, behind a closed door, Vaughn was almost certain. But still he strained, listening for any sounds of struggle, any distressed note in her voice, any suspicious silence. His whole body, his whole being strained toward her when they were apart, when Conrad had her and he couldn't be sure what was happening to her. At last the door opened and closed again, and Conrad appeared before him. "Have a drink with me, Vaughn?" "All right." Why not. Conrad was going to chew his ear off, either way. Might as well dull the senses a little. Conrad grinned, as if Vaughn was an endless source of amusement to

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him, then padded quietly over to the kitchen—Devan might be falling asleep, and Conrad had a funny way of being considerate of his hostage—to make the drinks. Conrad padded back, then, set the drinks down, and undid one of Vaughn's wrist restraints. It was routine by now. Conrad carefully restoring Vaughn's use of an arm, then stepping cautiously out of range while Vaughn got himself free of any other restraints. And, of course, the tranquilizer gun always in hand or in reach. "Shall we step out onto the porch, so we don't disturb Devan?" Vaughn replied with a gesture toward the door. "After you, Vaughn." Vaughn took his drink from the table and they went outside. Following a gesture from Conrad, Vaughn took a seat in one of the big redwood deck chairs, and Conrad took the chair beside him. It was strange, how when Devan wasn't right there, Vaughn felt no fear with Conrad. He was almost at ease. Only when she was there, when Conrad might hurt or upset her, was Vaughn strung up on tenterhooks. Now, though, bombarded by a million strange impressions of the last hour, the day, the last week, for a moment Vaughn almost forgot Conrad's presence. But then he felt the man's patient stare. When Vaughn turned to him, Conrad had a weird look on his face. Maybe it was just that he wasn't smirking. No, there was something warm, almost tender in the way that man was looking at him. "Sooner or later," Conrad said after a long silence, "when the moment is right, Vaughn, I'm going to take her. You know that." He knew. Of course. But it was a blow to hear it. He felt sick. Weak. He gulped down a mouthful of whiskey.

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"It's what she wants. You know that, too." "She doesn't want to be hurt. That isn't what that story means." "What the story means, Vaughn, what all her stories mean, is that Devan wants things she's ashamed of wanting." Conrad paused, waited for Vaughn to meet his eyes. "You can understand that, can't you?" No derision in his voice. Vaughn remained silent. "She wants to be, sees herself as a certain kind of person, and the desires she has don't fit. She wants to experience them, but doesn't want to be responsible. She wants them done to her, so she can experience them, and still be innocent." Vaughn sat there, futilely searching for the answer, the words that would derail Conrad and save Devan. "I shan't hurt her. But there's only one way to do this, Vaughn. And that's to let her believe she hasn't a choice. Because otherwise she'd feel she was betraying you. Your mutual…affection. I won't say love since I doubt you've made such a declaration to one another." Conrad rose, then moved in close, the way Vaughn had seen him close in on Devan a dozen times, and a moment later Vaughn felt the soft touch of Conrad's hands on his shoulders, felt his breath against his ear, and an unpleasant feeling rippled through him. "But you wouldn't see it that way, would you? If she gave herself to me?" Conrad accepted Vaughn's silence. Vaughn hardly twitched as Conrad pressed himself against him, whispered to him.

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"I feel quiet sure about you in this, Vaughn. That you could watch as Devan realized her fantasies, that you could take part in that, and care for her just as you do now. That for you nothing would be lost. Or spoiled. But Devan, young and relatively innocent as she is, despite all she's written, isn't ready to grasp that such things are possible. She needs a little illusion of helplessness." Vaughn would have argued. Even knowing he'd said it all before, knowing that it wouldn't make a difference, that Conrad would disregard everything anyway. He still would have tried, for her sake. But he no longer trusted himself where she was concerned. He could no longer tease apart what he believed to be her wishes, and his own. So he was silent. When they went back inside Vaughn was permitted to take a leak before Conrad cuffed him to his bed for the night. "How do you sleep, Vaughn? On your side?" "What?" "Tonight I'm cuffing both your wrists, so choose your position carefully. We don't want you fatigued tomorrow for lack of sleep." Vaughn didn't get it at first, why Conrad suddenly felt the need to cuff both his hands, instead of the usual one. But when Conrad left and Vaughn's mind went racing back to Devan's story, he knew instantly. The asshole didn't want him jerking off. And he could guess why.

In the middle of the night Devan woke, her body humming with an unfulfilled need stirred by Conrad, by the story he'd forced her to read, by the knowledge that

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Vaughn had been aroused, hearing it. She started to touch herself, almost without thinking about it, but as her fingers slipped inside her panties and found the silky wetness between her lips, the images in her head frightened her so much, and were so persistent, resisting all alternate fantasies, that she snatched her hand away and waited for sleep to put an end to her tormenting thoughts.

In the morning Conrad rapped softly and opened Devan's door. As he entered she sat, strangely still, staring out the window into pale gray light. Conrad stepped inside and shut the door, noting as he turned back to her how Devan's jaw seemed to flex slightly, how her breathing seemed to speed. "Sleep all right?" "Fine." Her voice lacked its familiar defiant ring. And she'd not met his eyes once since he'd entered. Odd. Even when he sat down on the bed beside her, her eyes remained stubbornly fixed on that window, when normally he'd be rewarded with one of her adorable accusing glares, or a deliciously fearful, questioning glance as she waited to see how he'd touch her. What he'd make her do. He uncuffed her first. Then with two fingers he began to pull the covers down her body. He laughed at himself—silently of course—for having actually developed an utterly visceral association with these flimsy little white configurations he always had her wear because they evoked the costumes in which she always dressed her heroines. Her breathing changed but she gave no protest as he ran his fingertip slowly up her leg, from the graceful arch of her foot, over the rigid little peak of her ankle, along the curved

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muscle of her calf, her knee, her thigh, then lingered to wander along the edge of her knickers. "Look at me, Devan." She met his eyes, held his gaze. With an effort, it seemed. He stood, slowly pushed her feet apart, mounted the bed, knelt between her legs. "Look at me, Devan." She forced her eyes back to his. Like that first night, he touched her. Over her panties. Just lightly. "Do you think I don't know, Devan, why you're avoiding my eyes?" He was touching her so softly over her panties that he could hardly detect the soft contours beneath. But he knew very well how these delicate caresses tormented her. Whispering his fingers between her thighs, over the thin white fabric, he watched her brow tighten, heard her breathing change. Very slowly he leaned in until he knew she could feel his breath on her lips. His hand went still, lifted off, hovering above but still in her moist, warm atmosphere. Her taut brow slowly, definitely furrowed. "You don't want me to see your fear, hmmm?" He teased her cunt through her panties again, teased her mouth with the briefest hint of his tongue. Watched her brow smooth. "But it's no use, darling. I know you're afraid. And I know what it is you fear. You think I'm going to fuck you." She gasped as he slipped a finger under the elastic and into her slick cunt, writhed as he slid it slowly out and in again.

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"But you're afraid…" he put his lips to her ear. "…that I won't." She flinched and glared at him with a flare of indignation. Maybe even hate. But then that pretty blush lit her cheeks and her eyes went bright. He'd guessed it. Never had she hesitated to meet his eyes when she was angry, accusing, even afraid of him. Her evasive eyes, he'd decided, could only mean one thing. She wanted him. And no doubt she was ready to die of shame and confusion at her desire. Another pretty opportunity. "Or, worse yet, you're afraid that you'll have to admit it's what you want before I'll fuck you." She gasped and arched as he slid a second finger into the hot, slippery grip of her cunt, letting the pad of his thumb tease her clit over her knickers as he fucked her. "But I won't be so hard on you, my sweet Devan." He gazed at her a long while, reading her, letting her feel him, letting her hear how his arousal had changed his breathing. "You needn't say a word. I'll fuck you. Just so long as you don't tell me not to." She looked stunned. Hurt. He slipped his fingers from her, took his hand from between her legs. Her lips parted. Then closed. He grinned, took hold of her hips, pulled her against him so suddenly her back hit the mattress. He was on her. His chest pressed to hers, his eager erection pushing against her cunt through his clothes and her knickers. He found her wrists and pinned them down by her shoulders and brought his mouth to hers, hovering millimeters from a kiss. She panted, her sweet hot breath teasing his lips. But she didn't say a word.

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"I want you to know, Devan, that I've never wanted anyone as I've wanted you. And I've never wanted you as I want you now." It was the truth. Sweet Devan. So lovely. Intoxicating, some romantic would say. Frightened but aroused, trembling, but dying to yield. She wasn't struggling, only panting beneath him, her breath on his mouth, her chest and belly caving and rising under his. But he tightened his grip on her wrists until the slightest look of alarm came to her eyes. He could do better. "But not here." He pulled her up, off the bed, spun her 'round and caught her against him. He'd gotten damned good at that little move since he'd taken her. With his free hand he flung the door open and in seconds had her where he wanted her. On the dining table, inches from where Vaughn was duct taped into his front row seat. "Please, Conrad," she sobbed as he forced her down on the table. "I don't want this." "Naughty girl. It's a bit late now. You had your chance to say no." He'd watched. Very carefully. Not one line in Vaughn's brow, not a muscle in his face changed at those words. Devan, though. Poor girl looked like she'd just been caught in the middle of a murder. No, like she'd just realized she was a murderer. Conrad climbed on top of her, let her swipe and kick and writhe for a bit before pinning her down to immobility, relishing the way she panted with all that futile effort.

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Then he waited. It would only take a moment, he knew, until she remembered. He'd do whatever he liked, and there was nothing she could do. Conrad could hardly believe this moment was finally here. No more holding back. No more games. Now he'd really kiss her. Really touch her. Not merely as a pleasant means to an even more promising end. Put his mouth on her. Taste her. Go into her. Just the thought took more of his breath than their struggle had. Fuck, he wanted her. He brushed his lips over hers. She let him. But she was all rigid, under his body, under his mouth. He drew back, looked at her, took in the new breed of fear in her eyes, smiled sweetly, sunk his nose in her fragrant hair, put his mouth by her ear, whispered. "Devan." His lips caressed her cheek on the way back to her mouth, kissed again. The faintest possible kiss, soft lips barely touching, lingering. He could do this forever, wait for her to soften, wait for her lips to part, for her to yield to him, to seek him. With nothing but looks and whispers and the mildest of kisses he warmed her. Coaxed her mouth to take his. And she was hotter, more needful than she'd been that night at his cabin, when she'd sought his kiss even before he'd thought to give it, when she'd wanted him to fuck her. Her urgency, however restrained, jarred his long-deprived body. His kiss went fierce with hunger, almost violent, and she only yielded more fully, every second hotter and softer. But when he forced himself to stop, breathless and tormented with need to give her everything, take everything from her, to look at her, tears were streaming over her temples, into her hair, and she had a broken look that almost chilled his fire.

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Poor Devan. Sweet girl. Broken in two over her love of this Vaughn person, and the undeniable force of her need—her need for him, Conrad, the one who'd forced her years of pent up sexual longing out of her mind and into her body. The one who could be with her in the way she needed it to be. "Ah, Devan," he groaned softly by her ear, kissing away her tears. "If I'm not mistaken, you're terribly frightened just now. And terribly aroused. It's confusing, hmmm? But if you only let Vaughn see your tears, he's going to have an awfully rough time of it, the next hour or so." Maybe he'd gone too far. She looked like she was about to have some kind of psychotic break. Of course, it couldn't be easy, deciding to spare one's lover from the pain of watching her being raped by letting him watch her make ardent love to another man. But as he watched, Devan calmed herself, and, as far as she was able, gave herself over to him.

With everything in him, Vaughn was willing her to want this. Begging some unseen force, please, please, don't let this be a rape. Hoping for the meaning behind what Conrad had said—that she'd wanted him in the bedroom, that the fear he'd seen as Conrad brought her out was only her fear of letting Vaughn see. Under his constant, seething hatred of Conrad for doing this to her Vaughn was oscillating wildly between terror at Devan's every tear and look of fear, and strange but definite arousal with every quiver and groan he read as her excitement. He heard Conrad whispering something to her, watched him kiss her temples, her eyes, and Vaughn remembered the taste of her tears.

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She wouldn't look at him. He wished she would, so he could show her…But at least she seemed to calm, to soften. Her tears stopped. Conrad kissed her again, then, like he wanted to devour her, and Vaughn felt his prick stiffen as Devan seemed to rise up against that other man, kissing him back with almost as much heat. "That's my girl," Conrad crooned, then kissed her forehead. Following that tender gesture, his sweet smile went sinister, and a second later he'd torn the top of her gown open, baring her breasts. She panted, stiff and startled as he cupped her breasts in his hands, the pale swells rose up, lifting their deep pink tips toward the ceiling. "I feel like I've waited an eternity, sweet Devan, to kiss your body." So like him to deliver the threat—with his hands, with his words—then leave her in anticipation. Still holding her breasts, he kissed her again, then mouthed her ear, her jaw, her neck. When Conrad did finally kiss the breasts he'd bared so ruthlessly, Vaughn was astonished at the tenderness with which his mouth caressed her. Delicate little touches of lips and tongue over her smooth white skin and, long after she was already softly moaning and quivering, over her taut, burgundy nipples. Watching, Vaughn felt a twinge of aroused envy as his body remembered the feeling of having Devan in his arms, her body pressed to his as she sighed and trembled with pleasure. He buried it all under a landslide of guilt, but knew he wouldn't be able to keep it from resurfacing. Now and then Conrad paused to look at her, forcing her to confess her pleasure, as if her little moans and trembling body weren't enough for him. Then he'd tease her

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other nipple with his tongue, pause to admire the sheen of his spit on the deepening blush of the erect bud, then suck it between his lips. When he bit her and she whimpered Vaughn flexed helplessly against the tape wound round and round his wrists and ankles, but a moment later he saw the momentary torment had only aroused her more. Suddenly Conrad was off her, standing over her. She seemed instantly selfconscious, like Conrad's kisses had erased the world around her—the cabin, Vaughn— like his body had offered her protection, and now she was exposed, her body and her guilty pleasure bared to them both. Conrad seemed to be shaking off a little of the intoxication of his desire. A moment later his game face was back. "There's more of you I want to taste, Devan darling." He could have just slid her panties off. She wouldn't have fought. But he grasped them and tore them off, the screech of ripping fabric, of snapping thread filled the room like a gunshot, it was so sudden and shocking. Conrad stepped calmly back and, staring at her, slowly, methodically began unbuttoning his shirt. "Spread your legs, darling." She just lay there, hyperventilating, staring as Conrad stripped off his shirt. He smiled at her, warm, teasing, and, his lean torso bare now, stood over her. "Like this, Devan." With one hand he lifted her knees, and with the other, slid her feet up, toward her body, so her legs bent, her knees aimed at the ceiling. Then, his own expression one of

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aroused anticipation, he watched Devan's face as he slowly pressed her left knee down toward the table. "This way Vaughn will be able to see everything." She wouldn't look at him, just kept staring at Conrad. Frightened. Terribly aroused. Vaughn was almost sure. "Look at that sweet little cunt, Vaughn. Can you believe how soft, how delicate?" Vaughn glanced up. Conrad was staring at him, and smiled as their eyes met. Vaughn waited to see if she'd look at him, but she wouldn't. He looked. Could hardly help it. Thought maybe, really, she wanted him to. Even after everything else, the way Conrad had mounted her, kissed her, stripped her, the sight of her cunt struck him hard with fresh, violent arousal. She looked so soft, so smooth, it was impossible to resist the image of putting his own mouth to her, feeling her with his lips, his tongue, tasting her, breathing in her stirring musk that swore to her arousal. The delicate skin was blushed a deep pink, with only a hint of her juicy inner folds peeking from between. Fuck. So exposed. So vulnerable. The thought doubled his fear and his arousal. Conrad bent down and put his mouth close to her ear, but Vaughn could still hear as he sighed, "All the times I've touched you, Devan, and smelled your scent on my skin after, I've ached with the thought of finally putting my mouth to you, tasting you." Then Conrad bent, descended, down, down, until he hovered only an inch or so over her and, without a prelude, any little kiss on her knee or thigh or belly or hip, slowly slid his tongue between the smooth pink lips of her cunt. She shuddered and sucked in

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her breath and her face went pink. After, Conrad looked at her, watched her belly rising and falling rapidly with her panting. "You're delicious, Devan darling," Conrad sighed up to her. "The taste of you is almost too much to bear, I want you so much." As Vaughn watched Conrad put his mouth to her, making her shudder and whimper and twitch, his jaw working slowly between her thighs. He went on, kissing her, licking her, slowly, delicately, then urgently, hungrily, the wet pink of his tongue sliding into the wet pink of her cunt as she writhed and wiggled, biting back and muffling an endless string of ecstatic cries. Everything Vaughn felt—physically, emotionally—was so overwhelming he was almost grateful to be bound so completely.

She was almost sobbing, Conrad had held her dangling over the edge for so long, never even letting her catch her breath, never once letting her calm or go the least bit lax before taking her to the brink again. And Vaughn. She couldn't stop thinking, he was there, watching what Conrad was doing, watching her, witnessing how she was unable to keep still, unable to be quiet. Everything throbbed—all of her body, her brain, pulsing with a million thoughts and feelings all bumping against each other, contradicting, enhancing, altering. She wanted. Wanted. Wanted Conrad to let her go in a flood of orgasm, to put an end to the long slow torment of his mouth on her. Wanted him to take her. Take her—pinned, mounted, without a say. Wanted Vaughn, wanted Vaughn's love, wanted Vaughn's happiness. Not to hurt him, not to let him be scared. Hated him watching this, wanting him to watch, sensing how each time she thought of him looking at her, snuck a glance

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and saw his eyes on her and what Conrad was doing to her, how it added to the coursing current of feeling pounding through her. Then it stopped. The unbearable, amazing feeling of Conrad's mouth on her. Then he was over her, his hazel eyes reading her, holding her, his lips a breath from hers. His kiss came, hot and deep, and she tasted herself on his lips, his tongue, and it startled her, made her draw inward before the thought of it, or maybe the very taste and smell of her own sex stirred new ripples of arousal and she yielded to his kiss with fresh want. He stopped. She looked. Conrad was gazing down at her, his pretty mouth slightly open with excited breath, his eyes seeming to seek her, trying to hold her, bright with feeling. She braced herself for his next move, his next taunt, his next touch. But he only kept looking, like he was waiting for something. Suddenly it seemed like he was looking at her with real, deep love, like he was looking for some sign of her love for him. Off. She wanted him off. Stop touching. Stop looking. Vaughn was the one. Vaughn, right there. Conrad reached down, between them, and she knew. He was unzipping, unbuttoning. "You can't," she whispered, hoarse, desperate. "Please. You can't." Conrad pressed himself between her thighs, forcing himself against her. Total, maddening panic pumped through her. It had almost been all right, part of his perverse games. Not this. "No," she gasped, not knowing where her voice was, and tried to push him away.

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But she didn't really fight. Not really. Maybe too afraid she'd lose, that Vaughn would see her struggle and lose and be forced to watch Conrad raping her, not knowing why she'd suddenly needed this not to happen. Conrad grasped her wrists and pinned them back, down on the table. She felt his cock pressing against her defenseless sex. "Devan," he whispered, barely audibly, against her ear. "You know. I love you." Then, his eyes locked on hers, Conrad entered her. Slow. Determined. The hard length of his cock opened and filled her. She was afraid to breathe, afraid she'd sob, afraid she'd groan. He was still, watching her. His lips almost touching hers, his hands closed tight over her pinned wrists. Then he moved, so slightly, so subtly, she sensed no movement at all, except where he was inside her. Because her sex was unbearably sensitive, incredibly swollen after all of Conrad's licking, even this, his near stillness, had her trembling, on the brink of orgasm. The way he was, not just inside of her body, but in her mind, his eyes seeking, reading all she was thinking, all she was feeling, she felt absolutely, completely possessed by him. At this moment she could find no trace of cruelty in his face, in his eyes. She could only see his startling beauty, and overwhelming feeling like love mingled with pain. All so quiet. Her breathing, theirs, all seemed suspended. Or she'd forgotten to hear. Because now it all faded in—Conrad's excited, shallow panting, Vaughn's strained, irregular breathing, and her own frail moans creaking out of her pinned, needful body. He held her, in check, suspended, for long, agonizing minutes, dying for release, promising every second with movements just at the frustrating edge of her perception.

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Tormented beyond her endurance she tried to move, not thinking how or why, just to move. His grip on her wrists tightened, to the brink of pain, and suddenly his feet caught her ankles, so even her feet and legs were immobile, her hips pinned under his. At that moment she felt it, the slow dawning of climax, rising, rising, only a promise as it started, rising, until it finally spilled over her, heating every particle of her body, inch by inch from the center of her where he was, out, out to her limbs, her hands, her feet, her face. Then he pushed himself against her and all the ripples of feeling started again, radiating through her. Only as the overwhelming feeling began to fade did she realize how arched and flexed her whole body was there on that table, under Conrad's body, how her face was contorted, how her mouth was open, softly sobbing her pleasure.

Need. Love. Warmth. Mingled. Devan. Too much. Even for him. To believe. Her trembling through such a climax, under his body, him hard and deep inside her. Devan. Had he ever felt so much? Need that had surged to real pain, adoration that had become like worship, like obsession. This small, strong, delicate girl he was holding down, he was making come, her dark gray eyes shining with tears, her lips reddened with kissing parted with quavering moans. Fuck, he was going to explode. Calm. Calm. Not yet. Conrad drew himself in. He waited. For that first moment when she came back to herself. Awareness in her eyes. And then.

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"Now," he whispered, "Now." His voice quavered and through her own slowly subsiding agony of pleasure and feeling she felt him trembling against her, and his "now, now" provoked startling, desperate anticipation. She waited, wanting, dying to see him, to feel him lose himself inside of her. "Now…Devan…I'm going to…make you…really feel me." No collapse. No shudder. No groan. All around her he wound, fingers into her hair, legs, ankles, feet entwined like twisting vines, arm cinched close at her waist, holding her hard against a sudden, powerful thrust. Her own cry echoed around her. Destroying, eviscerating pleasure. Again. Again. His thrust. Her cry. No way to be quiet. Conrad. Everywhere. Before her. Inside her. On top. Surrounding. His eyes. His lips. Skin. Sweat. Flesh and muscles and sex. His smell. His voice. His breath. His touch.

Vaughn was only remotely aware of his fear slipping away. He watched, his body raging with want, as he saw her as he had never imagined her. Fiercely hungry, answering Conrad's brutal desire with violent need. Not a rape. Not. Harder. More violent than Vaughn had been in his most abandoned encounters. Devan. Delicate, tender Devan taking it all with groans of pleasure and seeking more.

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Then her cry, So feral, so unrestrained, he knew. She'd forgotten everything but her body and the man who was touching it. And on the dying note of her groan, the sound of Conrad finally giving in to her.

Devan didn't realize, until Conrad collapsed against her, wet, trembling, panting, his heart pounding against her breast so fast and hard it frightened her, that when Conrad had let go of her wrists to sink his fingers into her hair, to grip her waist, what she'd done with her own hands. They were on him. Clutching Conrad hard to her.

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ELEVEN: Turn of the Screw

To Conrad, Devan had never looked lovelier. Her eyes lit up and churning, her skin glistening, her pale cheeks pink. He watched her come back to herself, watched sensation and emotion subside, watched awareness come flooding in. Then her hot, lax body stiffened beneath him, her clutching fingers released him, her hands slipped between them, pressed to his chest. She didn't dare to push him away, but he felt perfectly that she suddenly wanted him off her. Out of her. He pressed a lingering kiss to her hot, damp forehead, then whispered at her ear, "Just one thing, love. Look at Vaughn." She was still as a statue beneath him. "Go on, Devan. Be a good girl." Conrad raised himself a few inches and watched as Devan reluctantly turned her head and met Vaughn's eyes. Very nearly at the instant her lip quivered, though her jaw flexed as she struggled to keep hold of herself. A second later he watched a tear seep from the corner of her eye and meander along the side of her nose. Fearing for a second he'd been all wrong about Vaughn, he shot a glance at him. There Vaughn sat, duct taped to his chair, gazing back at Devan, tender as could be. "Vaughn." "Yes." Vaughn's eyes remained locked on Devan's. "Are you hard?" His expression remained unchanged.

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"Yes," he answered softly. Good man. Knows better than to lie, by now. Moving the slightest bit, Conrad felt his cock—still hard—slip from wetly from Devan's body. It wasn't often that Conrad regretted anything. Even the way things had gone wrong before, with Devan and those other men, seemed, in the end, to have worked out for the best. But now Conrad wished, almost bitterly, that it was possible to just hold Devan. For them to curl up together, naked, to feel each other's bodies pressed together warm and soft. To listen to her breathing. To feel the weight of her head on his arm or chest as she fell asleep. To kiss her softly when she woke and looked at him with drowsy eyes. But there was no time to play at being lovers. Such familiar closeness would erode too much of her fear and uncertainty; then he'd never be able to give her the fantasies. Besides, he hardly believed she'd let him. He let her go, to have her shower. Now, instead of her, he had Vaughn, all strapped in like a convict in the electric chair. Perhaps a little game would ease the unpleasant longing he was feeling.

Wisps of steam drifted about her, but Devan stood there, letting the shower run, letting the sticky wetness creep slowly down one thigh. It seemed significant. It was over. Finally she stepped into the tub, let the proof and her tears wash away in the pounding pulse of hot water, letting the sound of her stifled sobs drown there. This was

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better. What could they have had, anyway? This was better. It would be easier for Vaughn, now.

Walking slowly from the bathroom, Conrad came to a stop only when his hips touched the back of Vaughn's chair. Resting his hands lightly on the other's big shoulders, he asked, "Still hard?" "Yes," Vaughn answered indifferently. "So that's what watching me take Devan does to you." "Conrad. Please. Let me talk to Devan." "Not yet, Vaughn. I'm sorry." Conrad moved around to the front of Vaughn's chair. The two men stared into each other's eyes, each trying to measure something in the other. Slowly, then, Conrad sank down and, squatting on his haunches, put his hands on Vaughn's knees. Slowly he began to slide his hands up, over the soft blue denim covering his thighs, waiting for Vaughn to flex, to struggle. But his body stayed soft and still. Vaughn calmly held his gaze. Conrad couldn't help grinning as he brought one palm against Vaughn's blatant erection. Still not a twitch. "What do you say, Vaughn—shall I put you out of your misery?" "What do you mean?" Vaughn responded evenly. "Get you off." "All right."

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"Damn you, Vaughn," Conrad threaded a vexed voice through his irrepressible grin, "it's not very sporting of you to be so blasé, calmly saying 'all right' to such an obscene proposal. What—do you think me incapable of such a thing?" "There's damn little I think you're not capable of." "What then? You don't expect me to believe you want me to wrap my hand around your cock and stroke a long overdue climax from you." "No." "Well? Don't make me beg, Vaughn. Do tell me what's going on in that head of yours." "You don't want me sated." "No?" "No. But I guess you thought it would be fun to see me squirm, afraid you'd do that." Conrad laughed and stood. "True, that would have amused me. Though not so much as if you'd begged me to make you come." Conrad freed one of Vaughn's arms, then perched on the edge of the table atop which he'd just fucked Devan, watching Vaughn calmly work himself free of the rest of the tape. "I wonder. How long will you manage to hold out, watching me with Devan. Kissing her. Touching her. My mouth on her body. Fucking her. Even holding her. Knowing, every second, that it could be you with her."

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Vaughn's face remained stoic, but his chest was swelling and narrowing as his breath sped. "And which you'd sooner do. Beg for release at my hand, or take Devan, without her…explicit consent. With no order from me."

If only she could stay in that bathroom forever. Alone. Wrapped, hidden in the pale gray steam. Impossible. Devan tried to straighten up, to shrug off her feeling of weakness and nausea, and opened the door. She forced herself, against all her impulses, to face Vaughn, doing her best to look unafraid, unhurt. She couldn't read his face. Couldn't find any trace of torment or anger. He'd let her go. It was better this way. Better. Better, she tried to tell herself, silently fighting back a sadness that seemed to be falling over her like a grounded parachute, draping over her, covering, isolating. Then, afraid of what Vaughn would see if she went on looking at him any longer, she turned to Conrad.

Conrad had always been a man of great appetite, but never had the demands of his body so overwhelmed the calculations of his mind. But as Devan emerged from the bathroom, Conrad was struck by a sensation both unfamiliar and unsettling. Urgent, overwhelming need. As if, now that he'd taken her, his body demanded recompense for all his stoic self-denial, all the months he'd abstained in preparation for his time with her. For all the long hours he'd spent with her, baring her body, touching her, making her

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climax again and again, never allowing himself even a secret release. Now, less than an hour after he'd finally been with her, just the sight of her had his greedy body winding up, taut and tense for more. He felt a sudden impulse to take hold of her, to press his body against her, to breathe in her scent, to taste her mouth, to kiss and touch her very softly until he forced her to confess her arousal with that soft little sigh of hers. The thought of her body quivering under his almost made him move toward her, almost made him groan out loud. But he hadn't bloody well set aside months of his life and ripped the dear girl out of her world just so he could shag her every time he got a hard on for her. The larger picture had to be borne in mind. And, in any case, the anticipation was rather delicious.

They sat through a strange, silent communal meal. How could they eat? Any of them? But the body needs to be fed, regardless of fear, arousal, anxiety. Vaughn tried, again and again, to catch Devan's eyes, but each time, after a scant second or two, she'd turn away. Maybe afraid Conrad would punish them. Conrad. Probably feeding them now just so their hunger wouldn't distract them from their bodies' reactions to whatever he had planned next. Vaughn wished, now that it had happened between Conrad and Devan, that he could stop feeling so fucking afraid all the time. Wished he could believe that she wasn't scared anymore. How he looks at her. Love? Hunger? Obsession? No way to trust him not to go too far. Not to hurt her.

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As he ate his stew Conrad gazed at Devan and contemplated the afternoon's possibilities. Once they'd finished eating and had chance to use the toilet, he wasted no time getting back to the fun and games. "What do you think, you two? Shall we have another story?" Vaughn wished he wouldn't do that. Make her read those stories out loud to them. Force her to confess those dark fantasies of hers, meant to be her secret. But still, already just the idea of hearing her describe another scene had him aroused. And he felt a guilty awareness that he really wanted to know them all—these dark, intimate dreams of hers. Wanted to know every hidden detail of Devan's erotic imagination. "This time, Vaughn, I think you should read for us." Fine. Better. Easier on her. Conrad handed Devan the manuscript, attentively studying her face as she saw which of her secret fantasies would be revealed. "Hand that to Vaughn, please, Devan." As she brought him the little stack of printed pages, once again he sought her eyes, and once again she retreated from him. Conrad called her back to him, made her sit close by him. He kissed and petted her hair, then turned his eyes expectantly on Vaughn. "Go ahead, please." He'd thought it would be easy. The easiest thing Conrad could have made him do. But his voice caught, practically on the first word. She'd written it in first person. From a man's point of view. "I never knew I could be such a filthy bastard," he began, and read on for several paragraphs before Conrad interrupted Vaughn's recitation.

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"Stand up, Devan." Obviously reluctant and nervous, she stood. "Go over there, please, and tell me if Vaughn's hard yet." It was touching and awful, how she still blushed at such little things. It amazed him that Conrad could go on tormenting her like this. "Yes." "But you haven't touched him yet. How do you know?" Obviously exasperated by Conrad's ploys to make her say aloud each little thing that embarrassed her, she softly answered, "I can see that he is." "No doubt," Conrad came back in his amused tone. "But you'd better feel him, just to be sure." If he hadn't been hard already, the thought of her touching him would have had him erect before she could have stepped forward and put her hand on his cock. Fuck, he resented how well Conrad was managing to keep him desperately, almost perpetually aroused. Devan came shyly forward, seemed to hesitate, then bent over him, giving him a look like an apology, then gently put her palm against his hard on. She'd never touched him that way—not during Conrad's coercions, and not before them—and the sight, the feeling of her hand there made his body, his cock, surge with sudden heat. "Well, darling?" "He's hard," she said softly, finally really holding Vaughn's gaze. "Does it make you proud, darling, knowing that your stories have that effect on Vaughn?"

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She didn't answer, and he didn't make her. "Now, Devan. Down on your knees, and suck Vaughn's cock." She started and blushed again, but still held his eyes with hers. God, she really looked horribly scared. Like she might cry. He'd been wrong before. The first time Conrad had made her. She'd hated it. Hated the thought of doing it again. He wanted to beg on her behalf, but knew it was useless. She sank to her knees, and when she looked up at him again she managed to hide most of her fear. God, he wanted to pull her up, hold her against him, his arms wrapped tight around her. He wanted to protect her. "Go on, darling. Get his jeans and all down." Vaughn hated how it excited him—her hands working his belt, his fly. She'd never undressed him before. His body hummed to the feeling of her fingers getting a tentative hold on the waist of his jeans, coaxing them down his hips and thighs while he raised himself after an order from Conrad. He hated his cock for being so fucking hard, for looking so livid, alive, as it sprang forth as she stripped him, for wanting her mouth so badly when she seemed so afraid. Then Conrad was behind her, whispering something to her. Then he receded back, back to his place on the couch. Fuck. Fuck. The warm wet tip of her tongue brushing softly over the head of his hard cock. The sight of her, kneeling between his legs, her eyes focused on his cock, her lips parting, her tongue lathing the shaft, the tip, the weight of her arms on his thighs—it was all a terrible torment.

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Jesus. Fuck. She took him in. The wet heat of her mouth closed over his rigid, twitching cock. Fuck. Every lick made him flex. Each pulsing suck of her wet mouth made him squirm. So needful, so close, he violently clutched the armrests to resist pulling her hard against him, thrusting deep into her mouth. She'd only have to do it for a minute or two. He couldn't hold off longer than that. But then she shuddered suddenly against his legs. He must have closed his eyes. Lost focus somehow. Conrad kneeling right behind her. She stopped, panting and shaking so hard Vaughn's heart contracted with sudden panic. He'd done something to her. Hurt her. "Don't mind me, darling," Conrad drawled in the saccharine voice he used when he was being his most sadistic. "Go right ahead with what you're doing. I'm just going to slip these knickers down 'round your knees." God. Fuck. What was he doing? He wouldn't… "Go on, Devan dear. Take his cock in your mouth again." Her lips closed around Vaughn's cock once more. But then the only movement was her trembling. And she was hyperventilating. About to cry. "Now, Devan. Take a wider stance with your knees." Vaughn could see that Conrad had his hands on her, guiding her body into the position he wanted, but then Devan lurched suddenly, and Vaughn's hard prick popped free of her mouth. "And now, just arch your back a little.: "Conrad. Please!" God. She looked really terrified. Skin so pale. Eyes red and glistening.

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"Please what, darling?" Tears were sliding down her cheeks. "Please. Please don't do that to me." Her voice was hysterical. Vaughn's whole body surged, taut and ready to fight, to rescue. "All I want," Conrad mused as he slid the few sheer inches of her garment up to her waist, baring her behind, "is a nice, clear view of your pretty bottom." Then, as Conrad stood and drifted back to the sofa, Devan's rigid, trembling body slowly softened, and after a couple deep breaths she put her lips to Vaughn's cock once more. His heart hammered almost painfully with a mixture of fierce adrenaline and terrible arousal. "Now, Vaughn. Carry on with your reading, please." What, was he fucking kidding? No. Of course not. No end to the lunatic's bizarre ideas. Vaughn glanced down, watched Devan's head bobbing slowly above his lap in sync with the sensation of her mouth sliding up and down his cock, and beyond, the dip of her back and the rising swell of her bare bottom, lifted to the gaze of Conrad, behind her on the sofa. Everything—what she was doing to him with her mouth, the sight of her, of him lurking behind her like a threat, even his own fear—had him so close he thought he'd come before he could say another word. But just as he thought he'd let go she stopped, took her mouth from him. Maybe she dreaded it, the thought of his come suddenly filling her mouth, the taste of him. But she'd have to endure it, eventually. Conrad would never let her stop without finishing. Trembling with anger and fear and

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need, Vaughn took up the stack of pages from the side table, and went on reading . And slowly, delicately, Devan took him in again. The story. That's what had her so scared. Afraid Conrad was going to force them to play out what she'd written. For now he remained sitting on the couch, but suddenly Vaughn feared that at any moment he'd rise, get down on his knees behind Devan, do to her what that man in her story was doing to that girl. But his anxiety couldn't overwhelm the sensation of Devan's mouth on his cock. Her lips closed tight around his shaft, sliding up and down, her tongue swathing over the head, flicking the frenulum, making him gasp and twitch. He went rigid with his pending climax, his breath held for long, anxious seconds as his body waited, pleaded for release, then gasped for oxygen, grunted with need, held again. God. Fuck. She stopped. God. Fuck. Stopped. Her mouth abandoned him, and cold air circled around his wet prick. "Poor Vaughn. You must need to come so badly." Vaughn opened his eyes, leveled them on Conrad's smug face. "It's all right. Just put your hands on Devan, and take what you need." God, was that it? He had to take hold of her, fuck her mouth, or he'd be left in this aching torment? And she'd have to go on—fuck, for how long?—sucking him, never letting him come? Was she kneeling there, willing him to do it? Or fearfully hoping he'd keep his hands off her? He couldn't. No way. Stuff his cock between her lips, pull her against him, ram his cock into her throat. Women, his lovers, women who told him they loved giving head, had related stories of men they were with, men they were happily giving blowjobs

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curving their fingers over the back of their head, or clutching fistfuls of their hair, fucking their mouths, of feeling real terror at that loss of control, a panicked feeling of asphyxiation. He tried to steady his hands and his voice as he went on with her story, accidentally picking up three paragraphs back from where he'd left off, hardly even noticing he'd done it. As he hit fresh words her lips brushed over the head of his cock once more, parted, drew him slowly in to her warm wetness. He tried to keep the arousal from his voice, keep his body soft, his breathing even as the images from the story and the sensation of her tongue and her lips, her licking and sucking brought him close, so close, he was going to come before she'd realize it. But each time she backed off, leaving him panting, almost crying with frustrated need. He almost groaned out loud when he turned the page and saw he was at the end, his throbbing cock in agony with want. "Oh, Vaughn. You stubborn man," Conrad sighed as Vaughn set the papers aside with a trembling hand. "Ah, well, just because you're too gallant to take what you need, doesn't mean Devan should suffer, does it?" Conrad didn't bother to wait for an answer. He'd already risen from his place on the couch and was closing in on them. When his feet were almost to Devan's he halted, smirked at Vaughn, then dragged his zipper open. What Vaughn saw, Devan heard. Before she could mask her terror for his benefit, Vaughn watched her shudder and pale, watched her eyes fill with tears, watched the corners of her mouth twitch as if she was about to cry.

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He didn't care that his knees and ankles were taped to the chair, that he was belted to it at the waist. His hands were free. He'd break the fucker's neck before he'd let him do that to her. "Easy, Vaughn," Conrad inveighed with his obnoxious grin. "Promise me you'll never play poker. You're so easy to read, in no time at all you'd be mortgaging the mansion you must live in, back in Seattle." He slid his hand into his fly, rubbing himself as he grinned down at Vaughn's desperate hate. "We've all come so far together. It would be a shame if I was forced to punish you now" Conrad dropped to his knees behind Devan, who almost managed to hide her shudder. "And over such a little thing," Conrad went on, keeping his eyes locked on Vaughn, watching for any suspicious move as he curved his hand at the back of Devan's neck, making her bend forward and lay her cheek on Vaughn's thigh, "as a new position. I'm sure a man of your experience, Vaughn, wouldn't assume that being taken from behind means being fucked in the ass. But perhaps Devan needs a little reassurance." Conrad bent, molding his body against Devan's. "Don't be so frightened, Devan darling," Vaughn heard him say softly at Devan's ear. "Your virgin ass is safe with me. For tonight, at least." Then Vaughn could see that Conrad was moving vaguely behind, beneath her, and Devan sort of whimpered, then sucked in her breath, then let out a little squeak of a

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grunt. Vaughn couldn't see just what Conrad was doing to her, but the images were vivid in his mind. Conrad taking hold of his hard cock, rubbing the head against her. No matter how frightened she was, he knew she must be wet, that as Conrad rubbed his cock against her, his dick was getting slick with her warm lube, that his dick was smearing it back and forth over her pink folds. The whimper had been the sound of first contact. The sharp inhale was when Conrad's cock brushed over her clit the first time, startling her with forced pleasure. Her little grunt, not quite silenced, was him pushing himself into her. It didn't take guessing, after that. Conrad was fucking her. His body pressed against hers, his slow thrusts jostling her, making her head slip an inch or two up and down against Vaughn's thigh each time. Then he stopped. "Devan. Take this off," he said, tugging the frail little strap at her shoulder. She lifted her cheek from Vaughn's thigh, straightening up enough to pull the article of lingerie she was wearing over her head. Then she was still, waiting. Vaughn wished, so hard it hurt, that he could pull up his pants and cover his obscene erection rising between them, like a divining rod between her just-bared breasts. As if he'd read his thoughts Conrad grinned up at him from behind her. "Poor Vaughn. It must be awfully hard for you. Each time your fingers twitch I find myself wondering if you're about to try yanking your jeans up, or about to pull Devan to you, so you can get off at last. Of course, the first isn't allowed. But the second, I strongly encourage." Vaughn actually felt himself blush. Fuck. Yes, He wanted her mouth again. Was in pain with his need to come. But the thought of Devan on her knees, between them,

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both of them inside her made him sick at the same time it doubled the straining ache in his cock. "Well," Conrad taunted, "I'm sure you know what to do, if you change your mind." Then he slid his hands down her arms, caught her wrists, and placed her hands on Vaughn's bare thighs. Fuck, it was like being torn in two, the way that touch worked on him, driving on his need to protect her and his urge to have her. As he watched, Conrad grasped her hips, coaxing an advantageous tilt, then behind her he took hold of himself and entered her again, getting another little whimper from her. Vaughn closed his eyes. But the sounds—Devan's little groans, Conrad's panting and grunting, the damp claps of their bodies meeting—were somehow even harder to bear on their own. So he opened his eyes again. Watched Conrad reach from behind to touch her breasts. Her nipples. Watched his hand descend down, between her legs, touching her, changing the notes of her little noises. Then he was really on her, pressed tight to her, his mouth at the curve between her neck and her shoulder, one arm wrapped around her, holding her to him, the other hand wandering, teasing her nipples, her clit, making her squirm as he fucked her. His thrusts harder. Violent. Her moans pitched up to cries and Vaughn's stomach clenched and his chest cramped as Devan's eyes watered and her fingers dug into the flesh of his thighs. But it wasn't pain. She was coming. Conrad holding her, touching her, fucking her through it all. Drawing out her climax with deep-driving, lingering thrusts, driven to the wall himself by her cries, her shudders. They collapsed, one on top of the other onto Vaughn's thighs, panting, sweating, trembling.

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And as Devan caught her breath and her strength came back to her she lifted herself, lifted her head. Her face was suffused with startled ecstasy. Until she met Vaughn's eyes. Her ecstatic daze dissolved in fear and shame. Had he done that? With some expression of his own? God—was Conrad right? Giving her what she really wanted, but was ashamed of wanting? Was she looking at his own still-hard prick, resenting that he'd never done as Conrad had suggested, and pulled her to him, gotten her to take him in her mouth again, suck him to climax? Was all his effort to protect her in what small ways he could just undermining a real fulfillment of her fantasies? After his wrists had been cuffed to the chair, as Conrad took Devan to the bathroom, as the sound of the shower spurting to life and the murmur of their voices echoed in that distant room, Vaughn cooled and shrank, troubled by a new fear. He wasn't jealous. Not of Conrad, any more than he'd been jealous of anyone who'd loved the women he had loved. But he felt worried that his other fear was hurting what they had. That his fear—which was almost all for her—made her feel guilty about her stories. About her wants. He knew how that guilt—whether arising from judgments real or imagined—could destroy love. "You're being terribly selfish, you know," Conrad admonished when he'd tucked Devan away in her room, and had returned to Vaughn, releasing his right wrist. Vaughn actually almost laughed. "Really. How much easier it would be for her if she weren't busy fretting over you. As long as you insist on playing the role of the victim, she'll be tormented with fear for your sake. And guilt."

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"She's got nothing to feel guilty about." "Perhaps. But don't you see, she's bound to feel it's her fault that you're caught up in this thing between her and me. It's because of her that I'm here. As long as you're the reticent hostage, she'll blame herself for everything that happens to you."

In the main, Conrad was quite pleased. Everything was going well—beyond all reasonable expectation, really. But time was running out. Today there would be punishments. The sun had been up for hours, but Devan and Vaughn, who both seemed to require more than his own customary five hours of sleep, were still waking well after noon and drifting into handcuffed slumber in the wee hours of the morning. When Conrad opened the door to Vaughn's bedroom and strolled up to the prisoner, doublecuffed to the headboard, he found Vaughn lying on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. "Good. You're awake." Conrad seated himself on the edge of the bed. "Shit, Vaughn. Didn't you sleep at all last night? Your veneer's looking rather dull. A bit thin." Vaughn gave Conrad an unsettling look. Not hate. Not even anger. The man was working something out. Taking measure. Bollocks. He really hoped Vaughn wasn't onto some plan of escape. Conrad wanted very badly to focus all his attention and all his energy on the fun part of the plan. "Something on your mind, Vaughn?"

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Vaughn just grinned enigmatically and shrugged. Ah, getting a little of his own back, was he? Fine. Down to business, then. Conrad let Vaughn relieve himself and feed himself, then settled him on one of the dining chairs, binding his ankles to the legs of the chair and his wrists to the table in an ingenious fashion, so that Vaughn would be able to turn the pages of Devan's little manuscripts, and sip from the glass of water Conrad set there for him, but so he'd have no chance of getting his hands anywhere near his prick. Conrad wasn't about to let all the tormenting tension he'd ensured had been building up for days undone with a quick wank. "Now, I'm going to take our sweet Devan out for a bit of a stroll. While we're gone, I'd like you to read these," Conrad instructed, indicating the stack of stapled stories. "There will be a little quiz of sorts, later, so be sure you're thorough. I promise, I'm not out of disciplinary tricks, and any little rebellion you might mount will just mean I'll be a bit harder on Devan." Conrad took in Vaughn's still, watchful silence, then got Devan from her room, letting her don Vaughn's sweats for the duration of their walk in the chill October woods. As he led her out, past Vaughn bound at the dining table with her stories in a neat stack before him, Conrad watched them look at one another, silent, unsmiling, with dewy eyes. Bloody hell, the two of them took themselves far too seriously. But then, of course, that's what made it all such great fun. There was nothing to chat about. Conrad was quite sure that Devan's brain was doing everything his own words possibly could. And more. Encounter after encounter, hour after hour, day by day, he was exploring her, opening her, giving her the dreams

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she'd kept secret, while Vaughn pulled back, left her wanting, his guilt and fear smirching the pristine joy of helpless submission. In the woods he took her, though he hadn't planned on that. He stopped, and she stopped beside him, perhaps knowing before he did that he would fuck her. She looked at him, calm and sad, as if she knew that she belonged to him, the way he belonged to her. Conrad pushed her up against the thick trunk of some sort of tree, and Devan was soft and quiet. No struggle. No noise. Conrad wanted to kiss her. Feel her plump lips with his. Taste her sweet mouth. Sink into her, sigh into her, breathe her. But that sort of tenderness wouldn't do now, without Vaughn there to witness it. Instead he locked eyes with her and slowly lifted the layers and layers of cotton, sweatshirts and t-shirts, and bared her breasts to the cold winter sunlight. Her nipples cast sharp shadows over the burgundy mounds of her aureole, crinkled with cold, their texture in stark relief in that bright crisp light. "Remember, Devan, how frightened you were, how you cried, the first time I bared your breasts?" "Yes." She didn't sound afraid. Vaughn was needed for that, now. Conrad bent and licked one nipple, then watched the cold conducted by his spit tighten the taut flesh even more. Then he pulled the layers and layers of cotton back down, so she wouldn't get chilled, and caressed her in the tent of warm air beneath her clothes before stripping her half out of her sweatpants and fucking her against the tree,

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careful never to kiss her. And even if her eyes were melancholy, all her trembling was for want and pleasure and none of it was for fear. How different she was a few hours later, back at the cabin, after food and showers, when Conrad started in on Vaughn.

"I trust you were a good boy, while we were gone, and did you homework?" Devan had seen the stacks of paper on the dining table in front of Vaughn as Conrad had led her out, and she'd struggled not to dwell on the thought of him poring over her lurid stories. Even after what he'd read already, even after all Conrad had made her do in front of Vaughn, or with him, Devan clung to a desperate, futile wish that Vaughn could still see her that way he'd seemed to before Conrad had come. "Ready for your reading comprehension quiz, then?" Vaughn didn't look at her, and she was almost glad he kept his gaze leveled on Conrad. She was weary of blushing. Of feeling ashamed. "How many stories did you read today, Vaughn?" "Nine." "Very good. You didn't even have to think about it, did you? Now, of those nine, how many portrayed a woman fucking—or, more accurately, getting fucked by—more than one man?" "All of them," Vaughn answered simply and quietly. Conrad grinned for some reason. "And of all the stories, how many portrayed the woman getting fucked in the ass?"

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"All of them," Vaughn answered again, his voice low and even. "Now, knowing our Devan as you do, and now, having read these stories, tell me what you think. On some level, does the idea of being fucked in the ass turn our girl on?" Now Vaughn looked at her. He looked different to her all of a sudden, like they hadn't looked at each other in days and he'd…changed. He didn't look afraid. The blood flushing her cheeks drained away and her whole core went cold. "On some level, yes," he answered, still steadily holding her gaze. "Hmmm," Conrad laughed softly, scrutinizing Vaughn. "And?" "And she's afraid." "Of the pain?" "Partly." He sounded, looked, so tender. Like he'd hold her if he could. But still no sign of the old fear. "You've had anal sex. Fucked women in the ass. Haven't you Vaughn?" "Yes." "Tell us. If I make you fuck Devan like that, do you think you could do it without hurting her, physically?" "Yes." His eyes and his voice was still calm and tender. Her heart hammered in her lighter-than-air ice cold body. "And now, Vaughn, can you recall how many of those nine stories I had you read have one man fucking another?" Devan was falling apart.

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"Seven, I think." Not a muscle in Vaughn's face had twitched. He held her still with his gaze, like a buoying embrace. "Devan? Would you say that ratio, seven out of nine, is representative for your body of erotic fiction?" She was silent. The molecules making up her body were definitely losing their hold on each other, spreading and scattering. In another minute she'd be gone. "Answer me, Devan." "Yes." "Good girl. No point in lying, is there, when you know I know the answer." Fuck. She was disintegrating. Dying. And he was having such a good time. Amazing that it could still surprise her. "So, what do you think, Vaughn? Does the idea of two men fucking turn Devan on?" "Yes." "Very much?" "Yes." "Have you ever been fucked by a man, Vaughn?" Terror closed Devan's throat. She wished it would hurry up and strangle her. Kill her. Then it would be over. For both of them. How was Vaughn staying so calm? "No." "All right, Vaughn. Ready for the multiple choice section of the exam?"

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Conrad grinned, turned his gaze on Devan for a moment to take a taste of her terror, then turned back to Vaughn. "What shall it be, Vaughn? The choice is yours. Either you bend our sweet Devan over the dining table and fuck her virgin ass. Or I fuck you." Vaughn barely reacted. Just for a second, he looked startled, like someone whose been expecting an injection and finally feels the pinch as the needle pierces the skin. That was all. Conrad leaned over and put his lips by Vaughn's ear, and said softly, "I've never fucked a man before, Vaughn, but I promise I'd be as gentle with you as you'd be with Devan." Devan didn't know she was crying. Only that her vision was blurred. She hated herself for loving the touch of the man who could be so cruel to Vaughn, who could force him to say he would fuck her that way as if he'd really been given a choice. Because he hadn't. There was no choice. "You fuck me," he said. "No!" she screamed. "Devan. Shhhh," Conrad hushed her with a gentle voice and a tender smile that mocked her horror. "You know better than to interject when you haven't been asked to speak." She didn't want to speak. She wanted to kill. Without thinking past the level of instinct she snatched the poker from the hearth and swung. It stuck. Like an ax stuck in a log. He'd caught it. Held it still. She let go. Reached for the next wooden handle, not

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caring what implement she'd draw. Conrad caught her wrist, took her down, wrested the hearth broom from her hand. "After everything, Conrad, after everything you've done, I don't hate you. But if you do this, anything to Vaughn," she sobbed, "I will. I'll hate you. Believe me." With everything in her she hoped he cared as much as she imagined. "I believe you, darling. And your hate's a far more alarming threat than that poker. You never fare well against me in hand-to-hand combat, do you?" He laughed softly, making her tears dry up in hot fury. "It's really good of you, Devan darling, to let me know I've not done anything yet to earn your hate, when all I'd hoped to get out of this little exercise was a good excuse to punish you. You know, don't you, that you've been a naughty girl. And now it's time for you to take your punishment." There was something about the way Conrad was looking at her that chilled her. He almost seemed nervous. What, after everything, could do that to him? Roughly he gripped her arms and maneuvered her toward the couch, then spun her suddenly around with him, and perched on the arm. "Down, Devan. On your knees." He pushed down on her shoulders, emphasizing his order. She knelt down before him, and a second later he was undoing his belt, his pants. Was that it? Her punishment? Giving him head? The terror drained out of her. Maybe that would have horrified her, frightened her when they'd been back at Conrad's cabin, or even when he'd first arrived at Vaughn's. But she was well past that, now. She was surprised he didn't realize.

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As he slid his pants down and slowly stroked his hard cock before her face, familiar pulsing heat pooled and throbbed in her sex. She hardly even tried to deny it to herself. She liked it. The idea of taking Conrad's cock in her mouth, making him pant and sigh and tremble. Causing and taking his orgasm. For once, now, she felt like the one with the power. And she wanted Vaughn, watching, to know that's how it was. Before Conrad could give another order, before he could do anything that would make Vaughn fear that she was being hurt or forced, she pushed Conrad's hand aside, curled her fingers around the rigid shaft, and brought the full pink head to her lips and, looking up to watch Conrad's face, parted her lips and let him feel the first hint of her warm, wet tongue. He didn't look nearly as surprised as she'd imagined. His familiar expression of amusement lingered vaguely even as he seemed to succumb to the excitement of feeling her mouth at his cock. She took him in a little. He smelled, tasted different than Vaughn. Felt different in her hand, in her mouth. Slowly she sank against him, letting his stiff prick sink deep into her mouth. Still a challenge, but not so hard as with Vaughn. She drew back, taking in the feeling of his cock sliding over her tongue, against her lips. His rigid fullness, the girth and curve of the shaft, its texture, the plump smoothness of the head. Keeping him against her lips she explored him with the tip of her tongue, then slowly sucked him into her mouth again, her throbbing cunt aching more urgently each time he stiffened or moaned or gasped. Suddenly feeling his fingers raking into her hair she froze, wanting to hold onto this feeling of power. Of control. Afraid he was about to take it from her. But he didn't.

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He didn't pull her against him, force her to take him deeper or faster. He only stroked her hair softly as he moaned, letting her kiss him her own way. Until the very end. It seemed to come so quickly—the sudden tensing of his body, the flexing of fingers and limbs and abdomen she'd already learned to recognize as signs of pending climax. "Taste me, Devan," he groaned, and pulling thick fistfuls of her hair, coaxed her back until just the head of his cock remained in her mouth. He came, hot spurts of his come spattering her tongue, coating the inside of her mouth until he eased himself between her lips, glossing them with the last of his semen. He watched as she licked her lips clean, tasting, swallowing him. The strange taste lingered. "Why do you look so smug, darling?" he panted. "Do I?" "Oh yes. And I can guess why." Conrad grinned as he zipped up and began buckling his belt. "You're rather pleased with yourself, because you think you've borne my punishment so easily. But I'm afraid I haven't punished you, yet. That was just a delightful but necessary preliminary." Facing each other they rose, almost in sync. "The taste of me. It's still with you, isn't it, darling?" "Yes." "Good. Now give Vaughn a little taste." "Wh…?"

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"You heard me, Devan. Go on and give Vaughn a nice, long, deep kiss, and let him taste me. On your lips. On your tongue." She couldn't even find words to protest. She was only vaguely aware that she was suddenly nauseous, already crying, backing away—away from Conrad, away from Vaughn. Away from this impossible thing Conrad was suggesting. "Devan." "No!" "Do you really want to risk a worse punishment? Over such a little thing?" Was there something worse? Worse than tainting a kiss between her and Vaughn with the taste of Conrad—the physical evidence of her perversion, of the ugliness she'd brought down on Vaughn, on their tiny, infant love. And Vaughn. He'd be…revolted. Tasting another man's… "Conrad." She looked at Vaughn. "Untie me." She looked at Conrad. Why did he look like that? He stared strangely at Vaughn for an interminable minute or two, then strode to him and undid the handcuffs. The world—Devan's mad, scary, incredible world—no longer made sense. Vaughn rose. Like some sci-fi TV episode where space or time folds, the next instant he was there, right with her. He must have walked, but…His face. Closer, closer. "Don't." It was a scream but she only breathed it out. Why was Conrad making them do this? This? Turning her into a piece of defiled meat he'd make Vaughn eat. Wasn't it

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enough—making Vaughn watch as he touched her, as he fucked her, making her recite her obscene stories for Vaughn? It was done. They were obliterated. Didn't that satisfy him? Did he have to punctuate it by forcing Vaughn to touch her again as if it was still them? She couldn't bear it—the thought of him coldly forcing himself to kiss her, the idea of his body stiff with disgust as he obeyed Conrad's order, allowing her tongue, tasting of Conrad's come, into his mouth. "Don't!" she really screamed this time, covering Vaughn's mouth with her hand. "Conrad! Please!" Vaughn brushed her hand aside, sunk his fingers into her hair, pulled her close. Out of her mind, sobbing, she hit his hands away, pushed him back, tried to dart away. But he caught her, calmly, easily forced her back until she was pinned between him and the dining table. When he leaned in and she braced her arms against his shoulders to keep him back, he grasped her wrists and forced them behind her back. He moved in, gently nuzzled her cheek, "What are you afraid of, Dev?" he whispered. "That I don't want this?" He brought one of her hands to his crotch and pressed her hand to his erection, just letting her feel it before forcing her arm behind her back again. Then he gave her a kiss as tentative and tender as their very first kiss, gently brushing his lips over her bottom lip, softly sucking it, lightly caressing it with his tongue. That touch of his tongue made her blush. "I taste him on you, Dev."

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He kissed, caressed, softly sucked her top lip, slowly licked along the crease between her lips. "I taste…where you've been…what you've done… You. It's all you, Dev." Then he let her wrists go, curved his long fingers against her neck, her head, and took her mouth in a deep kiss. Long. Hot. Hungry. His hard body trembling against her, his hands pulling her to him, his breath quick and ragged. When he stopped kissing her, when he pulled back and looked at her, it was like…there was momentum. He was going to keep coming. His body was leaning to push her down, hold her beneath him; his hands were on her, keeping her with him. Her rigid body softened as he let her go. His body straightened, his hands slipped from her, and he stepped back, and returned to the chair he'd been bound to moments earlier. Conrad. Taut anticipation dissolving in reserved disappointment. Devan could see that he'd thought…he'd hoped…She watched as a cold calm descended on him, veiling his excitement and frustration.

Vaughn's chest hurt. What had he been about to do? Give by taking. Protect by hurting. He was losing it. Reason. Reality. Conrad crept up on him and purred like a cat in his ear. "Poor, poor Vaughn. So full of want. You want her. You want that interminable ache in your cock relieved at last. You want to save her. Save yourself. You can satisfy all your want, you know. You just have to let go of your little framework for how the world works."

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Then Conrad crept away and Vaughn wondered if the other's guard had been down, if he'd missed his chance to get them free of this terrible, ridiculous game. "Now, Vaughn. One last multiple choice question for you. Forgetting that nonsense about me fucking you, of all the scenarios described in those stories of Devan's that you read today, which shall we act out this evening?" He should have just taken her before. Given by taking. Protected by hurting. Better, easier for her. "Hmmmm?" Conrad prodded. Scene after scene shimmered then faded from his mind like mirages, Devan's face, Conrad's and his own like masks on the shapes of her characters, spreading, thrusting, sucking, licking. "Well? Do answer, Vaughn, or I'll decide for myself what you're to do with her." "Stop talking about Devan like she's a thing." He'd managed, somehow, to keep his voice even, but he was shaking so violently he knew they could see. Knew they could see he was about to cry. "Very well. Devan, love. Would you be so kind as to coax Vaughn up from his chair?" Minutes later Vaughn was out of the chair, standing, shirtless, his bound wrists pulled taut above his head, where his restraints were secured to a beam. Devan had done it all, step by step on Conrad's orders, while Conrad kept safely out of range. As fucking always.

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Now Conrad called Devan back to him, pulled her close, nuzzled and kissed her hair, then whispered in her ear. He went on whispering as Devan began to blush, as her chest began to heave with nervous panting. Meeting Vaughn's eyes she came toward him, obviously nervous, but trying to be calm, maybe for his sake, He watched her shaking hands reach out and unbuckle his belt, undo his jeans. Even though it wasn't the same, not the same at all, he felt a sympathetic pang, wondering if she felt anything like he'd felt that night he'd taken her virginity, undressing her. Now he was the one who was bound. Helpless. But it was all the same. They were both helpless, either way. She pulled gently and the weight of the belt dragged his jeans half way down his legs. His cock, hard with the arousal of watching her with Conrad, eager for whatever touch she was about to give him, strained against the confining hold of his briefs. She looked up at him, her eyes full of feeling he couldn't read. A tremor shuddered through his body at the touch of her hand on his prick, her heat embracing him through the tight cotton. She watched him as she slightly tightened the curve of her fingers against him. She didn't know. Such a gentle touch, but afraid of hurting. Without thinking he tensed as her hand slid down to cradle his balls. Her look went startled and he attempted a reassuring smile. Warm and tickling her long hair brushed over his stomach as she pressed her head to his chest. God, to put his arms around her. To pull her to him and hold her. After a moment she lifted her head and her hair tickled away from his belly as her fingers slipped under the elastic and slid his briefs down and he stood naked, hard, bound. Waiting.

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A hot surge flooded his tense body, his stiff cock, as Devan dropped to her knees. God. Fuck. She was going to take him in her mouth. Him bound. Her in control. No, Conrad was still making her. But this was…it felt totally different. The ropes at his wrists exonerated. "Here, darling. Dip your fingers in this." Conrad set a bowl of golden liquid on the floor beside Devan. Cooking oil. Vaughn hadn't even noticed him drifting off to the kitchen and back. Blushing, she shot Vaughn an embarrassed glance, then reached down and gingerly dipped her fingertips into the oil. Little golden rivulets glistened down the lengths of her pretty fingers as she brought her hand to him. Not breathing, waiting for her touch. He felt her, not there yet, but a warm, soft kiss just inside his hip bone, her other hand curving at the back of his thigh. Then the slight, tentative touch of one fingertip slowly tracing a slippery line around the head of his cock, then trailing lightly down the shaft. The sight, the thought, her touching him—his cock, his whole body convulsed with excitement. When she took him in her hand, her fingers encircled him so lightly, moved over the length of him so softly, it was like a tease, a promise of a caress he was still waiting to feel. He could sense her trembling slightly as slowly, tentatively she slid the slippery embrace of her hand down, down, then up, tenderly caressing the sensitive dome. It felt amazing, but he was tormented with anticipation. With want. Fuck, he was ready to beg her to grip him more tightly. But she went on with her caress that was a bare hint of the kind of touch that would make him come. That's what he wanted. To be touched—for Devan to touch him—to be overcome, to let go in that flood of release.

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"Delicious girl." Conrad mused. "She hasn't the slightest notion how wicked she's being. Just being very careful, aren't you darling?" She didn't look at Conrad. Blushing, uncertain, she looked at Vaughn. "Don't worry, love. You won't break him." She gave Vaughn a questioning look then, gazing up still, gauging him, tightened her grip slightly. A sudden, pleasant surge of feeling made him catch his breath, and his cock twitched in her hand. Looking unsure, she kept her grip firm and drew her hand slowly down the length of his desperate erection. Then up. So slow. He was panting. Dying for more. Just a little more. It wouldn't take much. Endless, frustrating torment, the last few days, watching Conrad touch her, kiss her, listening to her contralto voice, soft and shy, telling those astonishing stories. Fuck. Please. Just a little harder. A little faster. He'd forgotten his fear, and almost forgotten the guilt. All that was left was want. Need. He writhed, silent except for his panting, in sweet, painful torment as Devan's hand slid slowly up, the oily grip of her small fist rubbing and squeezing the head of his aching cock. Conrad stepped forward and Vaughn went rigid, afraid for a second that Conrad was about to do something to him—or worse, to her. But Sade squatted down behind Devan and whispered something to her, then stood and returned to his place on the sideline. Her hand slipped from him, leaving his cock to throb, aching for her missing touch. With her two hands—one slightly shiny from the oil—she pulled the flimsy little bit of negligee covering her breasts down. The sight of her, her breasts bare, the elastic of the neckline pushing them faintly together and up, seemed to suddenly double Vaughn's need. Then he watched—almost forgetting Conrad's furtive whisper, that he'd instructed

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her to do it—as Devan took hold of his cock once more and brought the domed head, glistening with oil, to the tip of her breast, and rubbed it back and forth against her nipple. Almost instantly her nipple stiffened as it took on a little of the sheen from him. Fuck, his want was turning to agony. Just three or four firm, quick strokes and he was sure he'd… "Do you want to let him come, Devan darling?" She looked over at Conrad. Looked up at Vaughn. "Yes." Sweet, wonderful Dev. Her soft voice filled that one word with such feeling. "All right, darling. Allow me to give you a little advice." Conrad knelt down, right behind her, his thighs framing her hips, his lips pressed into her tresses by her ear. The cold anxiety pooling in his gut spread through Vaughn as Devan's face paled, as she moved her head, in a paralytic gesture of 'no.' Then Conrad's despicable grin, another few words in her ear, and Devan's face went all pink and her eyes lit up with fresh tears. Vaughn had twenty conflicting notions of what Conrad might have told her to do, but he could guess what those last few words of Conrad's had been. "If you don't do it, darling, I will." She looked up at him. Terrified. Brave. Kind. Trying to reassure him with her frightened eyes. Then, her hand shaking, she dipped her fingers back into the oil and, her grip lax, she began stroking him again. Even with Conrad there, right behind her,

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despite the anxiety of not knowing what the fucker had in mind, her tentative touch brought him right back to the edge. Caressing, stroking, hot, slick. Fuck. Fuck. When she looked up at him he let her see what she was doing to him. God, she was so…that look of hers, unsure, hopeful, turned on. He was sure. But still afraid. Trying not to let him see. Lost in her gaze he hadn’t seen, but now she was caressing his balls, gently cupping them, cradling them while her other hand went on stroking his stiff cock. Then her hand slipped from his balls, back, between his thighs, caressing his ass, her palms spreading and curving, feeling the contours of his flesh, then trailing lightly back again. While he watched, while she kept stroking him, her other hand dipped down into the oil, her fingertips all shiny and dripping, and a moment after he felt a drop or two hitting his skin, slinking down between his ass cheeks. And he panicked. Her fingers felt nice, trailing so softly there, the oil on her fingertips mingling with the tiny rivulets, warm on his skin. But he panicked. He couldn't. Conrad couldn't make her… Forcing himself, he stayed still. He stayed quiet. Struggle would be pointless. Conrad would never relent to any plea. As her fingers slid, small and gentle and slick, between his cheeks, he let her hold his gaze. Still she was stroking him, making him pant with his urgent need to come. Now one finger slid more insistently against him, from the sensitive spot just behind his balls, back, over his asshole, up, and back again. Then—fuck—the tip of her finger was rubbing back and forth, insistently teasing his anus. He could hardly help flexing and writhing despite desperate efforts to soften to her.

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Especially when he let himself see how scared she looked. Fuck. He drew a deep, deep breath, let it go, and made his body lax. Almost. His cock, hard and lurching in her hand, was ready to explode. The teasing, rubbing of her finger became a tentative pressure that seemed to test, to relent, to return, gentle but determined. Slowly, gradually, her finger opened him, entered him. The whole time she kept her eyes on him. Slowly her slippery finger slid deeper into him, and an involuntary shudder shook his body. Conrad whispered something to her, and Vaughn felt her finger glide slowly from him, and his whole pelvis seemed to be throbbing with need. Then her finger slid into him again, deeper than before. And out, and back again. Slowly fucking him. Unbearable. Incredible. The weird feeling gripping him, rising from her two hands touching those parts of him. Not like anything before. Or like it, but more. More. He was shuddering, almost whimpering, and couldn't stop. She pressed her lips to his belly, nuzzled against him, her touch warm and so sweet to him. A comfort, an anchor as he was being dragged out to some unknown sea. Then that warmth was gone and he looked down to see Conrad murmuring in her ear. Then her warmth was with him again, her breath tickling the hairs drawing a line from his navel down, her hands fucking him. Gripping. Penetrating. Then for a moment he was empty, and a second later she was coming into him again. Larger. God. Oh god. Coming in. He quivered and panted through it and she was inside him again, and he was stretched so tight he thought maybe he couldn't take it, but it wasn't pain, just strange, a fullness, and his cock still plunging into her slick fist again and again.

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Then, fuck! God! He groaned out loud and convulsed as her touch sent a melting shockwave through him. She'd gone still. All still. He looked. Her eyes were filling with tears and she was looking at him like she was desperately seeking something. Conrad grinned up at him, combed his fingers through her hair and sighed, "Shhh, Devan. He's all right. You haven't hurt him." His mischievous hazel eyes flashed upward again. "Has she, Vaughn?" Laughter in the fucker's voice. "No, Dev." Vaughn tried to slow his panting, to talk in a normal voice. "You didn't hurt me." "Quite the opposite, isn't that right, Vaughn?" "Yes." "Do it again, darling." She looked up at Vaughn, asking what to do. "Yes," he sighed, terrified. Wanting. She moved. First just the hand wrapped tight around his throbbing cock. Then inside him. Slow, rhythmic fucking. God. Oh god, fuck. Then that other touch. A percussion bomb of pleasure pounded his whole body. And again. Convulsing, dying, exploding in her hands. Frightening, so much, too much, his body shaken, melting, hanging, limp, still vibrating with feeling too good to bear. Broken. He felt broken. Emptied. Drained.

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Hanging, sweating, trembling, weak, almost crying, he opened his eyes. Devan's eyes. Waiting, afraid. All right, Dev. All right. He couldn't talk. Wanted to tell her. All right. She was standing. Conrad was gone. She was looking at him so…such tender concern. Afraid she'd hurt him, even though he'd…god, her breasts were covered, dripping with his come. Cream on cream. Pretty. Delicate. The pallor of her smooth skin, the translucent unwhite sheen lacing her wonderful contours. His hands came free. Conrad. Strangely dizzy he nearly collapsed but something caught him. Conrad. Set him down. Then Devan, kneeling. Eyes still full of fear. Fingers soft, combing through his hair. Want. He wanted to feel her against him, her arms around him, her warmth and his mingling. Maybe Conrad wouldn't let them. He reached out, startled at how weak his arm was, hard to even lift. He touched her neck, coaxed her to him. Held her. So good he wanted to cry. Devan. Dev.

Conrad allowed it. For a moment. Devan held Vaughn, limp and trembling in her arms. What had she done? The way poor Vaughn had stiffened, the look on his face, she knew, never before. He'd never done, never wanted that. But she'd done it. She'd brought Conrad down on Vaughn's place of refuge, and done that to him. She'd written it, so he'd made her. "I'm sorry," she meant to whisper, but she sobbed it.

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"That's enough." Conrad gripped her arm, wrenched her from Vaughn, pulled her up. As Conrad dragged her off she broke down, too guilty to get a grip on the tears she meant to hide.

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TWELVE: Metamorphosis

Vaughn strained for the millionth time over the last few days against the tape wound over the flannel sleeve of his shirt, holding him tight to the arm of the chair. Damn fucking Conrad. Every time Vaughn thought he was past terror, past worry, Conrad said, did something to start him panicking and struggling. "What's that for?" Fear seemed to have sucked away his breath. His voice was so soft. "For Devan. I'll need to tie her." Conrad cinched a second restraint onto the headboard. "Conrad." Vaughn was making his voice soft on purpose now. "Please. Don't tie her." He was near crying, trying to sound calm. "You don't need to. She'll be still if you tell her to. You know she will." Conrad grinned and came close, squatting down and looking up at Vaughn. "Yes. And you know that keeping her still is barely half the point." "She's already afraid. Fuck, she's always afraid. Even when she's pretending not to be." "No," Conrad smiled brightly, reminiscing. "Not as she was, in the beginning." It was useless. It was always useless. Conrad never gave in. But begging was all Vaughn could do for her. So he begged. "Please. Please, Conrad."

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"Hmmm," Conrad almost laughed, "you're in a persistent mood, aren't you?" He glanced over his shoulder at the restraints dangling from the bedposts, then turned his eyes back to Vaughn. "Perhaps I'll reconsider, Vaughn. On one condition."

Conrad was well pleased with himself, now. And even felt a touch of affectionate gratitude for Vaughn, who'd inspired him to this stroke of genius. He fetched Devan, nervous clean and soft, and brought her into the little bedroom. Right away she caught sight of Vaughn, and the next moment took in the strange part. He wasn't bound. Just standing, leaning against the wall by the door she'd just come through. Though he kept his face serene and his voice steady, Conrad sensed how nervous Vaughn was as he looked at Devan and said to her in a quiet voice, "Take off your panties." Conrad watched. Carefully. There it was. The sudden swell of her chest as fresh fear made her pant. She stared up at Vaughn, trying to read him, then did as he'd told her. "Get on the bed, Devan," Vaughn said softly. Conrad could see that she was shaking. Still panting. She moved hesitantly toward the bed, cast a questioning look at Conrad, then sat on the edge of the mattress. And now for the real fun. Conrad looked at Vaughn, who seemed to be hesitating. Reconsidering. But then he went ahead and started to undress, stripping the t-shirt and trousers and boxer briefs from his chiseled bulk as Devan, pale and panting, watched. She was still, quiet, just watching and waiting and Vaughn came to the bed, naked and—Conrad had to smile—already hard, even after he'd been allowed such

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total release the night before, sat down beside her, then slid back, to the center of the mattress, and leaned back against the headboard. Devan stiffened just a little, panted just a little harder when Vaughn touched her shoulder, then gently coaxed her to slide back, into his arms, sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest. Conrad stepped to the foot of the bed and, with a look, prompted Vaughn, who obediently tightened the circle of his arms, belting Devan's arms underneath. What a pretty pair those two made. Vaughn leveling that futile look of warning as he waited to see just what Conrad would do; Devan already pale with fear, her eyes already promising tears, no doubt wondering over a hundred possible reasons why Vaughn wasn't tied, was holding her that way. All that, and Conrad hadn't even begun to undress. Now, as he grinned down at Devan and began to slip out of his clothes his pulse sped and his cock twitched as she went a paler shade of terrified. What must it be like, Conrad wondered, really trying to put himself in Devan's place, to be held down by one hard, naked man, waiting for the second? Not knowing what they'd do? He could see she was scared, and knew he'd find her wet. Her arousal fed so sweetly on her fear. Always. Naked, Conrad crawled up from the foot of the bed. Felt his way along the possibilities. Ran the pad of his index finger up the pretty curves of Devan's heel, ankle, and calf, along the crease behind her knee, then lifted and draped her legs over Vaughn's, spreading her nicely. Forcing her to feel more of Vaughn's body. Devan was almost hyperventilating now as Conrad slid his knees under Vaughn's legs and let his erection press against her naked sex as he bent over her, looking coolly into her frightened eyes. When he kissed her, quite tenderly at first, just feeling the

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sweet softness of her lips with his, she shuddered under his body and her panting breaths turned to gasps, and when he opened her mouth with his and brushed his tongue over hers there was a little, muffled whimper that made his cock lurch between them. Sweet girl. The fuck in the forest had been easy for her, yesterday, but now, with Vaughn cradling her, his face and hers pressed cheek to cheek, even this kiss was almost too much for her. He went deeper. When he broke the kiss and lifted himself from her, she looked more lost and sad than scared. It was just temporary, Conrad assured himself. Just a little longer. Certain reassurances would have to wait until the fear had served its purpose. And in just a few seconds, other feelings would overwhelm that lost uncertainty drowning her now. She waited. Thinking, no doubt, he was about to fuck her. Probably that both of them were about to fuck her. Maybe at the same time. The thought drove a hot little tremor through Conrad's body, into his hard prick, rising and swaying between them. With a little grin, though, he slipped down and settled himself between her legs. Fuck, he loved Devan's cunt. The look, the smell, the feel of it. The sight of it, just inches from his face, filled him with sudden, hot want. He wanted to taste what he smelled. Feel the smooth and soft and wet of her with his mouth. Feel her flesh parting and swelling under his tongue. He pressed his mouth to the pale, tender flesh of her inner thigh, nipped, then sucked hard enough to leave a mark, feeling her flex against the shock and pain. Conrad lifted his head and gave Vaughn a look, and he obediently cinched his arms tighter about her waist. Conrad descended on Devan's other thigh, raking his teeth over the smooth skin, then biting, listening to the change in her breathing, feeling her strain

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to be still. When he ran the tip of his tongue along the crease between thigh and pelvis she sucked in her breath, and the pale little hillock of her belly quivered between her hip bones. Before opening her with his tongue he let her feel his hot breath on her moist pink flesh where it peeked out between her pale, smooth lips, and touched the very tip of his tongue just lightly to her clit, let her feel the hint of his wet warmth meeting hers. Her breath was already shallow, erratic as he drew away and came back to her, lower down, and ran his tongue over the length of her moist folds, her piquant taste driving a vicious thrill through him. He took his time, licking her subtly, slowly, with shallow little caresses of his tongue for long minutes, listening happily to the sucked-in gasps of restrained pleasure, feeling how she trembled to stay still, her thighs quivering. Looking up, Conrad saw they were both watching him, and the way Devan's torso was faintly rising and falling, knew Vaughn was breathing hard. When he went deeper, she whimpered out loud and Conrad's cock, trapped between his body and the mattress, futilely tried to jump. Each time her quivering and flexing and especially her breathing told him she was about to come, he altered his caress, keeping her waiting and wanting. Now, when he looked up, Vaughn was nuzzling into her hair. Conrad even thought he heard him sigh faintly by her ear. All the fear, and even that lost look were gone from Devan's features. Now she was all bewildered need. Then, looking up at her, watching her face closely for every little change of expression, Conrad brought his hand up, between her legs, and ran a single fingertip along the crease between her cheeks, gradually pressing, sinking between, into the

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cleavage, wet and slick because all his licking had her so, so wet her moisture had gradually slinked down, down. Still watching her he brought his finger against that tiny opening, just kept a little pressure there, reading her realization, her submission, her fear, her want. He rubbed that little star shimmering with a million nerves, just gently, watching her blush and pant. He went on, subtly massaging that tender little pucker, and brought his mouth back to her, running the breadth of his tongue over her wet folds, open to him now like a flower after sunrise, seeking his light. When he brought his lips and tongue to her clit, gently nursing, still rubbing her with his finger, her hips convulsed and he heard a sweet, unrestrained whine descend from above, and he pushed the tip of his finger against the center of that tender pucker, coaxing it to open, to accept him, and sunk a little in, that whine rose and wavered and went on until it faded away with her exhausted breath and she had to gasp in a fresh lungful of air. At just a shallow depth he moved inside her, wiggling, making her wiggle and quiver deliciously around his finger, under his mouth, and when he looked up her mouth was open to pant and sigh and Vaughn had brought one hand up, had his palm pressed to her damp forehead, was pressing his lips to her temple, was holding her arms and her body down with his other arm. When he noticed Conrad looking up at him, a tremor of fear rippled over his face, but Conrad didn't reprimand or punish. Everything pleased him. He licked her again, circling and gently manipulating her swollen clit, protruding provocatively now from between her flushed lips, and drove his finger deeper, feeling how her body gripped and clung, as if it would keep him out, but then, when he drew

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back, as if it would keep him in. She groaned and tried to buck, but Vaughn had her pinned, and Conrad began to fuck her as he licked and sucked. On and on, for ten minutes, for half an hour, Conrad kept her at the brink, kissing her sex and fingering her ass, giving her the hint of an idea of what it would feel like when he finally did that thing she'd feared. He'd take his finger from her, then open her anew, go into her again, pump and wiggle his finger inside of her until her thighs quivered and her ass flexed and her hips lurched against Vaughn's restraining hold. Then he took his finger from her, took his mouth from her. Left her empty and open and wet and swollen.

He looked up, waited for her. She lifted her heavy lids, gazed at him through a fog of pleasure and want. "Well, my darling. Do you want to finish?" "Yes," she sighed. "Do you want my mouth?" "Yes." "And my finger?" "Yes." Yes. Yes. Yes. First he went into her, watched her eyes close and her mouth open. Then, as he slowly fucked her, he gave her his mouth again, lapping among her juicy creases, gently sucking at her swollen pink bud, tasting and feeling her, breathing in the scent of her pleasure and want, letting her rise to him, pressing herself to his mouth as she quietly moaned her need until she finally shuddered and let out an almost

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surprised-sounding groan, and all the muscles under his mouth and gripping his fingers spasmed and throbbed, and she collapsed, soft and quivery. And when Conrad looked up, there was Vaughn, still cradling, nuzzling, kissing, and she was all bliss, melted by his own kisses and touches, but wrapped now in Vaughn's tenderness and warmth. Like twins in the womb, their bodies curved together. Conrad was pleased to see them so soft and sweet, now. It would just be that much more fun, later, splitting them apart, making them hard, making them really fight each other. He knew now that he could do it. Without realizing it, the little darlings had dropped the means right in his lap.

Five or six hours later hot soft flesh mooshed flat against the smooth hard cold of vanished wood as Conrad gripped Devan's neck, pressing her cheek down on Vaughn's dining table. She gripped the edges of the tabletop tight in fear, trying hard to be still and quiet, to make it easier on Vaughn. Conrad had lulled her, earlier, with all that tenderness, all that pleasure, just so she'd be terrified now, the horror of what was happening amplified by its contrast to his gentleness before. The thing that almost had her crying, even more than her fear, was the thought, as Conrad forced her feet apart with his, as he tugged her panties down with one hand, as she heard him dragging his zipper open, as he prodded, then entered her, suddenly, brutally, was the conscious thought that just a few hours earlier he'd touched her so carefully, kissed her so sweetly, and smiled up with what had seemed to her then to be tender feeling as she'd trembled while Vaughn cradled her in his warmth, stroking and kissing and sighing along with her. That she'd felt safe with them. Cared for.

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Now Conrad had her bent over and pinned down, and his cock was pumping in and out with revolting indifference. No words. No touch but the pinning hand at the back of her neck and the stabbing of his dick into her body, hard, deep, over and over. When he grasped one ass cheek and she felt as if he was spreading her, and he hammered into her harder, almost violently, a little whimper rattled out of her. "Sshhh, Devan. I'll be done with you in just a minute. I promise." The way they made her feel like a thing being used, his words were almost as bad as how he was fucking her. Her stomach turned. But even so, she was comforted. He was fucking to come. It wouldn't take long. "And then," he added, pausing for a grunt and a breath, "I'll let Vaughn have a turn." There was no thought. She broke apart, somehow keeping her sobs silent, before she knew why. Everything had changed. She was alone. Conrad pumped into her, frenzied, grunting, for a few more seconds, then groaned and mashed his hips against her ass and inside her she felt the pulsing spasms of his climax. With a mixture of nausea and relief she felt his cock slip out of her, and then his hand was off her neck and she pushed herself up to standing, lamely trying to furtively wipe the tears from her face before she'd have to turn and let Vaughn see her. She'd been embarrassed before, but now she felt humiliated. Dirty. But she didn't have to let him see her hurt. It took all the self-control she had not to start crying again as Conrad said flatly, "Now, darling, get Vaughn's cock out, and get on it."

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Her body seemed to be sagging. Collapsing. Like her skeleton was gone. She felt so weak. So soft. "Why aren't you doing as I've asked, Devan? Do you suppose I can't think of something nastier?" He came close, then, and ignoring how she flinched to feel his body brush against hers, he put his lips to her ear and asked, "Know what a cream pie is, Devan?" Sticky wetness was sliding down her thighs. Her gut heaved. Fight. Flight. All body. No thought. Gone. Into the cold and wet, running. As her bare feet splashed through puddles and squelched into the mud beneath, as the falling rain plastered the silk to her skin, she knew it wouldn't matter. Conrad would catch her. They always caught her, sooner or later. But she tried. She ran. Propelling her body toward the woods. She heard him behind her. Panting breath. Splatting, slogging footfalls. Closer. Closer. Two strong hands circling desperately around her arms, sliding down her rainslicked skin. Tightening. Halting. Turning her. Vaughn. They stood, staring at one another, pale and surreal as ghosts in the moon's light. He let go. She stayed. He touched her jaw. She let him. He curved his hands gently at the back of her neck. She waited. He came close. Bent down. Brought his lips to hers. She couldn't. Not now. Not like this. She pushed him away. Stepped back. Back.

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He didn't look sad or scared, or mean, or angry. He just looked sure. He stepped toward her. She stepped back. He stepped toward her. She shook her head. No. Conrad would have grinned, to taunt her. To provoke her fear. But Vaughn just came on, steady and determined. "Vaughn," she warned, she pleaded with no word but his name. He caught her arms. She could feel his hands slipping on her wet skin, but his grip held, and he pushed back, and she stepped back, but her leg caught—he'd stepped his foot behind hers—and now she was sinking, down, down, her feet plowing slippery through the mud, skidding out from under her, only his firm grip keeping her from slamming to the wet ground. He set her down gently, then pinned her as she writhed, trying to sit, to get her legs under her, to turn over, to get away. She fought harder as he let go with one hand to undo his fly, but still his legs and feet and one huge arm worked against her, kept her down. It was happening. She couldn't stop it. He kept going. Worked his jeans down, off his hips and with both hands and both knees, pried her legs open and forced his hips between her thighs and drove his cock into her.

She kept struggling, trying to scootch back, out from under him, trying to push him off. He caught her wrists and forced them down, pinning her arms back by her head. Then they both went still, staring at each other, in shock. He'd done it. He was on her. In her.

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The gray of her eyes was dark in the moonlight, her pale skin shimmery with rain and her black hair sticking in waving strings to her forehead and cheeks and neck. He wanted to give her everything. But there were contradictions. Vaughn was split in two. One could not touch Devan, except when forced, for fear of frightening or hurting her. That Vaughn was not here. Now he was the other, fingers wrapped around her wrists sinking into the cold wet mud. This other would touch her, would kiss her, would take her, sensing only her heat, her quivering, remembering only that she'd written these touches and kisses in her stories, that she'd confessed these stories as her own fantasies, feeling within himself no fear and no shame, feeling only his power. Over her. Body. Pleasure. Dev. He moved. Took her body with slow, determined, unmerciful thrusts that made her grunt each time he drove home. Her sounds, her quivering, her heat had him so hard, so wanting, so eager. Inside her, feeling her body's hot grip on him, the lengths of their bodies pressed close, still felt a painful longing, a need to give her more, to possess her more completely. He read everything in her face and all of it made him hotter, hungrier. Made him fuck her more fervently, and she kept struggling, trying to wrench her wrists free of his hands, trying to evade his body, and he gripped her tighter, put more of his weight on his arms to pin her down harder, and her brow furrowed as he went on, fucking her. And all her writhing, all her struggling drove him to frenzy, made him come to her harder, thrust deeper. Her shaken grunts turned to cries of some large feeling, dark like sadness, then sharpened. And it was all them. Just her, and him. Nothing, no one between them.

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His body holding hers down, opening her. Penetrating. Filling. Making her pant and part and writhe and quiver. Making her make those little sounds—god, fuck, those little sounds of hers—and that face, wracked and needful and hopeful and afraid. She was coming. Fuck, she was coming. He fucked her, hearing, watching, knowing he was making her feel that, adoring her as he took her moans and shudders, her body, her wet tight grip on him, the hot, hungry power of feeling her helpless beneath him, and gave in to her, losing himself, emptying all his voracious heat into her open, tender body. Then they both went still, staring at each other, in shock. He'd done it. He wondered if there were tears mingling salt with the rain beading and rolling over the counters of her face. If he'd hurt her. But he couldn't say, "Dev, did I hurt you?" or, "Dev, that's what you wanted, isn't it?" or, "I wasn't wrong, was I?" So he kissed her. He let go of her wrists, and still deep in the close wet warmth of her he brought his mouth to hers, and made his kiss a question. Her lips were cold as he brushed against them with his, tasting cool clean rain, giving her time to say no, to push him back, but her mouth was hot when her lips parted and he brushed his tongue over hers and slowly settled into a deep, languorous kiss. She was soft and he was sure again. Then her body shuddered and he remembered the rain and mud and cold. "Dev," he sighed and kissed her tenderly on the lips, the left eyebrow, the right. "I want to stay like this. With you." A long pause. "But you're freezing." He left her body and pulled her from the mud, pulled her to him, steered them toward the cabin. Now that they were up and walking and he felt the cold his body had ignored until just now, anxiety chilled him as he thought Devan must be feeling it more

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than he. He sped their pace. As they neared the cabin Vaughn saw Conrad's silhouette in the doorway. "Strip down, you two. I've got a hot shower going." There was something strange in the way they were looking at each other. Conrad and Devan. Then he realized Conrad was soaked, too. They all peeled their wet clothes from their cold bodies. For Devan there was nothing to do but lift her little silk slip over her head, and Conrad sent her straight to the shower while he and Vaughn struggled out of their wet pants. "You surpassed all my expectations, Vaughn." "You came out. You saw." "Of course. Can you really imagine I'd miss the culmination of all my efforts?" Vaughn thought Conrad sounded weird. Sad, maybe. "Come on. Let's get inside." Devan was in the shower, a muddy waterfall cascading from her hair, down her lower back, over her ass, down her legs, turning to a river flowing down the center of the tub and into the drain. She looked at them as they came in as if she didn't know who they were. Who they'd become in the few minutes she'd been apart from them. Vaughn had an idea that she didn't know what to expect, now that he'd done that out there, after Conrad had been so brutally perfunctory with her at the dining table. And he had an idea that that's just what Conrad wanted. And that he'd go along with it. To a point. So long as his faith stuck, that Conrad cared and that Devan's fear and uncertainty brought her some strange brand of excitement and pleasure. Watching him as he moved closer, Devan only seemed unsure. Like she was waiting, keeping feeling and thought at bay until she saw how they'd be with her. When

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Vaughn stepped over the edge of the tub, she backed up. Maybe just to let him in. And maybe not. He smiled. Her look, her face seemed to soften, like she'd let go of something. She let him come to her, touch her waist, pull her to him, put his arms around her. Under the water he held her, loving this—the feeling of her body and his that had chilled in the rain together warming together now under the spray of hot water, how he could feel her breathing, feel the tiny movements of the muscles in her back as she adjusted her stance. She was soft, seemed willing when he kissed her forehead, kissed her cheek just by her hairline. And she held his gaze as he ran his hands over her hair, helping the jets of steaming water to wash away the mud. Soft, her body, leaning sweetly against him, her arms lax, her neck pliable, letting her head bow and turn as he rinsed the mud from her hair. Soft, her face, her expression tranquil, her eyes lidded heavy and quiet. But then she was tall and stiff and alert, her head and eyes turned quick on a movement. Conrad. Stepping near. Waiting and watchful she stayed still as he came close, then stepped into the tub behind her. Now she was rigid, her body stiff as Vaughn held her a little, looking over her shoulder at Conrad who gazed back at him with a grin, then stooped, grabbed the shampoo bottle from the ledge, and went on grinning as he squeezed a fat dollop of pearlescent liquid into his palm, then rubbed his hands together. The faint scent of orange. Vaughn felt her flinch as Conrad came forward, pressing his body to hers, and curved his hands against the back of her head, working his fingers into her wet hair, raising froths of white against the black tresses. "Devan," Conrad breathed as he went on massaging and lathering while Vaughn held her to him, "is this all right?"

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Vaughn had never heard Conrad ask permission for anything. Devan was quiet for a few seconds, then said yes in a strange voice, the feeling behind which he couldn't guess. "And if Vaughn wants to wash your body, is that all right too?" Conrad asked in a tender voice. She pushed herself back just far enough that she could look up at Vaughn. He felt like she was trying to read what he might be thinking, and after a little while she said yes in that same strange voice and with unreadable eyes. But she was soft again, against his body, under his hands. While Conrad washed her hair, Vaughn caressed her smooth skin with soap-slicked hands, sliding slow over the surface at first, then rubbing deeper, massaging her neck, her shoulders, the muscles between her shoulder blades and on either side of her spine. Devan, warm and lithe between them, looking and letting as he washed her whole body. Her breasts. Where he had been and where Conrad had been before him. Where Conrad had threatened but not really gone yet. Her legs. Her feet, washing and rubbing while Conrad held her so she wouldn't slip. Everything she let him touch—her neck, her breasts, her hands, her sex—stirred a tenderness in Vaughn that made him happy and sad at the same time. When she was pink and scrubbed and rinsed, she stayed with Vaughn, their bodies pressed wet and close, while Conrad washed, and she let Conrad hold her while Vaughn took a turn with the soap and the last of the hot water. Then all stepped over the edge of the tub, onto the thick beige mat, dried off, then went together to the big bedroom. And then Conrad told her to drop her towel. She cast a nervous look back at

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Conrad, and then at Vaughn before she complied, letting her towel fall to the floor. Even though he'd just spent all that time with her naked in the shower, running his hands over all her bare skin, the sight of her letting her towel fall from her body made Vaughn's prick stir under his own towel. She got into the bed when Conrad told her to. Conrad dropped his towel and slipped up beside her. She looked nervous, but she stayed still. Quiet. "Come to bed, Vaughn," Conrad said, and patted the mattress on the other side of Devan. A momentary flush of guilt warmed him when Devan's eyes flashed to his cock, half hard, as he dropped his towel, and she watched him with an anxious expression as he got into bed beside her. "Give us a kiss good-night, Devan." Vaughn's prick went the rest of the way hard as he saw and heard Conrad go soft and wet into Devan's mouth. But it was just a kiss. Conrad took his tongue and his lips from her, curved his arm over her waist, settled into his pillow, nuzzled against her cheek, and closed his eyes. Vaughn tugged the chain on the bedside lamp and put the room in darkness. By the moonlight seeping over them, he could discern Devan's eyes, open, on him. Every want conflicted. He sank down by her, looking at her. Dim and silent they lied, gazing at each other. Then he kissed her forehead, smelling the orange scent of his shampoo in her hair. Under the covers he found her hand, and she let him hold it. With her small, warm hand folded in his, he lay awake for hours before sleep finally rescued him.

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Voices woke him. Without opening his eyes he knew the room was flooded with light. It was morning. "Where are you going, darling?" "I need to pee." "All right. But come right back." Vaughn opened his eyes. Saw Devan slipping over Conrad, out of the bed. "Leave that," Conrad said quietly when she bent to pick up a towel. Reluctantly she stood, empty-handed, and walked naked from the room. Naked she seemed soft and small. More fragile. While she was gone Conrad spoke and Vaughn was silent. Wants conflicting. But when she came back he started. Devan came in, obviously embarrassed to be walking around naked, even after everything, even though nothing she'd worn for the last few days had covered much of anything. Hesitant, nervous, she approached the bed where Conrad was lying on his side, his head propped on his hand, and where Vaughn was sitting, his back to the headboard. Vaughn smiled and stretched a hand out to her, and just that made her breathing change. She halted. Glanced from Vaughn to Conrad and back. Deciding. Then she stepped forward and put her hand in Vaughn's. Her touch, that little gesture of trust—he didn't think resignation—was so sweet, so endearing, Vaughn felt a crazy impulse to leap from the bed and run off with her, into the woods, so they could talk, tell each other everything, hold each other. But he didn't.

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He drew her toward him, and she followed his lead as he guided her with that little touch, her fingers curved into his hand, until she was in bed with them, facing him, straddling his thighs. Maybe it was dumb to think 'love' at a time like this, both of them Conrad's hostage, or Devan their hostage—Vaughn hardly knew anymore—but that's what it felt like, the way she'd come to him, how she was looking at him, the way she felt, the way she looked. Everything in him wanted to freeze this moment, keep it forever. But there was no way, and he combed his fingers into her hair, pulled her close, kissed her face, already feeling want catching tenderness, smothering it, his demanding erection already rising between them, nestled against her warm, smooth belly. Hotter, harder, he left her cheek, brought his mouth to her lips, sucking, biting, parting, bringing his tongue to hers, kissing her deep, laboring their breathing. He tipped forward, laid her down under him. He wanted inside. But first. First. He kissed her, slow, deep, with all the hot and tender feeling in him, loving the taste of her, loving how her lips felt—so soft and full—between his lips, how her tongue felt sliding against his. And how she looked at him after, her gray eyes bright with trepidation, clouded with want. He watched her, could watch her forever, as he brought his hand between their bodies, between her thighs, and touched her. Sweet Devan. Her eyes still lit up with amazement at how a touch like that could feel, startled still by the way a finger could brush against her and make her shudder and suck in a breath. "Dev," he heard himself sigh as she groaned, holding his gaze as he found her silky wetness and painted it over

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her hidden folds, forward and back, slow and soft, feeling her tremble as he touched her, opened her, ripened her, juicy and full. Already quivering at the brink of climax. "Dev," he sighed again, and coaxed her legs apart with his. Adoring. Wanting. Dev. When he went into her, she made a little noise and he groaned, his want so acute that feeling her cunt sheathing his cock only made him hungrier. He went deep, but slow, holding her tight to him with a palm on her ass and a hand in her hair. She made another little noise, and was so tense, so quivery under his body he thought she was about to come, already, just because of the way he'd touched her right before, and because there was something about their want this morning, but he didn't want her to yet, wanted her still aching for him and he sighed "Shhhh. Not yet. Wait Dev," as he slowly moved inside her. Forever. He could have gone on with her like that forever, except for physics. And Conrad. Vaughn slid his hands under her, wrapped her up in his arms, slid his knees forward, and rose to sitting, lifting her onto his lap. He slid his hands down, cradled her ass in his hands, rocked his hips, started slowly fucking her again. When she put her hands on him, gripping his shoulder, curving a hand behind his neck, her touch made him strangely happy. She pressed her chest and belly to his, pulled herself close, and their cheeks were touching. He could hear her breathing. Then she gasped. Pulled back. Went stiff. Pale. Eyes bright and wide. "It's all right, Devan darling. We're going to do this very gently. Nice and slow."

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Conrad was right behind her, his mouth by her ear, his chest touching her back. Probably his stiff cock was nestled against her ass. Vaughn tried to answer her look of startled fear with a reassuring smile, but his heart was hammering. She flinched, jumped a little as Conrad rested his hands on her shoulders, then went still, unbearably still, not even breathing, as Conrad kissed her ear, just pressing his lips to her pale pink lobe. Then his lips parted and the tip of his shiny pink tongue brushed against the edge of her lobe before his lips closed on it, and Vaughn imagined him gently biting down. When his mouth descended on her neck she sucked in her breath and looked at Vaughn with startled eyes. Again he tried to calm her with a tender look. Even though Vaughn stayed still inside her, as Conrad's lips and tongue and teeth worked on her neck Devan began to breathe faster, to soften, even to faintly writhe, and Vaughn went hot and tender at once at the sight and the feel of her. But her eyes were still locked on his. She looked afraid. One of Conrad's hands slipped from her shoulder, and a moment later she whimpered softly. "Devan. Darling Devan. You haven't forgotten how well you liked my finger just yesterday, have you?" Conrad whispered. "Are you afraid, now, that it's going to hurt?" "No." She looked like she was about to cry. Her tear-bright eyes made Vaughn's chest tight. He smiled softly, combed his fingers into her soft, warm hair, and pressed one lingering little kiss on each cheek. She seemed a little softer after that and he kissed her lips, soft, soft, pressing them gently between his, loving their fullness, their sweet shape, how they went firm as she began to kiss him back. He opened his eyes, and she looked

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warm and seeking, still startled, unsure, but soft. Open. He brought his mouth to hers again, and when he brushed his tongue across the underside of her upper lip her mouth opened a little, and her tongue touched his. He felt her, really trembling under his hands, her chest vibrating like the head of a drum, her warm breath coming in shallow little puffs.

Bloody hell, Devan was really something. Vaughn too, for that matter. But it was her, impaled on that big cock of his, trembling between them, panting and sighing as she kissed one man while the other ravaged her delicate neck, caressing her ass with both hands now, sliding fingers and palms lightly over her smooth, firm flesh, giving her round cheeks a gentle squeeze now and then, teasing his cock, letting it rest innocently along her tempting crevasse, that had him almost violent with need. But he'd be careful. Gentle. With her body, of course, but with her, with Devan, as well. Sure to keep her soft and warm with their love as they took her together. She made a little noise that went straight to Conrad's cock as he touched her with a carefully lubed fingertip, and when he began to rub her softly. Glancing up from where he was mouthing her Conrad saw that Vaughn had stopped kissing her to watch her face, enthralled. Conrad coaxed his finger inside, one little inch or so, and she made another cock-tormenting sound. Vaughn kissed her cheek and asked in a voice that sounded like he had no air in his lungs, "Is he touching you?" and she gasped back, "Yes," and then Vaughn asked, "Do you like how it feels?" and she breathed, "Yes," and Vaughn smiled at her with real joy—Vaughn the earnest might be able to feign calm, but not joy—and said in a voice with some breath in it, "Good, Dev. Good." Then the man

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he'd made her lover pulled her to him and kissed her. Conrad had an idea that Vaughn was as vicious with need as he himself was, and no wonder, buried to the hilt in her, but her almost stone-still on his stiff cock, only wiggling subtly, involuntarily as he delicately fingered her virgin ass, finally sinking that one digit all the way in and slowly sliding it nearly out of her, then in again against the grasp of her body. After a little while, when he slipped his finger from her tight ring of muscle squeezing and holding his finger, and came back to her with two lube-slicked digits, sweet Devan whimpered and wiggled and writhed so deliciously as Conrad coaxed his fingers past that stubborn little pucker that Vaughn's breathing changed and his body flexed. He couldn't see her face, but Conrad saw her ears redden with what he guessed was a pretty blush for her embarrassment at writhing on Vaughn's cock like that as Conrad fingered her ass. She was panting; he could feel it, hear it. "Be soft, Devan Darling," Conrad purred, then kissed the top of her shoulder blade. "Am I hurting you?" "No." Her voice had a strain to it. "Good girl." Conrad brushed his lips against the back of her neck and drove his fingers deeper inside, listening to Devan suck in her breath, feeling her body twitch between them. Vaughn's cock must be getting a nice little massage. He kept on gazing at her like he was trying to melt into her mind, read her thoughts, feel her sensations, only now and then breaking that little communion to kiss her, sometimes with little affection touches of his lips to her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, her ears, sometimes sealing his mouth to hers and driving his tongue between her lips.

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Now that Conrad was pressing his body to hers, Devan seemed to panic. Her breathing sped, and she twisted round, looking at him like she was about to plea for a deferral. "Shhh, Devan. Vaughn's going to hold you now." Conrad was still unsure of Vaughn, of just how together they were in this, but Vaughn's body seemed to do his mind's bidding, one arm circling Devan's waist, cinching her tight to his body, his other hand curving at the back of her head, coaxing her, tender and firm, to lay her cheek to his chest. An embrace, a warm restraint to comfort, to make still, to make helpless. Vaughn held tight as she whimpered and panted and quivered, as Conrad slipped his fingers from her, pressed the tip of his lubed cock to her ass, and slowly forced his way in, working the head past the resistant clench of defiant muscle and finally sliding the length of his shaft up inside her. She was still taut, unbreathing, anticipation. Conrad pressed himself to her back, feeling Vaughn's arm against his belly. He kissed her hair, curved his hands at her hips, and moved inside her. "Don't-don't-don't," she gasped and Conrad caught that certain note and pulsed into her and watched her strain fall apart and listened to the shattered breath crash from her parted lips as she blushed and shuddered. Fucking delicious girl! Coming and blushing, so aroused by what shamed her she couldn't take three strokes before her climax went rippling through her, making her spasm and throb around both their cocks. Le petit mort. One little death from pleasure—more the way they'd played to her imagination than the way he'd fingered her bottom and then slipped inside—and now a thousand deaths from the embarrassment of orgasming five seconds into something so

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sluttish as being DP'd by the only two men who'd ever really touched her. A tear slipped from her eye and slid down her cheek, and a soft groan mimicked a sob.

Vaughn was overwhelmed. Joy. Arousal. Relief. He wasn't sure. He hadn't known, until he heard her, felt her body tense and quiver, her cunt squeezing his cock in rapid then diminishing pulses, how unsure he'd been. But she'd surrendered. Almost the moment Conrad had entered her. God. Dev. He was all want-mingled joy as he heard Conrad sigh in her ear the words he might have said, then he realized how tight he'd been holding her, practically crushing Devan against his body, and as he loosened his embrace he watched Conrad kissing her ear, her neck, her shoulder, then circle his own arms around her, belting her arms down, drawing her back from Vaughn's body. A chill. A shrinking. A heaviness. A tightness. Her face. Sad. And turned away. Not looking. Refusing to look. Later he'd think back and wonder over a hundred possible emotions, but now, under Conrad's spell made stronger by the sounds and smells of pleasure, he could imagine only one possibility. The one Conrad had whispered behind her back. Vaughn curved a hand at her jaw, coaxed her to turn to him. Devan didn't resist, but her eyes were still cast down. He cradled her face in his hands, gave her a tiny kiss, her upper lip by the corner of her mouth. She seemed to actually shudder and that cold, shrinking, heavy tightness got worse. "Dev." Nothing.

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"Look at me." She lifted her lids, her eyes. Looked at him. God. Dev. His chest swelled warm at that touch of her glance. "Wonderful. Dev. You're wonderful," he sighed, smiling, tipping his forehead to hers and skydiving into the gray storm clouds in her eyes. Then he kissed her, meaning only to be tender and reassuring, but he was so stirred up, so warm with tender feeling, so hot and needful, that the second she yielded to him, softened and breathed, he took her mouth, hungry, seeking, almost groaning to feel her move against him where he was inside of her. When he pulled back and looked at her she looked lit up, and her lit up look Vaughn took for pleasure and joy. He smiled, kissed her again, her soft, hot mouth, her smooth, pale cheek, jaw, chin, neck. His doubt drowning quietly in her light and her sighs he cupped her breasts and kissed them, too, just sweetly until her groan goaded him to take her nipples hungrily between his lips, his teeth, sucking, licking, gently biting. "You came so quickly, darling," Conrad groaned by her ear, "but don't you worry," His groan turned to a whisper, "I promise, love. We'll make you come again." When Vaughn leaned back and looked she was blushing again, but her breaths were already swelling with sighs as Conrad began to fuck her. And when Conrad leaned back, Devan's waist and her arms caught in the circle of his arms, Vaughn was jolted by a fresh hot surge at the sight of her inflamed nipples glistening with his saliva, and he thrust up from beneath her, just subtly, but she gasped like he'd knocked the wind out of her. With both of them moving inside her, Conrad embracing and restraining her,

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Vaughn caressing and kissing her, Devan was sighing and groaning and quivering with abandon, now. Giving herself up to this. To them. Up and down she rode their waves, their caresses and kisses and sighs and grunts lapping at her, washing over her, their hard, eager cocks pistoning inside her hot, tight, opening her, rubbing and filling her with their flesh and their come as they all sweated and writhed and groaned and her body shuddered and her mouth opened and her eyes watered and she groaned out loud and finally collapsed and they held her between them. They bathed together, returned to bed together, filled the little room with murmurs and sighs and kisses, with the long deep breathing of sleep, with dozy moans and another chorus of gasps and cries. For the rest of the day the bed was never empty; they took turns for bathroom breaks and going to the kitchen, bringing water and food back for each other. Sometime after dark, exhausted, sated, they fell asleep in a warm tangle of naked limbs.

When Devan woke in the morning, Conrad was gone.

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THIRTEEN: Over

Conrad. Gone. Devan's body felt sickeningly soft. Quivery. He'd given her things. He had. But he'd taken, too. Too much. She couldn't breathe right. No air. Her body seemed to be folding up, collapsing in on itself, digesting itself. Down the hall the bed creaked. Vaughn rolling over. Maybe rising. She couldn't move. She needed to get out before Vaughn found her, but she couldn't move. His soft, easy tread. Distant. Beyond walls and doors. But closer, now. Closer. Nothing between them. She sensed him behind her. Still. Quiet. Maybe wondering. Maybe already knowing. "He's gone," she said without turning around. Stop. Crying. Eyes bleary and stinging, her jaw clenched to keep her cheeks dry, she turned and faced Vaughn.

Broken. Conrad's spell. His own insanity left bare. Just looking at her, trembling and near tears, in one of those ridiculous nighties of Conrad's, the morning light showing him everything under the gauzy white, Vaughn's lungs were in agony, like someone was piling heavy stones on his chest. Every second

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that passed in silence was like a thousand-yard drop. Descending into hell. He was for the final circle.

Vaughn. Still. Staring. Mercury irises glinting from reddening eyes. Standing there in just his shorts. He looked so hard. So cold. Like that first night when all she'd been to him was an intruder. Every second that passed in silence he seemed to be receding. Beyond her reach. She'd never touch him, feel him again. "Vaughn." She blurted it desperately, terror-stricken at feeling they were disappearing from one another. As soon as she spoke she felt her hold on her tears slipping. He just stood there, rigid, almost shaking.

He braced himself. She'd accuse. Or, god, she'd plead. "Please. Don't." It was going to hurt even more than the thought of it. He wanted, needed that pain. Needed her to hurt him. Her mouth opened. Her mouth. He'd kissed. She'd sighed as he'd touched her. Moved inside her. Determined not to cry, he whispered through clenched teeth, "Devan. I'm not going to hurt you." "God, Vaughn. I know that." "I don't blame you, being nervous. Afraid. Of me." "I'm not afraid of you."

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God, what was she doing? Coming near. Reaching out. How could she? Touching his arm, now.

He flinched. Hardened. The bottomless fissure opening between them yawned wider. "I'm all right," she said, trying to make her voice soft and even. "Are you?" He looked like she'd slapped him. Shocked. Then hurt. Finally, "Me? I'm—" The way he was looking at her. She wished Conrad had taken her with him. "Vaughn?" she tried one more time, almost out of hope. "Are you all right?" "You're really okay?" he asked, ninety seconds behind. "I'm fine. Really." "You're crying." "I'm not." "You are." "You haven't answered. If you're okay." He gave her one of his placid smiles. Small. Soft. Her anxiety started to thaw. "If you're all right," he said, "then I am."

She smiled at him with palpable relief. No way to doubt the way she softened, the way her eyes went bright. Then—he could hardly believe it, hardly bear the joy of it— she pressed her body against his and he felt her hands on his back, pulling him to her. He wound his arms around her like an impossible gift he was bound to return. Dev. So

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warm and soft in his embrace, against his body. As if they hadn't hurt her. So yielding, as if she trusted him. They were alone. All alone. No Conrad. They could say anything. Everything. But it seemed too late, now, to ask, to say all the things he'd wanted to tell her. Before. And as he stood there, holding her, feeling her arms around him, feeling her body warm and soft under his hands, both of them so quiet, the need to scream, to cry started to choke and wither his impossible joy.

She felt his arms around her, felt his breathing, the rise and fall of his warm chest against her, but after just a few seconds holding her, Vaughn seemed to stiffen. To cool. In her raw state it felt like he'd shoved her away. She'd known. As soon as Conrad had started in on them, she'd known it would be this way. The more indifferent his embrace became, the more aware she felt of how nearly naked she was in the little wisp of lingerie Conrad had her dressed in. Feeling a blush creeping over her chest and cheeks, she broke the twin circles. Her arms, then his. "I'm not afraid of you, Vaughn. I still…" She smiled, near tears. "I'm still your friend." He lifted his hand to touch her face, bringing his fingertips almost to her cheek before pulling back, letting his hand fall slowly to his thigh. "Can we sit?" she asked, needing to level her gaze with his. They moved to the sofa.

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"I think maybe," she said, softly, gazing at him steadily, fear flickering in her eyes, belying her promises that she wasn't scared of him, "it's you who's afraid of me. Or, not afraid, but…"

Guilty. Ashamed. "What?" he asked, waiting for her to pass sentence. Silently begging her to judge him. "It's all right. I understand." She was smiling, a big, warm, smile. And fat tears were swelling clear and brilliant in her eyes and rolling, rolling, rolling down her face. "What?" He was trying so hard not to cry. "You don't want me…close." He got the feeling she'd edited mid-stream. "Devan…" She flinched a little as he said her name. No affectionate diminutive. "…that's not it." "No?" "No." "Are you still my friend, Vaughn?" "Your friend?" He felt faint and jittery. Like he'd been hurt and gone into shock. Her eyes sad and seeking, her lashes wet, but still smiling, so tenderly his heart seemed to strain, she

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took his hand in both of hers. The contact made his stomach twinge, made his chest flutter. Then, as she sat there, holding his hand in hers, it was like comfort and torture at once. Tender and cruel. He made himself look at her. It was hard, facing her. But the pain was nourishing. He hoped she could read his thoughts, that looking at him she could see what he hadn't found words to say yet. Her eyes were so intent on his, seeking, penetrating. So close. Like she was coming inside. Still holding his hand, holding his gaze, coming close. He could feel her warmth, not jut her hands, but her body, her breath coming faint against his skin. Then, his heart hammering, he realized. And a second later her sweet soft lips parted and touched his mouth. Dev. So tender. So warm. He almost groaned. Or sobbed. It was the sweetest little kiss, her lips just touching his with their soft heat, but everything in him rose to meet the tender press of her mouth, as if she was drawing him into her. A moment ago he hadn't been able to touch her cheek, but now he curved his hand at the back of her neck and she deepened her kiss. With her mouth she took him in, warmed and welcomed him. Caressed and soothed him. For a moment. But the dark things in him were too big, too hungry. Sadness crept over her tender warmth, and he could already feel her cooling. Retreating. She ended the kiss. "I'm sorry," she said. "You don't want me. To…" "Dev." Finally he lost the fragile grip he'd kept on himself since she'd told him Conrad had left. "God, Devan. I hurt you."

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Her gut contracted. "No. Vaughn. You were so…" There were no words for the warm feeling swelling through her. The way she thought of him. "You never hurt me." "I mean. What I really mean. " He was crying. "I raped you." His words stripped something from her. Now he was sobbing, his body shaking fitfully. "Oh, Vaughn…" She shook her head. He lifted his red, flinting eyes to hers. She reached out and tried to touch him, but he flinched back. "Vaughn. No. You didn't." She touched his forearm, stringed with fist-clenching muscle. He flinched. No relief, no hope sparked in his eyes. They just went on leaking tears. "When?" she whispered. "When do you think you did that to me?" The way he was holding her gaze, she got the feeling it was a kind of selfflagellation. That hurt—that looking at her was his way of punishing himself. "Every time," he choked out. "Every time I was inside you." "Don't." She was crying now. "Please don't say that. I know it's been…strange…but I want…I want to remember…us. It was us, Vaughn." He stared, incredulous, tears pouring down his cheeks. "Vaughn."

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She didn't know what to say. He looked so broken. She stroked his cheeks. His jaw, rough with stubble. Wanted to comfort him. Sooth him. He stiffened when she kissed his eye and his lashes painted her lips with his tears, and he stayed stark still as she kissed the other eye, his brow, his cheek. She bowed her forehead to his chest, felt the fluttery swell and hollow of his wrenched breaths. She pressed her whole body against him, put her arms around him. Like embracing a statue being exploded from the inside. His chest swelled and shrank in irregular, shuddering breaths, but he wouldn't let himself go. "Vaughn, I swear. I'm with you, I look at you, touch you, all I remember, all I feel, is that you're my friend. You're...we're…" She was out of words, putting her mouth to his to fill the gap. To let him know. To stop his hurt. To make him see. Everything she had for him was good and warm. It was a soft kiss and he was shaking, his body trembling under hers, and when she pulled back and looked at him he looked so scared, so hurt, but she was sure she could get him through. Make him see. Petting him, stroking his hair and his face, she kissed him again, everything in her rising up warm and soft, eager to drive away his guilt. He let her. Let her slip onto his lap, let her lips part his, draw his between. He was trembling but yielding as she drew her fingers down through his hair, caressing his neck, his shoulders, his arms. Yielding when she coaxed his hands to her waist. They never moved from where she put them, but finally, finally he was kissing her back. Never seeking but sweetly answering her lips, her tongue.

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When Devan stopped and looked at him Vaughn gazed at her, uncertain, his eyes still red but the tears stopped. When she smiled at him, really hopeful and brimming with tender warmth that could be happiness if he could be happy, he gave her back a tentative little smile. "Touch me," she whispered, dying to feel him, his want in this. It felt like forever, waiting, wondering if he would. But after long, anxious seconds, she felt his big strong hands touch lightly down on her back. Again she kissed him, and again he met her mouth with his, and as she caressed his jaw, his cheeks, touched his ears, feeling for the first time that she could explore him, learn him with her fingers, his hands went under the little nightie and slid soft and hot along the length of her back, along her spine, over her shoulder blades. An innocent, gentle touch. But it warmed her, softened her. She stopped their kiss, gave him a look and another smile. His breathing had changed. Sped up. And now the way his lips were parted made her think of want, not fear or shock. When he smiled back at her, an eager joy drove back her sadness, her fear that it was all over for them. Wanting to feel more of this happiness, more of his touch, his body, she pulled her nightie up over her head and dropped it on the sofa beside him. When she kissed him he was shaking again, his breath coming hard and shallow. His chest felt so hot and strong against her body, and she pressed closer, loving the feel of the swell and retreat of his chest as he breathed, the quick thud thud thud of his heart against her body. Kissing, she willed him to touch her, to curve his hands against

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her bottom, slide them down her thighs, run an index finger along her calf, bring a palm to her belly, cup, cradle, caress her breast. But he just held her. Close. One hand at the back of her waist, the other between her shoulder blades. Tighter and tighter. For a moment she went breathless; she could feel his hardness rising, pressed between them. Harder and harder he held her against him. And then he took his mouth from hers and she felt his breath wisping over her cheek and ear, playing with her hair. "I can't, Devan. I'm sorry. So sorry." He went on holding her so tight it was a little hard to breathe, his chest convulsing in little spasms as warm drops fell on her bare shoulder and rolled down her arm. After a long while he lifted her gently from him, rose, and disappeared into the bathroom, and Devan thought she heard stifled sobs before the sound of the shower rose to cover them. While she changed, while she waited for Vaughn to emerge from the bathroom, Devan composed speech after speech to undo his guilt, to assure him he'd brought her nothing but comfort and pleasure. She'd tell him that if he weren't sad, she might be happier, right now, than she'd ever been before. That if the memories of it weren't ugly to him, she'd look back on everything that had happened there as a kind of dream. Strange and perfect. But when he finally appeared, he was unapproachable. In the same room with her he was miles away, hidden behind an impenetrable wall. Hour after hour every movement seemed to be away from her, every flicker of his eyes avoided her gaze, and not a syllable left his lips.

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Afraid that anything she might say or do, any little word, any tiny touch would only hurt him, make it all worse, she gave him his berth, even though she wanted so badly to feel him, to talk with him. Finally she broke her vow of silence and solitude to tell him in a soft voice that she was going to bed. Then she turned and left him staring into the fire. But just as she reached her door he spoke. "He comes tomorrow. The driver. Tomorrow, you'll be home."

She'd been in bed four hours. She'd exhausted herself crying, but sleep refused to take her. All she could think of was all the things she should have said to make Vaughn understand, forget his guilt, and that tomorrow they'd hike through the forest to some rendezvous point, get in the driver's truck, and after that she'd never be alone with him again. And once they dropped her off, she'd probably never see him again. Feeling time slipping away from her, Vaughn slipping away from her, she slid from the bed and crept to his room. The door was open. Inside it was dark, but she thought she could make out his form under the covers. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and it was hard to breathe evenly and quietly as she moved toward his bed. "Dev?" The sound of her name cradled in his soft, deep voice almost made her start crying again. The covers rustled and in the dark his form rose up. "Please," she whispered. "Can I stay with you tonight?" It was still and quiet for a long time and she was gathering up all her strength to quietly accept his refusal without letting him hear her sob. But then she felt his fingers brush against her wrist and curve into her fingers, coaxing her toward the bed. She slid

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under the covers and melancholy joy flooded through her as he curved an arm around her waist and cuddled up behind her. Even though it stirred her and made her sad, at the same time the warmth and nearness of him soothed her; she was asleep before she could think to herself anything more than that this was the last time she'd feel him hold her.

When she blinked awake the early morning light seemed to have been stained by sunflowers, and somehow she couldn't even remember her sadness from the night before. Vaughn was beside her, his eyes closed, his dark lashes making her think for some reason of a sleeping child (and sleeping children aren't guilt-wounded). Behind him the window threw yellow light on the whitish bedclothes and put a shimmering halo in his dark hair, the down on his earlobes and his upper arms caught the sun, so he seemed to glow, and she had the funny idea they were angels on a luminescent cloud. The black lashes fluttered open and the angel-child became a man. All the times they'd kissed, he'd touched her, they'd made each other pant and sigh, she'd hardly touched him. Looking at him now she reached out, almost without thinking, and ran the tip of one finger over the glowing outline of his shoulder, the smooth skin of his muscled upper arm, the curve of his elbow, his forearm. A need she didn't question rose up in her, and, turning her eyes up to his, she dropped her hand onto the comforter and drew it away from his body so she could look at him. Looking at his smooth, pale skin, his chest, his nipples, the faint line of dark hair down the center of his torso, his belly button, she wondered what sounds he might have made, if she'd kissed his body.

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"I'm going to miss you," she whispered by way of asking permission. When she brought her hand to his cheek his stomach flexed, but he didn't push her hand away. She smiled, and when he smiled tentatively back she traced the dimple above the corner of his mouth with the tip of her finger. "Dev." All the sleepiness was gone from his face. He was awake. Vivid. Apprehensive. "All this time," she whispered, the soft warmth of the yellow morning impervious to mercury fear, "I feel like I've never really touched you." With her thumb she traced over his lips, his chin, his Adam's apple. The tips of her first two fingers found and followed his collarbones up from the bed toward the apex of his left shoulder. Then her palm hover-touched over his pecs, her tummy tightening as she felt the peaks of his nipples. The swell of his belly as he breathed seemed like the tenderest thing she'd ever felt—that she could touch, feel how alive and how fragile he was. When she looked, his eyes were fixed on her face. "There was a night, you know," she sighed, lost in the million gleaming facets of his eyes, "that I thought, before our time here was up, I was going to really learn you." She blushed then, but only for a second, before the perfect warmth and light of the morning lulled her embarrassment away. Aware, unashamed of how young, how inexperienced she was, she smiled, and holding his gaze, gently curved her fingers over the warm fullness of him under the snug gray cotton shorts. "Dev." A warning. Or a plea. "I want just one time with you, Vaughn, where it's just us. You and me."

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Her hand was still on his groin. "But I don't want to hurt you. I'll stop, if you want me to." Rapid shallow panting breaths. Eyes locked on her. Silent. Even though she hadn't moved her hand against him, she could feel him swelling. Her breath quickened. She moved her hand, just the tiniest bit, just memorizing the shape, the feel of him. The way the warm girth of him filled the curve of her palm and fingers. "All the times I imagined this part of a man," she whispered, her caress over the smooth, thin cotton slow and soft, "I really only thought about how hard it could be. How it could… penetrate." She smiled at him shyly, her cheeks hot. "But touching you like this, you're so warm. Sort of delicate. It feels like…caring for you…the way I can feel you getting bigger. Moving a little." He was panting faintly, with arousal, she thought. His eyes were locked on her face and a little red like he might be about to cry. She slid her hand down and cupped the soft swell of his balls in her palm. Her sex was pulsing deliciously. "And I never guessed. It's so nice, touching you," she said quietly, smiling over at him, "it's as nice as being touched." He smiled sweetly, but a tear slid from the corner of his eye. She pulled her hand back. "I'm sorry, Vaughn. I just…" She would not cry.

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His mouth still curved faintly in a melancholy smile, he subtly shook his head, touched her cheek, and took just her bottom lip in a tender kiss. "I don't want you to stop, Dev," he whispered. Then he kissed her again, a sweet press of her upper lip between his lips before he teased her with a brief touch of his tongue. Joy and want surged up, roiling together as she parted her lips for him, touched his tongue with hers. Deeper and deeper they took their kiss until they emerged breathless, trembling. He touched nothing but her hair, her lips, her chin, but her sex throbbed as she brought her hand back to his perfectly stiff prick. She smiled, and he smiled back. The feel of his hard thickness under her hand as she stroked him over his shorts had her eager for everything; she wanted to caress and kiss every crease and curve of him. For a second she fretted she'd gone too far when he went stiff and still as she hinted the elastic of his shorts an inch or two down his hips, until he gave her permission with a nervous smile and lifted his ass off the bed so she could slide the article off. It amazed her, touched her, that he could be lying there, naked, so hard, and look so vulnerable. She pressed her body against him, feeling the stiff length of his cock straining against her belly as she kissed his mouth and caressed his back. "I was surprised," she sighed, looking up at him, bringing her hand around, touching just the tips of her fingers to the petal-soft skin of his hard, hot shaft, making him draw a deep breath, "at how delicate your skin is, here. It's so nice to touch." Feather-light she ran her fingertips up and down the silky length of his shaft. "And this," she sighed, enveloping the smooth, plump head in her hand. "And the way it jumps and twitches in my hand," she practically groaned, she was getting so

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aroused as she gently gripped the shaft and felt it lurch. "And," she added, slowly stroking him, "I love how you smell. The way you taste. The feel of you against my lips. Under my tongue. In my mouth." She wanted to stay close to him, their eyes locked, their breaths breezing against each other's lips, but she couldn't resist slipping down, bringing his flushed, full cock to her mouth, brushing the rosy head against her lips, feeling how smooth and warm it was, how soft it felt when she nuzzled it for a moment against her cheek before she caressed the shaft with her lips, then touched the head with her tongue, tasting his salty tang, hearing his gasp. Then, her sex pounding with wonderful, rhythmic heat, she drew him between her lips and listened to his sigh. As she slowly swirled her tongue around and around, and worked her mouth up and down, with her hands she caressed his warm belly, feeling the firm rise of his hip bones, the tender dip between, finding and circling his navel with a finger, dipping down for a second to tease, then up to finger the fine trail of hair that ended in the thatch under her mouth. She took him in deep, loving the feeling of him filling her mouth, the taste of him all along her tongue from the tip to the opening of her throat, breathing in the scent of him. But she was dying to go back to him, to read his face, to feel him hold her, to take him in. He was panting hard as she rose up and slipped off her panties and t-shirt. She gazed down at him, reading his apprehension. His arousal. And then she felt a jarring awareness that she was sitting there, naked, all but begging Vaughn to… A hot blush fanned over her cheeks and chest. When he noticed her embarrassment

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Vaughn's fear seemed to fade. He sat up and put his arms around her, stroking and kissing her hair. "I so want this, Vaughn. But only if you do, too." He just held her, silent. "Do you want this, Vaughn?" she whispered, sad, sure she knew what he was going to say. "Yes." Yes. Nothing else mattered. Yes, they'd be together. This one time, just them. He'd kiss her and hold her, she'd feel his body against hers, inside her. She'd get to watch the pleasure move over his face, she'd hear it in his sighs and moans. Yes. Eager to close out any space between them, to put any chance of him changing his mind in the past where it couldn't keep them apart, she slipped atop his thighs and pressed her chest to his. His doubt seemed all gone. With his placid smile he watched her face, stroked her hair, kissed her mouth. Soft. Deep. Teasing her tongue with his. Filling her mouth with his sighs. Forgetting to doubt herself, she locked eyes with him, raised herself a little, reached down between them, curved her fingers gently around the base of his cock, then pressed the head to her sex. She watched bewilderment and anticipation flicker over his features as she made their bodies align, and slowly sank down, taking him in. She let out a little, unselfconscious groan; it felt so, so good to have him inside her. He was inside her. She was in his arms. They were together. It was too good. It was a happiness that hurt.

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But then she was nervous, almost startled to find herself astride him. On top. Now she felt like a real idiot. She couldn't just start riding him the way she'd seen women do in movies. She'd feel ridiculous. She waited, dying for him to lay her down, to feel his weight on her, feel him moving inside of her. "Dev?" Vaughn's anxious look was back. She smiled. He smiled. Devan laughed softly, looking at Vaughn sheepishly. He looked confused. "I don't," she started, and laughed again. "After everything, I've never…I don't know what to do. How to…make it good for you, I mean…" "Dev." Vaughn gave her his serene smile. Had anything in the world ever reassured her the way that smile always did? "Don't think about me. Do whatever feels nice to you, and it'll feel nice to me. And nothing could be better, Dev, than feeling you, watching you move for your pleasure." He brushed her hair back tickling over her shoulder, coaxed her close, kissed lightly over her ear, down her neck, into the hollow behind her collarbone, releasing a cascade of rousing tingles. When she moved, just a tiny movement, such a gripping pleasure twinged her sex that she gasped out loud. It was a strange, heart-breaking sort of pleasure, feeling so close to him, their bodies connected, sharing touch and warmth. And her want was so much that her body seemed to want to let go, right then. So she kept her movements slow and small. And, because they had these few moments together where they were lovers, not captives, she whispered her thoughts to him.

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"I love this, Vaughn. Feeling you inside of me. Your arms around me. The way you're watching me." He gave her a little smile that wavered, maybe with arousal, maybe with sadness. As she moved over him, she'd touch him—his face, his chest, his belly. He'd only trail his fingers into her hair, kiss her sweetly, hold her to him, until she took his hand, kissed his palm, and put it to her breast. "Touch me," she sighed as she slowly rose and dipped and tilted her hips, quivering with the pleasure of it but keeping her climax back. Now that she'd asked it of him he caressed her, tentatively, gently, watching her face, taking in her smiles and sighs and little blushes when the pleasure shook a groan from her. "Do you like it, too?" she asked, tentatively teasing a nipple. "Yes," he groaned as she felt the dark little nub harden under her thumb. She tried to make it last. Their one time. But soon it didn't matter how small, each little movement promised her climax was close. He seemed to sense it, getting more worked up, holding her closer in his trembling embrace as she rose and dipped and slowly swirled her body around him. When she came her body was shaking from holding back so long, and because she seemed to be letting go of so much in that release, and her moans were laced with sobs and Vaughn nuzzled into her hair and sighed "Dev, Dev, Dev" as she shuddered in his arms.

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He pulled her close and held her tight for long moments after. When she pulled back a little to look at him, he looked happy, and she smiled. Then, a few seconds later, she laughed a little, embarrassed again. "Do you want to…change positions? Or should I…speed up? Or anything?" He smiled, and laughed softly for a second. Then, in a breathy whisper, "If it's not too much to ask, just keep doing what you've been doing. I've been hanging on by a thread." Fresh joy flushed over everything else at the thought she'd been giving him anything like the pleasure she'd been feeling. She started to move again, overwhelmed, now, by the feeling of him so hard and full in her pleasure-worn, pleasure-seeking body. She felt unbearably taut and swollen, all her nerves raw and hyper-stimulated and yet aching to feel him. With her hands and her body she felt him quivering, felt the tension in his hands, though he was holding her gently. Carefully. Even now. His eyes were set on hers, seeking, asking, confessing. So open. Vulnerable. And now there was a low growling groan in every exhale as his trembling turned to sporadic shuddering spasms, his breath catching, his belly flexing and she was waiting, moving, wanting to spin this moment into infinity but dying to watch him, hear him, feel him let go with her. Then he panted "oh, Dev," and groaned and cinching her waist in his arm held her tight to him, his face rapt with pleasure that looked like pain. And, deep inside of her, she felt him succumb to the pleasure she'd given him. He held her gaze, let her watch through that long, vulnerable moment, and after, as he came back to himself. Still trembling he kissed her, not with the urgency she'd felt

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before, but a long, deep kiss of capitulation and communion. Everything bare. Nothing held back. Then he buried his face in her hair and pulled her tight against him, and they held each other like that for a long time. Then they packed up and hiked out, barely talking as they plodded over the soggy forest floor to the rendezvous point. Devan's vague melancholy dread solidified into a nauseating lump in her belly when, through the trees, she saw the jarringly unnatural white of a truck, and knew that her time with Vaughn in his hideaway in the woods was over. Her body slowed, like an instinctive resistance to walking off a cliff, but Vaughn turned and looked at her, and she forced herself to keep moving. Toward the end of them. When he saw them the driver gave a hesitant wave, and as they drew nearer Devan saw that he was staring at her mistrustfully and, as they reached the truck, the boy—he couldn't be much older than Devan—gave Vaughn a quizzical look. "Jeremy." Vaughn's voice was soft and sad. It surprised Devan when Vaughn hugged the guy, and the lump in her belly got heavier as she thought to herself that Vaughn was clinging to the kid like he'd just pulled him from a burning building. "Devan, this is Jeremy," Vaughn managed when he finally let go of the kid. "Hi," she said with the warmest smile she could conjure. "Hi." Jeremy was plainly confused and dismayed by her presence there in the woods with Vaughn, but Vaughn didn't seem in any hurry to explain the mystery. They threw the packs into the back, and Vaughn opened the back door for Devan. With that same

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heavy, withering feeling she climbed in and buckled her seat belt. The slam of the door as Vaughn pushed it shut jarred her raw nerves. Gazing out the window she saw but couldn't hear Vaughn talking to the driver. Then the kid flung open the driver's door and climbed in, and Vaughn walked around the other side. A flood of happy warmth rose and soothed Devan as the back door opened and Vaughn slid in beside her instead of getting in the front seat. He gave her his placid smile, fastened his seat belt, and took her hand. They rolled and bumped over the trail, Vaughn holding her hand, Devan remembering the terrifying night ride into the woods with Conrad. She almost smiled to think that she was sad to be leaving those woods now. It didn't seem possible that it was all part of one journey. When they reached a paved road Devan asked how long it would be to Seattle, and Jeremy said about four hours. Four hours. Vaughn looked at her and she realized she was squeezing his hand. She dropped her eyes and pulled her hand away. It didn't matter that she wanted to stay with him. Even if he felt the way she did, their lives couldn't fit together. She wouldn't trap him with his guilt, so she couldn't tell him what she really felt. What she really wanted. When he touched her chin and coaxed her to look at him she tried to calm herself so he wouldn't see her torment in her eyes. His sweet smile was almost painful to look at, now. He stroked her hair and pulled her to him, and she let her head rest on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart as Jeremy put miles of their time together behind them.

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She knew better, but she couldn't help fantasizing. They'd drive straight to Vaughn's. He'd bring her into his home. They'd talk. Make love. At the very least, stay friends. But as they closed in on Seattle, Vaughn said softly, "Capitol Hill, right?" and she said "yes" as evenly as she could, then guided Jeremy to her neighborhood, her street, her building. Her heart felt too big in her chest as it thumped heavily, and she felt a little faint as she clicked the seatbelt release and opened her door. The ground seesawed under her feet and she closed the door. For a moment she thought Vaughn wasn't even going to get out of the car to say good-bye, and she felt the tears welling up, threatening to roll down her face, but then she heard his door open, and then he was touching a strand of her hair. "Do you have a key?" he asked in a voice barely more than a whisper. "There's one hidden. If it's missing, the landlord can let me in." She couldn't look at him. He'd see too much. "We'll wait to see you get in all right." "Okay." He pulled her into his arms, his warm embrace, and kissed the crown of her head. She wanted him to never let go, to go on holding her forever, his smell, his heat, his breath, the beating of his heart with her forever. But he was letting her go, and the sadness was welling up too high, too fast. He opened his arms and she was about to dash off before he could look and see, but he touched her, lifted her face to him. The sight of his face, contorted with sadness that maybe matched her own, his eyes going red and wet and starting to brim over undid her resolve, and the tears started flowing.

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"Goodbye, Dev," he whispered hoarsely. Her stomach dropped and her flesh went cold. "Goodbye, Vaughn." She forced the words out, crushed and broken. Then she turned and strode, shaking, the world hazed by her tears, toward the stairs that led up to her door. Now that her back was turned, now that Vaughn couldn't see her face contorted by sobs, she went slowly up the stairs, hoping with each step she'd hear him running up behind her, hear him say her name, feel him touch her shoulder. But she knew as she reached the top he was still back at the car. She pawed desperately around the corner beyond the railing enclosing her landing, snatched the key from the window sill, and without looking back to the truck, went in and shut the door.

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FOURTEEN: Out of the woods, yet

This boy was sort of like a flower. Devan liked looking at him. His shapes and colors, his delicate smoothness. Liked his smell. Boy. Four years older than she was. Twenty three. But a boy to her. Not a man. Not like Conrad. Not like Vaughn. Kyle looked up from his copy of Anna Karenina and his moss-green eyes locked on her and, just as she blushed at being caught staring, his rosy lips went wide and parted in that big affable smile of his. Sometimes, when he looked at her that way, and she sensed he felt the urge to reach out and touch her cheek or her hand, or lean into her warmth, bring his mouth to hers, a now familiar heat rose in her, and she thought she’d let him. His presence, his smell, the way he looked at her exacerbated that awareness—utterly dormant before Conrad had taken her, with her every waking and sleeping moment since she’d been back—that she was a sexual creature, flesh and heat and need. But he was like a flower. An alien thing, pleasant to sense, to brighten the room, to admire, but cool, smooth, delicate. He had nothing to sustain her, to satiate her. Besides, the thought of being held, being kissed, touched, entered by this boyman, the need to set free all the overwhelming impulses to take and give pleasure and love seemed suddenly tiny beside the incredible pain of missing Vaughn. She’d decided all this before. Each time they’d worked together on their paper for their class on love and death in literature. But this was the first time, when he’d stuffed

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his books and papers into his backpack and she’d opened the door and said good-bye, that he let his bag drop to the floor, touched her hand, then bent and kissed her. Nothing in her imaginings came close to the hurt she felt when the warm soft press of his lips struck her with the shattering finality of having lost Vaughn. She stepped back, out of his hopeful embrace, away from his kiss. Devan opened her mouth to say something, but he beat her to it. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I guess I, uh, let my imagination get away from me. I’ll see you tomorrow. In class.” He snatched his backpack off the floor and was out the door almost before she could say “goodbye.” Hours later Devan lay in bed, as she did almost every night, touching herself— fingering tresses of hair, running the tip of her thumb under her upper lip, tracing the line of her jaw, the contours of her throat, the swell of her breasts, the responsive nubs of her nipples, the softness of her belly—remembering Vaughn’s touch, his eager and reticent explorations of her. When she spread her legs and curved her hand over her sex she imagined her hand was his hand, his mouth. She made herself come as if she were under his body, her fingers were him inside her. But when she was done, her taut and willful pretense fell apart. She didn’t usually cry, anymore. But this night she sobbed into her pillow as long and as hard as she had the day he’d brought her home and left her. The next morning she sent the package that had been sitting on her desk for more than five weeks. Before sealing the wrapper, she slipped in the final draft of a letter she'd written and re-written a dozen times:

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Vaughn, I don't know if I'm doing the right thing, writing you. I've argued with myself every day, for weeks, since the last time I saw you, whether it's the right thing. I guess I can't know, since I can't be sure of how you feel or what you're thinking. The one thing I do know is that if I don't write, if I don't try one more time, I'll always wonder if it might have made a difference. I miss you. I miss walking into a room to find you working out a melody on your guitar, or leaning back in your armchair, your feet on the hearth, your temple propped on your fist, your eyes fixed on the page of a book. I miss your face, your sharp eyes, your soothing smile. And your hands. I didn't ever tell you, but I love your hands. I miss hearing you talk. In those few quiet days we had together, I got so used to your way of talking—so soft and steady. Your voice, your way of saying things had this way of making me safe. And I miss you touching me. Holding my hand, holding me against you. Your kisses—the little ones on my cheeks and forehead and shoulders, and the others that made me feel so wanted. And I miss being your lover, if that's what I was. I miss feeling you and touching you until I was so caught up with you that everything but what I was feeling—your breath on my skin, your mouth, your body against mine, inside me—disappeared. I want to feel that again—all your tenderness, your heat. And really—and I know it's only a reckless fantasy, but—if I'm brave and I force myself to be honest, I want to wake up with you, day after day, find you sleeping beside me, or looking over at me as I first

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open my eyes. And, not always, but now and then, I'd like to go back to the place I found myself, over and over, at the cabin. I want you to take me there. If you miss me, too, even if you don't see a future for us beyond friendship, I wish you'd call or write or come to me. I hope you're not staying away because you think I don't want to see you, or because you still feel guilty. I can't tell you how sad it makes me to think we're kept apart by that. But please, only come if it's what you want—if you've been wishing all these weeks you could see me, talk to me, hold me. If you really want to put me and everything that happened behind you, that's what you should do. The only reason I haven't written before now is because I've been afraid you might come out of guilt, and I'd rather let you go than have you come back to me out of some feeling of obligation or pity. The last thing I want—such a lame cliché, but really—the last thing I want is for this letter, or anything I do to hurt you, to make you feel regret or guilt. If that's what this letter from me makes you feel, throw it away. Forget I sent it. I won't say too much more here. I've done something else I've been arguing with myself about. The five pound doorstop. Not writing it, but sending it to you. I started writing it, and went back to it, day after day, because I was missing you, and writing down everything that happened seemed like the best way of keeping you close. I hated the thought that time would dim and distort my memories of you, of us together. But when I finished I thought that maybe letting you read it would be the best way of letting you see how I felt about things. How I feel about you now. And, in case you

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don't want to forget it all, but you can't find a way back to me, then we'll both have this, and in a small way, we'll sort of be together. Your friend, Devan

After the kiss, Kyle didn't study with Devan any more. But another boy had materialized in her life, almost as if the first had been an elven changeling. Only Jeremy—the new boy—was in her course on modernist poetry, not her Love and Death in Literature class. And this new one was not like an alien or botanical life form. This one, with kind, dark eyes behind heavy glasses, attracted her, somehow. He'd spotted her on the bus, on her way home from the university one afternoon, recognized her as his classmate, and they'd discovered their apartments were less than two blocks apart. When she first knew him she was convinced he was gay, but every once in a while she got the idea he had a thing for her. Strange, feeling desired. New. Just since she'd been back. Before all that, before Conrad had taken her away and changed her, it never happened. He'd asked her once if she was seeing anyone, and she'd told him she was working on getting over somebody. Jeremy had gone quiet, and he'd sunk down a little, as if he were disappointed. Deterred. Her affectionate desire for Jeremy was a dim shadow of what she felt for Vaughn—even of what she had felt for Conrad—but however faint, the fizzy warmth was there when they smiled their greeting at the start of class, or when he appeared at her door for a study session which half the time served as an excuse to order Thai

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take-out and get a movie at the corner market. One night as he left they hugged goodbye, but instead of the usual quick, friendly embrace, this night he held her so close and for so long, she flushed with the sudden certainty that he would kiss her. But he didn't. He let go of her and smiled, dodging her eyes, and slipped out the door. Devan went to work on a paper due to following day, but she had to fight to keep her mind from constantly working to disentangle the intertwined threads of relief and disappointment. Study date after study date—first for their class together, and later focused on the GRE and prepping their applications to grad school—the expected attempt at a kiss never came. As winter quarter waned, then ended, and they got to know each other better, Devan saw how different Jeremy was from Kyle. When she stood back and looked past the fact of her attraction, she clued in to the reality that Jeremy was almost as much an innocent child as she herself had been before Conrad had taken her. No. That wasn't it. Jeremy was, Devan began to see, not as she had been, at all. Devan had partitioned everything sexual apart from herself, made it all an abstract, cerebral exercise, detached from her body, from her self. Jeremy was completely different. He was there, in the moment, with his need. His want. It was just that he was hesitant. Afraid, maybe. Or insecure. In the presence of Jeremy's palpable but reticent desire Devan felt something strange. Unfamiliar. Something that neither Conrad nor Vaughn had brought out in her. The coquette. As they lounged on the giant velvet cushions piled on the floor, studying or watching some DVD on the laptop that doubled as her work computer and her TV, she'd

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catch him looking at her—her face, her breasts, a bare strip of tummy where her shirt had ridden up. She felt differently about her body since she'd been back. It was part of her now, she lived in it. Before it had just taken her around and demanded food and sleep as the price of service. But now she felt physical. Liked to move, feel her muscle flex when she walked or stretched. One week she'd taken up yoga. Another week she'd signed up for a dance class at a studio a few blocks over from her place. Her body was feeling stronger. Virile, if it made sense to describe yourself that way when you were a girl. And she'd started to dress differently. She never used to care much about clothes. Not that she was some kind of fashion outcast. Only she'd never given much thought to how she looked in her clothes. Since the cabin, though, since finding herself a physical creature with this vigorous body, she'd begun to choose her outfits with an eye on what they did to the line of her back, the curve of her hips, the jut of her breasts. She'd even ditched the once favored bra style for less structured lingerie that didn't interfere with the natural shape of her tits. Now a t-shirt revealed their contours down to some rather fine details. And fairly often she caught Jeremy looking at those. But she was careful not to let him notice her noticing. But more and more with him she used her body—her way of sitting, standing, or lying beside him—to make him look. Sometimes he'd squirm and change positions, and she'd wonder if he'd gotten hard looking at her. Wanting her. And there was a thrill in making him nervous, letting him see she was looking at him, noticing—even behind his retro mod glasses with their thick black frames—how his thick dark lashes framed his big brown eyes, the pretty curve of his lips that made it always seem like he was

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amused at something. She liked the feeling that her presence, the way she was around him affected him. But still, as weeks went by, nothing happened. Every time Jeremy left with no declaration or attempted kiss or caress, Devan wasn't really sure if she was frustrated or relieved. He'd go with a hug and a lingering smile, and she'd shut the door behind him, thinking over all the looks she'd caught, the way he never talked about other girls around her, and wonder if she could be wrong. Usually it would be late when he finally left, and she'd strip off her t-shirt and bra and wiggle out of her jeans or skirt, and pull on a tank top and get ready for bed. Tonight, brushing her teeth, she watched herself—the way she looked when gazing into her reflection's eyes—steady. Strong. Present. When she thought back, sometimes she hated Conrad. What he'd done. But it seemed like a day never went by when she didn't reflect on how what had happened had changed her, and feel glad. An impulse struck, and when she'd spit and rinsed, she leaned back against the wall opposite the mirror, and watched as she began touching herself. She liked how she looked in just the snug little boy shorts and the thin, clinging cotton of the tank top. It made her tits seem fuller, and she could see the twin dark circles through the gray fabric. She lifted the hem of the top up, slowly baring her pale, taut belly, and up, revealing the heavy swells of her breasts, up, baring her nipples. She dragged the fabric against them, and felt them, watched them stiffen in response. When she let go, the tank stayed put, leaving her tits bare to the mirror. As she curved her hand between her thighs and gently circled her fingers over the faintly damp fabric covering her crotch she smiled at the thought of Conrad seeing

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her this way. The thought of Vaughn she pushed away because it hurt. But she was used to that, and just a minute or so later she was thinking tonight would be easy—the fun of doing something new, of seeing herself touching herself, or maybe some pent up arousal from her hours with Jeremy had her worked up and primed for release. But before she'd even slipped her hand inside her panties there was a knock at the door. Jeremy. Had to be. Something happened inside her chest. A high, hard tightening. Now. She had to decide. He had come back. He'd grab her. Kiss her. Or sit her down. Make a nervous, stuttering declaration. She flung the bathroom door shut to grab the robe from the hook. But then she stopped. Took a look at herself in the mirror. Breasts almost perfectly visible under the thin knit, her mound framed and defined under the snug boy shorts. She liked how they made her ass look, too. She felt like testing her power—how it could work on him, how it could make her feel. He was standing there at the door, waiting for her to open it so he could tell her, or touch and kiss her, but to open the door dressed as she was would knock him a little off kilter. Devan trotted to the door, a bit giddy with playful excitement, still not sure how she wanted it all to go. She opened the door a crack and, keeping her body hidden, peeked around. “Sorry,” Jeremy smiled through the narrow space Devan had opened between the door and the frame, “I seem to have left Eliot behind.” Devan pasted a smile over the somewhat surprising disappointment hollowing her out, and after a moment of doubt, opened the door for him. He smiled and walked past, heading for the pile of cushions that served as their base of operations during their

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study sessions. She watched as he searched about, first just running his eyes over and around the pillows before sinking to his knees to search under and between with his hands, holding the treasure up in triumph when he'd finally found it. She waited. He rose to his feet and, finally, looked over at her. She watched. His eyes flicked back down to the pillows as, chameleon-like, his cheeks tried to take on the fuchsia shade of one of the cushions. Almost as quickly, though, he raised his head and met her eyes, admitting his guilt with a sweet smile. “If I'd known this was how you'd answer your door, I would have made a point of forgetting my book a long time ago.” She smiled, letting him see that she'd noticed how he was holding the book in front of his crotch. “Well,” he said, coming close to her where she stood, still leaning against the front door, “goodnight. Sorry for bugging you so late.” “Are you?” she teased, not moving aside so he could open the door. Jeremy stood there, looking at her, an uncertain little smile flickering in and out of existence. His breathing was getting faster, and his closeness and shy nervousness had her feeling that low, swelling ache. Devan didn't really think about the fact that they'd never kissed or held hands or done any of the little things people probably did, normally, when they were warming up to being physical. She just wanted to know, and wanted to keep those blushes and nervous smiles going, so she fixed her eyes on his and touched his wrist, coaxing the hand with the book aside. Still holding his gaze, then, without moving her feet, she shifted her hips forward and brushed her belly across the front of his jeans, feeling the proof of his arousal.

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He was flat out panting, now, and when she lowered her gaze she could plainly see his erection bulging against his jeans. Her cunt throbbing like mad she pressed a soft palm against his hardness and drank up the tender little whimpering sound he made as she curved her hand to fit him, and faintly rubbed. “And are you sorry now?” she teased, still subtly stroking him over his jeans. “No,” he answered in quiet, dead earnest. She loved it. This feeling of control. Of power. She would lead, and he would follow. But she was a little thrown off by the feeling she may have gone a bit far. Jeremy was looking at her with such submissive awe, when her image of it all had been of a playful romp. Passive as a doll Jeremy stood, hands down at his sides as she ran her palm and fingers over the length of his hard-on. He was breathing hard, trembling, and somehow drifting closer, his body almost pressed to hers, their noses nearly touching as she watched his gaze soften and blur, listened to his sweet little whimpers as his prick jerked and contracted under his jeans. With a coy grin she left off stroking him. She took hold of Eliot and dropped him by the door, then peeled off Jeremy's jacket, then his thrift store cardigan that might once have belonged to a little old lady or Kurt Cobain—or maybe the little old lady and then Kurt Cobain—and then hoisted his Love and Rockets t-shirt over his head. He was more built than she'd imagined, with muscular shoulders and firm, developed pecs. And a manly thatch of dark hair between that she wouldn't have guessed at. But through the middle he was soft. And was so much narrower than Vaughn. But not so lean as Conrad. She didn't mean to compare. It was awkward,

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undoing someone else's belt. And she'd worked open his fly before she saw the flaw in her plan. “Shoes, please,” she said with a playful arch of her brow. He stood there staring at her for so long she wondered if he'd heard her. Or understood her. Or maybe he was about to put a stop to her little game. But then he smiled, and up close like this she saw that his teeth were slightly crooked, which somehow made him more attractive, and then he shifted and shifted again and when she looked down she saw a socked foot prying the shoe from the other foot. She stripped him out of his jeans, but when she slipped her fingers under the waistband of his briefs he caught her wrists. It was the first time he'd touched her since her game had begun. He let out a nervous little laugh. “I guess I'm shy.” What a cutie. She smiled and withdrew her hands, then leaned back against the door. “Maybe once you've had your turn, you'll feel a little less shy.” She waited. Long, slow seconds. He smiled. Hesitantly leaned in, brought his mouth to hers. She drew back the only inch she had before the back of her head pressed against the door. “Touch me first,” she whispered, and the sound of her own words, her own voice drove a sweet little thrill through her sex. Jeremy bowed his forehead to her crown and lifted his hands. They hovered for a moment, not sure where to land, then finally lit at her waist. Lightly, slowly his fingertips wandered up her back, along her shoulders, down again. Just faintly she felt him mold

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his hands to the curves of her ass, his fingertips tickling momentarily against the backs of her thighs, then up again. His hands slowly repeated the circuit; maybe a special invitation was required before he'd venture to the front of her. She pushed him back a little, smiled up at him, and brought his fingers to her crotch. As if his lungs had spasmed he sucked in his breath. Under her hand Jeremy's hand stayed still, so she moved it for him, sliding it over her undies, pressing it against her sensitive contours. When she drew his hand up and let her breast fill his palm, of his very own volition he brought his other hand up and tentatively caressed her other breast. His touch was nothing like Conrad's or Vaughn's—it was a gentle, timid exploration, not of her pleasure, but of her flesh. “Please,” he said, then, not looking at her, at first, but then facing her to say, “let me kiss you now.” She only smiled but he closed in and touched his mouth to hers, not really kissing, at first, like maybe he was testing her, to see if she'd respond, kiss him first. But she stayed still, letting that questioning contact build his anticipation. And hers. Then, breathing so hard and fast she almost felt guilty, he kissed her. Pressed her underlip between his for long, panting seconds. His hands had gone still against her breasts. Her cheeks went hot. It was going to be bad. Awkward. Clumsy. And she'd started it and it was her fault. But then she moved, or he did, and their lips brushed together, soft, warm. Little by little they sank into a tender kiss. His mouth tasted sweet. Minty, even. Like he'd just chewed up a spearmint Altoid. His tongue playing against hers felt strange—so different

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from the way Vaughn kissed, different from Conrad. After a minute, though, Jeremy's shy kiss went deep and hungry and soon she felt that wanting ache swelling. Now she wasn't playing. She needed this. Taking the hem of her tank between her fingers, she backed out of the kiss and watched his face as she lifted the fabric and bared her belly. Then the first hint of her breasts. Inch by slow inch she bared herself to him, finally leaving her tank on, but hiked up so he could see, touch, kiss her nipples and all the pale, soft flesh. A little thrill quivered through her. But no blush flamed up her chest and face. Strange, when she's always felt so, so shy with Conrad and with—she closed herself to that thought before it took shape. Again, he seemed at a loss. Or afraid. “Don't you want to kiss me anymore?” she teased, smiling, and brushed her index finger against her nipple. He looked—this surprised her—touched. What had she expected? Raw lust, maybe. Slow and soft he brought his hand to her, curved it under her breast, then bent and kissed, first the pale smooth flesh, then the dark, sensitive bud. Then he licked. The nerves in her nipple called out to the knot of want swelling in her sex and all through her belly. When he sealed his lips against her and began gently sucking, her flesh—every inch of skin—went tight, and her next breath came out a long, low moan. She sank her fingers into his soft, wavy hair and pulled him to her and he began sucking more eagerly, bringing her hard and fast to desperate, aching need. She pushed him back and answered his questioning look by leading him past their study nest, to the bed.

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Watching him watch her she pulled her tank top the rest of the way off and dropped it to the floor. Then—his nervous panting and the way his eager erection was pushing against his boxer briefs fueling her arousal with a surge of nervous adrenaline—she slipped her fingers under the snug fabric and slid her boy shorts down her legs, stood, and stepped out of them. “You're so beautiful, Devan.” Him saying that, she didn't like it. The phrase rang trite. But he seemed so awestruck—not by her physical fabulousness, which was average, at best, but by her, by the situation—that it didn't seem like a dumb, forced line. And way he was looking at her, that was good. He seemed bolted to the floor, so she moved toward him, feeling a weird mix of self-conscious shyness and thrilling boldness at being dead naked. With a teasing little smile she touched the tip of her index finger to his tummy, just above the waistband of his shorts. “Still too shy?” she asked. “Well, yes. But it would be kind of unfair for me to say no, now.” His smile was big. Nervous. “Yes, it would.” She bit her lip and caught herself wondering if that was part of the role she was trying out, and began easing his shorts down, careful not to snag the elastic on his jutting erection, pressing her hands against the sweet curve of his ass, then letting the briefs fall to the floor.

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When she touched his cock—just brushing the tips of her fingers briefly, simultaneously, against five points along the circumference of the head—he sucked in his breath and a shudder ran down the length of his body. He put his arms around her and she could hear his breathing, fast and loud when she curved her hand in a loose circle around the girth of him. That incredible soft warmth, the fine delicate texture of the surface of a man's cock—always astonished her. She moved her touch—the faintest contact she could manage, down the length of him, and up again, taking in how his eyes were closed and his mouth was open and his body was shaking, his belly going in, out, in, out every second with his breath. He seemed so excited she thought maybe she'd better not do too much. “Do you want to touch me?” she asked, and he just nodded his head and smiled for a fraction of a second. But he didn't move. Smiling, then pressing herself close against him, circling one arm around his waist, she took his hand and pressed it to her sex. When she took her hand away, his sort of hovered over her, hardly even touching her smooth mound, but just the awareness of his hand there, about to touch her made her cunt throb unbearably. When his fingertips touched down, soft, soft against her, just above the cleft of her sex, anticipation squeezed her belly and the throbbing between her thighs pounded harder. His faint touch moved, up, then down, hardly more than an inch. Then down, tormenting her with the hope of a more daring touch. Please. Please. She gasped when he brushed a finger lightly along her wet slit, so delicately he hadn't even penetrated to her inner folds. But then his finger sank softly between, and then slowly up inside her. She let out a little moan against his shoulder, and waited. He

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pulled his finger out a little, then pushed it back in. She caught herself holding her breath and concentrated, for a moment, on breathing normally. His finger went in, out, in, out. A little too slowly. Or something. It wasn't quite working. Her aching need was knotting into frustration. His body felt rigid in the curve of her arm, against her body, and when she touched, he seemed to be losing his erection. She wasn't so good at this role—playing the seductress. Maybe he was just nervous. She caressed his cock for a little while, relieved to feel it stiffening right up again. Then, curving her other hand behind his, she showed him how she wanted, needed to be touched—drew his hand up so his finger slipped from inside her and slid, wet and slick, over the million pleading nerves all along the folds of her slit, over her needful, swollen clit and she whimpered against his shoulder. Still stroking his hard on she flexed her hips and drove her clit against his touch, rubbing herself against his hand, groaning her rising pleasure. The anxious stiffness of his body seemed to melt away to aroused trembling. His cock felt thick and warm in her hand, twitching against her palm now and then, the thrill of working him up that way just adding to the raw pleasure he was giving her with his fingers, on his own recognizance, now. Fuck, now he was working over her just right, rubbing her petulant clit with the perfect, gentle pressure, stroking sweetly along all her slick folds so her hips were twitching out of her control now, humping his hand in frenzied desperation. Whining, pressing herself closer against him, she coaxed her pleasure on, seeking his rubbing fingers, feeling the swell and throb of need pulsing through her cunt, she flexed, twitched against him, and the pendulous balloon of aching thrill burst and flooded

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through her. She shuddered and groaned, clinging to him, then clamped her hand over his, stilling his touch. He smiled back, looking uncertain, when she smiled up at him. “Did you...” he asked her sheepishly. “Oh yes.” Jeremy sank down on her mouth, taking her kiss like his life depended on it. For a second she felt an urge to pull away, catch her breath, wrest control back from him. But the kiss took her over, made her want it. Him. Jeremy. She melted, yielded. All his want got her wanting again. Breaking their kiss she nudged him back toward the bed. Got him down on his back. Straddled him. When she kissed him he was panting hard and he had to come up for air every few seconds. Between kisses she dipped down, brushed her tongue over his dark, prominent nipple. It perked and stiffened as she teased it, and he gasped and writhed under her when she sucked it between her lips, working her tongue back and forth against the tip while she nursed. Already dying for more, Devan rose up on her knees. Jeremy—his cock rock hard, his chest panting frantically—was looking up at her, looking needful and nervous and slightly, adorably myopic without his glasses. She smiled and twisted down for the nightstand drawer, fished around, and came up with something in her fist. She held the condom up and grinned. He stared at it for a second, then took it from her. His hands shook a little as he tore open the wrapper, as he scrutinized the little circle of rolled up latex, chose an orientation, then, intent, focused, rolled it down over his erect cock.

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Was she really doing this? Suddenly scared, but wanting, needing—not just the fuck, but his closeness, the adoring way he was watching her, the way she'd feel close to him as she took him in, as they moved together, and after; he'd hold her and she'd feel sort of loved; and she'd love caring for him, however it would go with them—she slid a little forward on his thighs, brought her sex to him, pressed the underside of his cock to her cunt until it was nestled in among her wet folds. Just a little, she flexed her hips, slid up the underside of his cock, caressing him with her cunt, bowing his erection back and forth across her reviving clit. Down, up. And again. The she smiled, tilted her hips, brought the tip of him to her. “Wait,” he panted. “Waitwait.” She stopped stark still. “All right,” she soothed. He looked freakin' shell-shocked, pale and rigid, jaw clenched, eyes locked on her, transmitting some undecipherable plea. She slipped down onto the bed beside him, stroked his cheek, his arm. “It's all right, Jeremy.” She went on petting him, running her fingertips into his hair, planting little kisses on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he finally sighed “No, it's all right. I came on so strong, so fast. If you changed your mind, if you don't want to, it's okay.” Jeremy laughed. “Oh, I want to ,” he said, probably more urgently than he'd meant to. “I just...”

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“What?” she coaxed when he didn't pick up the thread. “I was afraid...” Another embarrassed laugh. “I was so, you know, excited, I was scared I'd...the second we...” Poor thing. He looked worse than embarrassed. He looked ashamed. Miserable. A sudden tenderness welled up in her, aching to soothe him. She pulled him against her, stroking his back, kissing his hair. “It's not a big deal, Jeremy,” she began, ready to ad-lib some comforting words, when a certain idea came to her. “It's actually kind of hot that you're so excited with me.” Then, letting the teasing tone back into her voice, she added, “I have the perfect solution for this little problem.” She opened a few inches of space between them, reached down, and took him in her hand. He flinched and gasped and gave her a startled look. Slowly rolling the rubber up, up, and off, she smiled as he panted through a small convulsion. Conrad's image glinted in her brain; was she feeling now, with Jeremy, something of what he'd felt with her? This arousing power to arouse? Carefully, because she didn't want the pleasure of her power to slip away too quickly, she curved her fingers around his hard warmth, waited for another gasping shudder to pass, then delicately drew her hand up the rigid length in her soft grip. There, at the apex, she cradled the plump tip in her palm, faintly feeling the curves and angles against her fingers. Then down. Rigid shaft. Taut , fuzzy balls. He was holding onto her desperately, eyes shut, heavy black lashes fringing out between crinkled lids, lips hidden, bitten between his teeth, his hard-panting breaths and whimpers muffled back there. Then, at once, his eyes and his mouth went wide and

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his hot, tense body arched and he made a sound like he was crying before he let go a long, guttural groan and, as his body twitched and shuddered, a pattern, unique as a snowflake, blossomed on his belly and chest. His forehead was hot and damp against her lips. “Wait,” he held her back as she tried to pull him to her. “I don't mind that. Come here.” After a few seconds' hesitation he yielded to her embrace, limp and hot in her arms. “I can't believe how different that felt,” he panted. “Than what?” she sighed back, feeling easy. Solid. “Than when I do that.” It had been a while. A long while, since Conrad or Vaughn had touched her. But she remembered. Nothing like touching herself. And from under those thoughts a realization struggled to the surface. “Devan?” “Hmmm?” “Have you had many lovers?” “Two,” she answered after a pause. She wasn't sure if that was how she thought of Conrad. But it was the simplest way she knew how to answer him. “What about you?” She felt like he wanted her to ask him. “You're the first,” he said quietly, affirming her half-sprouted realization. “The first? You're a virgin?” He gave her an apologetic grin and nodded.

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Man, was she dumb. She'd spent years imagining she was the last virgin on the planet over the age of fifteen. “You must think I'm a freak.” “Right, because you're, like, two years behind my schedule.” “Really?” She could almost see his brain doing the math. She took his hand. “Jeremy.” “Mmmm?” “I think I...” She had no idea how to say this. “When I started this tonight I...” “What?” “It didn't even occur to me that this would be your first time.” “Yes, I'm not the don Juan of UW, in spite of the rumors,” he joked, but then his smile faded and his voice dropped. “I guess my vulnerable virgin routine isn't so sexy.” “Actually, it is. The idea of being your first is...really enticing,” she said, realizing how the thought of it was driving a new thrill through her. “But I don't think your first time should be with me.” “Why not?” “Because. I...I mean, you're my friend, my good friend, and I'm attracted to you, but your first time, maybe it should be with someone who feels more than that.” “Maybe you will,” he said hopefully. “After.” “No, Jeremy. I don't think so.” She'd meant to say it differently. Softer. “You sound pretty sure, I guess,” he said in a hurt voice. “How do you know?” “Because, Jeremy. I love someone else.”

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That shut him up. She felt small, low. Wounded by her own inadvertent cruelty. “I'm sorry, sweetie. I only meant for us to have fun. But I think I was a little too cavalier about the whole thing.” “No,” he said after a while. “No, you were fine. I probably should have told you up front.” ”Or never said anything at all. Until it was too late,” she teased, smiling. “I won't lie. I'm really hoping you'll change your mind. Because I'll admit I've fantasized about it. A lot. And honestly, until we got derailed back there, the way things were going was way hotter than what I'd dreamed up. But as bad as I want that to happen, I care way more that whatever happens doesn't fuck up our friendship. Maybe that sounds trite, but I mean it. Here in Seattle, you're my best friend.” She smiled and pressed a kiss to his smooth, hot forehead, keeping her lips against his skin for a long time, until she'd beaten back the swelling, dissolving feeling she was going to cry. His best friend. She'd been so careless. That's why she felt so sad. Or, no. The sadness pulling her down was the idea that she had no best friend. The only two people who knew anything real about her had disappeared from her life. Now, lying there beside Jeremy, she felt so alone she was strangely, pathetically afraid, But when she looked at him again, and let him see her, he asked if she wanted him to go, and she said no. So he stayed. They showered together, then curled up together, warm and naked in her bed. “So,” he started in a tentative voice after they'd been silent for a while in the dark, “this person you love. Were you together?” “Yes. In a way.”

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“What happened?” “It just wasn't possible, us staying together.” “But if you still love him...” “Please, Jeremy. Don't.” “All right. I'm sorry.” He moved to hold her, and she let him.

A few weeks after “that night” as they mutually referred to their almost-sex, Jeremy was over, and amidst a litter of eviscerated thai take-out cartons he was making notes in the margin of his second-hand volume while she tapped away at her laptop. “Hey, Dev?” Her gut clenched painfully. “Have you heard back from anyone yet?” “No. You?” “No.” “Jeremy.” “Hmmm?” He grunted from behind his tatty volume of Langston Hughes. “Please don't call me that.” His eyes rolled up, from the page to her face. “All right.” They had settled into a friendship that was platonic, but more tender, more physical than any of Devan's prior or current friendships. They often cuddled through

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movies, and now and then he spent the night in her bed. But there was never a recurrence of the almost-sex of “that night.” She'd let him glimpse, in small, painful shards, a little of what her connection with Vaughn had been—nothing of the fantastical abduction or of being held hostage. She only alluded to how this man she still loved had taken care of her when she'd been scared and hurt, and how she'd come to see that he was sort of her counterpart—a reversed reflection of herself, and that she was trying to learn how to live without him, now that she knew what it was to be with him. After that, Jeremy had given up his occasional efforts at seduction and his more cerebral attempts to convince Devan that they should be lovers. “I want to tell you something.” Jeremy said gravely one night, though he was already adorably tipsy. They were well into one of their new rituals: the post-study cocktail hour. “All right,” Devan locked eyes with him with mock seriousness, a little afraid he was about to revisit the abandoned theme of their destiny as soul mates. “I went on kind of a date last night,” Jeremy said, looking freaked. Like she was going to hate him, or something. “How dare you go on a date,” she teased, smiling, “when you know I expect you to stay celibate and solitary, waiting for me to come to my senses and elope with you?” “His name's Gordon.” He'd blurted it out the way you'd tear of a band aid—fast, to get the pain out of the way.

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Why was her face burning? God, what did her face look like? She made sure to smile. She'd known, or at least suspected and she was happy for him and she knew she'd better smile or his freak-out would just get worse. “And how are you acquainted with this most fortunate Gordon?” “Don't do that.” Jeremy looked like he'd been put to the rack—pale, quivering, stretched to the breaking point. “All right,” she came back, soft and quiet, her smile gentle, now, instead of teasing. So, you went on a date with a guy. So you're bi.” “Is that what I am?” “Isn't it?” “I don't know.” She put her arms around him because he seemed like he was about to cry. “I've been sort of scared I was gay since I was like eight years old. And maybe I've kind of known it since, I don't know. Almost that far back. But every once in a while there'd be a girl. Nicole my freshman year. Jennifer my senior year. You. I never tried for any of the boys I liked. And it never seems to work out, with the girls. I don't know. Before you, I guess I'd always just hung back, because I didn't really know what I wanted. Or because I was afraid of what I kind of knew I wanted. Hence my tragic state of virginity at the age of twenty two.” “And now. Gordon.” Jeremy slipped out of her embrace. His eyes looked like tears would spill over any second, but he smiled.

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“It was funny, how it happened. He's the guy who owns that little boutique record store up on the corner.” “Oooh, cute!” She remembered the guy—bleached, platinum hair, ridiculous body, tattooed arms. Jeremy laughed, “Yeah. I know. So, you know, I go in there sometimes, we've chatted, laughed a few times, whatever. So last night I was in Linda's, having a beer, reading Dirty Gertie, and someone slides into the booth, on the bench across from me. And I look up, and it's him. We start talking, he orders a beer. We had like three rounds, just talking shit. Then he invites me over to his place to check out his private vinyl collection.” “Nice line.” “I know, right? But he was so cute, like really excited, talking about the birth of new wave and playing his vintage Talking Heads. And then he tried to kiss me.” “Tried.” “Yeah, well. He went to kiss me, and I, I don't know why, I just totally didn't expect it. I sort of jumped back, out of range. And he just smiled, this really fucking cocky, amused smile, and he was like, 'What? I'm not your type?' with this attitude like he knows he's the most beautiful thing to ever walk the earth. I just stood there like a complete freak, not knowing what to say, wishing I could go back in time and just let him stick his tongue down my throat. Then he's like, 'Don't even tell me you're not gay.' I don't know what look I gave him or what I did but his smile changed from cocky to...I don't know. Interested. Intrigued. He came up close to me again, and I made sure not to

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pull back this time. And he said something like, 'Well, are you ready for your first boy?' And I think I smiled. And then he kissed me.” “And?” Jeremy had her dying for every little detail. And, more importantly, the end of the story. “And what?” he taunted her. “Do not provoke my wrath.” “I know you want all the dirty details, you filthy girl,” he taunted in an uncharacteristically vulpine manner before reverting to characteristic sweet affability, “but I fear there's not much more to tell. The kiss was amazing. Then I started to freak out a little. I just wasn't ready for that, even that kiss. No way was I ready to start really messing around with him. I thought maybe he'd laugh at me. I don't know, make fun of me for being afraid. But he was so sweet.” The tears were back in Jeremy's eyes. “He backed right off and gave me this kind of knowing smile and said, 'Little steps,” and kissed my cheek. Then he just held me for a little while. Then, when I left, he gave me his number and said to call anytime if I wanted to talk. Or make out.” “Good thing he didn't take advantage. I'd hate to have to sully one of my gloves calling him out.” “And it would be so awkward for me, having to act as your second.” “Oh, yes. Quite.” Jeremy smiled for a minute, but then his amused expression faded away. He took a drink. A long, silent moment later he said, sounding melancholy, “So, if you're thinking of changing your mind and falling in love with me, you'd better act fast.”

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“You should just come, Devan,” Jeremy's voice cajoled from her cell. “It doesn't matter that you don't know them. You know me.” “I'm just not in the mood for a house full of people.” “Are you ever?” “Not really.” “That's not a mood, Devan,” he teased. “Not everyone's a social butterfly like you, Jeremy.” “Come on. How can you resist an opportunity to see a bunch of twentysomethings drunkenly pairing off and sneaking into closets and bathrooms to copulate with near-strangers?” “Will I get to see you sneaking off to a closet with someone?” A rare silence was all she got from Jeremy's end, and her face went hot. “Look,” he finally broke the torturing silence, “it's just three blocks up from your place. I'll swing by on my way and drag you along.” “Maybe.” “Not quite the blood oath I was hoping for, but I'll settle. I'll come by in an hour, all right?” “Okay.” What the hell. It didn't sound so much worse than sitting around, counting the days forward and back. She forced herself to finish the section of outline she'd been working on for one of her term papers. Then, languid, she plodded to the bathroom and started getting ready. Brushed her teeth. Her hair. Lined her lids with a little kohl and darkened her lashes with mascara. Good enough.

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What did people wear to these things? So fitting in wasn't her forte. Fine. She shucked off her tank top, tugged the chartreuse knit wraparound from its hanger and slipped it on, then kicked her feet into a pair of vintage flats she'd found at the thrift store on Pine a couple weeks before. Usually she wouldn't wear red lipstick, but it seemed like the thing to go with the dress. So she was all dressed up with somewhere to go, but when Jeremy arrived the thought of sitting around in someone's apartment, trying to make small talk with a bunch of randoms seemed like a cruel form of psychological torture. “Fine. I won't go either, then. We'll go online and see about applying to the CIA for jobs as spies. A contingency plan, for when every school we've courted rejects us in favor of all those ivy league undergrads whose parents have been grooming them for PhDs since nursery school.” “Don't you dare. You go to your party. I'm not interested in being responsible for the demise of your social life.” “But what if tonight's the night I succumb to the pot brownies? After passing through the gateway, you know it's a straight shot to being a crack addict begging for change on some corner in the Central District.” “So tonight's the night your fate will be decided? Grad student, wetwork, crack whore. Which will it be?” “Well, if I get to get laid every day instead of just holding out a paper cup for people's pennies and gum wrappers, I'm opting for the life of crack whore.” “Off to your party, then, to commence your journey down the slippery slope of narcotics addiction.”

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“All right.” Jeremy put his arms around her and held her tight in a long, warm embrace. “Pleasant moping.”

And there was the door again. Jeremy, bored with his party already. Good. She was fatigued with her melancholic reveries and glad to have some company. Now they could pop down to the corner market, rent one of the cheesy psychological thrillers they both adored, and get some Thai delivered. The weight of her isolation lifted, she bounced to the door and flung it open with a playful flourish. Things froze. Her lungs, her whole chest went rigid. She couldn't breathe. “Hello, Dev.” Sharp silver look cutting into her. She opened her mouth to say his name but only caught her breath as the floor dropped away from under her feet and she started to fall. Or maybe she was floating. No air. No words. Then things unfroze. Her rigid chest started pounding and panting, her whole body hot and quivery. Everything in her surged with the urge to lunge, to press herself against him, wrap her arms around him. But why was he there? Clamping down on her hope she backed away, caught her hands behind her back so she wouldn't touch him. She wanted to say something. Everything. But there were no words in her head. Only feelings swelling her up so big she hurt. “Vaughn,” she finally managed across the space she'd put between them, though her voice creaked a little. “Come in.”

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“Are you sure?” His face was pale and wet and his eyes were going red and bright. “Please. Yes. Come in.” She wanted to sound calm but her voice came out rushed and had a frantic edge. The rain was soaking him. “You're on your way out.” “No. No I'm not.” He stepped in, just far enough to close the door. She dug her nails into her wrist. That helped. Helped her fight the want. To close the space she'd put between them, to put her hot hands on his carved, marble cheeks, to press her mouth to his. “I'm sorry, Dev.” His voice. She'd missed his voice. “I'm sorry to just appear at your door like this, after all this time. I'm sorry I just dropped you here and disappeared.” It didn't matter. She only cared that he was here now. All she wanted to know was why. What it meant. She didn't realize, until he took a tentative step forward, until his tense mouth softened and curved, that he was mirroring her, that she had moved closer, that she was smiling. Now he was so near she could touch him if she unclasped her fingers from her wrist. But she'd pressed him before. She wouldn't corner him, now, if all he'd come for was an apology. Closure. “God, look at you,” he breathed, his voice so intimate, his gaze so tender, she knew. He hadn't just come for a better good-bye. This was it—the first moment of

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knowing each other, not in the woods, not in a surreal make-believe dreamed up by Conrad, but here, in the reality of their actual lives. She just smiled her joy, her eyes sweeping down, reminding her she still had on the green dress for the abandoned party, locking her gaze on him again, half-afraid he'd disappear if she looked away too long. Closer. Closer. Was he moving toward her? Or had she taken another step? She tightened the grip of her fingers on her wrist. She could sense the warmth of his body, now, he was so near, and hear the faint sound of his quick breaths. A smile still subtly turned one corner of his mouth, but his face was pale, his eyes were glinting, questioning. When he lifted his hand she caught her breath and her tummy twinged. Waiting, hoping for the soft caress of her cheek she'd memorized and replayed hundreds of times in the months she'd been missing him. But he just touched her, lightly, a brush of the backs of fingers, along her bicep. She unclamped her hand, let her arms fall to her sides. Hard to breathe. Heart pounding so fast. Maybe he could see her shaking.

Her eyes drawing him in. Soothing away his fear. God, it had been so hard to get here, to risk her anger. No. Her pain. But now it seemed impossible, ridiculous, that he'd let even one day go by. Them apart. She seemed expectant. Tremulous. So like that first night, by the fireplace in the cabin; his chest clamped and his gut tightened at the momentary thought of how he'd almost taken her that night, not knowing how young, how inexperienced, how hurt she was.

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But now was different. Now Dev was no innocent. Now they weren't strangers. Now he was shaking, too, just to be so near and about to touch. Slow. Slow. Dev warm. Soft. He tried to read her eyes, finding or imagining want mingling with lingering hurt and forgiveness. God, those eyes, mirrors of his want, his love turned up to him, pulling him close, into her warmth, faint scent of something low and sweet—shampoo, mint on her warm breath. On her way out, before. Just her warmth, that look, her sweet smell, god he wanted closer. Wanted to feel her, hear her, taste her. But slow. Slow. Wanting to stretch this moment over a vast, bright field of time, so they'd have it to roam again and again in coming days, coming years. Every second amazing—too full of joy and hope, poignant—wanting the next moment, unwilling to give this one up. So flushed with life—his skin hot, heart thumping. Her eyes still pulling him in. Tentatively he curved an index finger against hers, another big thump in his chest at that small, intimate contact, the warmth of her small hand, the relief—so big it hurt— that she hadn't pulled her hand away. The thrill of that small, warm touch shot through him, and he struggled against the terrible force of his want, to stay slow and gentle. He felt the warmth of her breath—coming in rapid little pants—against his face as he leaned in, as he sighed her name, and when he let his lips brush faintly against hers and she went stark still and stopped breathing his heart seemed to stop beating. But a moment later she brought him back to life with her own sweet, soft kiss. “I've missed you, Dev,” he panted between kisses. She didn't say anything, but gave him a shy smile, then kissed him again.

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Vaughn could hardly believe her impossible tenderness. He'd hurt her. Badly. He knew. So he'd only come to talk. To see. But her want was palpable, so fierce it maybe matched his own. They'd talk later. Her mouth was soft and seeking, warm and yielding. Their breaths sounded against each other, hot and damp, their fingers seeking and weaving, bodies coming together, brushing against each other, parting, pressing close again. He could hardly bear the pain of his need—for her body, yes, but even more for her, the closeness, the unitedness he knew he'd feel as they gave themselves to each other—but there was almost a pleasure in drawing the torment out. Making it last. Still, when she looked up at him, panting, eager, and after a moment of silent stillness between them, reached up and started unzipping his jacket, there was nothing in him to slow what was coming. He helped her get his jacket off, and when she tentatively touched the hem of his shirt and gave him a questioning look, he pulled that off as well. Then, the way she looked up at him, watching his face as she touched her hand to his chest, so softly it was almost as if she were afraid of hurting him, then carefully pressed the palm of her other hand to his stomach, just below his navel—as if she could only make sure he was really there by feeling the bump of his heart and the quiver of his belly—somehow it doubled the tenderness already overwhelming him. And then—god he was hard and hot under all the tender warmth he was feeling for her—her touch slid down his body, rousing his nerves and his want. Her fingers lit on his belt, undid it, then worked his fly open as she gazed up at him with the sweetest questioning, wanting look. So eager to do her will he could hardly tell it from his own, he stripped himself bare.

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“Do you want me to?” he asked her then, the tie of her dress drawn out taut in his fingers. He only pulled, making the bow shrink and come undone, when she'd smiled and nodded her assent. Watching him, looking eager and trusting, she let him undo a second, hidden knot at her waist, then slide the dress off her shoulders. It slipped down her arms to pool on the floor at her feet. It touched him, seeing her standing there in nothing but a simple pair of black boy shorts. Her own things. Not like the silly, frilly things Conrad had dressed her in.

“Dev.” His sigh was warm where her hair fell over her ear. Her whole body rode a swell of heat to feel the delicious contrast of his gentle embrace, and the length of his powerful body, his hot skin, muscled flesh, press against her bare breasts, belly, thighs. His fingers in her hair, his hip and back smooth and hot under her hands. When he kissed her, soft and deep, hot and urgent, it was that kiss, the kiss she remembered, that she'd fantasized again and again, that stirred and warmed her, deep and low, like a physical premonition of feeling him inside her. Vaughn was holding her so close, kissing her so deeply, but she was desperate for more of him. To feel his weight on her, their flesh pressed together, their bodies merged, moving together. She could hardly keep from whimpering her need with every exhale, and she caught herself writhing against him, her body seeking what it needed, in defiance of her conscious efforts to be passive, to resist pushing him, as she had that final morning back at the cabin.

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Finally, finally, Vaughn—panting, even shaking a little, she thought—broke off the kiss that was torment-tinged pleasure, and with a penetrating look and a tender smile, sank to his knees at her feet. He pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to her belly, then, gazing up at her, slid her panties slowly off her hips, down thighs, calves, and she stepped out of them. Filled up with a sudden, startling joy to be naked with him like that, she gazed down at him gazing up at her, shaking with an excitement that bordered on elation and fear simultaneously. When he pressed his cheek to her belly and wrapped his arms around her thighs and hips, and held her that way through a long, still quiet, she cradled his head against her, feeling sharply in that moment—with a physical sensation close to pain—how tenuous the chance of the resurrection of their nascent affection had been, how precious, how amazing this reunion was. Then they were on her bed. Vaughn was touching her and kissing her and everything felt wonderful, but at the same time it was painful. Like a taunt. Like he was too far away. She needed him closer. Inside. Sighing and kissing and holding him close to her, she spread her legs and wrapped them around his thick hard thighs and cocked her hips, begging him. But then she remembered, and froze, and at that moment realized he'd gone stiff and still. Then she remembered something else. Vaughn reflected her smile back to her, and, suddenly nervous, her face warm, she reached over, pulled out the shallow little drawer of the night stand, felt around, and drew back her hand, holding a little packet between thumb and forefinger.

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“Thank god,” he sighed, collapsing with a warm laugh, tipping his forehead to hers. “I've never...” she started, still feeling blush after blush burning her face and throat, “...would you...” He gave her another warm smile and kissed her mouth, soft, lingering. The he took the little square of plastic from her, opened it, and slid out the circle of rolled latex. She watched him bring the ring of off-white membrane to the tip of his cock and roll the almost transparent sheath down the length of him with three little moves of his hand. Fuck, it was sexy, how his hand moved over himself, gentle and sure, how the constraining sheath of latex made his cock seem fuller, harder. He came back down to her, giving her a deep, rousing kiss. Then they merged together, his body and hers, pressed close and hot. Their movements were slow, a desperate, determined seeking. Reunion. When she took him in, his opening of her body, his hardness parting and taking possession of her seemed to break something in her. The veil she'd put between herself and a pain too big to face. Vaughn, Vaughn, his living warmth part of her, moving inside of her, his body, his touch, overwhelming and gentle tore through that frail barrier and her chest went tight with a choking heat, shaking her, drowning her. She fell apart. Open. Nothing closed, nothing defended. “Dev, Dev,” he sighed, his lips and breath against her lips. Every tremulous touch, kiss, flex of his body, mouth, hands warmed, restored her and that drowning heaviness in her chest didn't feel like sadness, now, but a kind of joyful need. She needed, her body seeking what her whole being pleaded for. Vaughn.

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“Vaughn.” All her strength bent on pulling him to her, lifting her body to him, drawing him all the way into her seeking heat. “Vaughn,” she pleaded and her whole body—her arms, her legs, her cunt— seized around him. And when he gave in to her, convulsing and sobbing her name it was maybe the saddest and the happiest she'd ever been. After, he stayed with her. Inside her. Their faces close, their eyes locked. Little kisses. tender smiles. Then he lied down beside her and they pulled each other close. Her heart felt like it would rupture from the pressure of her incredible joy, the adoration welling up in her in relentless waves as Vaughn held her to him, caressing and kissing and nuzzling. After a long while, Vaughn looked at her and smiled. Then he laughed softly. “That’s not quite how I thought this would go.”

Vaughn felt a little bit like he’d had a brief spell of amnesia. How had it happened? Hardly a dozen words between them, after all those months apart, and here he was in her bed, her soft warm body, naked, pressed against his. God, he felt almost sick with love for her. “Dev,” he sighed, pressing his forehead to hers and combing his fingers through her hair, “I can't believe I'm here with you now, like this.” She smiled, her strange eyes and the bend of her full mouth half memory in the swelling darkness.

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“I've made so many terrible mistakes. I’m sorry I left, Dev. And I’m sorry I stayed away so long. Sorrier than I can tell you in words. And, god, when I found your letter, I was so angry with myself for being gone, not there to get it. I hate it, knowing you must have thought I'd gotten it, read it, and just stayed away. Stayed silent.” Devan didn't say anything. She was warm against him, and almost still. Only her arm moved a little, and her fingers combed gently through his hair. “I hated it. Being apart from you. And worried, every day, how I must be hurting you. I don't expect you to forgive me easily or quickly. All I hope for is that you'll believe me that I never doubted that I wanted to be with you.” Still she was quiet, just gently stroking his hair, the back of his neck. “Dev. I've put you through so much. I—“ “Don't, Vaughn. You didn't put me through anything. We both went through something, and we both had to deal with it. It's okay that you needed time” He pulled her to him, buried his face against her neck, deep in the fragrant warmth of her hair, half out of his mind with gratitude, that she could be so tender, so welcoming after his absence, and half terrified by the impossibility of it. “Dev. You can't be this good.” “Good?” “Aren't you at least a little angry?” “At you?” “Yes. At me. That I just dropped you here that day, and turned my back on what we had between us.”

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“Is that what you did?” Her body and the mattress shifted a little, and now her soft voice, the warmth of her breath came from just above. “Did you want...did you try to put what happened, and me, behind you?” “No, Dev. God, no. I just felt like I'd hurt you. Even though you said I hadn't. I didn't see how I could be with you, feeling that way. I was afraid one day you'd see it that way, too. That instead of me being this guy you'd known for a few weeks who'd hurt you, one day you'd look at me and regret sharing your life with me for all the time we'd been together.” “Vaughn. No. You don't think that now?” “It still scares me, Dev, when I think of some of the choices I made. The things I did. Sometimes I still think I was as bad, as wrong as he was.” “How can you think that?” “The only defense I have for the things I did, was that I was trying to do what was best for you. And that was his perverse rationale for orchestrating everything.” “But you know the difference, don't you? Between Conrad and you? To him, it was like a game. I think you're right—he didn't want to hurt me. He even had the hubris to believe he was doing me some kind of favor. But he played with me—with us—like animals in some kind of behavioral experiment. You were forced to play the game against your will, and I believe, believe absolutely, that you did your best to do me the least possible harm. You never presumed to know better than me what I needed.” “No.” “I was never angry with you, Vaughn. It hurt. I missed you. And...” her voice cracked and the rest rode out, quivery and broken, on a low sob, “I'd started to think you

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wouldn't come back to me. But I understood. You needed to cope with everything that had happened. I just hoped you weren't hating yourself. And that you weren't....” “What, Dev?” “That you weren't thinking too badly of me.” He went weak, limp with guilt. “No, Dev. Never.” “Because of how I was. With him,” she added in a weak voice after a long pause. He'd known. He'd known at the cabin, and he'd known after. But he'd been too selfish, too occupied with his own guilt to assuage hers. “Dev.” He pulled her close, kissed her brow. Warm and smooth. Noted with a surge of tenderness the feeling of her body's small movements as she breathed, in, out, in, out, in his arms, against his body. “Dev. I was so afraid for you, almost every minute he was there. It was so hard, seeing you scared, watching him coerce you.” He forced air into his lungs. Stroked her hair, warm and soft under his palm. Kissed her silky crown. “Those moments, Dev, when your fear went away, when your arousal took over, those were the moments, while he was there, when I could breathe. I think—I'm almost sure—you felt guilty, like you were betraying me, somehow, whenever you wanted him. Enjoyed him. But I never saw it that way.” “No?” she breathed against him, barely audibly. “No, Dev.”

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“And—maybe it's the wrong thing, but I'll tell you, because I want to be honest with you—when you seemed to forget your fear, and you gave yourself up to the pleasure he gave you, I was never hurt. Or jealous.” Confess. “Truthfully, it aroused me.” “I just...” “Hmmm?” he coaxed. “I hate thinking I did anything to hurt...to make you think...that what I felt...what I feel for you...” “Dev. Dev,” he hugged her and kissed her. Then he tried to meet her eyes through the darkness. “You've never done one thing, not one, to hurt things between us. Don't imagine that anything that happened between you and Conrad, before or after we met, made me think anything bad about you or diminished my feelings for you.” She was quiet beside him. Probably doubting him. “When I think back, when I remember the things that happened at the cabin, after he came, some of what I remember scares me. Makes me angry. Hurts me. But not all of it. Some of the things I remember...still excite me. Is it that way for you, Dev?” “Yes.” “When I think of the times he scared you, that he hurt you, I get so angry I think if I saw him on the street, feeling that way, I'd do something to him. Something really violent. But when I think of the times you seemed to want him, when it seemed like your reluctance was only because of me, and I remember how he had you flushing and panting,” Vaughn let his arousal tint his voice, “when I remember how you'd shudder, your groans while he had his mouth on you, or when he was on you, writhing and

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thrusting...” he let go of a low, throaty laugh, “I think you can hear, feel what it does to me. And those moments, you were so overwhelmed—your body, your feelings—I feel so much for you, when I think of them.” She stayed quiet. Probably what she needed was time—not more of his rambling—and she'd see, after a while, how he felt about things. About her. So warm, so easy, lying beside her, feeling her breathing, her hand wandering slowly over his back, his side. Smiling in the dark, joy pumping through his body like adrenaline at the idea of learning her, of the future he could finally let himself hope for, after pushing it away all the months they'd been apart. Second to second he couldn't resist touching her, kissing her, and she met every caress, every brush of his lips so eagerly that soon they were wrapped up together, seeking and writhing, panting and groaning, making this time last long, as if they were gathering together in this one act of lovemaking all the loving they'd missed in the months of their separation.

A warmth, swelling, rising, falling, bearing her up, lowering her gently again and again. Vaughn. Her cheek pressed to the smooth hot skin of his naked chest, her palm spread over his belly. His breath in her hair, his arms circled around her. Vaughn. In her bed. Holding her. Her joy terrified her. His body flexed a little and there was the soft, warm press of his lips on her forehead. She blinked, looked up, and focused her sleepy gaze on him. That calm gaze of his, that tender smile. Forever. Please. She wanted to wake up like this, with him, forever.

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Without thinking she’d started to touch him. Fingers following his smooth planes, his tufted valleys. She moved her head a little so she could sense the smooth firmness of his chest with her cheek. Then they were kissing each other, lips, noses, brows and ears, their fingers twining into each other, their legs scissoring against each other, feet caressing feet. “It’s so good, waking up with you like this,” Vaughn said, his voice soft, frayed with sleep. They rolled onto their sides so they could look while they touched. She watched as her own movement tugged the covers down below her breasts, and felt the strangest comforting warmth at the thought that she wasn’t even a little embarrassed. They belonged like this, naked together. Bare to one another. But he was watching her face, where his fingers were tracing the line between the side of her nose and the corner of her mouth, drawn by her smile. Now her hair as he tickled her scalp with his teasing fingertips. Then he whispered, “Do you have to be anywhere?” She shook her head. No. No classes. No appointments. He smiled. “Me either.” Then, after a kiss, “Could this mean we have the whole day together?” Euphoria. A heavy dose seeping through her, dilating her veins, making her body forget gravity. “I’ll be right back,” Vaughn hummed as he nuzzled against her ear, sending skintautening tingles down her torso and limbs before he slid from the bed.

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Devan watched as, naked, unbearably lovely—from this angle, the tasteful nude, sleep-curled hair, muscled back, narrow hips and round ass, more than ever like a statue of a Greek hero—he strode away from the bed, half-hidden in the little nook she’d created with a bamboo folding screen to break up her tiny studio. He gave her a quick glance over his shoulder before he turned for the bathroom, and a hot flood swallowed her. Delirious with nebulous wants she flopped onto her back with a heavy sigh. A lifetime wouldn’t be enough for them to do everything she wanted, for her to learn everything about him, to discover things about herself through him. And probably she wouldn’t get a lifetime. She couldn’t imagine how a man like him could make space in his life for her. Even if he wanted to, she couldn’t see their lives fitting together. So maybe she’d get a month or two. Or maybe only this day. But maybe not. Maybe he meant for them to really be together. She couldn't imagine he'd come to her after all those months just to spend one night together. He'd never do that to her. He wanted her. Them. Her elation was almost heart-breaking. Then all the warm soft happiness in her hardened and cooled. On the nightstand. The eviscerated condom wrappers. Vaughn hadn't said, asked anything. But she'd have to tell him. She’d ruined it. He’d come, they’d had a chance, but she’d wrecked it. The banging rising in her chest hammered more and more brutally as the soft tread of Vaughn’s bare feet came nearer, until he paused just next to the edge of the screen, grinning as he playfully posed for her, jesting at making much of being naked in front of

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her. She heard herself laugh a weird, empty laugh, too confused now to say the few words she’d hastily strung together in her head. “Hey.” Vaughn’s mirth washed away in sudden concern. “What’s going on?”

He was beside her now, sitting naked on the comforter she was clutching to her chest, suddenly afraid to be so exposed before him. He stroked her face. Kissed her hair. “Dev, what’s the matter?” “You haven't asked me about the condoms.” “No.” His soft, quiet voice. “Aren't you curious?” “A little,” he said, no edge of hurt or anger in his voice. He didn't care. What she'd done. It didn't matter to him. She didn't matter to him. Not like she'd hoped. “So why don't you ask me?” Damnit. Why was she being such a bitch? Accusing him, when she was the guilty one. “Devan,” he soothed, stroking her hair, “you don’t owe me any explanations.” “But I want to explain.” “All right.” She loved that. His quiet, patient way of making room for her with his voice, his look. Still, she didn't know how to say it. She felt her face crumple, felt hot, fat tears tickling along the side of her nose. “Dev. It's all right.” His calm soothed her.

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“All those months, Vaughn. I could have waited forever, if I'd known you'd come back to me in the end. But I thought...” “I know. It's all right. I promise.” “If I'd known, I wouldn't have...” “Are you...” His eyes were going red and his mouth twitched faintly, but his voice stayed low and even. “Is it that there's someone else? That you,” he hesitated, then pressed on, “love someone else?” “No. Oh Vaughn, no. But I...” “You've slept with other people?” “One person. Yes. Sort of.” She waited for all her happiness to come undone. “Dev. God, Dev. You don't have to confess that like a crime.” He smiled and kissed her and petted her anxiety into manageable proportions. But then, “Are you still seeing each other?” There was a gap, and Vaughn seemed to be steadying himself before he asked in a soft voice, his gentle expression half masking a hurt look, “Is it serious?” “No, Vaughn. I mean, It's a little hard to explain,” she faltered. “You don't have to, Dev.” “But I want to. “

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Damn it, she should have pre-fabbed a neat little summation before she'd blabbed out her incoherent confession. Vaughn was being so calm about it, and she was still completely fucking it up. “Jeremy and I, it was never the way it's been with us. We're friends. He's my good friend. And we've been...physical. But it was never serious, in a romantic way. And now he's in a relationship. But we still hang out. Kind of a lot. And sometimes, still, we....” Trying to explain it out loud, the friendship that had seemed so good, so easy, sounded weird and impossible. “Dev,” Vaughn gave her his small, gentle smile again, tipped his forehead against hers. “I'm glad.” “Glad?” “Yes. Glad. I'm happy that part of your life wasn't on hold, waiting for me to come to my senses.” “I know it all sounds a little...I don't know. Odd.” “No, Dev. It doesn't. It's selfish, but I admit I'm relieved, thankful, that I haven't come back, after all this time, to find you madly in love with someone else. But I'm happy, really, that you have a friend like that.” “Okay.” “You don't sound too convinced.” “I guess...I don't know. When you and I first knew each other, I was such a virgin. Even after everything at the cabin, you couldn't exactly call me experienced. I guess I wonder if that wasn't part of what you were attracted to, in me.”

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Vaughn laughed and kissed her cheek. “I realize there's a breed of man out there that would have you believe women somehow lose worth in proportion to the number of lovers they've had. And,” he laughed and a teasing tone crept into his voice, “your perception probably isn't helped any, reading all those nineteenth century Russian novels. But what I'm drawn to in you is the way you make me feel, How you get me thinking. It's got nothing to do with whether I'm your first and only, or the twentieth man you've been with.” This time he kissed her lips. He fixed his eyes on her, smiled. “I meant it when I said you didn’t owe me any explanations. Your body, your life, they’re yours. Not mine. Whatever happens between us now, you should never feel like you have to make an accounting to me for your choices.” She just looked at him and nodded her head as a thousand thoughts raced through. “Don’t misunderstand me, Dev. I didn’t come back here last night looking for closure. I came hoping for a beginning. But what happens between you and other people isn’t what’s important to me. The most important thing,” he said, cradling her face between his palms and looking intently into her eyes, “the only important thing, is what happens between you and me.” “So, you…” Her face flushed hot. She didn’t know how to put it in words. “It’s all right, Dev. Ask me.” “You want to be with me? Try and see, I mean?” “Yes.”

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“But you don’t care if I sleep with other men?” “That’s not quite what I mean. I care. But not in the sense that I’m afraid that the things you might want to do with other people will take something away from me. I care, I guess, more like the way I care about you going to college. I care for you, so I want you to have the richest, most fulfilling life you can. You’re an incredibly sexual person, Dev, even though you’ve held back in exploring that side of yourself. And there’s no way I can be the one to explore all aspects of that sexuality with.” “Vaughn—“ “I’m not being self-effacing, and I’m not saying that we’re not a great match.” He paused, and she felt his focus shift, from the point he was trying to make, to her. All of him intent on her, he locked on her eyes, then put his arms around her, warm and strong, and trembling with the need she felt for him, she sank into his kiss. “I’m fairly convinced, in fact,” he panted at the end of their kiss, “that we’re an amazing match. Really, beyond anything I’d guessed at, before knowing you. But…well, don’t you agree, after being with me and with Conrad, and now with your friend— Jeremy?—how different people bring out different things in you?” “Yes,” she answered hesitantly. “I’m a lot older than you, Dev. And in some ways I’ve lived a pretty rich life. And part of that has been having...well, I’ve slept with a lot of people. It wouldn’t be fair to you, expecting you to sleep with just me for the rest of your life, after having been with no one else but Conrad.” His words, “the rest of your life,” echoed again and again, practically obliterating everything else he was saying.

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“I know it’s not the orthodox view. But honestly, this is a subject I’ve thought about a lot, over a lot of years, and really, to me, it’s the most loving way to be with someone. Possessive love is…suspect. As suspect, I think, as trying to keep someone from doing the things they love, like going to school, being what they want to be. Does what I’m saying make any kind of sense?” “I guess. I mean, it does. I just…I’ve never known anyone who thought that way. Lived like that.” “Maybe it’s not for everyone. I don’t know. For me, though, I would never want you to be with me, to stay with me, by virtue of the fact that you haven’t found someone more right because you’ve been bound to me in some way. Or to miss out on discovering facets of yourself other people might bring out. And I know that after all the women I’ve been with, I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. Physically. And emotionally. And I feel sure that, whatever happens, you’ll never feel about another man the way you feel about me.” “No.” She was looking at him. Overwhelmed by him. Love. He’d said love. She’d never let herself believe that he loved her. Or that she loved him. Too short a time, she’d told herself. And her too young, too inexperienced to give that name to what she felt. But that’s what it was. She loved him. “Look. Dev. I didn’t mean to lay this big manifesto on you.” He laughed, the mirth in his eyes instantly infecting her. “I’ve only just found my way back to you. We need to work out what this, what we’re going to be, little by little, together. You just seemed so upset about what I might think. And I don’t want you worrying about things like that.”

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Yes. Yes to him, to his words as they merged in a deep, eager kiss. And then that smile. That look. She imagined he could calm her through a bombing. But then, what was that other look that flickered through his features? It was only a second. One tiny shard of time. Some anxiety, some worry had jabbed through his tranquil joy. Then his placid smile was back in his mercury eyes. “What?” she asked, feeling everything slipping away again, almost before she’d had a chance to believe it might last. Vaughn’s mouth spread in that calm, reassuring smile and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. In the few seconds his lips lingered there, her anxiety ebbed almost completely away. His steady look when he pulled back erased the last trace of her fear. “I just...after everything, I want to be straight with you.” “All right.” She felt small and cold, as if all her blood had seeped out. “Oh, Dev,” he kissed her face over and over, “all I'm trying to say is that I...” He pressed a tender kiss to her lips. Then he smiled and something in his look made her world go bright and still. “Dev,” Vaughn's voice. So low and gentle. It always promised her that whatever pain or fear she was feeling would end. That things were good. “I'm not big on declarations, but after everything I've put you through, I don't want to leave you wondering. I want you to know what I'm thinking, coming to you last night.” He barely had to move to give her a soft, lingering kiss. “In some ways we know each other so well. The things we shared, that we went through together brought us so close so fast. But in other ways we hardly know each

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other at all. So we can't know what will happen. And I know I've just shown up out of the blue, and I don't have any expectations. But I came to you because I think you're the person I could be happy with. I'm hoping, when you've had time, if it's what you want, we can try being together.” “I don't need time, Vaughn. Every day, since the day we got back, I've hoped I'd see you again. That we could be together.” As he caressed and kissed her, as she touched him and took him in and they made love for the third time since their reunion, she felt sure, dead sure, that nothing in the world, nothing outside of them, could do harm to what they had together.

They lingered around her apartment all day, remembering, re-learning what it was to be alone together, making love, murmuring, laughing, caressing, nuzzling. They kissed and touched and held each other, immersed in their togetherness but thirsty, wanting to feel, to hear, to see, to taste each other every moment. Lounging naked on her bed, Vaughn was irresistible to her; she was compelled to look, to touch. The sculpted curves of his hip. His thick, muscled thigh. The incredibly smooth, delicate skin along the underside of his arm, taught and sleek over the graceful swell of tricep that formed one side of the triangle implied by the bend of his arm when he tucked his palm under his head. Did he mind that she was more shy than he was? That she kept the sheet draped over her torso? Maybe he liked it, liked having something to draw back, something to expose.

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It was new, seeing him soft. At the cabin, the way Conrad had run things, she'd hardly seen either of them, except fiercely erect. There was something tender, endearing, in his being so near, so naked, but not hard. His cock looked pretty, this way. Smooth and pale, compared with how it looked when it was hard. Laying passive, innocent, against his body, in compliance with gravity. Irresistible. The urge to look. To touch. To taste. Devan felt compelled to take him in her mouth, to feel him go from soft to hard between her lips, against her tongue. Maybe he'd read her mind. He was grinning at her mischievously and his cock twitched faintly. Holding Vaughn's gaze as she shifted, she brought herself within kissing range of his cock. She gave him a little smile, took in his anticipatory grin, the way his chest was already moving with quickening breath, and brought her mouth to him. Without touching him at all, so the soft wet touch of her mouth would be the first thing he'd feel, she parted her lips, brushed her tongue over the soft, smooth dome of his cock, and drew him gently in. His whole cock fit easily in her mouth, compared with the effort it took to take him hard, and she sucked and rubbed her tongue over him as he rapidly swelled and stiffened. When she put her hands on him she felt his legs quivering faintly, felt his belly pulsing with little panting breaths. Her cunt throbbed, slick-feeling as she shifted her weight onto her knees. Already he was fully hard, and she was moving her tongue and lips over the rigid length of him, licking along the faint ridge that ran along the length of the underside, nursing at the sleek head, noticing how his growling groans drove hot surges of electricity through her sex. Fuck, she loved the feel of him flexing and writhing

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under her mouth, the sound of his panting, his moans. She was eager, anticipating how he'd spasm and grunt just before she'd feel the warm spurt of his orgasm in her mouth. His fingers stroked over the back of her hand, between her fingers. “Dev.” She stopped what she was doing at looked up at him, his face rapt. “Come here,” he sighed, smiling, and coaxed her up. She'd thought he was close. But maybe she'd been doing it wrong. Badly. “If that wasn't good,” she whispered, feeling her face go warm, “you can tell me what to do. So you like it.” He laughed. “Oh, that was good all right, Dev. I was about ten seconds from finishing.” She smiled and her cheeks cooled. “I thought so,” she sighed, relieved. Triumphant, even. But confused. “So why...” “Do you like doing that?” he asked her, his voice and his smile small and soft. She just laughed and nodded. Her sex was still pulsing with rapid, hot little throbs. He smiled sweetly, almost sheepishly, and gave her a tender little kiss. “You know, when we do that, you don't have to finish me that way, if you don't want.” “Swallow, you mean?” she asked with a teasing grin. “Because I realize there's a lot of pressure...some women feel they're supposed to do that, supposed to like it. Giving head. I don't want you doing anything just because you think you have to, to be a good lover. To please me. There's lots of ways for us to enjoy each other. I don't need that particular thing.”

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“You don't have to worry about stuff like that, Vaughn. Obviously I don't have a lot of experience in the realm of sex, but in general, I'm pretty good about trying stuff out, and speaking up if I'm not into it. I won't just passively go along with doing something I don't like.” “Good.” He laughed softly. At himself, it seemed. “And same goes for you,” she teased. “Don't go enduring anything unpleasant just to get me off. All right?” “It's a deal,” he swore playfully. She laughed again. “What?” “You were laying here, worrying, and I was getting thoroughly turned on.” “Really?” “Really.” His smile got huge. Then he laughed. “What?” “Just the thought of you getting turned on turns me on.” “Enough to get you off?” she teased, “or shall I carry on?” She smiled and glanced from his still-stiff prick and back again. He pulled her in for a deep kiss that seemed to pull at that heavy feeling low in her belly, revived that aching throb in her sex. “Want to try something a little different?” he murmured, his hot breath tickling her ear and neck, sending a cascade of tingles over her shoulders and down her back.

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He kissed her neck, his lips and tongue and teeth tying a knot of pleasure taut in her belly, then turned himself around on the bed. A flicker of heat moved over her face, her chest, her whole body as he kissed her knee, then drew it across his chest, coaxing her to straddle him. She was suddenly shy, unbearably aware that her naked sex was just inches above his face, and when she shifted to plant her hands on either side of his hips, his flushed and rigid cock was aimed up at her as if it was begging for her kiss. He wasn't touching her, except for the faint caress of his palms over the backs of her thighs, her bottom, her back; and she was shocked at the thrill of that feeling, her legs necessarily parted wide to accommodate his shoulders, her wet, wanting sex open to him, the cool air and his warm breath teasing her cunt. He was playing with her so deliciously, making her wait in such a pleasant agony of self-consciousness—an incredible awareness of her body—that she wanted to tease him a little, too. Instead of sinking right down on his hard, seeking cock, she brushed her lips over the smooth, soft flesh of his belly, which shuddered under her mouth to the sound of him sucking in his breath. Then she licked and gently raked her teeth over him there, making him grunt and squirm a little. And then, emboldened by her arousal, she reached her hand between his thighs, and, careful to be gentle, caressed his balls with the tips of her fingers. For that she got a long, low sigh. Still lightly teasing his balls, finally she dipped down and brushed her lips over the warm, silken crown of his cock, along the firm, textured shaft, noting the feel of the different parts of him against her lips, his scent, and finally the salty taste of his skin as she licked the length of him, the curved firmness of him, and drew him into her mouth.

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He groaned and shuddered, and then she felt him take hold of her—his arm curving around the small of her back, drawing her down to him as his other hand curved against her thigh, down by her knee, and pushed her legs even further open. The first soft, wet touch of his mouth jolted her with a shock wave of pleasure so intense she whimpered loudly and jerked involuntarily against his grip, which only tightened, pulling her more firmly against his mouth. She felt so open. A strange feeling—wantonness mingled with vulnerability—exacerbated the thrill of Vaughn's caressing tongue. When he gripped her ass cheeks with his large hands, and in gripping her to him spread her—maybe accidentally, maybe on purpose—her arousal hit the pitch of frenzy, even though he was licking her only delicately, almost teasing her with small, intermittent touches of his tongue. Desperate to give him back some of the incredible pleasure swallowing her, she sucked his cock with a frantic, mindless hunger. Her whole body was a cord of taut, quivering want, part of her straining for his mouth, the other begging for his climax, desperately seeking to coax it from him. She wanted. She wanted. She was writhing, pulling away from him to keep from coming too soon, but succumbing to his clutching embrace because his mouth was too delicious to resist, filling her mouth with the hard, twitching length of him, caressing and cradling and gently squeezing his warm balls— taut and firm, now—and whimpering because the wonderful pressure in her sex had gone so high pitched she knew it would come undone any second. She tried to buck away but he gripped her tight and she whined because she was coming but she wanted to wait for him but he growled and clutched her and licked her, hungrily now, not teasing her any more, and she sobbed out her groan as her cunt throbbed and spasmed

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incredibly, over and over, on and on, and under her own sobbing groan his voice rose up, and his body strained under her, and the thick, salty cream flooded her mouth in warm spurts. She was still shaking, shuddering when he came back to her. He pressed his body to hers, cupped her face between his palms, smiling a little, gazing into her. Then he kissed her. Just a brush of lips, at first, then took her mouth in a deep, melting kiss that went on and on. The lingering taste of him in her mouth mingled with a higher, tangier taste—her sex on his lips, on his tongue. It startled her a little. Then roused her sated body. “Do you mind it?” he asked, his voice quiet, but kind of rough and heavy. “No. Do you?” “No.” he smiled. “I think it's incredibly sexy.”

Curled up behind her, fingering a loose strand of hair at the nape of her neck, he watched over her shoulder as she tipped back the lid on the vintage overnight case. “The way I look at the pictures, the feelings and associations I have are so influenced by what pictures I've just been looking at,” she mused when he'd asked about her unorthodox archival approach. “If I see a picture of myself at seven just after looking at a picture of my mom, my reminiscences are different than if I come across that same picture after seeing, say, my high school graduation picture. If I see the picture of me after seeing the picture of my mom, I might think about how, when I was seven, my mom made me go to bed and have the lights out at a certain time. But I could never fall asleep when I first went to bed. I'd lay awake for an hour or two, making up

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weird adventures in my head. So sometimes I'd sneak a flashlight under the covers and write these funny little stories. But if I see the picture of me as a kid, and my grad photo, then maybe I'll think of how I thought my life would be, my little seven-year-old idea of twenty-year-old Devan. I like that, how the context is different every time, because the pictures get all shuffled up whenever I go through them. If they were in an album, it would always be the same.”

He was happy. Buoyant and swollen with happiness. It was like masturbation, stroking his joy as he walked back toward her apartment, a sack of wine in one hand, the bag of Thai take-out in the other, remembering moments from their last twenty hours together, imagining words, looks, touches they might share in the next twenty hours. Weeks. Years. A young man—maybe twenty or so—was walking ahead of him, and Vaughn wondered if he was happy, too. Or if he felt as Vaughn had felt for so much of his life; a resigned numbness tinged around the edges with anxiety. These meandering thoughts evaporated as the guy ahead of Vaughn turned and climbed the slab steps up to Devan's front door. As he made the turn himself seconds later and began mounting the same steps Vaughn saw and heard the man's playful knock. “Looking for Devan?” he called up, trying to make his presence known while he was still at a comfortable distance, but obviously startling the guy a little. “Yeah,” the guy answered with hesitation approaching suspicion.

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“She's probably still in the shower,” Vaughn offered to explain why she hadn't answered the door, and began fishing for the key in his pocket. “It's you,” the guy said in a voice edged with disbelief, Vaughn put on the smile he'd mastered for those who recognized him on the street, and put out his hand. “Hi. I'm Vaughn.” “Jeremy,” the guy said as he unenthusiastically took the proffered hand. “Jeremy.” Vaughn could feel his own, warm smile melt through the forced one. “Come on in. I'll tell Devan you're here.” He nudged the key into the lock and twisted the knob—a bit awkwardly, with the wine and Thai food weighing his wrists down—and got the door open. “Thanks. I was just swinging by to see if Devan wanted to grab coffee. But I'll just see her tomorrow. “ The guy looked a little worn down. Hurt, maybe. Vaughn tried to give him his warmest smile. “You sure? We ordered way too much food.” “Thanks. I ate earlier. Just tell Devan I said 'hello.'” “All right. I will.” Vaughn left the bags in the kitchen and four strides got him to the bathroom door. Her apartment was so tiny, but so cozy with her things—kitschy bits of art, photos, books and books and more books—it was like a little nest. He rapped lightly and she opened. Steam wafted over him, warming, dampening, then chilling him faintly. She grinned up at him, holding a towel modestly in front of her wet nakedness, only half

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teasing. He wondered, affectionately, if she'd always stay a little shy, that way, or if, as time went on, she'd be as comfortable naked in front of him as he was with her. She went up on her toes and he bent down for her kiss. God, he was happy. “Were you hounded by crazed fans and paparazzi all the way to Thai Star and back again?” “I think I evaded detection. We'll know I failed if the next issue of the Enquirer has a picture of me with a fudged aspect ratio and a headline reading “Aging Rock Star Struggles with Pad Kee Mao Addiction.” She gave him a coy grin and pushed the door a couple inches, and half hidden behind it dropped her towel and slipped on a robe. Bathroom burlesque. His body wanted her again already. When had he ever been so insatiable? Not even in college. “I did run into your friend Jeremy, though,” he segued rather lamely when she reappeared from behind the door. “Jeremy?” Her expression was somehow reminiscent of the one on Jeremy's face when he'd introduced himself. “I invited him in, but he seemed to have other plans. He said to tell you 'hello'.”

“What?” she asked the next morning, after they'd eaten and showered and she'd gotten dressed. He was gazing at her so strangely, his eyes glinting, his lips curved subtly, his fingertips tracing the sleek texture of her simple dress.

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“Just...look at you. This is how you look, dressed in your own clothes. Isn't that funny? I had no idea. We spent all that time in my place, you dressed in my clothes, then in the things he made you wear. I like seeing you in things you picked out, being here in your place, among your things. Your books, your pictures. All these little facets of your life, reflecting you.” She smiled, but her throat had that swollen, wet feeling of pending tears. His tenderness, his palpable adoration kept doing this—swelling her up with warm joy until it hurt and she was ready to cry. Especially now. “And what will you do with yourself,” she asked, “while I'm off at school?” Shit, she didn't want to go. She wanted to stay, cocooned with him in her tiny studio, like twins in the close, safe warmth of the womb. “I've got rehearsal. So I will have to force myself out of this sweet little nest of yours, even though I'd really like to stay, waiting for you here. But when are you done with classes?” “Seven.” “Well,” he said, his soft smile subtly widening his mouth, “if you don't have other plans, would you like to come over to my place after?” She smiled. Then laughed. “Yes.” He grinned and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. “Every time I've tried to imagine you in your house,” she told him, “I've imagined the cabin, transplanted here to Seattle. It's going to throw me off if you live in a different structure.” His expression had gone suddenly tender.

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“What?” “I don't know. Just thinking of you thinking of me. While we were apart.”

At eight Vaughn picked her up because, he'd said, his place was next to impossible to find until you knew your way. After turning off the arterial onto a narrow paved road just wide enough for two cars to pass, they wound their way up, out of the neighborhood below, toward the top of a hill so thick with trees that when the house came into view it took her by surprise. The other surprise was that, despite its lofty and deceptively remote-feeling locale in the heart of the city, the house itself looked modest. A medium-sized ranch style house of the same 1970's architecture as the homes they'd left behind at the base of the hill. The garage door yawned wide and they rolled in. “It's a fluke, Vaughn told her. “The developer had this place built for himself, then ran out of funds before the development was finished. Then some other rich recluse bought the lone house on the hill and the surrounding land. She died shortly after I'd started looking for a place, after Edi and I split.” He led her by the hand into the split-level living room, with it's warm-hued wood paneled walls and hardwood floors, the conversation pit carpeted—was that shag?—in a pale yellow, and an enormous fireplace of dark, rough ledgestone. And one wall running the length of that room and the dining room was a series of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out, past a wooden deck and over the lake. “Do you like it all right?” he asked her. “I love it.”

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She'd been a little afraid he'd live in some ostentatious mansion—something befitting the lifestyle of a celebrity. But this felt so him, so warm and easy, with its spare arrangement of furniture that was heavy, but with clean lines. “I'm glad,” he said, his voice soft, and kissed the crown of her head. After the grand tour he poured two glasses of wine and they cooked dinner together. The first sip of merlot seeped into her veins and suffused her with a lifting warmth. Everything felt poignant. Vaughn's tender smile each time he looked at her. The comfortable warmth of his kitchen. Even the trivial task of rinsing and cutting up the string beans. She knew it was funny, that she should laugh at herself, but she couldn't. After dinner they were curled up in front of the fire, sipping wine. It was like being back at the cabin again. "Dev." "Hmmmm?" His intent gaze burned away her drowsiness, brought on by the meal and the wine. She focused. Waited. Then he looked away and laughed softly before he brought his eyes back to hers. "I can't believe how I feel like such an awkward teenager around you, sometimes." His hands shook as he playfully fingered an ornament on her bracelet. But then he dropped the little silver Janus, cradled her head in his hands, smiled, and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. Then, holding her gaze, he said in a soft voice, “We've been apart a long time, I know, and after such a short time of getting to know each other. I don't want you to feel any pressure, like I'm pushing you to rush into

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anything. But after everything, I don't want to pretend with you, about where I see things going.” He took a breath, let it out, and with an adorable, bashful smile, finally came out with "Dev, I'd like us to live together." "Live together?" She was pretty sure she didn't understand what he meant. "Yes." "Be a couple?" "Yes," he laughed at her incredulity. "Partners?" "Yes," he said, soft and serious. “I want you in my life, Dev, not out on the periphery somewhere. And I want to be in your life. Just think about it, Dev. There's no rush. I just know what I want, and there's no point in not saying it. But it's all right if you don't know yet, what you want this to be. Or if you do, and it's different than what I want." “Yes. Yes, I want to live with you,” she managed, even though she could hardly breathe. Joy could be so heavy, an avalanche crashing down, almost crushing. Under that weight she felt strangely helpless. Almost afraid. “God, I'm happy, Dev,” Vaughn said in his low, easy voice with his serene smile. But his eyes looked slightly startled, and his hands were still shaking as he kissed her. “So happy.” Then he whispered that he loved her and kissed her again.

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“Here,” he said, coming back to where she was lying by the fire, holding out to her a white rectangular box. “I'd like you to have these.” Still flushed and a little limp from their lovemaking she propped herself up on her elbow. “What is it?” “Letters. All the letters I've written you since we got back. I wrote you almost every day,” he added. “But the letters never came out right.” She didn't know what it was she was feeling—it was so close to happiness, that she'd been so much on his mind all those days, through all those months she'd missed him so wretchedly, and so close to sadness, the thought of him hurting, the way she'd been hurting, missing her the way she'd missed him. “When I got your package—the letter and your book—I can't tell you what it meant to me. How deeply unhappy I was, and how much it helped, hearing from you, you letting me know you were all right. That you were still my friend. And your book. Dev, I don't know how I could have pulled it together, worked through everything, without it.” He smiled, his eyes pink and shimmery. “Reading everything that happened, told through your words, it changed how I saw it. How I feel about what happened. About my part in things. Your book made it possible for me to live with myself. Possible for me to come back to you. I wish I'd been able to do that for you, but it feels right, you having these now.”

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She struggled and broke the surface of her sleep, then tried to dive under again, to find the calm depths where she'd been so, impossibly happy. But her heart pounded in her chest, she couldn't catch her breath. The night forced itself on her. The quiet. The darkness. The warmth. Tears rolled down her cheeks. This darkness, this quiet was not the nighttime of her Capitol Hill studio. This darkness wasn't faintly lit by the glow of nearby streetlights, or cut in two every few seconds by the headlights of passing cars; this quiet was unbroken by the sound of traffic and the voices of tipsy passersby. She was really here. In his house. In his bed. The heat of his body, the rhythmic sound of his breathing proved it again. Relief broke her down and she slipped away before the sound of her crying woke him. She wanted him, so she sought the white rectangular box, took it to the chair by the window, and switched on a light. The first letter: My dear, amazing Dev, I can't believe I've parted myself from you. I sit here, remembering how, just this morning you were in my bed, with me, that I felt you against me, that I could look at you, hear you. I feel your absence so acutely. My whole body seems to know you're not in the next room, not just outside where I might see you pass by the window any moment. You're gone. I parted us, when the only thing I want is for us to be together. It seems like the most perverse masochism. But the worst thing, the thing I can barely face, is knowing I'm hurting you, again, when the most important thing to me is sparing you any more hurt. When I think over our time together, it seems I've hurt you at every turn, and

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the more cruelly the more I've come to care for you. And today, as we got back to the city, I felt I had to choose between hurting you one way, or another. I tried to choose the smaller hurt, Dev. But I know it was still cruel. Please believe me, Dev, there's nothing I want more than to be with you now. And know I'm not just a coward. I am scared. I'm scared you'll wake up one morning, or look over and see my face at some particular moment, and realize what it meant, the things I did to you. And I'll watch that realization flicker over you, watch your affection turn to resentment or fear or hate. It will devastate me—that moment. But I didn't leave you today because I'm afraid of that pain. What really scares me is the thought that you'd be with me, for days or week or months or, god, even longer, and that one day you'd realize it was all a mistake, that you'd been loving the man you should have hated. And after that, you'll doubt yourself. Hate yourself. I can stay away to spare you that. The thing that makes it hard is I'm not sure I'm right. But even if you can forgive me for everything, and really love me, I don't know how to be with you, filled with guilt, hating myself. I hurt you. You may not think I did, but I do. I don't know how to live with that, even on my own. I can't do it with you. Not yet. Maybe someday. But maybe not.

And the last:

Sweet Dev, I'm scared I'm never going to figure out a way to get back to you. It's been so long. Just months, I know, but it feels longer. I'm afraid it's because it's beginning to feel

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like the start of forever. The lifetime I'll spend without you. I hate that I robbed us both of what I feel sure could have been an exceptional love, an amazing life together.

Sometime during the night Vaughn woke, and the first thing his senses told him was that Devan was not in his bed. He found her, finally, curled up, small and fetal, in the big armchair by the living room window, surrounded by a litter of white rectangles on the floor. Before she noticed him and silenced herself and started wiping at her face with her palms, he heard her sobbing softly. “Dev? What is it?” His unsent letters to her—that's what all those rectangles were. He knelt down at the foot of the chair; a dark fear seemed to be tunneling just beneath his feet, making the floor rock and give way. Devan sniffed and sank her fingers into his hair. “It’s so silly.” Her voice was rough from crying. “Look how hurt you are. It’s not silly. Tell me.” ”I dreamed it was…all a dream. That I woke up, with the memory of you beside me, your warmth, you…but you’d never come back.” Those last four words broke her, and she was crying again. “I don’t think I ever let myself feel how bad it would be, if you never came back. How can I need you so much, when four months ago I didn’t even know you?” “I don’t know, Dev. But it’s the same for me. I existed, I had a life, before. But after that crazy, terrible, wonderful month in the cabin, I can’t see my life without you. Before I figured out how to come back to you, I was going crazy. I need you, Dev. You don’t need to worry. I’m not going anywhere. You can trust me. Trust this. Us.”

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She raised and lowered the letters in a mute gesture. “I hate that you were struggling, suffering all those months. I wish I'd come to you, instead of waiting for you to come. I was just so scared. Your guilt. I was afraid if I came, if I told you how I felt, that you'd try to, I don't know, accommodate me, somehow, even if you just wanted to be free of everything. The past. Me. “Even if I hadn't wanted to be with you, Dev, I'd have done anything I could have for you. Out of guilt. Out of friendship. But I wouldn't have pretended anything. That's not kindness. That's cruel, pretending to love someone when you don't, no matter how badly they want it.” She was quiet, just looking at him. He smiled. Pulled her to him. He was about to coax her back to bed, so they could hold each other and talk in comforting warmth, when he spotted another piece of mail at her feet. “Dev?” She met his eyes, her look fractured. Distant. “Is something else upsetting you?” She gazed at him for a long, quiet, suspended moment. Then she bent and picked up the big manila envelope from the floor. Her hands trembled as she tore open the flap and the thin stack of papers quivered between her fingers as she read. “I...” Silent, patient, he waited. “I've been accepted into NYU. Their doctoral program in comparative literature. I start in September.” “NYU?”

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She nodded. If she said any more she'd start sobbing like a baby. “Dev. Oh my god. That's great.” Vaughn's eyes had gone bright, his smile larger, easier than she'd ever seen it. “You really do amaze me. Again and again. Soon it'll be Doctor Astor, then.” Her face felt numb and she had no idea what expression it bore. “Dev. Hey.” He twined his fingers behind her neck. “This isn't an insurmountable obstacle, you know. We can work this out. We could keep this place here, and we could get a flat together in the city. Or maybe I'd sell this place and move altogether. Rent a space here for a month or two when we're read to go into the studio. My life's pliable that way, you know.” “You'd do that? Rearrange your life?” “I'd do a lot more than move to a different city to be with you,” he laughed, “I'm just glad you're not off to University of Arkansas. Besides, it's not like my life's the picture of stability. Things are quiet, now, but when we go on tour, it's weeks on the road. And when we go into the studio, it can be fourteen hour days for weeks at a time. Actually, you'll be witnessing that scenario in just a couple weeks. That whole tortured artist thing, it turns out, is more than a myth. I've been obscenely prolific these last few months.” He put his arms around her, kissed her hair. She pulled back and looked at him. "I love you, Vaughn." "I love you too, Dev."

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He held her for a long while, feeling the shuddering breaths after all her crying finally even, deepen, slow. This was part of it. What he'd done to her, leaving her that day. Staying gone so long. His gut and chest cramped with guilt. But then she pulled back and kissed him, then looked at him, her smile sweet and real. A little of the squeezing pain left his insides. “Dev?” “Hmmm?” “Would you mind telling me how a nineteen year old gets into grad school?” She smiled and laughed, that touchingly fragile laugh we have when we've been crying. “For a start, I skipped third grade. And I've been on an accelerated matriculation program, so, come June, I'll have done my BA in three years. And,” she paused for a second, then went on with a smile, “I'm not nineteen any more.” “I missed your birthday,” he said gravely. “I'll forgive you,” she teased, “if you'll swear to be at my twenty-first.” “Deal,” he smiled. “When's the big day?' “February nineteenth. And when do we celebrate your birthday?” “October 13th,” he answered in a tone of significance. “The thirteenth?” She was trying to do the math. “The day after I showed up at the cabin,” he solved the problem for her, “it was my birthday.” “Oh,” was all she said while her mind rushed over the realization that Vaughn had retreated to the cabin to be alone for his birthday.

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“I'd planned on going, working through some things, and looked at that birthday as a sort of marker for what I meant to be a kind of new beginning.” He gave her a wistful smile. “Funny, eh?” She stroked his cheek, running her fingers over his smooth cheekbone, the slight roughness of his jaw. The feel of him under her hand was sweetly familiar, now. “You know,” she said, “I don't know how old you are.” “Thirty five.” She tried to hide her shock. “That bad, eh?” “No.” Her face went hot and the realization just made the blush worse. “No,” she laughed. “I'm just surprised.” “I'll take that as a compliment. Unless,” he added after a pause, smiling, “you're surprised I'm that young.” “I thought maybe forty eight, forty nine,” she deadpanned. “All those millions for cosmetic surgery. What a waste.” Thirty five. Five years older, and he'd be twice her age. “You don't feel older to me,” she said. He didn't. Vaughn smiled at her, a little indulgently, she thought. “Do I seem so young to you?” “No. And yes.” She tried not to look, not to feel hurt by the implication of that. “At the cabin, that night by the fire, that night we first kissed, first held each other,” the lit-up look in his eyes stirred in her a needful warmth, sweet, but so sharp it almost hurt. “When you told me you were a virgin, when you told me you were only

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nineteen, well, if you'd asked me to guess I'd have said thirty before nineteen. You have an air about you—a solidity. You know,” he said with a sudden, mirthful smile, “you're my first younger woman.” Her incredulity must have shaped her expression. “Really. I mean, I've been with younger women. But I've never been involved, in love, with a younger woman.” His words made the room, her body, warm and soft, and her eyes wet. In love. They were in love. He must have seen what he'd done to her with those two words. His smile went tender and he curved his hand, so warm, so soft, against the back of her neck. “It scares me a little,” he said after a while. “Why?” He looked and touched and spoke tenderly, the way he did, she was learning, when he was being careful of her. “I had my first sexual experience when you were two—learning your first words, eating your first solid foods. I moved in with my first real partner—what? You were probably in fifth grade. You've just started living your adult life, and I'm more than fifteen years in.” “So?” Who cared? Not like she was some kind of child. She worked. She paid her bills. She'd been on her own, living her life, for almost three years. He smiled. Kissed. Caressed. Still being careful.

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“It's not a bad thing, Dev. It's just that...this time...it's a time of...growth. Figuring things out. I just have to keep reminding myself....” “What?” “Not to...stifle you.” “Stifle?” “It's important to me that you have room.” “Room?” “Room. To move around. Feel your way. I'm here, Dev. There's not even a little part of me that wants to pull back. But I worry that my being here, with you, that having me here, you look at your future one certain way. That maybe you're closing down different paths your life could go.” “Vaughn, I...” “All I'm saying, Dev, is that being with me, I don't want you thinking you have to be one certain version of you, that some narrow image of the future is the only one we can share.”

“Dev?” She turned her eyes up, away from where her finger was teasing a sensitive spot just inside his hip bone, and met his gaze. “What would you think about letting me read some of your stories? Some of the ones he didn't give me to read?” The mischievous glint in her eye dimmed, then disappeared behind lid and lashes as she looked down.

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“It's all right if you don't want me to, Dev. It's all right to keep things private.” She stayed quiet and still for a minute or two. Even her finger had ceased its teasing and settled softly on the blanket. When she spoke, her voice was small, her eyes still cast down, hiding her expression. “I guess I'm torn.” He waited. “Part of me wants to share it all—everything about me. All my thoughts—even the weird, dark ones. But...” He waited. “It's not that I don't trust you,” she finally added. But that was all. “You know, Dev. Conrad wouldn't let me say anything at the cabin, but he knew. You should know. Your stories, the ones he made me read—they were incredibly arousing.” She stayed quiet. “Nothing in them diminished anything I felt for you,” he told her. He thought for a moment, and decided on confession. “Those stories, your stories, Dev, they were a small part of what I first loved about you.” Lids and lashes flicked up and her eyes were on him. But she didn't say anything. “Sometimes, Dev, I get the idea that you think I only care for, only want some certain part of you, that you think you need to hide the rest of yourself away from me. But you don't, Dev. You won't become some different person to me, if you let me see your...less innocent side.

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She stayed quiet. But two days later, as she was leaving for school, she handed him a thin, neat stack of printed pages, flashed a naughty little smile, kissed him, and ducked out the door. He read the story, teasing his hardening cock as he read, and when he'd finished, jerked of frantically. And when she came home, he told her. How hard her words, her images had made him, how excited it made him, knowing she had these hidden fantasies, how much it meant to him that she'd shared that part of herself with him. A little more than a week later she gave him another story. And five or six days later she gave him another. At first he imagined that she was reluctant, that every new revelation was hard for her. But then he started to wonder. Maybe she understood how deeply, almost unbearably delicious the anticipation was. Not just wondering over the possible scenarios, but hungering for each hesitant confession—these revelations of the things that had fascinated her, but which she'd kept hidden from everyone all the years she'd been dreaming and writing them. Vaughn saw every story she bared to him as the most precious sort of gift—a sign of her trust, of the closeness they were building between them day by day. And he was scrupulous about reciprocating, in his way, telling her in detail how his mind and body reacted to what she'd written.

All afternoon he had been fantasizing, and when he heard the rattle and scrape of her key in the lock, there was an instant and pleasant swelling rush of heat to his cock. In the time it had taken her to work the lock Vaughn had gotten to the door. He kissed her eyebrows and the bridge of her nose, but teased her, not letting their lips meet. And then, right there by the front door, he sank to his knees at her feet, and just

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as he'd imagined hours before and few short minutes ago, he slid his hands up along the sleek skin of her calves, her thighs, up under the skirt of black wool she'd worn to school, and, watching her face, watching her chest swell and dip with quickening breaths, pulled her panties down. Stepped her out of them. “Lift your skirt,” he said, his voice low. Steady. Vaughn watched a little tremor of shock ripple over her. Then she did it. She bent forward, her face coming near his, curved her pale fingers under the black hem, and rose, sliding the material up, up, baring inch after inch of milky thigh, stopping just as his anticipation peaked and he thought he'd glimpse her naked sex. He raised his eyes to her face. “All the way, Dev. Up to your waist.” She hesitated. That hesitation tormented him deliciously. Then she did it. Bared her sex to him. Vaughn knelt there, gazing at the modest cleft of her pale, delicate cunt, breathing in her warm, rousing scent. With just the tips of his fingers he traced a delicate path up the insides of her ankles, calves, knees, to just the first curve of thigh, and with a touch asked her for a wider stance. With an audible change to her breathing, she stepped her feet apart, presenting him with a shadowy view that hinted at moist, pink crenelations and, back lit, the silhouette of firm curve and rousing cleft of her ass. Sliding his knees between her ankles he made her spread more wantonly. When he looked up he found her gazing down at him, blushing adorably. He smiled and held her gaze as he undid his belt and jeans, worked them open and down, and wrapped his fist around his already rock-hard cock. He watched her lips close, watched her throat

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contract as she swallowed, then her lips parted again as she panted, watching him slowly fist his cock. Then he brought his mouth to her cunt and licked her through three orgasms, saving his until her last.

The sound of her key in the lock pricked him with a rush of excitement. Like when he was thirteen and the girl he'd had a crush on for the last two years had just walked into the classroom. It was so fucking good to feel that alive, that...exuberant again. It filled him with a different feeling, seeing her mouth widen into that big smile of hers as she turned the corner and caught first sight of him. This smile of hers was new to him— only in the last couple weeks. Never at the cabin. Never, at first, when he'd come back to her. It gave him hope that she was sure of them, now. She came right to him, let her hefty book bag settle on the floor against the sofa, and slipped astride his thighs for their reunion embrace. Close. Soft. Tight. And their kiss. Tender. Then ardent. Maybe soon they'd settle into an easier togetherness, not always eager for everything. Maybe in a month or a year they'd only give affectionate little kisses and hugs some days, only make love a couple times a week. This early time, when they needed each other two or three times every day, was precious. Hot and soft, open and eager, her mouth on his. Inviting him, then taking over, demanding. Aggressive. Gentle, then fierce. Then sweet again. When she broke off the kiss and looked at him, it was like she wanted to read his mind. His heart. Gazing back at her, he left himself open. He loved her. He wanted her. Needed her. Her sweetness. Her strangeness. Her love of him. The way she wanted him. Her lips, parted to pant, wet from their kiss, already slightly swollen because he'd sucked and bitten them.

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He put his mouth to her neck and felt her body flex as he licked her smooth skin, raked his teeth there, nipped the tender lobe of her ear. When he held her away from him he watched her pant, noted how hard just those kisses had made her nipples, and he caught himself smiling. He caught her hand as it trailed up his arm, kiss it, and set it on her thigh. Then he began lifting up her sweater. “I want to touch you. And watch you. Focused all on you.” He looked down a moment to watch her skin appear between the hem of her sweater and the waist of her skirt. Then he looked back up to meet her eyes. Raising the sweater up, he slipped it over her head, coaxed the arms she'd raised back down, and sheathed them inside the sweater, behind her back. “Do you mind?” he asked, only half teasing with the arched eyebrow, the look calculated to fix her in place. His heart thumped, then sped as her eyes widened with surprise, as her lips parted and her chest rose and fell faster, faster, her breasts swelling against the thin, translucent barrier of her pink bra with each breath. He touched her over the bra. The shimmery fabric was faintly rough, too rough to be cradling her delicate breasts, he thought. The way her arms were caught behind by the sweater, her breasts were thrust forward, so they seemed to be begging him. God, Dev. Still. She actually blushed as he pulled the top edge of the shimmery pink down below her breasts, baring her creamy flesh, her dark, hard nipples. It was the disparity. Him clothed and untouched. Her bared and almost bound, vulnerable to his eyes, to his touch.

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Her mouth. God, he wanted to kiss. But unkissed, she was more strung out on want and wanton isolation. Lifting the hem of her skirt he bared her thighs, exposed a glimpse of the crotch of her panties. This he pulled aside, then licked the pads of two fingers and stroked her gently. With a shudder her thighs jerked against his. When he smiled she blushed again. Cinching an arm around her waist he got the arch he wanted, brought his mouth to her tit, still teasing her cunt with his fingers. He brought her to the edge, had her keening and quivering, then left off, and only sat there watching her expression go from lustful to frustrated to confused. Then embarrassed, realizing he was taunting her. He brought her back, got her groaning, writhing in tiny movements against his fingers. Then abandoned her again. He didn't let her come until she sighed, “please, please,” almost under her breath, and used her own body to rub her cunt against his hand.

“He gets off on it.” Vaughn's voice wasn't condemning. More like intrigued. “He does, doesn't he?” Devan felt that familiar tug through her sex. The way Gordon had taken Jeremy in a kiss—sweet, at first, not much different from the little intimacies both couples indulged in with comfortable regularity in one another's company, then deep and hot, and then, when Jeremy tried to break it off, almost violent as Gordon had held Jeremy to that kiss by gentle but definite force, and then had compelled Jeremy to endure an onslaught that could not be mistaken—it was the prelude to a fuck. And after, while Jeremy had blushed crimson, glancing for one sheepish second at Devan and avoiding Vaughn's eyes altogether, Gordon had stood there taking in the whole scene looking, paradoxically, satisfied and ravenous.

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For a few seconds Devan had half wondered if Gordon were about to try to fuck Jeremy right there in front of them. But he'd just pressed a kiss to Jeremy's cheek, saying, “Such a shy boy.” Then looking at Devan then settling his mischievous gaze on Vaughn, “But we're all friends here. Aren't we/' And Vaughn had said, “Of course,” with his steady gaze and warm smile. The next week the boys were over—Devan and Jeremy working away on final final papers—the last of their last term of their undergrad careers, while Vaughn had Gordon down in the studio, geeking out on techie music stuff. When the kids—Gordon's pet designation for Jeremy and Devan—wearied of their writerly endeavors, the foursome rendezvoused in the kitchen where Gordon captained an expedition deep into the liquor cabinet. Halfway into round two Gordon asked, with a grin he clearly knew was irresistible, “Would I be breaking some kind of horrible guest record if I invited myself into your hot tub?” “Isn't it dull breaking a record you already hold?” Jeremy rebuked, obviously embarrassed for them both. Vaughn laughed his low, soft laugh. “Who was it who said there are no bad guests, only bad hosts? The hot tub sounds great.” “That sounds like a great plan. For next time,” Jeremy said to Gordon firmly. “Oh, stop. I know you're shy, but you're not going to let a little thing like a pair of trunks come between us and the bliss of a soak in the Jacuzzi.” Jeremy flushed and glared at Gordon. “I do have an extra pair of trunks,” Vaughn offered.

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“And what good does that do me?” Devan asked with mock petulance. “Thankfully, none,” Gordon flashed back, aiming his provoking grin right at her. Her face almost matched Jeremy's now. “I'll be brave, if you will,” Vaughn just heard Devan whisper to Jeremy as she gave his arm a quick squeeze. Then, to the group, “I'll grab towels,” and she dashed off. Vaughn grabbed Devan's drink and the three of them moved to the deck. When Vaughn and Gordon had gotten the cover off the tub, Gordon reprimanded Jeremy playfully, “What do you think you're doing?” Lilly white but veined with pink indentations carved by the knit of his socks and the architecture of his shoes, Jeremy's bare feet peeked out from under the hem of his navy cords, and he'd already dropped his sweater in a wad on the lounge behind him. He shrugged and made a “What do you think I'm doing?” face at Gordon. “What? Devan's going to come back and we're all going to be discreetly cloaked under the water, watching her do a strip tease for us?” Gordon laughed. “Does sound like fun, actually. But not very considerate of her.” Dev turned up the next second with the towels. Now Jeremy's rush to get his clothes off was forgotten; he fidgeted for a long time with each little thing he took off, tucking his socks away inside his shoes, folding his sweater and t-shirt, inexplicably extricating his belt from the loops of his cords and winding it up and securing it between his shoes so it wouldn't unwind. He kept his eyes down, on himself, and Vaughn wondered if he was avoiding seeing too much of Devan or of him, or if it was their eyes on his body that he was afraid of.

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Gordon, on the other hand, wasn't exactly posing, but somehow every move he made seemed like an invitation to look, and Vaughn allowed himself to gaze on the body Gordon was baring so eagerly and self-consciously. His torso so lean that the slight muscle was vividly defined. Pierced navel and nipples—all silver studs. Like his forearms, his upper arms, shoulders and back bore an array of tattoos, not florid and all bleeding into each other in a swirl of skulls and flames; the ink was in a dark, sober palette, the abstract designs were discrete but complemented one another. Like pieces in a gallery exhibit. His cock was semi-hard as he slipped out of jeans, and he was smiling when Vaughn glanced back up to his face. Caught. Then he followed along as Gordon's gaze shifted over to Dev. Her body looked so soft and smooth and pale after the hard, cut, painted body he'd just been looking at. Sweet Dev, the way she blushed and smiled and laughed as their eyes turned to her. But she kept on, reached back to unhook her bra, slipped the straps down her arm and let it fall to the deck, smiling at Vaughn, blushing when she looked back and Gordon— standing as casually and comfortably in his nudity as if he were hanging out fully dressed in the familiar atmosphere of their living room--was still watching her, blatantly sliding his gaze over her bared breasts, grinning but not turning away when she noticed him staring for so long. But she just kept going, unbuttoning and unzipping her slacks and sliding them down, then stepping out of the little wad they'd made at her feet. That she came back up for her panties in a separate move made Vaughn think she was enjoying it all. Something at the edge of his vision drew Vaughn's attention to the left just in time to see Jeremy slipping down into the turbulent water. Vaughn shucked off his boxer

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briefs and stepped down into the tub. Smiling, her eyes fixed on him, Devan descended next, settling beside him. Gazing down on the others as he circled the long way around, Gordon delivered Jeremy's half-consumed, forgotten cocktail, then slipped down next to him. As he sank down it was as if the water in the tub extinguished some spark in Gordon, now that all four of them were modestly concealed beneath the water. He nuzzled up to Jeremy, whispered something to him, and Jeremy nodded. Gordon whispered again, and Jeremy nodded again, smiling now, and Gordon playfully kissed the other's cheek, his neck, his ear. When Vaughn slipped his hand under Devan's hair to run the tip of his finger in little circles over the wet skin at the nape of her neck, he was caught off kilter, his body seemed so wired. An urge to pull her hair up, off her nape, to press his mouth to the pale skin there, to bite and lick her tender flesh surged up. But when she looked up at him he just tipped his forehead against hers. “Sweetheart,” Gordon cooed to Jeremy, “can you even see through your glasses when they're all fogged up like that?” “Not really,” Jeremy gave a little awkward laugh, “but I don't want to just set them on the ground. They'll get stepped on.” “Here.” Gordon carefully took them off, and emerged from the Jacuzzi, deposited the glasses on the table a few feet away, and returned to Jeremy's side. “Thanks.” Jeremy kissed the other's shoulder. It was sweet, Gordon doing that, since Jeremy was shy. Shy as Dev, maybe more so. And Vaughn smiled to himself, amused at how Devan had followed Gordon's

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circuit with her eyes. The heat bubbling all around him seemed to be seeping through his skin, settling and roiling low in his body. Disappointing, how all the ice in his drink had melted, but he took a big swallow of the rum-laced juice. “You're off to New York after graduation, huh Dev?” Gordon asked. Strange, hearing someone else call her that. Except him, no one ever did. “Mmmm. A little graduation vacation slash apartment scouting expedition.” “Devan's such a star, NYU's funding her trip. Recruitment,” Jeremy informed Gordon like a proud parent. “You guys should come,” Vaughn heard himself suggest before he'd known he was going to say it. For a second he regretted it, afraid Devan would be disappointed that he'd undone their first romantic getaway, but when he looked down she was beaming up at him. “You should,” she tagged on. “The four of us. It'd be fun.” “Maybe we should,” Gordon mused, looking for Jeremy's opinion in his face. “You've never been.” “It does sound better than going back to visit the pastor and his wife,” Jeremy said, referring to his parents back in Newton, North Carolina. “Email me your itinerary, D., and Gordon and I can see if we can work it out with our schedules.” Through his smile, Jeremy sounded a little off, and Vaughn wondered if he still hadn't heard back from any schools. “So you're making the move, Vaughn?” Gordon asked. “Time to reinvent myself. I'm working on concocting my new East Coast persona.”

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“Maybe Lou Reed meets Deniro.” “I was thinking more Paul Banks meets Howard Roark meets Henry James. “Speaking of concoctions,” Gordon said, holding up his empty glass, “I see I'm not the only one ready for the next round.” All glasses were, in fact, provokingly empty. “Sweetheart,” he sighed, turning to Jeremy, “be a honey and freshen up our drinks.” Jeremy turned still as stone, and made as much reply one could expect from one. “Please, my darling.” Gordon's tender entreaty was delivered with the quiet calm of an order he had no doubt would be obeyed. “Let me,” Dev piped, plucking the glass from Gordon's hand before he could protest, then reaching out for the others when she'd mounted to the deck. It was hard not to smile, knowing how shy she really was, seeing how intervening for Jeremy made her bold. Then it was hard not to stare, impossible to ignore the tug through his balls as she padded toward the house, naked, dripping wet, her black hair hanging in streaming ribbons over her pale shoulders and back, her luscious ass flexing and swaying a little. “So chivalry is dead.” Gordon said to Jeremy, with, Vaughn thought, a tinge of real disappointment. “Be a good boy and go assist her.” Again the irrefutable quiet of the irresistible imperative. There was a stare down, Jeremy with a flexed jaw and heaving chest, Gordon still, his posture easy, a faint grin bending the corner of his mouth. “Go on, sweet.” Looking resigned, Jeremy stood, a sheath of water falling from his torso, smooth except for a dark swath of hair between his pecs and a tame but determined line to paradise, then rose from the tub, being careful, it seemed to Vaughn, to keep his back

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to them. The guy was so bashful, Vaughn didn't follow him into the house with his eyes, but turned his gaze back on Gordon. He wasn't watching Jeremy's departure toward the house, either. He was watching Vaughn. It amused Vaughn, provoked his curiosity, that considering gaze of Gordon's. “Do you think I'm a jerk?” In reply Vaughn just raised an interrogatory eyebrow. “For such a gregarious kid, Jeremy's excruciatingly shy about certain things. I'm sure you've noticed, I sort of get off on pushing that. But it's not mean-spirited. Hard as it is on him, when I push him like that, part of him loves it. He's flat out admitted it.” In the pause Gordon seemed to be gauging Vaughn before he added, “He gets as hot, being made a spectacle, as I get doing that to him.” Again, that tightness in his balls, like they were being gently squeezed, and that heat swirling through him. “I'd be sorry, and he'd never forgive me,” Gordon went on, “if I did anything to fuck up his friendship with Dev. Or made it weird for the four of us. So give me the red light if I veer off into ick territory.” “All right.” Vaughn was amused, and even though he'd already answered 'no' in his head to the question he thought Gordon might be about to ask, just the strangeness of the turn the night seemed to be taking, the way Gordon was looking—not with hunger, Vaughn thought, but just wired and eager for...what...an exciting night? An interesting existence? Something, anyway, was causing that stiffening, that swelling. He could have willed it away, but he let it come on.

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Gordon smiled. “Have you ever fucked Devan in front of other people? Another person?” Not what he'd expected. Vaughn smiled, but didn't answer the question. “Well,” Gordon laughed, “you don't look horrified. Or even shocked.” “No,” Vaughn said, amused at Gordon's effort at sounding him. “I'm in a mood,” Gordon said in a conspiratorial hush. “If you'd enjoy it, if you think Devan would like it, I thought Jeremy and I might put on a little show for you guys.” Full on hard on now. Vaughn was a little surprised. “That particular smile tells me you're in,” Gordon said, looking more and more lit up. “How about Dev? I mean, I don't want to do it if she'd just be okay with it. Just...accepting. Only if she'd really get off on it.” “She'll be unsure, if Jeremy seems too reluctant. But if he's into it—“ The sound of the door opening pulled Vaughn's gaze to the house. Dev emerged, nude and pale yellow under the incandescent porch light, and Jeremy followed close after; both carried a drink in each hand, and Jeremy turned back to swing the door shut with his foot. “If he's into it,” Vaughn spoke softly, counting on the hum of the jets and the turbulence of the water to give his voice cover, “I guarantee you she'll think anything the two of you might do to each other is fucking delicious.” That got a raised eyebrow and a grin Vaughn had never seen before as two pink columns with lime garnishes materialized in front of him. He took the glasses from Devan and she plunked down beside him. “What?” she said intimately, searching his face.

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“What?” Jeremy's voice carried over the tiny sea. While he took a long drink of the pink pulpy boozy cocktail, Gordon's eyes were fixed on the other's face, knocking Jeremy further and further off kilter. Some huge fist seemed to be closing, closing on Vaughn's whole body, straining his chest, his gut, his cock as Gordon set his glass aside and fixed all his attention on Jeremy and Jeremy seemed to stop breathing, his eyes widening apprehensively. He knew something was coming. Gordon rose to perch on the edge of the tub, his stiff cock pointing up toward his left nipple. All shaved. And another piercing, a silver barbell, there at the apex of his ball sack. “Gordon,” Jeremy breathed. “Please.” From his perch above Gordon reached down and caressed Jeremy's cheek, giving him a tender smile. Then he raised his gaze. To Devan. His tender smile widened and his breath seemed to speed up. When Vaughn looked, Devan's parted lips and pumping chest drove another hot wave through his body. “Sshhhh,” Gordon was gazing down at Jeremy, now. “Be my good boy.” Gordon stroked Jeremy's wet hair with his long, delicate fingers. Not talking, now. Not pulling or pushing. Waiting him out. Jeremy's back was to him and Dev, and Vaughn thought he was either shaking or maybe crying. But then Jeremy moved toward Gordon, into the V of his thighs, Gordon smiling down on him, caressing his face, his neck. A few still moments with no sound but the motors driving the jets and the sloshing water. Then Gordon sucked in a breath and his lax fingers flexed and curled into Jeremy's hair as Jeremy sank down on Gordon's cock.

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A hot bolt shot through Vaughn's groin at the sight of Jeremy's lips sliding down Gordon's hard length. When he looked over, Devan was watching, panting, no trace of worry marring her look of rapt arousal. “That's my good boy,” Gordon sighed, raking his fingers through the other's hair. “Jeremy has been trained,” Gordon told them in a strained voice. “If I let him see my cock, and I'm hard, he goes down on me. Unless or until I tell him not to.” Gordon's belly quivered in and out while Jeremy worked over his hard cock with his wet, avid mouth. “You are my good boy, aren't you?” he sighed down to Jeremy then. “Even in front of them. I wish you could see their faces, Jeremy.” A little cruel, not saying more than that. Leaving it open. Vaughn caught his breath, stifled a grunt; a fist seemed to grip his heart as Dev's hand brushed against the underside of his prick. She made a soft little noise, then, at finding him hard, and Gordon locked a feral look on them. Dev's fingers curled in a loose circle and caressed him under the water. For some reason he didn't want that, though. He drew her hand away and pulled her onto his lap, kissed her shoulder, halfveiled under thick strands of her wet hair. As his cock settled along the cleft of her ass he shuddered but kept silent. Under the water he cupped a breast in one hand and brought the other to her sex and she sighed out loud. Maybe so Jeremy would know. And maybe that had done something because the next second Gordon grunted out loud and then sucked a hard breath in through his teeth. It seemed like everything that had been happening—from the start when they'd all stripped in front of each other—had been working on Dev because her wetness had already made its way down and all her delicate inner folds were slick to his first touch.

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When he brushed a finger over her nipple and worked his finger back and forth along the length of her slick slit she gasped—out loud, again—and with her back pressed to his chest Vaughn could feel how she was panting. “Devan. Is Vaughn touching you?” Gordon growled, his head hanging down but his eyes turned up, watching them from under his brow. That was for Jeremy. Because from Gordon's vantage there could be no mistaking. “Yes,” sweet Dev sighed, her voice quivering over that single syllable. The next second Vaughn saw Gordon's thick pink cock slip free of Jeremy's mouth, watched as he tongued the silver jewelry, the metal bouncing under the flicking tongue, tugging at the flesh where it was embedded. Then Jeremy put the O of his lips to one of Gordon's balls, and sucked him into his mouth, driving a shudder through Gordon's belly and getting a grunt and a sigh as he drew the second ball into his mouth. Dev's hot, slick cunt nursed at the finger he'd slid into her. He kept it deep inside her, pumping against her pubis, working her clit and her depth without losing all her silken moisture to the hot tub. When he caught her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and slowly increased the pressure, little by little, she started in on a long, humming whine, wiggling over the finger embedded in her cunt. That frustrated writhing of hers was torturing him as her ass flexed and slid against his aching cock. “Soon,” Gordon grunted, the lax gentleness of his fingers as he stroked Jeremy's forehead and temples a striking contrast to his hard, wiry body, the flex of his jaw, the fierce look of his eyes, fixed on the mouth swallowing his cock. Jeremy was working fervently on the tip of the other's cock, sliding his lips down the shaft for a moment, then rising up to nurse at the head again while his hand

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massaged Gordon's balls. Then Gordon sobbed out, “Now, now!” and Jeremy brought his mouth back until his lips were closed in a tight O just at the joint behind the head and Gordon groaned out, his thighs shuddering, the weave of muscles across his abdomen going in and out of relief. Then Gordon went limp and slid down into his lover's arms, sighed at his ear, “My good, sweet boy. Jeremy.” They locked eyes for a moment, then Gordon said, “Are you?” and Jeremy nodded and Gordon smiled and said softly, “Good. Good,” kissed Jeremy's neck, his jaw, the lobe of his ear, then said, “Give it back to me now,” and kissed the other's lips, parting them, sealing their mouths together. Vaughn's shock was like little punch to the stomach—jarring but fleeting. Now Gordon was smiling and looking into Jeremy's eyes—tenderly, Vaughn thought—and giving sweet little kisses. But then Gordon's expression went stern and Jeremy's softness calcified again and Vaughn caught his breath. “Stand up, Jeremy.” Gordon's voice was so low Vaughn barely heard. Jeremy didn't say anything back. There was just the faint protesting movement of his head. “Yes, sweet. Stand up. Here.” Gordon coaxed Jeremy into position, and when Jeremy was standing on the seat he'd knelt on to suck Gordon off, Gordon gripped his lover's ass and pulled him to his mouth. Jeremy stayed silent, and Vaughn couldn't see his face. But his cock was hard like a length of pipe as Gordon drew him between his lips, and after just a moment or two of getting sucked Jeremy's thighs were shaking, the fists hanging at his side and his

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ass clenched tight. When Vaughn heard a low moaning sound, it took him a minute to realized it was Gordon groaning around the cock in his mouth. Then all Gordon's moaning and Jeremy's stiff, silent quivering stopped. Gordon leaned against his lover, his cheek pressed to the other's thigh. Then he went at him again until he was shaking again. Then stopped. “Don't be naughty, Jeremy. Take your pleasure like you do.” “Gordon. Please,” Jeremy whispered, and something about that pathetic little plea drove a searing bolt of want through Vaughn's cock. “Go on, Jeremy. Poor Devan needs to come, and I can see Vaughn's keeping her in suspense until you get going.” Dev's face was hidden from Vaughn, but when Jeremy turned his head a little for one furtive glance back over his shoulder, whatever he saw there carved a furrow on his brow and provoked a soft little sound from him. When he turned back on Gordon, he gathered a thick tuft of bleached hair into his fist at the crown of the other's head, and as Gordon closed his eyes and sighed, Jeremy drove his cock into Gordon's mouth with a slow but deep, determined push of his hips against the counter movement of his hand pulling Gordon to him. More than anything that had happened so far that night, Vaughn was surprised at how Jeremy was with Gordon now. Hips thrusting, fists holding hostage, dragging his mouth down hard on his pumping cock. Jeremy was fucking Gordon's mouth. Hard. Deep. And Gordon was digging his nails into the pale ripe flesh of Jeremy's ass, moaning around that pumping cock like his uvula was a clit and no driving thrust could go deep enough.

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When Vaughn made the tiniest movement against her delicate flesh Dev's whole body flexed and she started panting, her little sound huffing out on every breath. Fuck, he loved that sound she made. High and needful. Jesus fucking Christ, was Jeremy trying to kill Gordon? With his two fistfuls of hair he had Gordon's head pinned down hard against the edge of the tub, and he was thrusting like it was a fuck. Not fast, but going in to the hilt with determined force with every driving pump of his hips. Gordon's cock-muffled cries were sounding desperate, almost like smothered screams, but his hands were still pulling Jeremy against him, not wedged between, not struggling to get him away. Vaughn couldn't resist bumping up under Dev's ass now and then, chafing his cock between her cheeks as he fingered her, teasing her nipples in turn, giving her nape and the tender flesh under her ear love bites. From the sounds she was making he knew she was close and he kept at her, not drawing it out, because her sounds were plainly provoking Jeremy's frenzied fucking of Gordon's mouth. Granting a kind of permission and obviously flogging him toward the edge. And she didn't bite her lips and hold her cries in, as he knew, from the cabin, she could. When her cunt squeezed his fingers in the first spasm of orgasm she let out a long, throaty whimper and sobbed through a long, abandoned convulsion of pleasure. Were her eyes closed, Vaughn wondered as Gordon slid his hand to the cleft of Jeremy's ass and worked a finger against him, and for the first time Jeremy let his panting exhales swell with a throaty growl, and a second later he grunted, low and loud. Gripping Gordon's head tight to him, his ass flexed and he drove his groin right against the other's face, driving his cock in to its depth. Every muscle in his arms, shoulders,

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back, waist, ass thighs quivered as he arched back, then collapsed forward, cradling Gordon's head against him as he rode out the diminishing waves of his climax. Then, as if his skeleton had melted, Jeremy sank down into the water and Gordon caught him in his arms and held him tight to him, petting his hair and kissing his neck.

Vaughn was expecting Devan. Five hours earlier she'd left him for campus, promising to come back to him when her classes finished. Usually when he heard the door he would rush to open it, even though she had a key, but this time he was in the back room, half-dreaming as he picked at the strings of his guitar, and he hadn't heard her. She appeared in the doorway, smiling, and when he set the instrument down she came to him, so warm and eager that his body went taut, humming with sudden, violent pressure the moment he touched her. He loved undressing her. Making her naked skin appear where he unzipped, unbuttoned, pulled away the fabric that had been hiding her, feeling the smooth warmth of her bare body. But especially how happy and urgent she was under his hands. Her trust, her excitement, her pleasure. And, again and again, he caught himself smiling at the anticipation, the joy he read in her face as she undressed him, still, after all these weeks together, half their time together spent naked and kissing and touching and writhing, her expression one of undisguised wonder at having this man. Her lover. Today was different. Her need was almost fierce. She was like a little demon, writhing and crying, clawing and biting. Her ferocity startled him, then spurred him. After, panting, they held each other, tender as ever as they caressed and kissed and

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whispered where they were huddled on the floor, and his face went hot and his stomach dropped a little with each recollected image of their brutal encounter. "What came over us?" he laughed softly, and with his fingertip he touched her bottom lip, vivid and swollen. "All afternoon, in my lectures, even in my little discussion group, when I was supposed to be dissecting this passage from "Anna Karenina," I just kept thinking of you. Getting these images of us, times we've been together. Things we've done." She laughed. "I wonder, sometimes, can people tell when someone's aroused, when it's so out of context like that? I feel like those thoughts must be written all over my face, but nobody acted like I seemed strange to them." Fuck, what a turn-on, the thought of her sitting there, looking calm and studious, when she was thinking of him, his mouth on her, her hands on him, wrapped around each other's bodies. "I love that," he laughed silently, amused at how low and husky his voice came out as he told her, "that you fantasize about me when we're apart." "And a little bit when we're together, too," she confessed in a teasing voice, looking up at him coyly from under her lashes. She was becoming an adorable flirt. "Do you ever? Fantasize about me?" Now she was blushing in earnest. "Yes." It seemed to him she'd been about to ask him something else, but changed her mind. “What?” he teased.

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“I love us, Vaughn. How we are together.” “So do I.” “Sometimes, though,” she stopped and turned away from him to search space for the right phrase. “What Dev?” he coaxed. “I get the feeling, when we're...together, that you...hold back.” “Hold back?” He laughed and ran his finger over the red mark he'd left on her forearm a few minutes earlier. “Today was different. But even today. I feel like you keep a part of yourself locked up.” He closed his mouth. He was used to lying to himself, but he wouldn't lie to her. “Maybe. You're right.” "Sometimes," she said in her lover's whisper, the low, slow voice she used with him in bed, "I think about your touches from the last time we made love, the bend and flex of your body from some particular moment. Sometimes I wonder how we'll be together next—how it will start, the things you might say, how we touch each other. And sometimes," she was watching his face, and seemed to hesitate. Then she went on, "I think about...things from before." And finally, after a pause and a breath, "Back at the cabin." Vaughn felt a thump in his chest. "Do you?" he asked, careful not to discourage. He could see she was unsure of him, on this topic.

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"Yes." "Like what?" he willed his voice to stay smooth. Easy. "The night by the fire. I think of how it might have gone, if I hadn't said anything. If I'd swallowed my fear and given myself to you that night. Sometimes I imagine how it would have been if I'd kept hidden how inexperienced I was. And then I imagine how it might have been, if I'd told you I was a virgin, and you showed me, in your gentle, patient way, how to do everything." "What else?" "Sometimes I think about those days when we were strangers. Neither of us understood. You thought I was someone else. I think about that day you had me against that big pine, and I was so sure you were going to, and there was nothing I could do. I imagine how you might have taken me, if you hadn't stopped." "And you feel excited? Thinking about that?" It was a warm whisper. "Yes." Through the beaten-down exhaustion of their war-like sex session he was getting aroused. "And sometimes," she resumed tentatively, "I think about the other stuff. You chasing and catching me out in the mud and rain after you found me in your house. The day you thought I'd read your journal. I think about that. You dragging me into the house and putting me on that bed." Her breathing had changed, and her throat and chest were pink. "You fantasize about me raping you?” "Yes." Then, after a pause, “Do you?”

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“No,” he answered, barely audibly. “Because it doesn't excite you? Or because you won't let yourself?” “Dev,” he paused to kiss her cheek, compelled by her nearness, by how fragile and determined she seemed to him in that moment, letting his lips linger a moment, drifting over the smooth curve of her cheekbone. “I couldn't get pleasure from the thought of hurting you.” “No. I know,” she said quietly. “It's not the same, I know. Fantasizing the role of the victim, fantasizing the role of the rapist.” She was quiet for a long time before she went on. Quiet. Slow. Careful. "I trust you, Vaughn. I think you'll understand me. This part of me. I just don't know if you'll like it. It's so close to what you don't like in yourself. But I want to tell you. I've wanted to tell you for a long time." "Yes," he sighed with a reassuring smile, “tell me." It was like jumping from a bridge, trying to believe the harness and ropes will save. Her head was light, her gut lunging even before she let herself fall. "I want," she began, but started again, trying her best for the words closest to her truth, "I think I need...a certain amount of fear." She watched, waiting for the set of his mouth, the flicker of his eyes to warn her he was receding. But he went on holding her close in his gaze. "There's something, for me, in being confronted by my lack of control. Of feeling that I'm at the mercy of another. Another's will, another's wants. Not because I want to feel...used. Or objectified. It's more like..." It was hard to put into words, no matter how many times she'd worked it out in her head. "...like going beyond myself. My own impulses, my desires, my limits, and finding something beyond."

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"I don't want to interrupt you, to interject," Vaughn said when she felt silent and gave him a questioning look, "but I'm listening." "I'm not a masochist. I don't want to be hurt. Or injured. Just...pushed. I want that sort of...effacement, I guess...where my rationality is dissolved by sensation, emotion, adrenaline, all that. Like when you bike or run, and you think you've hit the wall and have to stop because your lungs don't seem to be able to suck in enough air, your heart is pounding so hard it hurts, and your legs feel soft, like you're just going to fall down. But you keep going, and after a while, it's almost like floating. Like you're apart from your body, but at the same time you feel, hear, see everything with this unfamiliar intensity. Or when you eat too much chili pepper or wasabe, and you feel your body respond, it's not a thought process. Your veins throb, you sweat, there's a weird euphoria. And there's pain, too. You can't stop it. You just have to wait for it to pass, and while you do, you, your reality is subsumed in the...transcendence of the pain. I don't know. I'm not explaining it very well." "No. You are. I get that. I do, Dev." He widened his smile and stroked the bare skin at the back of her arm, tickling warmth. "And it's like," she went on hurriedly, excited that he was getting it. Her. "when you were a kid and you went too fast down a hill on your bike or skateboard. Out of control, terrified, just trying to hang on, ride it out. And at the end, you felt you'd been through something, and made it." "Yes."

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"That surrender, or maybe loss--loss is closer--of control, of safety seems like a risk, a gamble of harm. Or death. But it's also a way of touching, feeling life." She laughed at herself. "I'm getting corny." "Corny?" he teased. "What generation are you again?" "Sorry. I'm getting cheesy. Is that better?" "Dev. You're not getting cheesy. And you're not scaring me." But he'd started to look scared. Uneasy, at least. "Do you think you can get that from me? From someone you're intimate with, I mean?" "I don't know." His reassuring smile wilted, he nodded his head. "Is it even something you want?" she asked. "Dev, there are a thousand reasons why I adore you. And beyond those thousand little concrete things I love about you, there's the big thing, this feeling that swallows me every time I see you, feel you, even think about you." He went quiet for a few seconds and the way he was looking at her, his fingers seeking and weaving into her hand, shook her with the feeling that his love was too big for her. "It amazes me," he went on, "to suddenly feel, at this point in my life, after so many years, and having loved before, this different, devouring love. But the thing that surprises me more is the thought that with you...with you I can discover myself, become myself. There's something in me that I've been afraid of. All my life. And you, you want that part of me, I think."

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"Yes." "Everything you said a minute ago is like an echo of that part of me. Your fear of relinquishing control is like my fear of having it. Taking it. But, I think, taking control is relinquishing, too. Letting the beast inside off the leash, leaving behind the rational man who, to some degree, thinks his way through every encounter. Then he held her face before him, between his two palms. Their eyes locked. This was important. She had to understand. To accept, if things were going to go forward. Vaughn pulled air into his lungs until they ached, “I'll never be like him, Dev.” “No,” she said gravely. “I know that.”

Vaughn seemed strange to her that evening. Still. Quiet. Watchful. Almost manic, Devan’s insides, her fingers, her limbs quivered faintly with nervous excitement in Vaughn’s presence, like an espresso O.D. He answered all her embarrassed smiles with his calm, steady look, then went on watching her as she flitted from dresser to trunk to armoire, filling her overnight bag. Then, as she dashed by him, on her way to get her brush from the bathroom, he caught her arm in his hand, and drew her to a halt before him. Something in his look made her resist her impulse to sink down into his arms, press herself against him, kiss him. His strong fingers slipped from her wrist, down, then up, under the hem of her skirt. Warm, smooth, his hands slid over the backs, then the fronts of her thighs as he watched her blush. It still startled, him touching her that way, no embrace, no kiss, just watching her. When he touched her sex through her panties she heard her breath

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catch, and he smiled. As if it had been caught and drawn in by that smile, her hand reached out to touch his face, but he caught her wrist and held it tight as he went on caressing her with other hand, making her throb and swell as her chest banged with some feeling akin to aroused fear. “All that time at the cabin, all those times I had you, you never gave yourself to me. Not fully. Until that last day.” He had to smile when he saw that she was already breathing a little heavily, and his involuntary smile at that made him think for a second of Conrad. “Now, since we've been together, you've given yourself to me again and again. You're always eager for me, aren't you?” “Yes,” she said, and he knew she meant it even though she looked timid. “But you keep something back.” She opened her mouth—to protest, he imagined—but closed it again, as if she'd realized. “Do you mean to keep anything from me, Dev?” “No,” she whispered, her eyes lifted to his, wondering. She wasn’t afraid of Vaughn. She wasn’t. But something had her nearly frightened. Even before he dropped her wrist and with both hands yanked her panties down below her knees. Before he touched her naked sex he fixed his flinting eyes on her, and watched. For what? Her fear? To know if he should stop? Still watching, he touched her. Opened her. Entered her. Watched her as she gasped and whimpered, watched her as she blushed after.

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When he stood, so near and so suddenly that she might have lost her balance if he hadn’t caught her arms in his hands, her panties fell to her feet. He walked her out of them, backwards-stepping, toward the bed. Then she was on her back and he was on her, spreading her legs with his, unzipping, shoving his jeans down. Panting, startled, Devan felt her helplessness as he pressed her wrists to the mattress above her head. Again he waited, watching. Panting and quivering with want and adrenaline she waited. To feel him. To feel what he was doing to her, taking her this way. Without a kiss, without a word, he entered her, so hard, so sudden and deep, she cried out. Not pain. Not exactly. She thought at first that he was only playing; his grip on her wrists was so lax, she sensed she could slip free, just to caress him, to feel her take part as more than a passive... But when she tried his fingers clamped down and she felt how utterly in his control she was. She trusted him. Completely. Vaughn would never hurt her. Never. But under her faith some primal part of her brain sent bolt of fear-laden adrenaline through her body, and a rush of heightened arousal came in its wake. He had her. Helpless. His eyes probed her, roaming over her face. She was aware of meeting his eyes, realized her brow was furrowed, that her mouth was open in a startled gasp as he thrust into her again, so hard, so deep he knocked the breath from her lungs; it came out a high-pitched groan. The next time his hips pumped her cry was even louder. Thrust after thrust she hear herself cry out, unable to keep the air in her lungs, unable to let go of it quietly. She didn't know, at first, if her noises expressed shock or pain or something else, but the more she struggled—an involuntary instinct born in her lower brain more

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than a conscious need to relieve the torment Vaughn was inflicting—and the more forcefully he subdued her, the more intensely she felt her body reacting to his brutal, penetrating thrusts. His eyes still fixed on her, he was sweating, grunting now as he fucked her, trembling Shuddering. She lost herself. She was gone, buried alive under Vaughn's huge, forceful body. His scent—his body, sweat, soap; his face, watchful, tense; his breathing—heavy, restrained; his body—hard, long and lean, taut and flexing, moving; his skin, smooth, hotter and slicker moment by moment. He'd taken her over. Entirely. He came on, hotter. Harder. His hand covered her mouth. Clamped down. Hard. He went still. Terror flitted against her hyper-wrought nerves, sickening as a fat, groping moth. A futile whimper died under his palm. He stopped. Still insider her, just panting. And watching. Reading her. And the second he stopped she felt her want rising up through the thrill of her helplessness. He began, fucking her again, jolting her with his violent thrusts, driving her whimpering moans from her lungs, stifling them with the palm clamped over her mouth, her body pinned to the mattress beneath his, her wrists clamped overhead in one strong hand, something happened to her. She fell apart. Deliciously. Her body, her voice, her will no longer hers. All she was feeling—emotion and sensation. She shook and wailed, desperate with uncertainty, want, pleasure. Wracked. Destroyed. With a few subtle movements he teased her climax out to its furthest limit, feeling her, watching her twitch and shudder under him, around him, homing his ear on her little caught breaths, her groans that were almost sobs, faint and muffled under his hand, hot

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and moist from her mouth. Then, when he'd wrung every last ripple of her orgasm from her, when he knew her body was at its peak of hypersensitive fragility, with a single sharp move of his hips he pulled out of her body. She convulsed and sucked in her breath. He hovered over her, his cock so hard and heavy it ached. She gazed up at him, raw and vulnerable from her climax. He waited. Panting. “You haven't...” she said softly after a long, long wait. “No.” “Don't you want to...aren't you going to...” “come?” She nodded. The fine baby hairs framing her face were damp and curling. ”Yes, Dev. But I've been holding back. Can you take more?” He watched her still, then recede. Just slightly. Maybe she was already a little afraid. That his body, so large and hard, so pumped up with hot need, might be too much for her, now that he'd ridden her so hard, so long, sapped her strength, wrung her out. “Yes,” she finally answered, her voice soft but her eyes steady, like she was sure she'd weighed the gravity of her answer. “Then turn over.” Hungry for it, he swallowed up the look of fear-tinged uncertainty that flared in her eyes as her lips parted. No words, though. He waited for her. She'd protest. Or comply. “Vaughn, I...” Her hot, damp palm was pressed against his chest.

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Hesitation. He pounced. In one move he straddled her thighs, in the next he gripped her arms. Then a taunt. Just enough of a twist so she'd know. Not enough to turn her, though, without her cooperation. She fought him. Stayed flat on her back beneath him. Lips parted to protest, but all was silent except for rapid little rabbit breaths. Now he used his strength. Tightened his grip on her arms—so small where his fingers curved into her soft flesh, just below her armpits, that his thumbs met his forefingers—and twisted. She bent her knees and planted her feet, fighting him, struggling to stay on her back. But getting her over was easy. Vaughn pressed his hips up against her ass and listened for her little whimper. When it came his still-hard prick lurched. “You took Conrad where you've never taken me.” “Yes,” he heard just faintly. Against his body he could feel her, warm and faintly trembling. In his left hand he gripped a fistful of her hair, silky and warm between his fingers and against his palm. From behind he watched her head turn, her face coming into profile. He tried to keep his voice smooth on his excited breath. “Like this I can watch, see your face through everything.” Every moment he was waiting for a word, but she never said it. But he was being careful. Going slow. Giving her the chance. “Conrad was so, so gentle with you that day,” Vaughn whispered by her ear, leaving her to guess at the implication of his observation. Straddling her hips, he hooked his feet between her ankles and flexed, forcing her legs wide, and almost as directly causing her fists to clutch at the sheet, her teeth to

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clamp down on her lips. With one hand still sunk in her hair, holding her down, he pressed a lube-slicked finger between her cheeks and began to tease her hole, hardening and panting to feel her writhing a little beneath him, to hear her groan, halfmuffled in the pillow. When he drove his finger into her she sucked in her breath then let out a little whimper. The tight grip of her body on his finger, her liquid heat gave him an uneasy thrill. He didn't ready her for his cock by fucking her with his finger. He just let her feel his finger open her, sliding in and up, gliding slowly out again, leaving her clench tight and slick. When he pressed the glossy head of his lubed cock to her pucker, it was tight as ever and a shudder rippled through her body. Quick and shallow her breaths rasped over the pillow, into the room. With one small push he put the pressure on. Devan's back flexed rigid. Her knuckles went white where she gripped the covers. ”Dev,” he breathed against her ear. Her delicate little ear, pale, usually, reddening now, “be soft. Go soft for me.” Between her pink and parted lips she drew a long, audible breath, then let it go. Her body slackened under him, the pink came back into her joints as she lay her hands flat on the mattress. Slow, slow Vaughn went into her, his cock coaxing her open little by little until she'd let him in and he sank his hips down against her ass. Under him her body was shaking, her breath heaving. Soft, he kissed her hot neck, the tender skin between her jaw and shoulder. “Does it hurt, Dev?” Her head moved a little, like she was trying to answer with a nod or a shake, but it wasn't clear.

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“Dev?” “No,” she breathed. “It doesn't hurt.” “You'll tell me, if it does.” This time she nodded. Now he moved, just slowly at first. Getting her used to him, used to having that part of her used. Then he took hold of her hips and pulled her up and back with him, onto her knees, and got to really fucking her. “Dev. Keep your face so I can see you,” he huffed down at her as his hips jolted her over and over. Watching her, her eyes sometimes wide and startled, sometimes shut tight, her mouth always, always open for her fast, shallow, voiced breaths, he let himself go harder, faster, let his thrusts jar her body, knock her breaths from her lungs. When he reached around with one hand, touched her cunt, her soft skin sticky from their sex, the inside of her slick and swollen with fresh want, she keened sweetly. Driven on he went on touching, provoking her provoking sounds, driving hard into her, never hearing, never seeing a the sign to relent. And then her mouth went wide and a long, high sound rasped out of her and the slick and swollen flesh of her rippled over his fingers and soon after he came, hard, hearing, spurred by the violent cry of his own release. Still panting his exertion, the release of the fierce need he'd pumped up half the afternoon, first all anticipation, then sensation, he touched her shoulder. She was soft. Still. He coaxed her onto her side, drew close to her, trailing tender caresses down the nape of her neck, her back, her arms. Her flushed face was close, but her eyes stayed

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closed. Or her gaze was cast so low it seemed like her eyes were closed. He kissed her warm, damp forehead. Kissed her cheek. Her nose. Still he couldn't see her eyes. “Dev.” Finally, when he'd sighed her name a second time, she lifted her eyes to him. There was none of the anger he'd suddenly feared he'd find there. She just looked a little afraid. But as they lay there looking at one another, the fear in her cleared away. He'd known she'd need reassurance. That she'd be afraid she'd see a change, in his way of looking at her, being with her. That most of her fear of what he'd just done had been her anxiety that to give herself to him that way would be to taint the sweetness of what they had together. Nothing to blame or laugh at. Too many people seemed to actually think that way. So he was prepared to prove himself different. And, meanwhile, to exploit these little false fears to give her the excitement she craved. So he didn't talk her out of her baseless fears. Short of going to real extremes, they were the only leverage he had for accessing the fear that aroused her so much. So, for now he just pulled her into his arms, nuzzling and kissing until Dev softened and warmed, then smiled as they looked at each other, and finally began to touch him back.

“Does it ever worry you, all the time they spend on their own?” Vaughn asked. “What? Jeremy and Devan?” Gordon looked vaguely surprised. Then he seemed to consider for a moment. Turning his attention from the computer monitor to focus an intent gaze he said to Vaughn, “Am I afraid they're up there doing dirty things? Is that what you mean?”

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That answered that. Gordon looked, sounded, what? The opposite of jealous. Vaughn pushed down a smile. “Something like that.” Gordon rose from his chair, perched on the edge of the desk, so close that Vaughn had to resist a temptation to take a step back. Gordon grinned, maybe at Vaughn's insinuation, maybe at his nervous shifting. “I know you know. About their night of almost-sex.” Vaughn smiled. So Gordon knew. “I don't know how it is, between you and Devan,” Gordon said in a voice so low and slow that it was almost...seductive, “but Jeremy knows better than to go messing around with anyone, especially Devan. Unless I'm there to watch.” What a tease. For a second Vaughn had been afraid Gordon was about to let him down. “You look too amused,” Gordon went on, “for someone worried his love is upstairs playing doctor with her study buddy.” “No. It doesn't worry me.” The warmth spreading through him, brought on by Gordon's designation of Devan as Vaughn's love churned as it caught on the other phrase. Gordon's recurring references suggesting the others were children irked Vaughn. “So?” Gordon was searching Vaughn's face, and Vaughn tried not to squirm under the other's scrutinizing stare. “What's this little chat about, then? I don't suppose that it worries Devan, all the time we spend on our own, while they're off being collegiate?”

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”No,” Vaughn laughed, then something made is chest tight and he stopped laughing. “I don't think so.” Then something occurred to him. “Does it worry Jeremy?” “A little,” Gordon said, “But Jeremy knows that anything I could do in secret would turn me on twice as much, doing it in front of him. And the idea of that, I know for a fact, gets my boy stiff in the shorts.” What he was saying and the way Gordon was looking at him had Vaughn's heart hammering. And it felt like someone had taken a whisk to the thoughts that had been lined up so neatly in his mind when he'd initiated this conversation. Well, no, not this conversation. A different one. “I hope,” Gordon's voice unsettled the fresh arrangement of thoughts in Vaughn's head, “you're about to make me an indecent proposal.” Vaughn laughed, amused, unnerved, flattered. This warmth made him want to move away, across the room. But he didn't. “I am. But not the one you're expecting. I hope you won't be too disappointed.”

Devan filled the stainless steel martini shaker with ice and poured in four shots of vodka. “Gordon takes his with an alive, right?” “Two, actually. And,” Jeremy's voice dropped to a whisper as he glanced toward the shuttered doors dividing the kitchen from the sitting room, playing at conspiracy, “don't let on I told you. He actually likes it a little dirty.” “As if that's a secret,” Devan teased back, handing Jeremy the shaker. “You give that a good shake. Now we put just a drop of vermouth in each glass, and a couple

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olives. And now that you’ve got the vodka good and cold, just pour it over the olives,” she concluding her lesson, then looked up at him coyly as she handed him a glass and clinked hers against it. “To new stages,” she said, locking her eyes on his. Jeremy lifted his glass in the gesture of a toast, but he looked grim. It was fun, being in New York, especially now that he'd been accepted to the program he'd applied to at the University of Washington, so there was no more feeling that discussing her pending grad career was a slight to him. But they were both sad at the coming separation. “That’s definitely a different flavor,” he said after he'd put the glass to his lips and taken a sip. The face he'd made was starting to fade. She took a step nearer to him. So near, so deliberately, that the martini glass, full to the very brim, was shaking in his hand. He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to take a step back, to put a comfortable bit of space between them. Still looking up at him she came still nearer. Then trapped his hand where he held his glass in front of him, his fingers curved lightly around the inverted, conical hollow of his glass. Her breast was just an inch from his hand. His breathing altered, sped as very slightly, very subtly she leaned forward, shutting out that precious inch of air between them, and grazed the back of his finger. Then, still watching his tormented face, she began, ever so slightly, twisting at the waist, sliding the point of her breast lightly back and forth against the back of his finger. “Jeremy. Don't you want to set your glass down on the bar for a minute?”

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He seemed paralyzed, so she took the glass from his hand and set it down for him. Then, taking his wrists gently in her hands, she drew his hands toward her until his fingers came to rest lightly on her collarbones. Slowly she began to draw his hands down. His touch stayed light as she moved his hands over her. Down, down she drew them, until his fingertips touched her nipples. His breath quickened as his eyes followed what his hands were doing at the behest of her hands. Still softly, still slowly, she moved his hands back and forth over her nipples until they stiffened under his touch. Then, gradually, she withdrew her hands from his wrists, resting her palms lightly on his hips. Jeremy threw a nervous glance at the door, but did not drop his hands, or pull them back. “You don't really think Gordon would object, do you?” she asked. “No,” he actually laughed. Adorable. “Are you worried about Vaughn?” Now he just looked at her. “Do you think I'd do anything to hurt him? Or you?” “No,” he breathed. She gave him her coy grin—still in the prototype phase. He looked at her, serious and nervous. She smiled, encouraging him. Very gently, the way she had directed him, he touched just the very tips of her breasts, teasing the hardening nubs through the thin fabric of her dress. She gave a soft little moan to encourage him. Carefully, very gently, he cupped her full breasts in his hands, moved his thumbs over her nipples, then lightly pressed them against the sides of his forefingers. She gave another moan.

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Suddenly he withdrew his hands, took a step back. She looked up at him and his face was trying to approximate the shade of the pimentos at the center of the olives in their martinis. Vaughn had silently entered the kitchen, and was now standing behind Devan, pressing himself right up against her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and bent to give her a kiss on the crown of her head. “Has she taught you how to make a nice martini, Jeremy?” “Yes.” He looked terrified, like maybe there was some chance that Vaughn was about to punch him in the face. Devan took a glance back, then followed Vaughn's gaze down to see the impressive evidence of Jeremy’s erection, unwilling to back down as Jeremy had. Looking up she saw that Jeremy had noticed that they had noticed, and saw his face go a slightly more purple shade of red, more like the skin of a plum, now. When she looked back once more, Vaughn was giving Jeremy his warmest, kindest smile. “I thought I'd help carry the drinks out,” he said simply. Devan tried to reassure Jeremy with a smile. But then, Devan, who had been taught at Conrad’s knee, made Jeremy carry the drink that was destined for Gordon, because she knew that Jeremy would fret over his lover seeing how his hands were shaking, and that the Gordon would surmise with some accuracy all that had transpired in his kitchen. As Jeremy delivered the cocktail, Gordon duly noted Jeremy's trembling hand and tremulous manner, and smiled to Devan with that vulpine grin she'd seen once before. “I hope you don’t think that Vaughn went in there to spy on you Dev,” Gordon said in a voice that mocked seriousness.

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“Why would I think such a thing?” she asked, playing at Scarlet O'Hara. “He’s not the jealous type. Are you Vaughn?” “No, Dev.” Sensing the game was afoot, Vaughn's kind smile had taken on the tinge of arousal. “Actually,” Gordon continued, “I sent Vaughn in to see what the two of you were up to.” “Oh? And did you find out what we were up to?” She looked at Vaughn playfully, knowing that poor Jeremy was squirming in his seat. Vaughn came back with, “I think I did.” “Well, don’t keep Gordon in suspense. What sort of naughtiness did you catch us at?” “I think young Jeremy here was feeling you up.” “Vaughn—” Jeremy looked horrified, really like he was just about to cry from shame and confusion when Devan went to him, putting her arms around him from behind, hugging him and kissing his cheek. “Jeremy,” she said softly, kindly, comforting him with a squeezing embrace, “it’s all right. Vaughn doesn’t mind. Do you Vaughn?” “Of course not, Dev, if it pleases you it pleases me.” “Did it?” “Sorry Gordon?” “Did it please you, being touched by Jeremy?”

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“Oh yes.” She slipped around from behind him and, taking him by surprise, lithely straddled him before he could protest or move. He was almost hyperventilating. For a moment she did nothing, waiting for him to calm down. When his breathing slowed, she took hold of his wrists again. Still looking bewildered he surrendered to her will, letting her manipulate him like a puppet. She put his hands to her breasts once more. He looked to Vaughn, desperately begging him with his eyes to do something, to absolve him of guilt for what Devan was doing to him, tell her to behave herself. Anything. Vaughn rose from his seat and walked over to Devan. Pressing his palms lovingly to her cheeks, he stooped to plant a kiss upon her head. He reached down, then, and pressed Jeremy’s hands down, away from Devan’s breasts. Jeremy’s breath quickened again as Vaughn touched him, as if half expecting his hands to be crushed by Vaughn’s big strong hands. But Vaughn's touch was gentle. Then, as Jeremy watched with incredulous eyes, Vaughn slipped his hands around Devan’s waist, and deftly working the little ribbon at her side, untied the crisscross of fabric it secured. He put a tiny kiss on the side of Devan’s neck, just under her ear, as he pulled the fabric open, first on the left side, then on the right side, showing Jeremy her breasts. Jeremy looked at Devan. Her smile was kind, not derisive, just as Vaughn’s had been kind. She was trembling slightly in anticipation, looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to touch her. They were all waiting for him to touch her. He put his hands on her waist. His fingers insinuating a circle around its circumference. Slowly he ran his hands, barely in tenuous contact with her smooth skin, up, up over her ribs, and in. Then with eager, ardent excitement he began lightly to

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caress her breasts. His fingertips circled the silky pale skin closest to her ribs, around the outside near her underarms, up over the top, down between them. In ever-shrinking spirals he drew nearer and nearer the dark, taut circles. When he traced them with his fingers, her nipples hardened once more, her excitement exciting him. She went up on her knees, raising her breasts before his face, inviting him to kiss them. Forgetting his embarrassment, submerged in the privacy of his excitement he kissed her, tentatively and sweetly at first, then hungrily, excitedly he began sucking her nipples between his lips, rubbing them with his tongue. Gently, she pulled back a little, pushing his hands down to rest on her waist. He was breathing hard with excitement. “Tell me something, Jeremy.” Panting, he waited. “You're not a virgin, anymore. But you still haven't made love to a girl. Have you?” Jeremy remained silent. Devan reached down between her legs and his, and cupped her hand gently over his balls. Slowly she drew her hand up the length of his rock hard erection. “Don’t be shy, Jeremy. Just tell me the truth.” “No,” he whispered, flushing adorably. She was smiling as she ran her hand down and up the length of him again, making him pant in his effort not to moan aloud. Then she got up, took his hands and pulled him to his feet, told him to take off his sweater, and when he had obeyed she told him to take of his shirt. Then, holding his gaze she worked his belt open and undid his pants. Still looking him in the eyes she began to pull down his trousers, then slid them

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right down to his ankles. Next she pulled down his shorts. He lifted one foot, then the next and she pulled his socks, pants, and shorts off, leaving him naked. “Sit down, sweetie.” She smiled down at him, enjoying his anticipation, before she knelt down on the floor in front of him and, looking up to watch his face, took his dick in her hand, giving him just two or three slow, soft strokes. Then she took him in her mouth, very, very slowly, letting him think about what she was doing before she did it. Letting him savor the idea as she drew the smooth curving head between her lips, nursing it like a big popsicle, then sliding the whole, long shaft into her mouth. She felt him trembling, knew that he would not be able to take more than a couple dips in and out of her hot wet mouth. He began to moan softly, trying to hide the degree of his excitement. Suddenly he was begging her to stop, making a meek effort to push her away from him. Knowing why he was struggling she gripped his hips tight in her hands and began sucking more fervently, taking him back deep in her throat. His body tensed, he breathed out a long, silent cry, and came. She got up and sat next to Jeremy on the couch. He reached down to pick up his boxers, to cover up. She stayed his hand. She was looking at him, but he avoided her eyes. Still looking at him she tenderly stroked his hair. She leaned in close, and whispered, using a gentle voice, “Don’t worry, Jeremy, all is going according to plan. That was just a little warmup, to relax you for a nice, long evening of fun. You’re doing everything just right, darling.” Then, more quietly, whispering in his ear, “I’m looking forward to a long, delicious fuck with you, Jeremy.”

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Comment: This interaction is mean and annoying

She stood, and walked toward Vaughn and Gordon. Gordon raised his arms toward her in an invitation for to sit on his lap. As she perched on this thighs he folded his arms across her tummy, pulling her to him in an embrace. “Now, Jeremy,” Devan said, still perched on Gordon’s lap, “come over here.” He looked down at the crumpled boxers laying on the floor. “Never mind those, darling. Just come over here.” He stood and approached Devan. “On your knees, Jeremy.” Obediently, terribly nervous but even more eager, he dropped to his knees before her. Gordon let her slip between his legs, onto the concrete seat. He still held her gently to him, supporting her as she perched on the edge. Devan began slowly pulling her dress up, higher and higher on her bare legs, until the folds of her dress were gathered up in her hands, just at her hips. From where he knelt Jeremy thought he saw a hint of her bare skin behind the shadow of her lifted dress, but he could not be sure. He stared as she slowly opened her legs, watching Jeremy’s face as she showed him her pussy. He seemed hypnotized by the sight of her parted thighs, her delicate pink nakedness revealed between them. His prick began to stir, returning to life already. “Have you ever eaten pussy before, Jeremy?” Fuck, it was fun being on the other side. He looked up at her, shaking his head. His prick was definitely waking up. “Just kiss me, nice and softly.” She waited for him, her legs just slightly parted so that he had to put his hands on her knees and tremulously push them apart. Supporting himself on his hands he

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moved forward, reaching to take her little pink prize. He brushed his lips against hers. Then he kissed her, a boyish, innocent kiss with puckered lips. And again. She was smooth and soft under his lips. Then, reaching with a tentative tongue just past the safety of his lips, he gave a tiny, soft lick just at the beginning of her slit. She moaned. He tried again. Another gorgeous little moan. He licked her again, this time more adventurously, running a firm, long tongue right along her slit, opening her to his mouth. That caress of his mouth really made her cry out—she had not expected such a powerfully arousing touch. Gordon tightened his arms around her, holding her in his comforting embrace as Jeremy licked her cunt, making her writhe now. Vaughn sat next to Gordon and Devan, watching excitedly, and Devan sighed again at noticing his cock stiffen. Devan was really whimpering now, squirming in Gordon’s arms as Jeremy lapped at her, his tonguing growing more ardent as he was encouraged by her movement and her little cries. She had not intended to come. She had meant for him only to get her a little excited, ready to take him inside of her, but he was doing a wonderful job down there, and she was so titillated by the sight of Vaughn looking on, his thick bulge showing her how turned on he was, the feeling of Gordon’s arms around her both soothing and arousing. And, she thought, it would be delightful to give Jeremy the pleasure of knowing he had made her come. She let the delicious sensations he was giving her fill her body and her consciousness. She surrendered herself completely to the tender caresses of his tongue, and a moment later she felt herself buoyed, then submerged in the rolling waves of orgasm. As if afraid to stop at the wrong moment, Jeremy continued until she pushed him gently away, smiling down at him gratefully. He began to rise, moved to hold her, but as

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he moved to put his arms around her Vaughn gripped him firmly by the arm, lifting him until they stood together, just a foot or two from Devan. Jeremy started as if he had been submerged in the perfume and presence of Devan and forgotten everything else— the air he was breathing, the floor upon which he had knelt. Now Vaughn had him by the arm, stood directly in front of him, their faces just an inch apart. Jeremy searched Vaughn’s eyes. Devan saw him begin to tremble with renewed fear, saw his eager erection flag, then fade. Why was Vaughn getting Jeremy so shaken up? She started to rise, to intervene, but Gordon pulled her back against him, whispering a soothing “shhhh” in her ear, a hushed sound that calmed and aroused her. Vaughn released Jeremy’s arm, raising his hand and resting it lightly on the back of the boy’s neck. Jeremy’s mouth, his upper lip, his chin were moist with Devan’s sex. Vaughn brought his face even nearer Jeremy’s, and eyes closed, drew a long, sensuous breath. He opened his eyes, looking carefully at Jeremy. “You smell of her. Can you smell her on you?” he whispered. “Yes.” Jeremy’s voice was smaller than the word it carried. In that single syllable it wavered. “Can you still taste her on your tongue?” “Yes.” “I adore the way Devan tastes. The way she smells.” Then, Vaughn closed his eyes. Slow, tender, he kissed Jeremy, taking the boy’s full bottom lip between his lips, then releasing it. He opened his eyes to see what Jeremy’s said. There was nothing there but startled uncertainty. His deliberate

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movement almost imperceptible, Vaughn kissed him again, this time pressing his own lower lip between Jeremy’s lips, drawing his top lip down, over the boy’s downy invisible mustache, fragrant with Devan’s perfume. This time when he looked at Jeremy, there was bewildered excitement in his eyes. Vaughn parted Jeremy’s lips with another kiss, deep, warm, passionate. The boy groaned softly as he felt that fucking kiss of Vaughn’s. Devan looked on, breathless. The curve of Vaughn’s strong jaw, darkened with the shadowy suggestion of his beard, was terribly sexy as it moved slightly with the opening and closing of his mouth as he kissed Jeremy, who had succumbed luxuriantly, on the verge of swooning like a Victorian ingénue he was so overwhelmed with the passionate attentions he was receiving. His prick was rock hard once more. Vaughn ended their kiss and stepped back, and the three of them regarded Jeremy and his huge erection as he stood panting before them, dazed. Then Vaughn led him over to the sofa and sat him down in the middle of it, walked back to Devan and offered her a hand as she stood, regarding him with adoring pride. He had really surprised her. He then resumed his old seat by the fire, next to Gordon. Quivering with the excitement aroused by the astonishing kiss she had just witnessed, Devan stood facing Jeremy, her back to Vaughn and Gordon. She sauntered a little way toward the couch, then stopped. Crossing her arms down in front of her and grasping the waist of her dress she pulled it up over her head, then dropped it beside her. She stood naked before Jeremy. “Are you ready to lose your innocence, darling?” There was an ironic note in her voice.

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He nodded his head, still looking a little frightened. She straddled him. Her kiss, stirring, arousing, was so different from Vaughn’s that it hardly seemed possible that it was the same fundamental touch, mouth to mouth, lips on lips, tongue slipping over tongue. With Vaughn, Jeremy had felt that he was being physically entered, his mind had told him that he was being fucked, even though Vaughn did not touch him except with those fingers lightly curved at the back of his neck. But with Devan he felt that their two bodies had vaporized into billions of invisible particles, and that they were mingling, swirling around together until they were not two, but one. Her kiss made him feel loved. As she kissed him she reached down and guided him to her, then took him inside of her. He gasped, then wrapped his arms around her waist holding her tight to him, not wanting her to move at all, so he could just feel the warmth of her surrounding him. After a moment he let her go, and she ended their kiss. Looking at him she began to move, languidly. Vaughn and Gordon watched as Devan undulated before them, her bare back and pretty bottom, the shape of an inverted heart, lovely in the dim light of the fire, flexing rhythmically as she fucked. Watching Jeremy kiss Devan’s tits, Gordon was absolutely aching to have a go at that bottom writhing before him, but this was Jeremy’s moment, he did not wish to diminish or tarnish it in any way. He looked inquiringly at Vaughn, who turned and gave him a warm smile. In kissing Jeremy Vaughn knew he'd opened a door. Jeremy was looking with innocent, first-time love, at Devan’s face, aching for her even as she fucked him. He held her waist, feeling the muscles flexing and softening as

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she worked her hips up, down, swiveling around and around him. He caressed the firm roundness of her bottom, then ran his palms back up to her waist, drawing them over her belly and up, cupping her sweet, slightly swaying breasts, touching her nipples. She moaned when he lightly pinched them, and this excited him tremendously. He kissed her breasts, making her whimper with pleasure. She began grinding against him, working for her own climax before making him come. The sight of Gordon and Vaughn looking on catalyzed the frenzy of ecstasy that was already driving Jeremy to the brink, despite Devan’s precautions. But she was moving deliberately slowly, not letting him come, rubbing her sensitive clit against him, feeling the delicious drag with every upward tilt of her pelvis and the release with every slowly sliding downward motion. Slow as the drip of cold honey, down, down, then up, that excruciating little tug, until she felt the pressure, the agonizing tension building beyond endurance. Her little moans began squeaking out of her, driving Jeremy mad as she began moving frenziedly, humping him. She was animal, her body moving to its own carnal will, throwing herself on his sword over and over, hitting her tender button on every landing until her climax erupted, rolling spasms rippling through her. Jeremy could not resist her sudden fast fucking and her ecstatic cries. He clutched her to him as his own orgasm hurtled through him. He held her there, stayed inside her for a long time, loving the warmth of her, afraid to let her go. She let him hold her. Finally he eased his embrace, let her sit up, let a millimeter or two of space open between their bodies. She looked at him fondly, brushed a lock of hair, damp with sweat, from his flushed forehead, and planted a kiss there. Then she got up, slipped on her dress, and slipped away to the bathroom. When

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she returned Jeremy had dressed, and the three men were sitting on the thick shag carpet, near a newly revived, blazing fire. She sat down next to Vaughn, who looked at her with that look of love on the verge of heartbreak that sometimes made her feel she held his life in her hands. They kissed a tender, affirming kiss.

“See you tonight,” she said between a smile and a sweet, soft kiss on his mouth. “Can you be back by seven?” Vaughn asked. “Seven?” She paused and thought. “Sure. What's up?” “A surprise.” It wasn't the words, but his smile as he said them, that made her tummy twinge and her cheeks warm. “Seven, then,” she promised, and took off for class.

His mouth. His hands. His look, voice, warmth, scent. When they were kissing, whispering, touching like this, Vaughn was like a plane of existence. The world she inhabited. Her body, her thoughts, the air in her lungs, everything was different. And tonight he was so intense, so aroused, he had her taut with anticipation almost from the first touch. By the time he'd let her undo his pants and she felt the ridge of him pressing eagerly through his shorts, she was writhing against him, practically whining, she needed him so badly. And, even for him, he was being particularly tender. The way he was touching, whispering, looking. That was the other thing that had her taut. Anticipating. Almost anxious.

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“Are you ready for your surprise?” he asked with a playfully arched eyebrow. But there was a dark note in his voice. She nodded and smiled, nervous and eager, then tried to mask her disappointment as he did his pants back up and re-buckled his belt. After coaxing her to sit on the edge of the bed, he went to the bureau and returned with a small rectangular box. He placed the box in her hands and stood over her, waiting. When she lifted the glossy white cardboard lid and saw the contents of the box, her gut went tight. Then the pulsing in her cunt began thrumming, a heavy bass reverberating through her whole body. Vaughn sank to his knees and, watching her face, took the box from her. While he fastened the leather cuffs around her wrists her heart hammered more and more fiercely. With the little silver latch mechanism he hooked her wrists together in her lap then, letting her feel her bondage, he held her hands down as he brought his mouth to hers , slid his tongue between her lips, against her tongue. His mouth on hers, fear swallowed her down. She tried to fight raw, eviscerating emotion with thought. She didn't fear Vaughn. She trusted him. If he wouldn't hurt her, being bound wasn't scary. But she was drowning in it, her baseless, irrational fear. His mouth stilled, then left her, and now his eyes were fixed on hers, boring in. His penetrating look, knowing he was trying to read her, reminded her. She had the word. She could say it, and—she knew—he would stop. He'd undo the little silver latch, undo the little silver buckles, and she'd be free.

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She took stock. The rush of adrenaline. Heart pounding so fast, so hard, there was almost a pain. And her sex. Pulsing, throbbing excruciatingly. Deliciously. Her word stayed, still and quiet, in her mouth. Vaughn's slight, tremulous shaking had her thinking, at first, he was as scared as she was. But watching his face, she saw. He wasn't afraid. Just struggling. Holding himself in check. He was that aroused. The aching pulse in her sex swelled bigger. Swift and smooth, somehow she was lying back on the mattress, now, and Vaughn had her arms stretched taut overhead. Then the little sound of metal snicking down on metal, and her wrists were locked in place by the headboard. She'd thought he'd smile or say something sweet to reassure her. But he let her watch him, quivering and panting as he unbuttoned her dress, all arousal. No hesitation. Her wrists bound, her legs pinned beneath him, she shuddered as he licked the flesh he bared as he pulled open her dress, tugged her bra out of the way. The wet warm rough softness of his tongue , the cool sharp rake of his teeth—every lick and nip amplified by her helplessness—had her squirming and panting and almost squealing. A high-low chime. The doorbell. She started to laugh at the thought of some canvaser or Jehova's Witness standing on the porch while Vaughn had her...But this wasn't her little studio on Capitol Hill. Random people didn't just ring the bell, here. Whoever was ringing had the gate code. “Our guest has arrived,” Vaughn sighed with a wistful smile, and tipped his forehead to hers. Her body felt cold. Weak. Vaughn was still flushed. Glowing, sort of. But he'd gone serious. Intent.

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“You remember your word.” Someone was here. This was part of it. His idea about tonight. His surprise. She nodded. Her word. She remembered. Someone was here and she had to know her word because she was strapped down and there was this person. “He knows your word. Understand?” And he'd do things and she'd have to say her word if she didn't want him to do that and she nodded that she understood. “This man's my friend, Dev. Someone I know very, very well. Someone I trust. But you can get me, any time.” He put something cool—a little metal cylinder—into her hand. “If you need me, push down the button on top. I'll hear it, wherever I am in the house. And I'll be here in ten seconds.” He kissed her, and the tenderness of his kiss made her more scared because now he seemed a little afraid. Then he stood up and moved toward the door. “Vaughn, please don't...” He stopped. Dead still. Looking at her. “What, Dev?” he whispered when she didn't finish. “Don't...you won't forget your promise?” Probably he could hear, see that she was trying not to cry, but she couldn't help it. He gave her his tenderest smile. Came back to her. Stroked her hair. Kissed her lips softly. “Dev. Nothing that happens tonight will change how I feel about you.”

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Then he rose and moved away and the light flicked off and she heard the door click shut. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear the thrum of blood in her ears. Her nerves were cranked up. Everything—the gentle squeezing pulling of the restraints on her wrists, the extended muscles of her arms, the weight of her own body pressed to the mattress, the cool air of the room on her bare belly and breasts, the sound of Vaughn walking down the hall and across the living room, the opening of the front door, then voices—was amplified. Possible futures flashed by. The door opening. The light flicking on. A strange man. A strange face. His eyes stroking over her face, her tits, exposed in the open V of the dress Vaughn had unbuttoned to her waist. Or maybe the room would stay dark. A strange, disembodied voice. Her gut contracted. Then hands. Lips. On her bare flesh. Hands pulling at her clothing, touching her body. The weight of a man on her, his hands and legs spreading her, his hardness pressed against her soft skin, then pushing into her, his breathing and grunting as he fucked her. Came inside her. She shuddered. Straining her senses, she watched the strip of light under the door and listened to the indistinct parry of voices beyond. Now and then she could pick out the timbre of Vaughn's low laugh, his soft words. Every time she heard footfalls coming near the hallway her body stiffened and her breath sped. Under the pillow her thumb practiced pressing the plunger atop the metal cylinder. The slow, deliberate thud of shoes. A shadow broke the line of light under the door. Then the light went black, altogether. Whoever he was, he'd switched off the hall light. She froze, staring, listening as the door knob rattled faintly, then the latch clicked

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back, and a faint breeze moved over her. Not even a silhouette. And now all she could hear was her own frantic breathing. The first touch startled, even though it was soft. A brush of fingertips over the top of her thigh. Not a caress. Just locating her on the bed in the dark. The fingertips followed a path, dragging up the hem of her dress, until the thin fabric of her panties came between her flesh and his. Then she let out a startled little grunt as fingers curved and rubbed her sex with unfamiliar firmness. Too rough. She squirmed a little away but the hand followed, massaging her mons and labia, driving her clit against her public bone in slow, determined circles. When the hand lifted and unbearable ache rushed into her sex and settled there, throbbing exquisitely. A caress of her forehead, the crown of her head. No. Something being pulled over her head. Soft. Light. Small. A blindfold. She was blind already in the pitch dark, but the blindfold whipped up her fear and it was hard not to cry out a little. The hands left her and there were footfalls and then the click of the light switch. Her darkness was still total behind the blindfold, as if the switch had failed. “That's better. Now I can see you,” came a man's deep, low whisper. Suddenly, acutely she felt her nakedness. How Vaughn had left her breasts bared, her clothes in wanton disarray more lascivious than if she'd been completely nude. Two big hands curved at the insides of her thighs and opened her legs while she rehearsed her word silently in her head over and over. Fingers pressed and slid smooth and firm down her belly and into her panties, curving against her sex as one finger slid into her cunt.

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“So wet,” the whisper came again. “Just from waiting, knowing you'd be touched, fucked by a stranger.” His words reminded her of Conrad and some hot, dark feeling flared up in her as the finger pulsed into her, the hand cupping and warming and rubbing her so intensely it was almost unpleasant. But then he stopped and her cunt ached incredibly, begging for that possessive touch with an insistent throb. Involuntarily she tugged against the restraints at her wrists when she felt the man's fingers curling under the elastic of her panties. Lying there, helplessly stretched out on the bed, she felt her panties being slid down her thighs, the silky fabric brushing against her calves, her heels arches toes. “Spread your legs,” the voice ordered with unsettling serenity. She did it. Automatically. Conrad's training, probably. After, her cheeks flushed hot as she lay there, knowing the man was standing right there, looking at her. “Wider.” After she'd done as he'd said embarrassment escalated to anxiety as seconds, maybe a minute or more went by without a move or a word from him. Then her whole body went tense as the mattress shifted under her feet and between where he must have leaned on a hand, or set a knee, or sat down. Then the surface of the bed dropped a little away just inside one knee. Then one small, light touch on her delicate petals of damp flesh. A little tremor ran through her and she heard her own breath catch. Slow, slow, that faint touch moved up, and her nerves seemed to be straining for it. Even before the tip of his finger brushed over her clit she was panting, her body taut, straining

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for all the pleasure bearing down on her. Then, soft and silky wet, his touch moved over her like a breeze and she sucked in her breath and flexed and shuddered. “Your cunt,” the voice swept up to her over the plains and hills of her torso, “is blushing. A delicious, deep raspberry.” Her face went hot as he strummed her clit again and her pelvis bucked in a little spasm. “Hold still,” he commanded, his voice low and soft but somehow irrefutable. She tried to be still as he faintly rubbed her, his touch small and light and slick with her own wetness. Moist and hot, his breath breeze over her inner thigh, cooling before it reached her hot wet folds. Whining, she fought the urge to writhe and buck as his touch strummed up her wet slit and over her clit, then danced right there, slow and light. Then nothing but cool air and her pulsing want. It was hard to be still, not to squirm, she was so wound up with need. It embarrassed her, knowing he was watching, knowing she was flushed and open and wet and writhing however hard she tried to be still. She whined and twitched, then. Soft, wet, warm, his tongue slid slowly along her folds. A long delay. It shocked, the way being restrained, held utterly immobile made the delicious caress of his mouth unbearably intense. He kept the contact light, forcing her to yearn for more than he was giving her. Imagining him down there, eating her, while her arms were stretched overhead by the restraints, thrilled her. For several agonizing minutes she seethed beneath his hot mouth, all that time only taunting her with the lightest possible caresses, punctuated by long gaps when he didn't touch her at all . She

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waited, hoping, knowing if he was going to do that she was going to come soon, and hard. He licked her again, just a faint, taunting touch of tongue, and she whimpered, not wanting to, but not able to help it. When he flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit, back and forth so fast, from behind her blindfold she saw a blur, she arched and strained. “I said be still,” he reminded her calmly, then settled his mouth over her, caressing her with his tongue, his hungry growl vibrating against her cunt, through her whole body and then she breathed, in, out, in, out, hoping to hold on but her climax swelled up and a second later she caught herself gasping and whining, her cunt spasming under the stranger's mouth. He was still and quiet as she rode her climax, sinking under the slowing, diminishing ripples. Then, as she softened and settled into the calm after, with the pads of two fingers he pressed the flesh of her mound gently, steadily up against her pubis, and everything contracted again and the spasms resumed, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. “Enticing. Watching your cunt quiver and spasm like that. I look forward to feeling you around my cock.” The hot resentment she expected to surge at his presumptuousness didn't come on. Was it weird that he hadn't really touched her, except her cunt? Was it weird she was glad? But now the mattress shifted under her and her heart thumped hard and he pressed her legs together and she felt his legs straddling her. When her thighs pressed together her sex felt pleasantly hot and swollen after her climax. Fingers curved possessively around her tits and a warm, pulsing wetness engulfed one nipple. After her

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climax her body was too wired. She grunted her discomfort, straddling the line between intense pleasure and an unbearable unpleasantness. He rewarded her by sucking harder and chafing her nipple with his tongue. He kept at it until she'd about lost her grip on the squeal of protest she'd been biting back, then her nipple popped free of his mouth, cold air hitting his warm spit as his lips and tongue captured her other nipple and she whimpered, helpless, her sounds beyond her control. “Spread me. Fuck me,” some nasty part of her almost pleaded out loud. Her orgasm had been incredible, one of those long, slow, rolling climaxes that were like being swept along on an easy current. But her body felt greedy. Unsatisfied. It wanted to be filled. Fucked. By this unseen, unknown stranger. Then he was off her. Off the bed. She heard him. First on the left. Then on the right. Then the warm grip of his hand behind one knee as a hand raised her leg. Then the warmth was gone and there was just the soft, indifferent pressure of some rope or fabric holding her knee up and out. He hoisted her other leg up the same way. Her knees were bound, she figured, almost at shoulder height, and splayed wide when she stopped flexing to hold them as close to together as they could go. The mattress shifted again and creaked a little. He was between her legs. About to fuck her. Fuck, she wanted. Fuck, she was scared. What was she, wanting something like this? She flinched when something brushed against her lips. “Open your mouth.” She didn't want to. Whatever it was, it was cold. Not him. But she opened. Something smooth and cool and cock-shaped slid between her lips, against her tongue.

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Back. Back. Deeper and deeper until she flexed rigid, about to gag, shaken by a thrill of visceral terror of being choked. The fake cock withdrew and she panted, appreciating every breath. The tip of the fake cock, moist with her own spit, nudged at her cunt and she kept panting, with want now. Wanting to be penetrated. Filled. Fucked. Cruelly slow it opened her, little by little, and gradually slid up inside. Frustratingly still, she felt it there inside of her for long, long seconds before it moved again, to her relief, gliding down, leaving her empty and waiting for the next penetration. She gasped as he drove the cock into her cunt in one firm thrust, then fucked her with it, the thick length driving deep into her, pulling out against a thousand eager nerves, then filled her up again. Then it left her. Then something else nudged its way inside of her. Something smaller. Harder. In. Out. In. Then it was out of her. She was empty again. Needful and empty. She waited, wondering was he watching her exasperated expression? Her tits? Her cunt between her splayed, elevated legs? Warm and slick it touched her lips again. She could smell her sex. “Lick.” She parted her lips and ran her tongue over the faux cock tip, licking her wetness from it. “Suck.” She drew the tip in, between her lips, and sucked a few more inches into her mouth, tasting her tang, liking the feeling of having her mouth filled. Sucking in earnest, as if she had, nestled in the curl of her tongue, the cock of a man she wanted to give great pleasure, she quivered, startled, as she felt another hardness nudge her clit, then

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press along her slick slit, sinking into her. Her mouth still wrapped around the silicone phallus, she started to breathe too fast, too heavy. Something weird. He felt weird. A strange shape. Another toy, maybe? She tried to calm herself. Reasoned she was just off kilter because she couldn't see, because she'd never seen this man, because she couldn't use her hands. The strange-feeling hardness slipped out of her, nudging its way over sensitive flesh until she felt a dull, insistent pressure just below, and she started hyperventilating around the dildo again. The cock slipped free of her lips. “I didn't think this was virgin territory,” the stranger purred in his smoky whisper. “Hmmm?” She shook her head no. The pressure was still there, but everything had gone still. Was he waiting? To see if she'd say her word? The tip of the toy teased her lips again, and after hesitating a second, she took it into her mouth and began to suck it. It was oddly comforting as the pressure against her asshole deepened. More. More, her ass slowly yielding, dilating to accept whatever object the stranger's hand was pushing into her. Stretching. Taut. It had only been those two times. It still scared her. She tried to breathe, tried to relax as the thing entering her strained and stretched her until finally it slipped into her. She let out a long, heavy breath. “That's one,” he sighed. The pressure came on again and her body went taut again, her asshole stretching around the girth of whatever he was driving into her. She grunted a little, more from anxiety than physical strain.

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“That's two.” Again it started and she panted through it. “Three.” The cock slipped from of her mouth, and a second later it was sinking into her needful, swollen cunt and she whimpered in relief. Deep inside the firm tip nudged her, bumping, waking, provoking sensitive nerves. She felt herself, heard herself convulsing and gasping, thought of the stranger watching, listening, and hot, embarrassed arousal suffused her quivering body. A straining pressure tormented her ass—one swollen joint of the toy worked free? Then pushed back in, filling her back up to full? Moaning against her bitten lips, writhing around the toys in the stranger's hands, a pressure came against her clit—his thumb?—and she stifled a whimper. The phantom voice, “Let me hear you. Let him hear you,” as he fretted her clit, the false cock prodding her to some alarming pleasure, and the thing in her ass startling her with another strange, provoking sensation just now and then. So much, so strange, she felt her body being taken from her—her gasping breath, her straining arms, her convulsing belly—all out of her control, all her muscles contracting for him, against her will. After a long, fretful moan she gulped for air. “Yes,” he sighed, his thumb tripping the hot wire in her clit each time he pulsed the dildo in her cunt. Too much, too much. Biting her lips, trying futilely to wiggle a little way out of reach, silently Devan pleaded for him to relent, but only let go a loud, desperate whine. Then sucked in hard and tried to sit up but couldn't and said “please” on her next breath

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because maybe she was going to wet the bed but the cock nudged and nudged and she strained for that touch at her clit and deep up in her, all around the cock he was pumping inside her, her body clenched then let go, let the agony of pleasure go twisting through her, cried it out loud as his “let him hear you” came to her again.. Wrung out and shuddering a weak, a worn out little sob bubbled from her as the cock abandoned her cunt, startling a thousand over-wrought nerves on the way out, a stretching, relenting, stretching, relenting as he worked the other toy free of her ass. Then a faint groan of the mattress as it shifted, gently rocking her body, then his body— warm, firm flesh—pressing behind and inside her thighs. “My turn,” he growled, hoarse, almost voiceless, and her heart stopped, then sped. The air still vibrating with his voice, he slid into her, thicker than the toy and warm and hard, his bass vibrato washing against the faint cry his thrust forced from her. His heat sank against her, then, enveloped, lifted, wrapped around her. So close. She felt his muscles straining against her, his breath hot and damp against her lips. Warm, firm flesh pressed and rubbed all along her body. She felt caught up, sheathed in his body. He pulsed into her and his mouth had possessed her and suddenly a line blurred. Her whole body, everything in her straining for him, wanting, needing. Suddenly she couldn't bear being under this stranger, needing and wanting the way she did with Vaughn. From under her pleasure a dark torment welled up and she felt fevered and fragile. Maybe he sensed her fear, her urge to retreat. He came on so hot and hard, growling and shuddering, that she forgot her confusion. Was he hurting her?

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Instinctively she strained against the restraints, wanting to shield herself, but her openness, her vulnerability was total. Arms stretched overhead leaving her face, her mouth, her breasts exposed. Defenseless. Between her thighs—splayed wide around his thrusting hips—his pelvis jerked against her, his cock pounding into her so hard and deep it was hard to get her breath. “Vaughn?” she heard herself whimper before she could censor herself. She didn't even think he was in the room. “Wait. Stop. Please,” she pleaded with whoever was on top of her. Inside of her. She hadn't said her word, but he'd stopped. Stark still, the moment she'd asked. “Please,” she said now, embarrassed, confused, guilty that she'd taken so much pleasure and chickened out just when he was taking a little back, “I don't, I can't...” “Sshhh,” he breathed by her ear. Suddenly she felt her bondage acutely, painfully as the stranger kissed her hot, damp cheek, the restraints stretching her arms brutally overhead, the weight of his body pinning her to the mattress. She felt small and soft under him, ready to collapse in a spasm of sobs, trying to steel herself, to say her word. “Shhhh, Dev,” he whispered again. She stopped breathing. He slid the blindfold off and now, instead of darkness, she was blinded by light, but she knew. “Vaughn?” “You're all right, Dev.”

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He was holding her tight and kissing, nuzzling her neck. Kissing and petting and holding her. “All right?” he asked her moments later when her vision had settled down and she was breathing again. Vaughn. It was Vaughn. On her. Still in her. She smiled, not knowing what to say. He smiled back. Then he kissed her forehead. Then he started to slip out of her. “No. Don't.” She wanted him. So, so much, now that she knew it was him. “You're sure? Sure you're all right?” “It's you,” she gushed, almost giddy, she was so happy. “It's me, Dev.” “And it...it's been you? All night?” “Yes, Dev.” He looked guilty. She sighed her astonishment. ”Kiss me,” she gushed, straining for him as she replaced the vague shadowy figure her imagination had conjured with Vaughn doing all that to her, watching her, hearing her through everything. He kissed her tenderly, holding his fierce heat in check. Then, panting, visibly shaking, he gave her a sweet smile. “Here.” He reached over her head and she felt him working the latch of the restraints. ”No,” she panted. “please. I want you like this.”

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His sweet smile slipped away, and his expression revealed his fierce arousal. But he touched her face tenderly and she noticed her cheek was wet. “Dev. You're...” “It was too much like being with you. It freaked me out, thinking it was someone else but it felt so like being with you. That's all.” Then, after enduring a moment of his hesitation, “Please, Vaughn.”

His unbearable love wrenching, his violent arousal battering his chest, his cock straining, on the verge of pain, he came back to her, Dev, tentatively, at first, then with more and more wild heat. It was them, but as his hesitation wore down Vaughn's raw need took control. She'd surrendered her body to him, begged him to take her as she was—vulnerable, utterly in his power. Fueled up on all her cries and blushes and shudders from their last hour together, the way her body was quivering under him now, her hot slick flesh gripping his cock, and god, fuck, that look, more vulnerable, more seeking than her hot, twitching, bound body, he went at her, fierce and desperate, driven on by her parting lips, her little grunts, the way she was watching him. Then stopped, worked his hips with trembling, desperate restraint, determined to prolong this, despite what his body threatened. But she, all of it, defeated him. She was bound, but he was helpless. Powerless to resist his urge to thrust. To pull her hard to him, his palms grasping, fingers sinking into the firm full flesh of her ass, to yield to the sweet grip of her sex cruelly milking his pleasure from him when he wanted, wanted, god he wanted to wait but no, no, no his balls seized and a violent burst of pleasure shot through his cock, ricocheted through his whole groin, then seized him again, again,

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diminishing but still, fuck, god, a fit of crippling, perfect pleasure wrecked his whole body until he practically collapsed on her. “God. Dev,” he sobbed by her ear, kissing her where he'd fallen, summoning a last bit of strength to caress the flexed underside of her pale, bound arm with his fingertips. Then, panting, shaky, he managed to lift himself. Such a sweet smile curving her full lips, her huge gray eyes fixed on him. Her mouth. So soft to kiss, so eager to welcome. “I'm dying to hold you,” she whispered after a deep, quiet kiss. As soon as he had her out of the restraints they wrapped themselves around one another, clinging, kissing, bringing each other back to safety.

“That was quite an elaborate game you played tonight,” she sighed later, curled up against him, their limbs woven together. “So elaborate I tripped and fell into it.” “Meaning?” “I didn't plan it, the way it went. At all. Dev, when the doorbell rang, when I shut the bedroom door and left you bound on the bed, I really meant to let my friend go to you.” Her stomach bottomed out. Even after imagining for all those long minutes she was experiencing it, the idea of it, now, shocked her. “I planned it all very soberly. Well, hard as fuck, half the time,” he laughed, “but I thought it all through carefully. Who it should be. How I should ask him to be with you.

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How to set it up with you. The rules, the fail-safes, everything. I only brought it up with him when I thought I was really sure. That you'd be glad. But while I was walking to the door, I don't know. All this doubt just crept up over me. I was afraid it would hurt you. So I told him it was off.” “An excellent friend-screening test. How'd he do?” Vaughn laughed. “I knew he'd be cool about it. Even so, I guess he deserves a gold star. I think it was what he expected, now that I think back. He just smiled and asked me how I was going to make the most of the change of plan. It had already occurred to me, just in that little bit of time, that I might do it—come back to you as if I was him. So he came in and we talked for a bit—his idea—so you'd hear that there was someone here, hear a strange voice. Then he snuck off quietly so we could have our fun.” “And who is this friend of yours?” “Oh, I'm not telling.” “Keeping him in reserve for future ambushes?” “Maybe.” His giddy grin faded a little. “Are you disappointed? That I didn't go through with it? Or was I insane, planning it at all?” “No. And no,” she added after a contemplative pause. “Look at you,” he whispered, nudging her cheek with his nose, “you're blushing. After the wanton display you just put on,” he teased, turning her blush a shade deeper. “I loved thinking it was some man I didn't even know doing all that to me. And I love that it was you—that tonight—everything that just happened—is ours.” “You don't feel like I...I don't know. Tricked you.”

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“Well, you did trick me,” she laughed. “But in the most arousing way imaginable.”

The terminal buildings—low gray blocks pressed between the wet gray sky and the wet gray ground—strips of surreally green grass wedged in lonely strips by rainslicked and spotted tarmac, planes and luggage carts and men and women in navy jumpsuits waving orange wands began to shift and slide in the tiny lozenge-shaped window. Then everything outside was still for a while, until the engines surged and the momentum of the plane pressed Devan back against her seat. When she turned her head, Vaughn was gazing over at her with his subtle, easy smile. They pressed palms, wove their fingers together, and surged upward into the night sky.

The End

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ABOUT VARIAN KRYLOV Since her girlhood in a sunny coastal town in California, Varian Krylov has nurtured a love of words and a curiosity about the deep, dark forces at work in human nature, especially sexuality, and how they often paradoxically twine with our tenderest impulses. Her stories tend to explore the sometimes fine line between what arouses, and what frightens, what we're driven to, and what we're ashamed of.

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THE HERESY This book explores a period near the end of the 18th Dynasty in ancient Egypt. This was a time of change in attitudes and religion which tore the ancient world apart. When Amenhotep took the throne, Egypt was in it's golden age. His seventeen year reign plunged the ancient world into chaos. There to save the world stood a single, elderly woman, Queen Tiye, the Pharaoh's mother. The story centers around Queen Tiye's battle with Amenhotep IV's wife, Ahnkensenamun for the throne of Egypt and Howard Carter's discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun. Anything was possible inside the decadent world of the royal family, including murder, incest and plots within plots. All this for the greatest prize of the era – the wealth of the most powerful imperial nation on earth at the time. The story unfolds with the Egyptologist, Howard Carter's discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun. As the treasures of the tomb are uncovered, the reader is thrown backwards in time to the ancient world to watch the plot unfold. At the same time, you see the world of Howard Carter unfold with a strangely parallel plot to wrest the treasures of the greatest tomb ever found away from him. Warning: This title contains graphic language and sex.

Excerpt From THE HERESY:

Pharaoh entered Tiye’s darkened apartment. He moved slowly to her divan. “I have been waiting for you, my Lord,” she said. The king bent over and kissed her on the lips. Tiye’s arms went around her neck, pulling him to her. She was already nude. Her hands fumbled at his belt and his pleated skirt fell away. Her hand reached for his growing cock and began to stroke it. His hands found her breasts and crushed them. Together their breath came in quick gasps. She took his cock between her lips and began stroking it with her mouth. He moaned with pleasure as his fingers slid between her wet pussy lips. She raised her hips and spread her legs to help his fingers, and her mouth continued to work on his growing hard-on.

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Then, in a moment, he was entering her. His cock slid deep into her. Tiye screamed and grabbed his buttocks to pull him even deeper inside. Her hard nipples brushed his chest with each stroke. Their mouths clung together as if grown that way. Amun watched from a darkened corner. The time was close. He readied himself. At the moment Tiye buried her heels in the soft cushion of the divan to raise her hips even farther and take Pharaoh’s cock into her completely at the moment of her orgasm, Pharaoh, himself let out a loud moan and he felt his own moment approach. Amun entered the Pharaoh’s body and took over control. The king was no longer just Pharaoh, but Pharaoh-God Amun. The orgasm broke, sending Amun’s seed deep into Tiye. Pharaoh-Amun’s body contracted again and again as the seed splattered into her. Then it was over. Amun withdrew from Pharaoh to his dark corner to watch. Pharaoh, rolled off Tiye, panting. Few times had sex been so exhausting and satisfying. It was as if his entire soul had been ripped from him and expelled through his cock deep into Tiye’s vagina. Tiye moved to kiss Pharaoh‘s face. This, she knew, had been an eye opening trip. She no longer had a family here in Nubia. Her family was now in Memphis. She belonged with Pharaoh. He had become her man and her life. She vowed she would serve him all her days. And there was something else. Amun whispered in her ear. She could not see him, but inside her head she could hear. This night the three of them had made another son. His name would be Semkare and he would be Pharaoh along with Akanaten. And along the way, Akanaten would have a son who too would be Pharaoh. The blood line would continue. A dark thought crossed Tiye’s mind. But what about Thutmose? Would he not

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be King?

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