Meta: Even Bloggers Take a Break Sometimes

I'm not really a Christmas person, but I live in a country that loves the holiday season and I have kids who are totally all about the Christmas things (and, no, not just receiving gifts; they're pretty cool kids).

Since I find Christmas to be rather stressful, I'm going to take a little holiday from blogging. I'll start posting again on January 2nd. Until then, I'll be editing past blog posts to erase my The Author vs Ms Myrrh fiasco, so expect to come back to a blog that's a little more honest and a lot less confusing (and e-mail corrections to me if there are grammatical, spelling, or other errors that are annoying you).

In the meantime, be happy, be safe, and buy for yourself whatever Santa thought you were too naughty to receive. Maybe something like this clit jewelry from Under the Hoode.

xoxo

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Eleven

Lucy is kneeling, looking at my shoes. She's wearing her short black skirt and her black t-shirt and her brown hair in that one, long braid. She's on the floor of my bedroom. She belongs to me, now. Ray gave her to me and I have to figure out how to keep her.

Just looking at her makes my blood rearrange itself. I feel my cheeks redden, my pussy enthusiastically engorged. I want her all over me. My whole body wants her everywhere around me: her scent, her moans, the salt of her skin, her muscles closing around my probing fingers. My clit jumps at all these thoughts.

I step forward to stand in front of her. I cup her chin in my left hand, tilt it up toward me so I can kiss her lips. Her lips meet mine with the same force, the same desire. My clit jumps again.

"I want you," I whisper in her ear. She moans softly into mine. "I'm going to take you," I continue, "I'm going abuse your soft, delicate skin, then I'm going to fuck you with the fattest dildo I have until you cum."

"Oh, Rebecca, I want that, all of it," she breathes.

Then I say something I've never said before, to any of my lovers. I make the monster in me sit and wait. I grip her hair with my left hand and pull her face away from mine so I can look her in the eyes. She stares at me for a half second before her conditioning kicks in and her gaze slides away.

"Your safe word is red."

"You don't need a safe word," she says, sounding like she's on automatic.

"I want a safe word. Tell me the safe word, Lucy."

"Red," she replies, not looking at me. Tears are leaking out of her eyes. They make me angry. I want to hit her.

"Tell me when you'll say 'red,'" I demand. I use my right hand to slap her breasts, hard enough to make both of them swing a little under her shirt.

"If it hurts too much," she replies, her voice shaking.

"And you'll actually use it," I say. I slap her breasts harder. Her nipples harden, rub against the fabric.

"Y-yes," she breathes.

"That's my girl," I say, grinning down at her. I kiss her hard again. Her lips are softer, yielding. She seems confused and I'm not at all surprised. It's funny, I realize, that I'd want to use a safe word when I'm not playing anymore.

I kneel so I can grope her breasts through her shirt as we continue kissing. I pinch and pull her nipples, hard enough that she gasps and squeaks into the kisses. She drapes her arms around my neck, passive aside from meeting my lips, teeth and tongue, kiss for kiss.

At first, her lips taste like cherry-flavored chapstick and her mouth is dry. But soon her mouth tastes like mine, like nothing, like traces of iron and copper, like a clean, clear lake. I feel like I'm floating.

I float clear to the other side of my desire, where I find myself waiting.

Standing, I pull Lucy up, too, and slap her face with my open palm. She stares at me, hungry. This is what we're both familiar with.

"Take off your clothes," I demand. She complies very quickly. I don't bother taking the time to admire her perfect figure. Instead, I grab her wrist in my left hand, pull her left, then let go of her and step forward to push her onto my bed. She lands on her ass and scrabbles backward until her feet are on the bedspread.

I take off my shoes and socks then climb up after her, straddle her hips, and start slapping her: her face, her breasts, her upper arms. She moans and growls. Her skin reddens. I am focused on hurting her. It feels so good to hurt her.

I start to rock my hips, still clad in undies and jeans, against her, my mons against hers. I know the fat seam of the jeans must hurt, grinding against the shaved mound of her pussy, drawing back the hood from her clit and attacking it. Her moans become little yells, her arms and knees draw up, helping her hips sink away from mine. I seat myself more firmly and rock again and again.

Her hands come up, as if to push me off. I grab them and hold both wrists in my left hand. I continue to slap her red, sensitive skin. I'm done with her face, it's red enough, so now I fall into a rhythm just slapping her breasts, watching them jiggle, listening to her little yells become louder screams, still pitched low enough to tell me I have more time.

We are so perfectly focused on the moment that times stands still. I only know it's moving forward by the way her skin grows brighter, in the rising pitch of her sounds, her open, panting mouth. Her eyes are closed. She arches her back when I slap her breasts, presenting them to me more completely, pushing back against my violence.

Finally I hear that specific pitch, high and nasal, that lets me know she's close to having enough. Letting go of her wrists, which fall limply to cross each other over her abdomen, I walk myself back on my knees, far enough to grab her by the back of her knees and draw them up and out, opening her cunt and ass to my eyes.

She's wet, red and engorged. Her clit and mons are bright red from my jeans rubbing against them. I know she hasn't cum, yet, but I can see it won't take much to push her over the edge. I lean forward and slide two fingers into her mouth. She sucks on them, runs her tongue over them, content to suckle them until I pull them out. I use her own saliva to run my fingers down either side of her pussy, between the inner and outer labia. She groans and her head tilts up and to the right, her eyes closed.

"Give me two of the pillows above you," I demand.

Her body shudders with a long sigh as she reaches beyond her head and pulls down two pillows for me. I tuck them under her ass, lifting her up toward me and the perfect angle for slapping.

I start with the insides of her thighs.

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Ten

My jobs for Ray are pretty regular. I sometimes off the husband or boyfriend who works a little too hard, gets a little too close, to figure out where their beloved went. I'm pretty good at making it look like a suicide. The easiest ones are when the guy has his own piece. Write a note, wear gloves. One and done. Most of the time, though, I take out Ray's enemies or his own cronies-turned-enemies or police-turned-crony-grows-a-conscience.

I think funny things happen to men as they age. Maybe it's a decrease in testosterone. Maybe it's a true love or a true health scare. But they sometimes start caring about other people and then they start to think that kidnapping, mentally rewiring and whoring out women might be a bad idea, ethically, even if it brings in a ton of cash and a good amount of power. When that happens, I'm sent in, like a little nuke to kill the cancer in Ray's organization. When that happens, I'm not supposed to make it look like a suicide, I'm supposed to make it look like a bright, bloody message to the rest of the organization's cells to not get any ideas. But it doesn't seem to work like that. They keep growing a conscience, anyway. Eventually I was kind of surprised that Ray, himself, never grew one. As for me, I had mine beat out of me at a very young age.

But, between the two types of gigs, I've got enough work to have a good-sized nest egg and a good-sized nest and a good amount of one-on-one time with my favorite honey pot and her hair and her eyes and her tongue and her pussy and her breasts and nipples and fingertips and the little bits of skin between her fingers and her earlobes and neck and spine and ass.

There's this intersection of universality and uniqueness where, on the one hand, it's true that her body is like any other woman's, but it's also true that no other woman's body is like hers. Things scale either way. But, in and next to and around her body, I am a tamed monster. I hide my teeth or I use them for friendly bites. My claws urge but they don't maul. All my knives stay in their drawers. All my guns have their safeties on. Those things don't scale, they're not universal to every woman's body.

I think too much. I plan out all my actions as far as I can, then act them out as perfectly as I can, so I can manipulate everyone else into following my script. I know when to exit state right, when I shouldn't be in a scene. I aim my weapon and narrow my eyes for the closeup before the cut to the body falling down. But, when I kiss Lucy, I feel safe enough to turn off the cameras and think less about the angles and more about the feel of her lips against mine, all those muscles in her face working to transmit to me how much she wants me.

I'm her favorite john. She's told me this. After she told me, I asked Jacob, as a favor, to find out if that was something she's programmed to say to everyone she fucks. No, he said, it wasn't. I celebrated the news with a bottle I took from some sad, dead schmuck's wine collection. He and his disappeared wife didn't need it anymore.

The second bottle of wine I nicked from that job is on its side in my own wine rack. I notice it as I lead Lucy past it and down a little hall to the bedroom. I decide she and I will drink it tonight.

"Leave your things in the bag for now," I tell her, pointing to a corner. She puts the trash bag full of her clothes in the corner.

"Take whatever clothes off you want, get comfortable. Let me know if it's too cold," I say. I watch as she takes off her heels and "fuck me" stockings. Saliva floods my mouth and I swallow. I'm hungry but I'm also horny. I want to celebrate having her, Ray's final gift to me, and I want to sit her down and talk about how it's going to be now. I wish I had Rowan's phone so I could put her in The Loop and tell her all the truths about who she is now, who she belongs to, how much she pleases me.

"Kneel," I say, after staring at her in silence for a while. She's been patiently waiting, head bowed, and she instantly kneels, as if it's a relief to be told what to do. Of course it's a relief. That's how Ray's thing works, that's just what honey pots want, all the time.

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Nine

Ben said I had to go to his home and take Lucy with me, but he didn't say when I'd have to. Finding that hole in The Loop makes me happier. Well, that plus taking the opportunity to defend myself with a gun and having Lucy by my side for the foreseeable future. Rowan's directive that I'm their family bodyguard will be enough to drag me back soon, because I am at least sufficiently paranoid to know they'll need protecting sooner or later, but at least there's time to get back to my own place and make a few personal preparations for my changing life.

I walk Lucy the back way to The Home for Wayward Honey Pots, our little joke name for the dormitory-style housing Ray provides. He works them hard, up to twelve hours a day either working at one of the topless bars or whorehouses or both. When they're exhausted, they pass out on their own personal bunk at The Home, wearing their own personal headphones to listen to the conditioning recordings.

Every single honey pot was stolen from somewhere or someone else. Every single honey pot went through the breakdown and rebuilding of their character. Ray is -- or maybe was, I don't know if Ben's whispered words addressed this -- the kind of guy who doesn't like a natural-born slut, and neither do his clients. All those men back at the club were the kind of men who cum at the thought of fucking a woman who, a year ago, wouldn't have even glanced their way. Quite a few of those men had paid Ray a lot of money to turn specific girls and women into whores and gladly paid more to use them once they were honey pots.

Lucy uses her key card to get us in the back entry. We take the stairwell up to the third floor and she uses the key card to get us into the hallway. The lights are dim, the carpet shabby and the wall paint a muddy white with scuff marks from a vacuum cleaner making a nearly perfect black line at a certain height off the floor.

Lucy's room is only a few doors down. None of the doors to the rooms lock. Lucy's room has one bunk bed, one small closet, one small chest of drawers, one full-length mirror, and that's it. My own place, spare as it is, has more stuff, and certainly more personal effects and maybe even some sense of decor.

She and I look around. I realize there wasn't much to come back for.

"Am I really free to leave here?" she asks me for the hundredth time.

"Yes," I say.

"Am I going to get sick for the headphones? If I miss my headphone time I get sick," she says.

I didn't know about that part. Ray had been in business a while but hadn't ever had a reason to let a honey pot go. As far as I knew, the ones that got sick or old ended up tipped into the canal.

"I have frie-- acquaintances that can help," I say, hoping I'm right, "Is there anything here you want to take?"

She glances at the slim, wireless headphones.

"You can't take them," I say as quietly and firmly as possible. My heart feels squeezed by her uncertainty.

She crosses the room to the dresser and takes out undies, bras, a pair of sweat pants and a matching sweatshirt.

"There's a box of trash bags under the sink in the kitchenette down the hall," she says.

I head toward the kitchenette to find a trash bag for her clothes. The little recessed area is a mess, confirming the girls that live here don't really live here. I find myself reaching for the dish sponge on automatic, correct my movements mid-reach and open the cabinet below the sink, pull a bag out of the box.

When I get back to Lucy's room I help her put the clothes in the bag, including the coat, gloves, scarf and hat she's brought out of the closet. I realize she's still topless. I laugh to myself.

"What?" Lucy asks.

"I can't take you home with you dressed like that," I say.

"Like what?" she asks. I love that. I love that mix of innocence and sex. Ray had a few honey pots programmed to be constantly embarrassed by their own nudity. Lucy is not one of those. She could walk down Main Street completely nude and be surprised that anyone else might find it odd.

"You need a top," I say. I realize her skirt will probably raise a few eyebrows, not to mention the platform heels and stockings with stitching reading "fuck me" in a lacy script up the backs of her calves. Lucy digs into the bag and comes up with a simple black top.

As she puts it on I look around again. I make sure there's still a set of headphones on each bed. I realize I almost love her enough to want to set her free. I realize I don't know what that means; how can anyone lead a normal life, have a normal brain, after living like this?

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Eight

I want to get out, get my girl, and go home. I want to buy earplugs and hide from the world until The Loop has worn off and I'm free. Ray has nothing for me anymore and Rowan's family is no longer in danger from him, so I figure I can lie low for a while and do a little networking to find the next place that wants a monster like me.

But Ben follows me out Ray's office door and stops me. I don't want to listen to anything he has to say, but I have to, anyway.

"Stop," he says, "Where are you going?"

"Getting Lucy," I say. I've stopped. I'm just standing there, my back to him. My skin is crawling. I can't go until he says I can. Knowing that makes me want to throw up.

"Fine," he says, "But you two have to go to my place."

"Fine," I say, "Can I go now?"

"Yeah, I think Ray and I can handle the cleanup."

I head down the stairs, two at a time, an angry energy buzzing in my head. I hadn't asked Rowan, because I was too afraid of the answer, but I had hoped they'd just leave me the fuck alone after I saved Ben from Ray. Knowing I had to continue to obey them made me want to empty both pieces into the next person that gave me the side-eye.

"Here comes the hit-girl again," one of the bouncers says, grinning up at me.

"How'd it go up there?" the other asks.

I let my pissy mood shine through but keep my hands away from my guns. "Everything's more fucked than we thought. Turns out Ben wasn't the one, after all; it was Jacob."

"What?" asks the first one, his eyes open wide in astonishment, "Can't be. I mean, Jacob had his fingers in the honey pots but so does everyone else. He wouldn't have been moving precious cargo behind Ray's back."

I shrug but I keep my guard up. All the boys are part of the boy's club. "Too much evidence against Jacob in that phone call, I guess. Jacob lunged for Ray. I shot him down."

"You -- you what? You shot him?! Goddammit, girl, that was my fucking friend you just offed!" He lunges for me but I'm faster. I get a shot off, hitting him in the kneecap, while taking the steps up and out of his way. He roars with anger and pain. I glance at the other one. He doesn't know what to do.

"Fuck you," I say, feeling the monster in me rise up, happy and eager, "I'm out of a fucking job just because I figured out who was fucking over Ray. Take one more step toward me or draw your goddamned gun and you are fucking dead."

I glance at the other guy. His fingers are twitching. He's indecisive. There's no one else around. I shoot them both dead and step over their bodies. My skin sings, my fingers are warm on my gun. I feel the desire to blast my way out of the place. In my head, I do, but in reality I am a calculating monster. I think about how I would prefer to stay alive and do more damage later. And I think about Lucy, with the braid.

I turn the corner and there she is, putting cocktails down at a table, smiling at the men who feel her up and pinch her nipples as she leans over. I put away my piece, quell my desire to shoot random, horny men pawing at my very own girl. But I must still look fierce: they draw their hands back at the sight of me.

She turns her head. Her braid falls down the opposite side of her neck. I want to fuck her right there and show the men just how perfectly her body fits to mine.

"Let's go," I say, grabbing her wrist.

"My shift isn't over," she says, but follows easily enough.

"Ray's given you to me," I say, threading us through the slower, drunker men, ignoring their gazes and their opportunistic hands, "so you won't be working another shift here again."

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Seven

"Uhm," Ben says, still looking at me.

"What?" I say, annoyed.

"What's the plan? I need to know what you want to have happen once the muscle stasis wears off."

I blink at him.

"Rowan said you'd want to use this opportunity to shut down Ray's mind control approach to the honey pots," I say slowly, like I'm speaking to someone who's not particularly bright.

"Oh," says Ben. His face lights up. "That's a great idea!"

I try not to listen to him as he talks to Ben. Rowan and I didn't know whether his words would program me, too. Instead, I listen for noises in the hall. Nothing yet. I try not to think of the girl downstairs, try not to imagine her head in my lap, try not to wonder if she'd love me if she were liberated.

I look at my watch. "Two minutes, Ben," I say.

"That's alright. I think I covered all the bases," Ben says. He takes the phone from Ray's frozen hand. Ray straightens his posture, looks at me, frowns. But he doesn't say anything; no yelling, no accusations. I keep flicking my attention between the two men. Despite having firsthand knowledge of what The Loop does to people, I don't trust Ray. Ben is looking at the phone's screen, tapping it. He hands it back to Ray.

"Give that a listen, Ray," he says. Ray glares at me one last time before sinking into The Loop again.

"What are you doing?" I ask, "He needs to be ready to talk to people soon."

"It's the second phase of The Loop. The irreversible part. What happened to you was like a, a veneer, an added layer of characteristics. The second phase dives in and starts making changes to your psyche. It's similar to what Ray did to his honey pots."

"Wait," I say, "Back up. What Rowan did to me is reversible?"

"Well, it's kind of like a long-lasting post-hypnotic suggestion. Like any other suggestion, it wears off over time if it's not consistently triggered. But, since it's a suggestion, or a directive, really, to obey what people tell you to do, it's not too hard to keep it going."

I keep my mouth shut, realizing it wouldn't be wise to tell him just what I'd do to him and Rowan if the effect wore off.

"Anyway," Ben continued, "Neither phase of The Loop was meant for people who hadn't already been mentally altered in some way. It'll be interesting to see what this does to Ray."

"What's it supposed to do?" I ask. All these years, I'd only ever seen Ben as an efficient bean counter, keeping all the other bean counters in line. Listening to him speak, he sounded more like a mad scientist than an accountant.

"It, uh, it's sort of hard to explain," Ben said, his voice trailing away. "It takes all the suggestions I gave him during the first phase and, uh, incorporates them so they're not, like, 'on top of' or 'in addition to' the rest of his sense of self, but actually erases the parts of his character that don't fit with the suggestions. It's like I gave him a script to follow, only he's not an actor anymore, that script is his reality. Does that make sense?"

I slowly nod. "I can't wait to see the new Ray," I say.

"The new Ray isn't going to need a hit-woman," Ben says, almost apologetically. I shrug my shoulders noncommittally.

"What's going to happen to the honey pots?" I ask.

Ben frowns and fiddles with the cuffs of his button-down shirt. Like all of Ray's employees, he dresses professionally.

"Why didn't Rowan take you to Reynolds?" he asks, finally looking at me. I hold his gaze as I reply.

"She did. She changed her mind. I broke his arm when he tried to stop me from getting back in her car."

"She and I have been growing disillusioned with the unit's handling of--" he stops talking as Ray puts down the phone and looks up at him.

"Ben! Goddammit, I'm glad you're here. Listen, I need you to put together an expense report for me for the whole thing, okay, even the stuff that's not on the books. I'm ready to start phasing into legit business." Ray pauses for a moment, breathes in and briefly closes his eyes. "Goddammit, I need to think about retiring if I'm going to actually do it in ten years." His gaze lands on the blood on the wall, slides down to see Jacob's body." Oh, fuck! Who the fuck shot Jacob?" He takes in the rest of the room, sees me by the door.

"Rebecca?"

I walk toward him, unsmiling and serious, "I'm so sorry, Ray. Ben discovered Jacob was taking money from a rival. Ben told me about it, wanted my backup, since I know how to use a gun, and we were going to talk to him but, before we could, someone let loose some rumor about Ben. That phone call you got explained it all, right?"

Ray looks confused, saying, "Uhm."

Ben starts talking, "I was handcuffed to the chair, Ray, you remember? Then Rebecca came in with a phone call that let you know it was Jacob, not me, who was abducting honey pots. Jacob tried to grab the phone from you. Rebecca shot him, thinking she was protecting you."

Ray looks up at me, shaken. "Man," he said, "I think I need to change my retirement plan from ten years to five. If I don't know my own right hand well enough to know when he doesn't have my best interests at heart -- Aw, fuck it. Rebecca, get some of the boys to come in here and clean up this mess."

"Yessir," I say. I turn and head for the door.

"And Rebecca?" Ray calls. I turn and look at him, one hand on the door. "Take Lucy home with you. She's yours now."

"Excuse me?" I say. My heart rate, having finally slowed, jumps into overdrive again.

"My thanks for saving my life," Ray says, "And your severance pay."

"You don't think there'll be others trying to take your life?" Ben asks.

"That's what the fucking boys are for, Ben. She's not a body guard, she's a hit-woman. First step toward going legit: Lay off the hits."

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Six

It's not until I get into the rental car and head back towards the city that I realize that every plan and alternate plan I've made has gone awry. I'm not in control of anything. It pisses me off. I feel like hurting someone.

The drive is quiet and uneventful. I keep the radio off so I can focus on my plan. This one can't go wrong. If it does, I'm dead and so is Ben, Rowan and their two daughters.

It's kind of weird, feeling this complete loyalty to Rowan and her family, because it's so random and unlike me. I never had a loyalty to Ray, really, just a deep understanding of the power he had. The last time I had such a deep commitment to anyone, I was nine and my brother was eleven and I was kicking and biting and scratching to get my mom off of him. And then I got the knife from the kitchen and that ended that fight.

But, even though I know my loyalty to them is artificial and imposed by The Loop, it doesn't mess with the rest of me, of who I am, it simply informs my decisions to the extent that it must. It feels safe. I feel safer, even as I drive toward a monster bigger than I.

I try to keep today's lesson in mind: think like a chess player, examine not just my options but everyone else's. I keep coming back to the same thing: shoot the fuck out of everything that moves. I can do that at Ray's, once I'm past the front where the honey pots do their dancing for the johns. It's really not the way a chess player thinks, I tell myself, giving myself a small smile. I am not a chess player. I am a monster with a few chameleon tricks.

The bouncer lets me in with a nod, not bothering to pat me down. He knows I'm carrying, he just doesn't realize I'm carrying a lot more than usual. I am the monster, I tell myself, as the image of him dead in a pool of his own blood rises in my brain.

I see the brunette honey pot and her braid swing by the bar, a pile of empties on her platter. I head toward her and grab hold of her hair, near the base of her neck. Her eyes are wide as I turn her around, but then soften when she sees it's me. I kiss her on her soft lips before whispering in her ear, "I want you to come home with me tonight, okay?"

I pull back to look at her face. She nods. I kiss her again and let her go. I want to tell her to leave now, to take a few friends and get somewhere safe, but I know her programming means she'd just tell the bouncer what I said and then I'd lose any edge I had over what happens next.

I nod at the bartender then make my way to the back. The two bouncers at the door to the upstairs offices and apartments grin at each other at the sight of me.

"Hey, chica, you blow any brains out today?"

"Careful, Rafael, if she's had a bad day, it might be your brains get blown."

"Hah. Maybe if she's had a good day, she'll blow my dick."

"Boys," I say, grinning back at them, "You would not believe the day I had. And it's not done yet. Ray here?"

"Of course. He's got Ben all tied up, waiting your arrival. Whatchu think about it, Ben turning out to be stealing from Ray?"

"I approve of stealing; means job security for me," I wink as I slide past them. Once I'm by I call back, "Ray's gonna be pissed about the information I'm bringing him. Expect a mass exodus in a minute."

As I mount the stairs I pull out Rowan's smart phone. I slide it on and enter the code. I dial a random number at the door to Rays' office. I hit dial with one hand as I open the door with the other and take a few steps inside.

"Ray! We've got a problem," I say, the sudden increase in adrenaline gives my voice a realistically worried pitch. Ray looks up from something on his desk. "You gotta take this call, Ray," I say, and I throw the phone to him from a few feet away. He catches it and holds it up to his ear. He freezes, caught in The Loop.

I turn to the cronies and their lap girls.

"Get out," I say, "Ray's going to be tied up with the phone call for about fifteen minutes and then he's going to be really pissed. You don't want to be here when that phone call ends."

"What's this about?" blusters one of the old guys. He and the rest of them are looking at me with fear in their eyes.

"It turns out this whole thing is bigger than Ben. There are others who've been working with him. Now get out before I start guessing which one of you is involved." I pull out one of the guns and hold it loosely in my hand, muzzle pointing toward the floor. I've never pulled a gun in Ray's office. Everyone knows something's really wrong, but no one knows how to decipher it.

The cronies get up. The one getting a blow job zips up his pants. The lap girls follow them out. That leaves Ben, handcuffed to a chair, and Jacob, Ray's favorite bodyguard.

"What's going on?" Jacob asks.

I don't bother replying. I'm busy screwing the silencer onto the piece. Once that's done, I shoot Jacob. Even with the silencer, there's a satisfying noise. The blood from the exit wound sprays onto the flocked wall behind him.

Ben is staring at me with wide eyes. When I turn to look at him, he scrunches his eyes closed.

"Ben, Rowan sent me. Ray's in The Loop. She said you'd be able to program him or something while he's caught up in it. Can you do that?"

Ben nods, eyes wide open again to stare at me as I rifle through Jacob's pockets, looking for the keys to the handcuffs.

"Is Rowan -- are the girls -- what's going on?"

"Rowan caught me up in The Loop," I reply as I unlock the cuffs. "She made me loyal to her and her family, including you. I'm not Ray's hit-woman anymore. I'm your family's bodyguard."

Ben rubs at the red marks on his wrists as I move across the room and lock the door. I change my mind and unlock it. People know Ray's rages; they'll stay away for at least half an hour. By then Ben will be in control of Ray and there will be some big changes.

"Ben, you need to stop staring and get to work on Ray," I say, taking up position by the door. I still haven't decided whether to shoot or shoo away any early birds.

Meta: Thinking Aloud

Trying to decide if Rebecca saves Ben &/or becomes a honey pot &/or tricks Ray into The Loop &/or saves all the honey pots?

It all seemed so straightforward when I started the story. Now I need an outline and the willingness to be mean to female characters I like, because this could be more of an epic story if I could just be more cruel.

Warmly,
Ms Myrrh

Fiction, Ray's Honey Pots, Part Five

"Fuck," she says. I say nothing. With a start, I realize it's because I can't; she told me not to talk. My mind is buzzing with a dozen questions. Ray thought Rowan's husband was stealing honey pots for himself but it looks like he was part of some underground railroad-style liberation effort. Only the girls aren't being liberated. So what are they doing at the dairy if they're not actually helping the girls? And why would Rowan take me there, only to change her mind?

"I might have let my emotions get in the way," she says, as if reading my mind, "I should have left you there. But I'm worried about my kids. I'm worried about my family. Reynolds said they couldn't spare the manpower to protect us, even if he did believe that you were sent to kill us. I'm right, ain't I, that you were sent to kill us?"

She glances at me. I'm staring at her.

"Go on, answer the question," she says, "You're free to talk now."

"Yes," I reply.

"Why didn't you just shoot me when you walked in the house?" she asks.

"The fridge magnets," I reply, "I won't subject children to violence. I thought I'd wait 'til we were in the car. I'd pull the gun on you, make you drive us into a cornfield, where I'd shoot you and leave you there."

"You're a monster," she says, her voice breaking.

"You didn't seem too conflicted about getting me hooked up to The Loop," I say, letting reproach seep into my voice.

"I'm not a monster," she replies, "I'm a mother."

"Same goddamned fucking thing."

"Listen," she says, her voice hard, "You're our new body guard. We're going to give you lots of opportunities to hurt people. I saw that grin on your face when you hurt Reynolds."

I realize that she's never once asked me if I understood or if I agreed. No "okay?" or anything. I had cried when the truth of my situation had hit me as I handed over my piece, but the realization that she never once asked for my agreement takes me by surprise; I feel overwhelmed again. She's talking to me the way I talk to my favorite honey pot, from the moment I find her at Ray's topless bar to the moment I leave her behind in the bed, her braided hair undone and fanned over the sheets. I blink rapidly to keep from crying again.

"Listen," she says again, "You belong to me now. Ray is not someone you have any allegiance to. You belong to me. That means no calling him, no nothing that would let him know I'm still alive. It means your job is to protect us from him and anyone he sends our way."

Of course Ray's going to send someone, I think, feeling hopeless, in fact, he'll probably send multiple someones. Someones with fingerprints linked to innocent people, someones with no pasts, with a vested interest in protecting Ray's honey pots.

"One more thing," Rowan says, "My daughters come first. If gunmen or whatever show up, you protect them over anyone else." She glances at me then says, "You're a smart person, I'm not going to have to tell you to be careful about what you say and how you act around my girls."

"I need my gun if I'm going to protect you and your family," I say, "Turn the car around."

Rowan shakes her head, "We've got guns locked away at home. I'll unlock them for you once Ben gets home and I explain the situation."

"Ben's not coming home," I say, my nose flaring at the contradicting emotions that knowledge brings up in me, "Ray had someone waiting for him when he showed up for work this morning. We were going to set it up so it looked like he killed himself once he learned of your death."

"Does that means he's still alive? I mean, it makes more sense for them to keep him alive until they hear I'm dead."

"He's alive," I say slowly, "He was my second job."

I watch her while she drives in silence, tears glittering on Rowan's face like the wet corn leaves shining in the sun.

"I want you to get him," she finally says. She sounds tired. I have as much disdain for her as I did before, only now I'm the family bodyguard. I feel that dissonance in my bones.

"We can buy ourselves a little time if I can call Ray and tell him I did the job. Enough time for you and the girls to pack and get out to Reynolds. Enough time for me to return the rental car and get to Ben." I fall silent, considering my options.

"And then?"

"I don't know," I say, "The plan was Jacob would come with me and Ben, down to the canal behind the topless bar. It's a short walk and you can see the canal from Rays' office. He watches to make sure the job's done. I'd have to shoot Jacob, in the leg, at the very least, disarm him, convince Ben to follow me. If they've got his ankles shackled, like they sometimes do, then I've got to make sure I've got a key to unlock them, plus enough time. Ray trusts me enough I don't think he'd have a rifle up there, but he'd definitely be watching." I stop talking. An idea, an image rises up.

Rowan glances at me. "What are you thinking?" she asks.

"I'm thinking I can do it if you let me take that phone with me."

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Four

Rowan takes us along some dirt roads. She's making a lot of superfluous turns, probably hoping I'll get confused. But the rain has stopped and I know approximately where we are; I have a good idea of which way to head if I can get away.

I start to feel my brain come out of it's thoughtless fear reaction and slow down into some sort of semblance of planning. I'm less and less afraid and more and more angry. I listen to my heart beating, my lungs breathing. I notice my eyelids blinking. I tell myself my ability to kill is as automatic as these involuntary muscle movements, that whatever The Loop is, it's not enough to shut down my capacity for violence. I am the monster. She is my prey. I pass the time imagining how it will look when her head explodes.

Eventually she turns the car into the shallow curve of a dairy farm's driveway. The gravel crunches under the tires. I see the passive, mildly curious faces of cows in the shade of a low, open barn. They remind me of Ray's honey pots, waiting patiently for the johns.

Rowan hasn't said anything to me during the drive. Once she parks the car, though, she turns to me and says, "The stasis part of The Loop is going to wear off in a moment. When it does, you're going to get out of the car and give me the phone and anything you've got on you that isn't clothing or shoes. No violence. Then you're going to kneel at my feet and stay there until told otherwise. No talking. And no peeing in my car. If you're afraid enough to piss yourself, at least do me the kindness of waiting 'til you're out of the car."

The first thing I'm going to do, once I can move, is blow your brains out. I'll only kneel next to you to make sure you're dead.

She gets out of the car and pulls a different phone out of her jacket pocket and makes a call. She's standing in front of the car, where I can see her even in my frozen state. Her back is to me. She's proven she's not that trusting of me, so what does she trust, that she can feel that confident?

The hand holding the phone up to my ear finally drops into my lap, the phone cradled loosely in my upturned palm. All my muscles are excruciatingly relaxed. I feel like jelly. I'm not sure I can get out of the car, but I do, with only a small amount of scrabbling and bumbling.

I hear her say, "-- what effect The Loop has on an uncompromised person --" as I walk toward her and pull out my gun with my free hand, holding it up at shoulder height, aiming straight at her head. I love my gun. It's liberated me countless times. I sleep with it at night. I clean it twice a day. I lower my weapon, adjust my hold and hand it to Rowan grip-first, who takes it without evincing surprise. 

Now I do piss myself. I also start to cry as I rifle through my pockets and empty out everything, which isn't much: a wallet, a pocket knife, my own smart phone, pennies and lint. Then I kneel at her feet. I hide my face and my tears in my hands.

"-- emergency, so get your ass out here, now." She ends the call and sighs, mutters, "Motherfucker," under her breath.

"Listen," she says, "You're here to finish what The Loop in the phone started. It's a kind of obedience-inducing mind control. It doesn't mess with you other than to make you do what others tell you to do. The Loop in the phone was non-specific. That means you'll do what anyone tells you to do. I told Reynolds to tailor that so you'll only be beholden to me and my family. But I can't stay here to make sure that happens.

"I've got to get back and help my daughters with their homework. You wouldn't believe the amount of crappy busywork kids come home with these days. Drives me nuts. Anyway, Reynolds is on his way here to help you. You're going to do as he tells you, because that's the way The Loop works. But before he gets here, I'm going to give you a few truths. I am your alpha. You're my eyes and ears in there so remember everything clearly, excepting any pain, even if others tell you to forget. "

I take my hands away from my face so I can see. I hear a cow low.

"Reynolds is not someone I trust," she says, then, in a quieter voice, "The whole thing is going to shit."

I hear footsteps on the gravel. I turn my head to see a man walking toward us. He's tall, thin, wearing jeans and work boots and a camel-colored jacket. He looks too clean to work at a dairy.

"Rowan," he says, nodding at her. He's not smiling.

"Reynolds," she says. Their bodies are stiff, like alpha dogs sizing each other up. Their eyes are locked on each other.

"This the girl?" he asks, tilting his head my way. Rowan nods. "How'd you know she was up to anything? Gonna be a tough thing to explain if it turns out she really was outta gas."

Rowan hands him my gun. My eyes follow it. My heart aches for it.

"Adam called to warn me that Ray was having some concerns about my husband. Didn't think it was prudent to tell anyone about it. Thought I could handle it on my own."

"But now you want our help," he said, his voice level.

"You might as well hook her up and take some data, since she's not one of Ray's honey pots. At least, I don't think she's had any conditioning done." Her eyes are still on his.

"She ain't ours, legally, though."

"She's mine, then. I'll do the paperwork."

"Not even the senate subcommittee can approve something like that. They become a ward of the state. You know that."

"Fuck that. She's not a honey pot. They'll just 'liberate' her to serve the military men and that wasn't the point of this project at all."

"Why don't you trust us, Rowan?" He asks.

"Because I'm a fucking woman, that's why. You motherfuckers ain't any better than Ray. You keep 'failing' to return those women to a free life. I'm sick of waiting for you all to figure out how to do anything other than re-enslave people. Rebecca, get in my car," she says, finally breaking eye contact with him as she turns to walk to the driver's side of the car.

I stand up and walk by Reynolds on my way back to the passenger's side. He grabs my arm. I turn and step into him so it's easier for him to let go of me as I break his forearm with my elbow. It's very satisfying to feel like myself for a moment.

There's a scream. I'm free to get into the car.

"That's your own fault, you idiot," Rowan yells to him before she settles into the car seat. She tears out of the driveway as soon as I close my door.

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Three

The oldest girl hasn't hit puberty. She comes flouncing into the kitchen, straight brown hair flying, followed by her sister.

"Mom, I --" she says, then notices me. There's a split-second frown before her face becomes neutral. Her younger sister sidles past the fridge to hide behind her mom.

"Hey, kiddos," Rowan says, "This is Rebecca. Her car ran out of gas nearby and she came to us for help."

"Hi," I say, crossing my legs and keeping my hands in my lap. I try to smile but I've never been able to smile at children. They worry me too much.

"Hi," the oldest replies. I glance from her to the half-hidden face of the youngest.

"Well," Rowan says, taking a step forward. I feel myself stiffen up, waiting for her to attack me, to defend her children. Then she's past me at the wall of coats by the back door. "I'm going to take her to Bob's, get her some gas. There're snacks at the table."

"Can we come with you?" The youngest asks.

"Nope. You two stay here. You've got homework to do. I'll help you with that when I get back. Shouldn't take too long."

I'm watching Rowan put on her coat and rain boots. I turn to look at her kids. Without her mother to hide behind, I see the youngest is really lovely. The kind Ray might kidnap. I stand and turn toward the back door so I don't have to look at her.

"Now, where's my phone?" Rowan says, looking past me, at the table.

"Mom, it's --" her oldest starts to speak but I cut over her.

"Oh," I say, trying to sound surprised, "I put it in my pocket." I pull it out and hold it out to her. "I was going to find that number in the car and call."

"Ah, right," she says and waves a hand, signaling me to keep it. "Make your call and then you can give it back."

"Okay," I say. I'm thinking I'll use the phone to look up the phone number for the dairy I'd been lying about and call it just to make the story seem more real. But there's not much point in carrying the ruse that far if I'm just going to pull the gun on her once we're in her car. I decide I'll keep the phone after I kill her, use it to get Ray to pick me up. I'll have to abandon the rental car, which is too bad.

"I'll just go look for that phone number in my car," I say, sidling past her and letting myself out the back door.

The rain instantly soaks whatever bits of my clothes had managed to dry out while I was in Rowan's kitchen. I make my way to the car and double-check to make sure it's empty. I leave the keys on the driver's seat. No sense making things harder for the rental company. My finger prints are all over it, of course, but that doesn't matter, since the prints link up to someone else's name and face. Poor Elsa Reddletamp, she's not going to enjoy the police questioning and she sure as hell won't understand why the jury will convict her of murder; she doesn't know Ray like I know Ray.

I jog to Rowan's car, shoulders hunched against the rain and wind. She's got it running already. I step in on the passenger's side. The gun digs into my spine as I lean back in the seat.

"You find the number for the dairy?" she asks as she puts the car in gear and backs out of her driveway.

"Yeah. I'll just call right now if that's alright."

"Sure," she says.

Thinking I'll dial Ray before I pull out my gun and direct her to the center of the nearest cornfield, I unlock the phone, enter his direct line, tap "call," and hold the phone up to my ear. Instead of a ring tone I get a loopy sound that makes my ear tingle. I can't move. I can't take the phone away from my ear. I can't reach for my piece, I can't turn my head to look at Rowan. I can't even piss myself, which, I quickly realize, is what I really want to do.

"It wasn't the lie about the dairy that tipped me off," Rowan says, her voice even, "It was the lie about calling your boyfriend. If you really had dialed that phone, you'd have been in The Loop a while ago. You might as well stop struggling; you'll be in that position for another fifteen minutes or so and your muscles will be awfully sore if you're fighting against it that whole time."

I take her advice. I will myself to relax despite the fact that I can't move. I tell myself I need to be ready for the moment this crazy thing, this "loop," ends and I can blow the fucking bitch's head off.

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Two

General Notes: FF, MF, FD, MD, mind control, violence, language

--

"Do you want to call that dairy you were headed to?" Rowan asks.

Shit.

"Good idea. I'll get the phone number out of my car."

I rise halfway out of my seat but she stops me, as I hoped she would, saying, "We'll get that on the way to getting you some gas. You go ahead and drink your tea and warm up."

Somehow, she's managed to finish her own mug of tea. She hadn't even sat down. Instead, she puts her mug in the sink and moves to the fridge, opening it and her head and torso disappear behind the fridge door. That makes me nervous. I like my victims where I can see them. My hands itch to reach for my gun. Instead, I force myself to take a sip of tea. It tastes like shit. The warm mug does feel good against my palms, though. I hold it a little tighter.

"I'm just going to get started on making a snack plate for the girls," she says, reappearing with her hands full of a bag of grapes, a few individually wrapped sticks of string cheese, and a bag of sandwich meat. She dumps them onto the table then retrieves a small platter from one cabinet and a box of crackers from another.

"You need something to go with your tea?" she asks as she starts arranging things on the platter. It's got a hand-painted swirly design to it. Country colors and what looks like a stylized rooster at one end. It's ugly.

"No, thanks. I'm too nervous to eat anything," I reply honestly. I had planned on simply breaking in, surprising her with a single shot to the head, and damaging the safe Ray said they had in their bedroom. No need to actually break into it, of course; just enough damage to make it look like a botched burglary. Even a simple plan like that made me too nervous to eat before a hit job. Small price to pay for the cash it brought in, not to mention the honey pot with the braid.

"Which dairy was it you were headed to?" she asks, her eyes still focused on the task of getting the food on the platter.

Dammit. I've forgotten to keep the conversation all about her. Now I'm going to have to make shit up and then remember my lies for at least another hour. I struggle to remember one of the dairies I'd passed.

"Von Dressler," I say, adding a little uptick at the end, as if I'm not totally positive.

"Really," she says. I see her hands pause for a moment. My first clue something is up. My brain starts thinking about my next move, my options, her options. I glance at the phone on the table, closer to me than to her. If she lunged for it, could I get it first, get it out of her reach, and somehow subdue her? I look at her body. She's wearing layers of conservative, loose-fitting clothes, making it hard to determine her bulk and her fitness. My own mother had worn far less most of the time.

"Why?" I ask, trying to acknowledge her tone of disbelief, turn it into the idea that maybe she had information to share with me.

"Oh, well, they're just a small family outfit," she says, turning away from me to put away the box of crackers. I decide not to slip her phone into a pocket. There is still time to lull her back into a false sense of security. "I didn't know they were looking to hire anyone."

"Oh," I say, letting out a small laugh, "No, I wasn't headed there for a job interview." I wait to see if she'll supply a reason, herself. She doesn't disappoint.

"Their new system?" she says, putting the rest of the stuff back in the fridge, "Mark said everything was running smoothly."

"Glad to hear it," I say, "Yeah, no, I'm not doing anything more than verifying it's running smoothly, except," I add, smiling slightly, "you never know if a satisfied customer might want to expand the system in some way."

She laughs as she closed the fridge. Her eyes meet mine. My second clue something is up: her laugh doesn't make it to those creases by her eyes. My heart begins to beat more quickly. I try to keep my face open and friendly. I still have options.

The front door bangs open. Rowan breaks our mutual gaze, turns her head toward the doorway to the living room. My heart rate jumps again. I dare to reach for her phone and manage to slip it into my back pocket without her noticing.

"Mom?" I hear a girl's voice.

"In the kitchen, sweetie," Rowan calls.

There's the sound of rain coats swishing off of bodies and then the clump, clump of rain boots being discarded. In my head I hear my own mother, calling from her bedroom, "Hang up your goddamned coats and if I find any fucking water or mud on my floor I'm making you clean it up with your tongues!" I swallow my nervousness. I am the monster, now, not her. I've made sure of that. And I've made sure about just what kind of monster I am.

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part One

General Notes: FF, MF, FD, MD, mind control, violence, language

--

There are hand-painted magnets on the fridge, little sea creatures holding up finger-painted papers and a school lunch menu. Shit, that means they've got kids. Goddammit, Ray, I think, you didn't mention kids.  This was his backup plan. Now I need a backup to the backup.

I tuck my gun away at the small of my back and hold my hands out where everyone will be able to see them.

"Hello?" I call out in what I think of as my horror-victim voice, that fearful and exposed tone the female actors use as they're about to enter a dark room, that voice that makes you want to simultaneously protect and slap the speaker.

"Hello?" A woman replies. I hear her footsteps coming toward me down the hall.

"I'm so sorry," I start talking before I even see her, letting myself hyperventilate just a little, "the door was ajar and I -- the weather -"

It'll help that the weather really does suck. I got soaked while picking the lock on the back door.

She turns the corner of the entryway to the kitchen. She matches the photo Ray gave me. I'm in the right place but things are still fucked. She looks at me, concerned but not afraid, not like she should be.

"I ran out of gas and -- your light was on."

"Oh you poor thing," she says. I back up as she walks into the kitchen. She gestures to a chair at the kitchen table. "Have a seat. Do you have a phone?"

"No," I lie, sounding relieved and worried, letting a small, wry smile settle on my lips, "Would you believe I dropped it in the toilet this morning?"

She laughs. Her face and stance relax and she says, "Yes, I would. Stuff like that happens all the time. I hope you put it in a bag of rice. Here, use my phone." She hands it to me and I click and swipe and see I have to enter a code. "Three, eight, two, three," she says as she puts a kettle on the stovetop. I enter the code and touch the screen for the keypad.

"I'm Rowan," she says.

"Rebecca," I say, extending my free hand to shake hers as, with the other hand, I hold the phone up to my ear. I didn't actually dial a number. "It's busy," I say, "I called my boyfriend's work number and it's busy."

"You want me to drive you to the gas station?" she asks. I turn off her phone and set in on the formica tabletop. The swooping, overlapping chevron designs in the formica remind me of childhood lunches with my dad at the diner near his house.

"I'd really appreciate it, but I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble," I say.

"No trouble, really. You'd just need to wait a few minutes. The girls will be home from school soon and I like to be here when they do."

"Oh, you have children?" I ask, the words coming out automatically. I cringe inwardly. I hate kids. I hate it when people talk to me about kids. And I hate that this woman has kids. My brain is still scrambling to come up with Plan C.

"Yes, two, Abby and Reba. They're old enough to stay home alone, though, so we'll just get them a snack and then I'll take you to get some gas for your car."

"Lucky kids, to have you waiting for them at home," I say, not meaning it at all.

Rowan nods slowly, looking almost abashed, "I feel real lucky we can make it on a single income."

"What does your husband do?" I ask, happy to change the subject but knowing full well he's been with Ray's outfit for years. Caught one too many times with his fingers in the honey pots, I think but, if you believe Ray, he's been liberating them or maybe stealing a few for his own harem. God knows where he'd keep them.

"He's head of the accounting department at a large company," she says, sounding proud. I feel a flash of sympathy for her. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand. There's no feeling sorry for anyone; everyone is either the victim walking into the dark room or the monster waiting for her there. I am the monster. I don't feel sorry for my meals.

The kettle starts to whistle. Rowan gets up, turns her back on me, the way every unsuspecting victim does, to move the kettle to a cold burner, to reach for two mugs in an overhead cabinet. I admire her braid of thick, brown hair. It falls almost to her hips. I think about the honey pot who wears her hair the same way, how I like to wrap it in my fist when I fuck her, and how I like to unbraid it after.

"Want some tea while we wait?" she asks, her back still turned. "It'll warm you up."

"Yes. Thank you so much," I say.

"Let's see," she says, "Vanilla Chamomile or PG Tips? That's a black tea."

"Uh, the chamomile," I say. I hate tea. I hate kids. I hate her faux-country house in what amounts to a slum neighborhood set down in prime farmland. I suddenly really hate Ray, too.

"What brings you to the neighborhood, anyway?" she asks, "Ain't nothing around here except a few streets of houses." I decide I also hate her hick accent.

"Took a wrong turn trying to get to the dairy up the road," I say, remembering I drove by at least five on my way to this microscopic town. "At least," I add, trying to sound abject and humble, "I think it's up the road. I didn't even notice the gas gauge until my car engine just up and died."

She gives a small, sympathetic chuckle. "It's easy enough to find a dozen dairies around here," she says, bringing me a steaming mug. It smells funny but I wrap my fingers around the warmth. "But it can be hard to find the right dairy, sometimes."

I realize I also hate how everyone thinks their own place is uniquely confusing and hard to get to. I want to confess the why's and wherefore's just so I can tell her how easy it was to find her home and pick the lock at the back door; how easy it will be to pull the trigger as soon as I can get her away from her kids. Kids don't need monsters like me, I know.

Story: "Gift Certificate"

Evelyn and Judy were best friends, housewives who had met at the local gym. Evey’s slim, fit body contrasted with Judy’s round curves but Judy never felt the slightest bit of condescension or criticism from her friend, or vice-versa. When they discovered they lived three houses down from each other they became nearly bosom buddies, carpooling to the gym, the grocery story and the salon together. So it was inevitable that, when Evey got a gift certificate from her husband for the new clothing boutique in town, she invited Judy along.

“Oh, I’m so excited. I was thinking of asking you if you’d want to go with me next Tuesday, after our salon appointment,” Judy said as she slipped into the passenger seat of Evelyn’s powder blue Saab. “I want to change from the reddish-brown I usually get to something with more fire. Thought I might want some new clothes to go with the new hair color.”

“Well, you can see what your choices are today,” Evey said, half-turned in her seat to look behind the car as she backed down Judy’s driveway, “and then we’ll go back on Tuesday and see if anything you liked matches the new color.”

“Are you thinking of getting anything in particular?” Judy asked.

“I’m not sure what the boutique carries,” Evey answered, “I only saw retro stuff in the window. Not sure I want to come home looking like June Cleaver. I’m already identifiably a housewife without the costume.”

Judy laughed and said, “I’m not ready to look like a respectable housewife.”

“No one’s going to mistake you for being respectable,” Evey teased, “You still wear Hello Kitty t-shirts and Doc Martins.”

“Well, you’ve got the Uggs and vest look down pat,” Judy said, “I can’t imagine you wearing a dress and stockings and heels while you vacuum the living room.”

“Nor can I,” Evey replied, “How do you like Amy, your housekeeper? I’m thinking of hiring one, myself, now that demand for my ceramics has picked up.”

“Amy’s fantastic. She just mentioned yesterday that a client dropped her because they’re moving back East, so now’s the perfect time to contact her. Help me remember, I’ll text you her phone number.”

“Sweet, thanks. I’m getting busier than I thought I would since I had the opportunity to quit my job.”

“Well, it’s not like you quit yesterday. You’ve been focused on ceramics for, what, five years now? You’re just starting to see the payoff. But please tell me you’re not too busy to go to the chess club meeting tonight,” Judy said, a tiny note of worry in her voice.

“Of course I’m still going! I’m glad you found out about it and invited me. I’m tired of getting my ass whipped by you every single time; I’m ready to get my ass whipped by some punk teenager with zits now.”

“Oh, come on, Evey, you’re not that bad.”

“Maybe not, But you’re that good. Zit-faced teen chess geeks, beware!”

Judy laughed as Evey swung the car into the strip-mall’s parking lot. The purple and pink sign for Paul’s Boutique swung gently over the store’s entrance.

“So watcha watcha watcha want?” Judy rapped.

“What?”

“Paul’s Boutique - maybe it’s a reference to the Beastie Boys.”

“Oh,” Evey said, parking and opening her door, “I hope they aren’t playing rap music in the store.”

“It’s alright,” Judy said, once she was out of the car, too, and they were walking to the store’s door, “I know you’re more of a classical music sort of person.”

“Just about the one thing we don’t have in common,” Evey said, looking beyond her friend to scan the shop windows.

The retro 1950’s dresses in the windows were cute, in their way, fresh-looking and feminine. Short-heeled pumps rested on the deep window sill in front of the mannequins, next to matching hand purses.

“It all looks so. . .” Evey paused, trying to think of the right word.

“Like costuming?” Judy asked.

“Yes, like that or, I don’t know, Disney; someone’s fantasy of what women ought to wear.”

“Well let’s check it out anyway. Maybe you’ll find a retro hat or something that suits your personality.”

The door chimed gently; some little tune that seemed to go on for a while. Whether it was the chime or the abrupt change in lighting -- the boutique’s interior was quite a bit darker than the bright daylight outside -- Evelyn felt a little headache starting up high, at the front of her head.

“Welcome, ladies,” said a tall, well-dressed woman from behind the counter. Judy had to bite her lip to keep from calling her Mrs Cleaver. Her short hair was swept up in large, tidy waves and she wore a single strand of white pearls at the base of her throat, framed by the sharp, winged collar of her powder pink dress.

“Hi,” Evey said, stepping forward, “Mind if we have a look around?”

“Not at all,” said the woman, “I’m Lark, just call me if you need any assistance.”

“Thank you, Lark,” Evey said and, looking about her, opted to start at the dresses to her left.

“Is this a consignment shop?” Judy asked Lark as she followed after her friend.

“No, everything here is brand new. I know some of it probably looks old-fashioned,” Lark gave a small, self-conscious laugh, “But we think the style will be very popular with some of the city’s demographics.”

“The housewife demographic?” Evey said under her breath, but Lark appeared not to have heard. Rather, she had sat herself down on a stool behind the counter and was looking at an iPad.

Evey shuffled through the rack and pulled out another 1950’s-style dress. This one was blue with tiny white polka dots and a white underskirt that made a bit of a flounce.

“They are pretty cute,” Evey admitted aloud. She found a pale green dress and held it out to Judy, saying, “I bet this would look lovely with your red hair and black Doc’s.”

Judy grinned and took the hanger, with the dress on it, from her friend.

“I’m going to try it on,” she said, “But only if you try this on.” She indicated a lurid-patterned dress hanging on another rack.

Evey arched an eyebrow before saying, “I’ll take your challenge, if it’s the right size.”

“Everything can be fitted to your exact size,” Lark said, not looking up from the iPad.

“Okay, thanks for letting us know,” Judy said. She looked back at her friend and raised her eyebrows in a way that said, Our hostess might be a freak. Evey nodded back with her own, wise look, then checked the tag on the crazy-colored dress. It was in her size but too expensive to buy as a joke.

“You’re on,” Evey said, taking the dress off the rack. She looked up and saw the changing rooms across the way, just two, side by side, built of painted plywood and 4x4’s.

“You’ll love that dress on you,” Lark said, looking at Evey as she crossed the shop to the changing rooms. Evey merely smiled crookedly at Judy, who followed behind. They each stepped into their own changing room. The oddly soothing music was a little louder in there. Evey looked up and saw a small speaker mounted at the top of the partition that divided her room from Judy’s.

It sounds classical, Evey thought to herself, but I don’t recognize it.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

Wow, I’m sexy, she thought, biting her lower lip as she unzipped her black vest. When she shrugged it off her breasts jiggled under her black turtleneck. She watched them bounce and realized that she shouldn’t wear vests that hid the swell of her breasts. She should definitely wear clothing that accented them; they were lovely, feminine.

Evey cupped her breasts and pushed them together just the slightest bit. The feeling was delightful, eliciting a small gasp.

What’s gotten into me? she wondered. She did not considered herself much of a clothes-horse; shopping for clothing never turned her on.

She heard a gasp from the other side of the divider. She imagined Judy looking at herself in the same way. The music changed to something new, a little wilder, and Evey looked at the dress she’d brought into the changing room.

It wasn’t a spaghetti strap but it didn’t have sleeves, either. It sort of reminded her of the iconic dress Marilyn Monroe wore in “The Seven Year Itch,” only the top didn’t tie behind the neck but descended in a steep vee, both in front and in back, into a tight waist. The skirt flared out from there, a mass of bright fabric, the whole thing printed in a cacophony of swirling and overlapping paisleys. It was something she imagined might have been fashionable in the early 60’s.

It wasn’t until there was a pause between songs that Evey realized she’d just been standing there, topless and slack-mouthed, looking at the fabric of the dress. It was gorgeous. It made her feel sexy. She took off her black Uggs and stripped off her leggings, taking a moment to draw her fingers over her mons. When she finally tried on the dress she felt her clit spark. She adjusted her breasts in the folds of the fabric before daring to look at herself. She groaned at the sight of herself in that wonderful dress, feeling like an offering in a shroud of sex.

Evelyn couldn’t help it. She sat on the little cushioned stool and spread her legs wide, drawing up the fabric along the lengths of her thighs, shifting her hips and curving her spine so she could see her undies in the mirror.

Oh, she thought, those old things have to go. I need a garter belt and stockings. The turquoise pumps and matching purse I saw in the window. . .

Her hands seemed to have removed her black cotton panties all on their own. They were traveling all over the insides of her thighs, making her shiver with their light touch. Finally her thoughts caught up to what her hands were doing and she watched, fascinated, as her fingers teased one set of swollen lips apart, then the next, then sank into her wet pussy. She gave a little grunting moan and heard Judy moan at nearly the same moment.

“Judy?” she whispered.

“Yeah?” Judy whispered back.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but it’s making me very happy.”

Evey found her friend’s sentiment to be very wise and decided to enjoy finger-fucking herself. It was a pleasure on top of pleasure to watch herself masturbate in that fantastic outfit.

There is no way in Hell I’m leaving without buying this dress, she thought.

She used her other hand to quickly and gently rub her clit, bringing herself to the edge of orgasm.

She lost track of time again, riding along that edge, unable to surface until the music stopped and there was a moment of silence before the next song. Evey gasped, caught her breath before cleaning her fingers with her mouth. She didn’t want to stain the perfect dress before she bought the rest of her outfit and wore it home. She wished she could cum but it looked like it just wasn’t going to happen.

When the next song started Judy came out of her dressing room at about the same time Evelyn did, both of them flushed, with a slight sheen, both still wearing the dresses. They could barely meet each other’s eyes.

“Shoes?” murmured Judy. Evey nodded.

“Would you like some help picking out foundation garments for your outfits?” Lark asked.

“Y-yes, please,” they managed to croak out. Lark disappeared in the back while Evey looked for the turquoise shoes and purse in the front window. Judy found a pair of cream satin pumps that matched the piping on her dress.

“Did you--” Evey whispered, coming up to her friend as she sat to try on the shoes.

“No. But damned if I didn’t want to,” Judy whispered back.

“Have you--”

“Never!” Judy insisted.

“Me, neither,” Evey said. She looked worried, bit her lip. “I just wonder--”

“Yeah, something’s definitely not right. I’m just buying the outfit and going straight home.”

Evey felt relieved when she heard Judy say that.

“Me, too,” Evey said and bent down to kiss her friend on the cheek, “If something fucked up happens, at least I’ve got you with me.”

“Damned straight,” Judy said, grinning up at her friend.

“Here you are, ladies,” Lark sang out as she came out of a back room with a stack of shallow boxes. “I found a few cream-colored stockings in different patterns for you,” she said, handing part of the stack to Judy, “And opaque tights of any color would be too much for your dress,” she said to Evey, handing her the rest of the stack, “so I went for nude. Oh,” she continued, looking at the shoes and purse, “turquoise was a good choice!”

Evelyn felt an overwhelming gratitude and fondness for the woman. “Thank you for finding these for us,” she said, almost shyly.

“I’m here to help,” Lark said, a warm smile on her lips.

“I-- I think we’ll just purchase these, then be on our way,” Evey said.

A new song came on in the store, this time louder and more oppressive. Evey felt that ache at the front of her skull grow larger, heavier.

“Are you alright?” Lark asked as Evey put her hand to her forehead.

“I-- I need to sit,” Evelyn said. She was vaguely aware that Judy, too, looked suddenly ill.

Lark gently guided them with her hands at the small of their backs to the chairs by the shoe area.

“Sit,” she said kindly, “I’ll turn down the music. It’s obviously too much for you ladies right now.”

She disappeared but the music didn’t grow quieter, if anything, it became louder. Judy reached for Evey’s hand and they held on to each other until the song was over.

“I think I would have preferred rap,” Evey said weakly in that moment of silence and Judy replied with a small huff of silent laughter.

“Don’t be funny,” she whispered back, “my head will explode if I laugh.”

Lark came up to them then, the purple ribbon handles of one large pink paper shopping bag in each hand.

“Ladies, I took the opportunity to package your purchases for you,” she said, setting the bags at their feet, “I’ll need your gift certificate in order to figure the total bill.”

Evelyn vaguely wondered if she’d mentioned the gift certificate to Lark. Her headache was receding but it was replaced with a steadily growing sexual need. She just wanted to go home and masturbate to her favorite gay porn. She dug the certificate and a credit card out of her purse.

“I’ll pay for my friend’s purchases, as well,” she said. She felt Judy’s grip on her hand tighten in a quick thank-you.

“I don’t think I could have said anything polite,” Judy whispered once Lark was out of range of hearing, “I am. So. Fucking. Horny.”

“Me too!” Evelyn whispered back fiercely. She was struggling to keep from touching herself with her free hand. Instead, it was clenched in a tight fist next to her thigh, pushing into the cushion of the chair.

It seemed like forever until Lark returned and handed Evelyn’s card back. “I’m afraid your card’s been declined.”

“That can’t be right,” she said, looking up at Lark.

“I tried the card three or four times,” she replied, a serious expression on her face.

“Try my card,” Judy said, unzipping her purse.

“Don’t worry, ladies,” Lark said, “I took the liberty of calling your husband. He said he’d pick up your friend’s husband and they’d both come straight away. They should be here shortly.”

At the mention of their husbands, both Judy and Evelyn gasped, their skin virtually sang with need. They were so completely focused on the idea of seeing their men again that they couldn’t think straight. Evelyn felt only the vaguest concern that the sudden uptick in desire would stain her dress.

“Oh, uh,” Evey said, “Okay.” Judy managed a tiny whimper.

“Perhaps you’d like help donning the rest of your outfits so you can show them when they arrive,” Lark suggested.

“Yes, please,” Judy squeaked.

Each woman took a turn raising the skirts of her dress so that Lark could help them with their garter belts. Neither of them gave a thought to the fact that they were exposed to anyone who might happen into the boutique.

Evelyn felt her pussy become even further engorged from the simple act of drawing the new hosiery up her legs and clipping the tops to her new garter belt. She couldn’t think of much else other than the idea that her husband would arrive soon. Maybe I can convince Steve to “try on” a blowjob in the changing room, she thought to herself as she stepped into her new shoes.

“I’m glad the two of you aren’t wearing underwear,” Lark said as she hooked the last few eyes on Judy’s garter belt, “I had taken the liberty of picking out a pair for each of you as a sort of ‘thank you’ for shopping here today.” She drew a small box out of Judy’s shopping bag and opened it to reveal silk undies that matched the dress perfectly. When Judy plucked it out of the box by a corner, the fabric unfolded to reveal a small bulge in the crotch. Judy looked more closely and found a small bullet vibe tucked into the cotton gusset.

“Uh,” Judy began, but Lark interrupted her.

“Undies go over the garter belt, dear,” she said, and, taking the underwear from her, she held them at the proper angle to allow Judy to step into them. Evelyn reached into her own bag to find her own pair of undies and was delighted to find that hers, too, had a bullet vibe in it. She stepped out of her shoes again to pull the undies up over her stockings and garter belt. Easier access for Steve, she thought, just as Judy said the same thing aloud about her husband. Evey and Judy giggled as they glanced at each other. Their headaches were completely gone and all they felt was a deep, sexual yearning for their husbands.

“How do we turn them on?” Judy asked.

“What, the undies?” Lark asked. Judy and Evey nodded, still giggling. “You don’t turn them on. The remote fobs will be given to your husbands.”

“Oh,” Evey said, “Well, I hope he gets here soon!”

“Oh my God,” Judy said, “so do I! If Adam doesn’t get here soon I’m just going to make you go down on me.”

Evelyn blinked at her friend then smiled lustily at her. “You know I’m always willing to help you out, Judy,” she said.

Judy leaned toward Evey but Lark stepped between them. “Sorry, ladies,” Lark said, “men first, alright?”

Judy and Evelyn drew apart and blushed just the littlest bit, like chastised little girls. “Alright,” they said.

Some movement beyond the storefront windows caught Judy’s eyes. “Oh! It’s Adam’s car! Oh my God!” She took a step toward the store’s doors but caught herself and looked at Lark. “Do we-- should we wait here?”

“I made martinis. They’re on the glass display case by the register,” Lark said. Before she was even done speaking, Evelyn and Judy were rushing toward the drinks. “Carefully carry them to the store entrance,” she called after them, then, to herself, “Darn, I forgot about the white gloves. Master’s going to flog me for that.” She sighed and stepped toward the door, herself, as two middle-aged men in suits entered.

“Mr Adam Delaney and Mr Steve Laurence, I believe,” Lark said.

“Oh, it sure is,” Evelyn breathed. Seeing her husband was enough to make her pussy ache more than it ever had. Judy was struck dumb by the sight of her own husband. It was as if the rest of the world had disappeared.

“Welcome to Paul’s Boutique,” Lark said, shaking the men’s hands. “Ladies, I’m sure your husbands would like their drinks now.”

Virtually simultaneously, Evelyn and Judy stepped forward, each to their respective husband, and held out the glass each one was holding.

When Steve took the martini glass and smiled at Evelyn, she couldn’t help but drop to her knees in a kind of helpless swoon. He smiled at me! She thought to herself, looking up into his delighted face. When he placed his hand gently atop her head she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his leg, helpless in the wake of a small orgasm and the simple pleasure of his touch.

“Thank you, Judy,” Adam said as he took his glass from her.

“Oh, darling,” Judy whispered, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, “I love you so much.”

Lark cleared her throat. “I’m afraid the gift certificate didn’t cover the entire cost of the ladies’ spending spree,” she said, not sounding at all apologetic.

“Not surprising,” Steve said, “considering it was only intended for Evelyn.”

“Oh!” Lark looked surprised and turned to Adam, “I do hope you’re not, um, I mean--”

“No, no,” Adam laughed. Judy, watching him intently, smiled and gave a little giggle, too. “No, I had intended to get Judy a gift certificate next week. She usually likes to go shopping after her hair appointment. But I’m perfectly happy to have had this happen a little earlier.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a slim wallet, opened it to shuffle out a credit card. “Here,” He said, handing it to Lark, “I’ll cover whatever the balance is.”

Lark smiled at Adam and took his card with her to the other side of the countertop.

“The only thing missing are the gloves,” Lark said, “Shall I get a pair for each of the ladies?”

“Yes, please,” Steve said. His fingers combed their way through Evelyn’s hair, who was too blissed out to pay attention to the conversation.

The men sipped their martinis and grinned at each other while Lark disappeared in the back room to search for gloves.

“I told you this place was crazy,” Steve said.

“I honestly didn’t think it would work so well,” Adam said, looking at his wife. Judy continued to stare at him with all the focus of a puppy dog. “Are you looking forward to coming home?” he asked her.

“Oh,” she said, blushing furiously, “Oh, yes I am. I am going to make you the most delicious dinner, my darling. And then, if you let me, I’m going to suck your cock while you eat dinner. I want you to come in my mouth so I can eat it all up for dessert.”

“Oh my God,” Adam said, staring at Judy for a moment before turning to look at Steve. “Did you hear that?!”

Steve nodded and took another sip of his martini before replying. “The only problem is they have to come back here once a month to reinforce their conditioning. That’s going to add up, especially since they have to buy something every time in order to make it look legit. But damned if it isn’t worth it,” he said, looking down at Evelyn, who appeared to be in her own little world.

“Evey,” he said. She opened her eyes and tilted her head back to look up at him. “Evey, how do you feel?”

“Oh, Steve, I feel wonderful. I just want to do whatever you want me to do, lover.” She wanted to invite him into the changing room, or to just invite him to fuck her then and there, but she felt it would be rude and unfeminine to express an opinion without first being asked, so she simply tried to make herself look as inviting as possible, the skirt of the dress flounced around her like a fluffy, psychedelic pool, the plunging neckline leaving little to Steve’s imagination.

“Here we are,” Lark said, carrying a little box under one arm while opening another. “Here,” she said to Judy, taking out a pair of gloves and trying to hand them to Judy. Judy paid her no attention.

“Sweetheart,” Adam said, “the store clerk is trying to assist you.”

“Oh? Oh! Oh, thank you, Lark,” Judy said, finally focusing on something other than her husband. She allowed Lark to put her gloves on for her, watching distractedly as Lark did up the tiny little pearlescent buttons at the wrist of each glove.

“They’re lovely,” Judy said, holding them out for her husband to see. “Don’t you just love this outfit, my darling?”

“Yes, you look fantastic,” Adam said, “Do you like your outfit? It’s not what you usually wear.”

“Hmm?” Judy said, switching from admiring her shoes to admiring her husband. “Oh, no, I can’t imagine wearing anything any less feminine, unless you would like me to, of course. But those shoes and jeans and t-shirts simply must go, if that’s alright with you.”

“Well, maybe you’d like to save a few old items to wear when you clean the house,” Adam suggested.

“Why? Has Amy quit?”

“I’m afraid,” said Adam, “that we’ve no more budget for a house maid. Besides,” he continued, noticing his wife’s slight frown, “I know how much cleaning turns you on. Especially since it makes me so happy to know that you care about the house I’m providing for you.”

Judy’s frown became an ecstatic grin. “Oh, you know I do! Why, I’ve no idea why we had Amy cleaning for us in the first place!”

“That’s my girl,” said Adam, handing her his empty martini glass, “Now why don’t you take this back to the clerk for me.”

“Of course, darling!” Judy said, taking the proffered glass. She turned and walked toward the glass counter, making sure to sashay.

“Holy fuck,” Adam said in a low voice as he watched the green skirt of the dress sway invitingly.

Steve chuckled, his fingers still tangles in Evelyn’s hair, “Worth every penny, I think.”