Fiction: The Leopard

I know you were running from something. Not in the literal sense, but in the sense that something was chasing you, hunting you down, and, in your panic, you didn’t know where you were going.

It took me a while to suspect that, of course, since you slammed yourself into my body in a way that was instantaneous and complete, right down to a cellular level. That was real power. It was hard to conceive that you might have anything to fear from anyone else. But there was the fact that my body held you, and you struggled, like a leopard in a trap, panicked, bloodying us both. It took me a while to see it that way. At the time, I was panicked and bloodied, myself, and thought all that panic and blood was mine.

My memories are confused. I was walking down the sidewalk, on my way to work. It was midnight when the bus arrived, timely as ever, at the stop where I disembark and turn left, walking past the closed magazine kiosk, the closed shops, to the heavy, steel door that only opens with the guards’ keycards.

Only this time I didn’t make it to the door. I remember the magazine stands’ heavy wooden doors, with the racks mounted to the inside, blowing open, and the magazines and newspapers and cigarette papers swirling and combusting and making a sky-bound bonfire, one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

I remember you opening your eyes and I could see through them to the flat screen TV, a leopard bounding after a gazelle, attacking its flank. The sound was off. The machines were clicking and whirring and beeping and you didn’t know where you were. The sounds were too much. You were writhing and speaking a language I didn’t understand and you were so there that I didn’t know I was still in the body that used to belong to me. I thought I was dreaming.

The nurse came in, then left, then the doctor came in with some male nurses, and they held you down and injected you with something and it didn’t help because you threw them all off of yourself and got off the bed and fell down because your body was broken and you didn’t understand what a body was or what broken was or what sound was or what help was and I felt so sorry for you.

You must have gone into shock from the pain because you let them lift you back into the bed. Or maybe whatever was in the needle finally kicked in. But they strapped you down this time.

My girlfriend, Abby, was allowed in at some point. I was so happy to see her. You didn’t recognize her, of course. You flinched when she rushed toward you, her makeup smeared and her eyes red. But she grasped your hand and you didn’t overreact as you had with the medical staff. She would have brought it to her cheek, I think, if your wrists weren’t restrained.

That’s my first memory of understanding that I wasn’t dreaming and that something else, something horrible, was happening. Things were distant, like the way a friend’s voice sounds when you’re speaking through pipes at each other. The sight of her was distant, the feel of her hands on yours, the sound of her voice.

“Oh my God, Mark,” she breathed, “I’m so glad you’re not dead! Oh, sweetie, I don’t know what to say. Your parents will be here soon. They’re driving up from Baltimore. They couldn’t get a flight. How are you feeling?”

“Uh me gad mak,” you growled. Abby drew her face back from yours a small amount, her expression changing from one of relief to one of fear. She looked over her shoulder then back to you.

“Mark? Should I get a nurse?” she asked.

You bared your teeth. In retrospect, that was kind of funny, because you didn’t know what teeth or lips were, of course, and yet you were expressing your emotions and feelings so perfectly with them. It was like you had been infused into the body that used to be mine. You weren’t wearing it like a suit, you were your body, you just didn’t know it yet.

As humans -- any creature with gestational and/or adolescent periods, really -- develop in the womb, and then outside it, they go through repeated periods of integration, linking input with response, cultivating the nervous system first, even before the heart starts beating. And, as children, that is recalibrated and refined through every growth spurt. You, however, having only ever been spirit, had to recalibrate yourself to fit your mind and body. And it was a slow process, infinitely slow compared to how quickly your new body adjusted to you.

Once my parents came and took you home, to my home, I mean, Abby was distant and uncertain and my parents told her they appreciated and loved her but she was by no means beholden to who they thought was me or to helping you learn to act like a normal human being.

I could hear them talking about you. They didn’t talk about things in front of you because, even though you were spouting nonsense, they didn’t want you to know how heartbroken they were, afraid they’d have to spend the rest of their lives caring for you, or else put you in a home, where you might hurt yourself or someone else.

Your body healed more quickly that it should have. I don’t know why. I don’t even understand how the supernatural world works. Is it only energy? Is it like the jump from synapse to synapse, fleeting but, still, lasting? Certainly energy of some sort. An energy that healed the bones and the skin and the sinews in-between. Within a week you were prowling my room, from bed to desk to locked door and back again, searching, learning.

Even though the doctors had found no evidence of brain damage, my parents decided to treat you as though I’d had a terrible stroke. They brought in word cards, children’s sing-along DVD’s. And it worked. You learned. You learned so quickly. And one of the first things you said was,

“My name is not Mark. I am not a sign on paper.”

Abby had moved out of our bedroom, was sleeping on the couch. But, once the burns healed, she snuggled with you, made you and my parents dinner after work. It was painful to feel her hold your hand and then, later, once you seduced her, to feel you penetrate her and to orgasm inside her, to feel that intense sensation like dry silk wafted on a gust of air.

“What is your name, then?” my mother asked. You did not know.

I’m still not certain how angels and spirits came to be named in the Bible and the like. But it no longer surprises me that they all were violently physical. How else can a thing of energy express themselves and their surprise at becoming physically manifest? You smashed nearly everything in my room, just to see and understand the laws of physics. You had no concept of beauty, of treasure, nor of appreciation, only pure confusion and, out of confusion, the single-minded determination to understand.

Before you could fuck my girlfriend, you had to understand that people were different from desk drawers and papers. 

The more I pondered as I watched you, the more it seemed that each spirit must have their own energy signatures. Maybe they never know anyone else exists, each one operating at their own frequency, “Hello, my name is 20 megahertz,” and freaking out if they get cycled up or down and suddenly discover an entire world’s worth of Other.

I was so wrapped up in witnessing your transformation, in watching you devour a chicken wing, bones and all, my parents trying to make you understand that we don’t eat the bones. In watching you learn finesse as you nibbled at the insides of Abby’s thighs before tonguing her clit, making her cum so hard she had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from waking my parents. I had never been able to do that to her. I had my human hangups, whereas you leapt into each learning opportunity, prodded by a powerful mix of desires -- to know, to create, to destroy -- unrestrained by cultural and social concepts.

At first it seemed to me that you were never sad or regretful or unhappy with your situation. But I learned differently once you began to write. You wrote, “Mark, Soree I rip yur payper.” Then you ripped it up and ate it, I think because you knew my parents would have been upset by it.

By that time you were letting my parents call you Mark. By that time, Abby had moved out. I think maybe because you were becoming socialized. Instead of gleefully ignoring boundaries and seizing her as a beloved prize, a complex puzzle, a light that brought joy to your eyes, you now understood that, when dressed and in the company of my parents, it was rude to lift her skirt and push up against her. I think maybe she interpreted it as you choosing my parents over her, but it was simply the next step in the process of recalibrating yourself.

As for me, I was so lonely at first. Watching you was my only distraction from that. But that’s alright. I mean, I chose to believe it was alright because I was so helpless that railing against my captivity, my marginalization, would only have left me broken and mad.

I chose to believe I had recovered from the shock of losing my body and was experimenting, myself, trying to extend beyond the link I had with you. I wasn’t getting very far at all. I felt like a ball of baitfish, tracing around myself. There were no clues about how to use myself, the energy of which I was composed, because there was nothing to push against, nothing to break apart, and no one to help me. If I hadn’t been so in awe of you, if I hadn’t been rooting for your success, I would have been jealous that you had my parents there to help you, while I had no one.

Nothing I tried was successful. I finally admitted to myself that I was stuck with you, a vestigial thing, until the flesh died and we were free. I started feeling detached and found something of a comfort in that, like watching a movie.

My parents moved you into their home. You went willingly. They sublet the apartment, had a professional mover come and take away all the things you hadn’t broken, a professional cleaner took away all the things you had broken. The only thing that was really yours, since they were making all the decisions, was the journal and pencil they’d given you. They were polite, they didn’t read what you wrote. If they had, I think they would have had you committed.

“I never imagind this,” you wrote, “a plase beyond myself, with lif that is not my lif. It is butiful. I am gratful.”

I could have written that, myself. You were beautiful.

Not long after my parents moved you to their house, to the room I’d grown up in, my mom took you to an appointment at the hospital. You had been interested in death and you asked her if you could visit the morgue while you were there. She was obviously uncomfortable but she was trusting you more and more as time went on and now she was letting you make a lot of decisions and there were so many things you wanted to explore: the zoo, the police station, the mall; everything you saw on TV or read about you wanted to visit. So she made an appointment to visit the morgue, after your physical.

The physical exam was boring. They didn’t discover me, of course, and all the other damage that had been done had healed. The doctor kept saying it was inexplicable, marvelous, miraculous. My mom just smiled and nodded and added that you were recovering mentally and emotionally as well.

The morgue was cold and bare. There were two cadavers there, both female. The mortician was kind and answered almost all your questions about death as best he could. You asked if you could touch the bodies. He said yes. You touched the prettiest one first.

Looking back, I think I was sucked down through the nerves. That, if I ever existed as something physical, even as simple as a collection of electrons, I must have existed in your nervous system. Through the nerves and then through the pores of your skin, perhaps, and into the nervous system of the cadaver and then my senses were flooded with input: the sound of my mother gasping, the sight of the fluorescent lights above, the feel of your skin against mine, the cold stainless steel at my back, the sharp smells of chemicals.

“My God!” yelped the mortician.

“Mom?” I said. My voice was hoarse, my throat dry. I coughed and rolled over on my side. I heard clattering noises, mortician instruments falling to the floor. Then a blanket was folded over me. I started to shiver uncontrollably.

“Stand out of the way when the EMT’s get here,” I heard the mortician say.

“What did you do?” my mom asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Not you,” she said.

“I am --” I realized there wasn’t any point in talking. I began to cry.

When the EMT’s came I asked them what my name was. They didn’t answer, just said they’d take me someplace warm and a doctor would look me over. They asked if I hurt and I realized I did.

“My stomach,” I said.

They put a mask over my face and I fell asleep.

The same nature channel show was on when I woke up, with the leopard and the gazelle locked in a bloody embrace, surrounded by sand and parched grass and shrubs that looked dead or dying.

I turned my eyes from the TV to find you looking at me.

“You’re Mark,” you said.

“So are you,” I said.

We grinned at each other then.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“From myself,” you say, “That’s as best as I can put it. I was just me for a very long time, I think. Then there was something there with me, something that wanted to eat me, though I wouldn’t have described it that way then. I can describe it that way now because I know what it is to eat.”

You looked expectant so I nodded to let you know I understood.

“It was like waking up,” you said, “Like having a nightmare and realizing you’re having a nightmare, you see, and waking up in order to escape the nightmare. Only instead of waking up and being alone again, I wake up in your body.”

“It’s not mine anymore,” I say.

“You don’t want it back?” you ask.

I shake my head. I’m admiring you the way I used to admire you when you looked in the mirror over the sink. You make your body look so real, so immediate, in a way I never could.

“I wanted to apologize,” you say, sounding urgent, “I made a huge mess --”

“I know,” I interrupt, “I saw it all. I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“No. No, I’m not. I’m,” I pause, look down at my hands, my slender fingers. The two last fingers on the left hand are in a splint. I forget what I was going to say. I push the sheet down my torso to reveal a neatly-stitched incision. I feel the incision with my right hand. I feel the recovery happening on a deep level, beyond even the cells and past the molecules and into the atoms, into the electrons and neutrons and protons. At last I have something to push against, something to anchor me, something to swing around and around. It is singing this beautiful song, an aria made of trillions of voices, sweeping me up in emotion.

“Why are you crying,” you ask.

“I’m so grateful,” I sob, “Just like you.”

And you reach out and touch my hand and there’s this feedback, but nice, comfortable. The opposite of cancellation, like we’re even more powerful together than apart.

“Can you feel that?” I whisper. You nod. I’m feeling your touch on my hand but I’m feeling it everywhere. You unwrap the splint. My fingers are whole and healed. With the other hand I try to pluck out the stitches before they’re embedded in whole flesh but I’m not fast enough and I have to resort to acting on the molecular level to get them out, but I can get them out.

You are unfazed. You probably think everyone can do this sort of thing. You don’t know what your power has done to me, but I know. I know I now have the same power. I have had such a long time to think about what I would do with it, and now I am a leopard, too.

Non-Fiction: Dimorphous Expression & BDSM

I like to say that the best tool in the bondage-discipline-dominant/submissive-sadism-masochism (BDSM) toolkit is communication but it may be that, even more useful, is self-awareness. It's hard to communicate what we're feeling or thinking, what we want or don't want, when we don't know what it is in the first place. The more we understand about our bodies, emotions and needs, the easier it is to communicate, and the more fun we'll have.

Sometimes the path to discovery is experimentation, by onesself and with others. Sometimes it's reading and research. Sometimes it's meditation. Self-awareness is mostly, I think, being aware of our reactions to world around us, aware of why we react the way we do, and willing to objectively judge and change those reactions.

One very human and common reaction, to cute things, to scary things, to anything that elicits a strong emotional response, is called dimorphous expression. It's having the opposite physical reaction to a strong emotional response and it's considered an appropriate physical mechanism to help us keep our emotional equilibrium. It's why people want to bite cute babies. It's why people cry tears of joy. It might also be one of the most basic reasons (though probably not the biggest reason) BDSM exists.

BDSM is a catch-all collection of letters signifying the parsing and codification of the physical and mental extremes of experimenting and playing with our own bodies and each other's. For some people, it's very serious and very central to their lives. For others, it's something that happens in the bedroom every once in a while to spice things up. But for either end of the spectrum, and for all of us in-between, the mixture of pleasure and pain often does elicit dimorphous expressions: laughter during a flogging, tears or laughter during orgasm, biting in the throes of passion, spanking coupled with arousal.

While it's quite possible that a lot of people find themselves in BDSM-style relationships because they have strong emotions, those that engage in activities that fall under the BDSM umbrella also have more opportunities to use scenes and relationships to balance themselves, emotionally. In some ways, forcing simultaneous extreme opposite reactions is akin to a hard-reset button. Whether we have emotional issues or are emotionally stable, we can benefit from pushing that button from time to time in a safe, sane, and consensual manner. And I'm hard-pressed to think of a more fun way to do so.

So don't wait for the next wedding to shed tears of joy, and don't nibble on random strangers' cute babies; next time you need to reset your emotional equilibrium, try BDSM.

Warmly,
Ms Myrrh

Non-Fiction: Nothing Says "I Love You" Like Anal Sex

A few weeks ago on Tumblr I came across a simple meme of white letters on a black background:

"nothing says I love you like anal sex"

It gave me pause. I mean, I'm sure it was meant as a light-hearted bit of humor in the world of Tumblr porn. I snickered when I saw it. But then, because I always overthink things, I had to ask myself, "Why? What does this mean, exactly?"

Because of course people who do not love each other can have anal sex.

And of course, even if people love each other, there are other ways to say or indicate they do.

But then I thought, "Well, I do like anal sex, and I do love Mr Myrrh. So I'll go with it; I'll think about the ways in which having anal sex is a unique indication that someone loves you."

And this is what I came up with:

Nothing says "I love you" like anal sex because anal sex is weirdly intimate and upside-down, at least for American hetero-normative couples.*

In general, asking for it isn't just "fuck me," it's "fuck me dirty." The concept of anal sex being wrong or unacceptable is gradually losing ground, thank goodness. We can all celebrate our bodies, the absolute fucking-fantastic gift of having a body and being alive and being sexual creatures, in whatever way we please.

Just like any other kind of sex, it only takes a little effort to ensure that we engage in it safely. So the social taboo is dissolving in a sea of lube and education. But it's still the asshole, and santorum does happen on occasion, and sometimes the memory, at least, of it having been a taboo can heighten the anticipation and pleasure of the act, at least compared to the comfort and "safety"** of vaginal sex. For hetero-normative couples, actively and enthusiastically engaging in anal sex really can be a signal that they love each other and trust each other, because they feel they are breaking through a taboo together.

For the receiver, it lends itself to a specific kind of pleasure. It takes advantage of neural wiring that finds pleasure in a bowel movement and turns it into pleasure from invasion. It takes advantage of the fact that all those nerves down there are packed close together, of the fact that the flesh shifting in one part of the body pulls at and stimulates the other parts, so that the receiver feels that invasion in their pussy and clit, or their prostate and dick. It can feel more intimate -- and therefore more like an expression of love -- simply because it feels more intense.

The giver, on the other hand, is given the gift of exploring and invading a part of the body that is very tight, delicate and easier to hurt than just about any other part of the body. It's a gift of trust. Nothing says "I love you" like taking advantage of that kind of gift in a way that provides intense pleasure for both people.

So, yeah, anal sex can be a unique statement of love. So can any other type of sex. It can also be a unique statement of hormonally-based urges. I'm not going to judge. It can be a pretty awesome experience either way.

Warmly,

Ms Myrrh

* See, this is my problem, I very quickly get down to where the statement, presented as a universal fact, breaks down and I see its limitations. For a moment there I wanted to go all the way back to exploring the question of what "love" is. I want to write hot, sexy sex-stuff but then I find myself qualifying and being inclusive and clear and then it's totally not hot.

** The idea that vaginal sex is "safer" is a story we tell ourselves, as a society, about sex. "Safer" for whom, exactly? It's one of the stories we need to dismantle if we really want to liberate ourselves.

Hypnosis Script: Cleaning = Submission = Horny, Happy & Energized

Notes: Here's a script I wrote for Mr Myrrh to use on me to make cleaning the house more fun (and more likely to occur). I've removed the induction from the beginning, as that's personal to me. Feel free to modify it and use it.

---

You are so safe here. You find it easy to put aside any concerns. Stress and worry disappear like evaporating water, and you feel light and clean. This safe place is where I can tell you what to do, how to feel, and your mind will understand that it’s the absolute truth. You are so submissive, so willing and eager to obey me, and hearing my voice while you’re in such a deep trance makes you feel more submissive. Your entrancement is so deep, so complete, you can move and get comfortable if you need to, without coming out of your trance.

I’m so glad you find it so easy to listen to me and to accept what I say as true. I’m going to do something wonderful to you. Something we’ve already agreed on. I’m going to give you the gift of submission to me even when I’m not with you. You can express that submission, and increase your feelings of submissiveness.

Do you want to express your submission to me, even when I’m not with you?

Good girl. I’m so pleased to hear you say that.

Here’s how you’ll express your submission to me.

On any day that I’m at work, after you’ve met your writing quota, you will find yourself wanting to clean a room in the house, any room you haven’t cleaned the day before, whichever room needs it most. As you clean, you will find yourself falling into a submissive state of mind, thinking about me, how you love it when I dominate you, how you love to serve me. And thinking about that as you clean, you will find yourself feeling horny, happy, and energetic. There will be plenty of energy to finish your cleaning and to do whatever else you want to do once you’re done cleaning.

It pleases me that you want to clean the house. That you’re so submissive to me that you would choose to clean the house. Cleaning the house is your idea but it’s something you want to do because you know how much I’ll appreciate it, because you know how submissive you’ll feel; how horny, happy, and energetic.

Knowing your urge to clean will come once you’ve met your writing quota makes it easy to remember when to clean. It doesn’t have to happen on days when you’ve planned to be out and about. The suggestion to clean only becomes strong and irresistible on days when cleaning falls nicely after writing in the morning and doesn’t interfere with other, planned activities. So there’s only anticipation, when it comes to cleaning: the knowledge that I’ll be pleased, that your submissive feelings will be strong and wonderful, that you’ll feel horny, happy and energetic. Full of energy to do whatever you want once your cleaning tasks are done.

Once the room you’ve chosen is clean -- the clutter cleared, surfaces wiped clean, the floor swept and even mopped if it needs it -- you will know you’re such a good girl, that you’ve served me so well and made me so happy. You will know your submissiveness makes me happy and that I’m pleased by your efforts to serve me.

Do you want to clean for me, my submissive?

Good girl. And you’ll feel so good when you do: so submissive, so horny, happy and energetic.

Do you want to feel horny, happy and energetic when you clean for me?

Good girl. I knew you’d listen closely and you’d obey my suggestions. You and I both know these suggestions are deeply rooted in your subconscious. They’re unavoidable and, in fact, you embrace them. You and I both know how much you want to submit to me, all the time; how happy, eager, horny and submissive you are, how much serving me turns you on. It’s so easy for the suggestion that cleaning equals submitting to sink into your mind because it’s something you want. It’s so easy for the suggestion that cleaning equals horniness, happiness and energy to take root because that’s what submitting does to you and, when you’re cleaning, you’re submitting to me.

Do you want to repeat that with me?

Good. Then repeat after me:

-- cleaning equals submitting

-- when I’m cleaning, I’m submitting to you

-- when I’m cleaning, I’m rewarded with submissive feelings

-- when I’m cleaning, I’m rewarded with feelings of happiness and horniness

-- when I’m cleaning, I’m filled with energy

Good girl. You are such a good hypnosis subject: so willing to be entranced, so open to my suggestions, so good at listening and letting those suggestions become your reality. I’m looking forward to seeing this new sign of your submission to me and I know you are, too.

But, now, it’s almost time to come out of your trance. Leave cares and concerns behind and bring back with you the suggestions about cleaning. In a moment I’m going to count to five. When I get to five you will be awake, refreshed, and happy.

One -- with every breath you are happier and rising toward being fully awake

Two -- with every number I count you are feeling more and more refreshed

Three -- the light is coming closer as you rise toward being full awake

Four -- almost there

Five -- awake, refreshed, and happy

Meta: What's Next?

"Ray's Honey Pots" is slated for e-publishing in a few weeks. I'll share more info when I have it. First I need to find a publisher for it. No, first I need to collect it all into one document, do some edits, make sure it meets minimum requirements for a novel(la), have a few beta readers give me some input, etc. Then work on a book cover (which I'm looking forward to, I love playing with Photoshop). All that to say, I'm hoping to make it my first commercially-available book, then do a series of short stories with Rebecca, Lucy and Rowan as central characters.

I want to write another series in parallel -- which would be mostly MF/MD, BDSM, with some erotic hypnosis -- but I'm not going to say more, as I'm still working towards finding the daily word count I can reasonably expect of myself and, from there, finding the publishing goals I can reasonably meet without freaking out.

Tomorrow's blog post will be a hypnosis script I wrote for Mr Myrrh to use on me. It's really sexy, I think. Very strong on the D/s theme. I cannot stress strongly enough that it's between two consenting adults and should not be used in a non-consensual manner. Well, it's not really written in such a way that it could be used non-consensually without some heavy re-writing that would make it a completely different script, altogether, so maybe that's less of an issue than I think it might be.

The last thing I wanted to share was how pleased I am with the number of visitors to the blog. I hope you're enjoying reading it as much as I'm enjoying sharing it. It's probably difficult to share a blog like this with friends but, if you like it, please spread the word.  There are people out there who need thoughtful smut.

Warmly,
Ms Myrrh

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Thirty

What I really want to do is put my foot on Lucy's cheek and hold her down so she can stare at my pussy all day, but the rest of her body is crouched uncomfortably over the bed and, anyway, Rowan will be back soon. The sooner the better, if talking to her really does mean I can finally head off into the sunset with Lucy.

I should have known, though, that it wouldn't be that easy.

After I've released Lucy's head from under my hands, I half-pull, half-yell at her to get into bed with me, her hips and legs between mine, her head on my shoulder. She pulls the sheet and blanket over us. I stroke her hair and lean my cheek against her forehead.

After a few minutes of silence and warmth, I use my free hand to find the call button and press it. Almost immediately, a different nurse comes in. A male this time. He doesn't look surprised to see us snuggling, just asks what we need.

"I'm ready to speak with Mrs Smith now, if she's available," I say in my most professional voice. He nods and disappears.

"What was it like, getting deprogrammed?" I ask Lucy while we wait. She's quiet for a long time.

"I don't want to talk about that, to be honest," she says finally. I kiss her forehead. I'm sympathetic. Having been under the relatively benign control of Rowan, via the Loop, I can understand not wanting to think about having been mind-controlled to be a sex slave and then having to face that slavery once you're free. I can also understand wanting to take advantage of finally being able to keep some things to yourself.

By the time Rowan comes into the room, Lucy's fallen asleep. I've been enjoying listening to her breathing but too full of thoughts, myself, to do anything but sit and worry.

Rowan looks fine, well-rested. She's wearing a suit and her hair is up in a bun rather than the braid I've come to expect.

She smiles at me. I smile back. Whatever happens next, I feel we've come to a personal understanding of each other. What happens next won't be personal, though, but professional.

"I'm going to guess you rescued Ben while I was incapacitated," I say. Lucy wakes at the sound of my voice, looks at Rowan before snuggling in a little more and closing her eyes again.

Rowan nods, says, "My office contacted their office and did the whole bureaucratic, 'We won't tell Congress that your men were running a mind-controlled sex slave ring right under your noses if you return one of our men to us' negotiation."

"That's a common negotiation strategy?"

"Yep. And I've got another common negotiation strategy for you."

"The same one they used to rope you in, I'm guessing."

Her eyes widen slightly but her smile turns into a grin.

"Smart woman," she says, "The FBI could use more smart women like you."

"What's the FBI pay rate for smart women these days?"

"About seven-tenths of the going rate for smart men. Less if you're black or latino."

"Sounds kinda racist and sexist."

"Maybe we need more smart women of color in the FBI to change things from within."

"Maybe we need more smart women of color coming in and shooting things up."

"Maybe," she says, nodding her head.

"Let me guess the terms," I say, "All my past sins are forgiven, as long as I promise to continue to sin on behalf of my government. Benefits include a new name, a new home, health coverage for myself and my spouse, and a cat."

"A cat?"

"Lucy needs a cat."

"I see."

"And we need to be relocated to state that recognizes same-sex marriage."

"No you don't," she says. I arch an eyebrow. "Just have a destination wedding at the state of your choice and the federal government will recognize it," she explains.

"Fuck that. What if I end up at a hospital and they don't let Lucy in to see me because we're in a state that doesn't recognize the certificate?"

"What's your preference, if you end up on life support?" Lucy murmurs.

"Pull the plug," I say.

"You don't get a choice in relocation," Rowan says, trying to regain control of the conversation, "But I have a choice in who I work with. You're with me on the next assignment."

"I haven't even said yes yet," I protest.

"Say yes," Lucy whispers.

"Fuck you and fuck Rowan and fuck the Loop," I explode. I'm not ready to give in to the fact that I've been roped into working for the FBI, even though I saw it coming.

Rowan clears her throat before saying, "About the Loop -- part of the reason I had them keep you knocked out for so long was to give the Loop a chance to wear off. If you take the FBI's offer, it'll be of your own free will."

"There's no such thing as free will," I growl, but I feel less angry, more grateful and, I realize, I feel more loyal to Rowan.

"What's your next assignment," I ask.

"I can't tell you until you've accepted the offer," Rowan replies, looking hopeful.

"Fine. Give us time for our destination wedding thing."

"No."

"What? Come on, Rowan! Ugh!" I look around for something to throw and spy the paperbacks. I throw book after book in Rowan's general direction. Lucy's laughing. Rowan just takes two steps to her left and continues to stand, calm, cool, and collected.

"Like I said, I'm using the same negotiation strategy on you that they used on me."

"I need to see it all on paper," I grumble.

Rowan pulls a smart phone out of her suit pocket and thumbs at it for a moment. A young, male aide appears, hands her two folders, and disappears back into the hall. Rowan moves forward to hand me one of them, the thicker one.

"Standard legalese; basically says, 'work for us on our terms or you're totally fucked.'"

I leaf through the papers, say, "Yeah, whatever. I just want to know what the actual terms are so I can plan ahead."

Rowan snickers. I look up at her, confused for a moment, before smiling at the irony, myself.

"Today is Wednesday," she says, "Debriefing on the current assignment is set for Monday." She hands me the second, slimmer folder. "Top secret. Don't share with Lucy, or her cat, once she gets one. Between now and Monday office staff will contact you about relocation. A moving company has been hired to retrieve your belongings from your apartment. Don't go back there, yourself. We haven't quite finished our typical negotiation strategy with the local law enforcement agencies."

She stands there another moment. Our eyes meet. It's the first time I can admit to myself that I want her as my alpha, as my boss. I want to work not just with her but for her; she's obviously someone I can learn from.

I clear my throat and ask, "How are the kids?"

"Still totally freaked out," Rowan admits, "Though the average person wouldn't know it. Right now they're helping Ben start packing our stuff." She pauses before adding, "I can't wait to get out of that house and leave all that country decor behind."

"Wait," I say, "The rustic farmhouse look was part of your cover?"

"I was deep undercover, sweetie," she drawls, looking amused.

"Oh, thank God," I say, "I didn't think I could work for--"

"What do you have against country decor?" Lucy interrupts.

"Did you just interrupt me, cunt?" I ask, disbelieving.

"Did you just call her 'cunt?'" Rowan asks.

We all glare at each other in silence. The knock at the door seems impossibly loud. It makes Lucy jump.

"Enter," Rowan says, her eyes still narrowed on mine. I simultaneously want to explain myself and tell her to fuck out of my private life.

"Sorry to interrupt," the male nurse says, "But I need to check the IV and the meds."

Rowan breaks eye contact to nod at the nurse. She moves toward the door saying, "We'll talk about this later. I'll see you on Monday."

The nurse does his thing then disappears. The pain meds do their thing. I do my thing: brain slowing down, eyelids heavy. The last thing I hear is Lucy whispering, "I am your cunt, your toy, your slave. I love you, Rebecca." And I'm pretty sure it's her words, not the drugs, that make me happy.

-- The End --

Fiction: Ray's Honey Pots, Part Twenty-Nine

"Listen," Lucy says, "Out of the hundreds of people, men and women, I serviced while I was a honey pot, you were the one who best fit my preferences from before I was abducted. Before, when I was free, I was never brave enough to admit those desires to anyone. When you chose me -- every time you chose me -- I felt closer to my former self, in a way that made me feel safe and happy, not sad, not longing for freedom. The two parts of myself -- the before and the after -- were sort of layered, added together, when I was with you. Being with you was the highlight of my life, whichever part of my life I look at."

I can't look at her. Tears are leaking from my eyes. I turn away from her and look at the IV cord, instead, but even that is transformed into something lovely through the force and meaning of Lucy's words.

"I want you," she breathes, "More than I want to recreate my old life. I want what you give me: a purpose, a focus, all the sensations you make me feel when you take what you want from me." She pauses. I'm listening to her with every cell of my body.

"And after," she says, "You know how to take care of me after. You undo my braid and wrap me in your arms and you actually ask me if I'm okay, if I need anything, if I'm afraid or happy. No one else ever has -- not a girlfriend from before, not a client from Ray's. I don't need to go through a hundred more girlfriends to know that I've found the woman I want to be with."

She's silent again. I wipe my eyes with the stupid puppies and kittens fabric before I turn to face her. Her face is streaked with tears, too. It's beautiful. She's beautiful.

"If you stay with me," I say, my voice low and rough, "You won't be free. You'll be mine. My slave."

Lucy slowly slides off the chair and onto the floor again, with a grace and serious intention that takes my breath away.

"Make me your slave," she says, her eyes meeting mine. Her gaze is unwavering. "Please, Rebecca. I don't want anything more than that."

I let go of her hand so I can grab her hair at the base of her braid. I use it to pull her up and toward me. I sink into the sensation of the crush of her lips against mine. 

I pull her face away from mine long enough to whisper, "You are my slave, Lucy, and I'm going to do whatever I want to you, whenever I want. You're going to serve me, adore me, worship me."

She whimpers into the next kiss. The whimper becomes a moan. She holds onto my forearm with one hand, presses against my opposite shoulder with the other. The kisses last forever, their warmth spreading the length and breadth of my body.

Lucy pauses when the door to the room opens, but I hold her lips against mine, I keep kissing her until she starts matching me again, kiss for kiss. Fuck everyone else, I'm taking what I want.

"Ahem," I hear. I ignore whoever it is.

"Rebecca, do you have a moment?"

I recognize that voice. With my free hand, I flip Rowan off.

"Come back later," I mumble around the kisses, "unless you want to watch."

After a moment I hear the door close again. I have the feeling that, for a split-second there, she actually might have wanted to stay.

Lucy starts to stroke my arm gently, then moves her hand down to massage my breast through the modesty gown. The paper-like fabric rustles and scratches. I don't like it. I growl and push her away. She looks worried.

"Fuck this paper shit," I say, "and fuck this hospital bed." I sit up and pull the gown off my shoulders, pushing it down to gather around my waist before I pull it off and wad it up. I throw it across the room, which isn't very far; the room is small.

"When can I get out of here?" I ask, more to myself than to Lucy.

"Probably after you talk to Rowan," she says in an amused voice. I look at her. She stares back at me. Her eyes, her whole stance, is smoldering, melting. I just need to give the command and she'll pour that heat all over me.

"I like the new you," I growl, "Come here."

She does. We maintain eye contact.

As soon as she's within reach I grab her wrist and pull her closer. There are so many things I want to do to her. I think about my leg. I'm annoyed that I have to be responsible and thoughtful.

I keep one hand on her wrist and, with the other, I reach up to press my palm against her trachea, wrap my fingers around the delicate skin of her throat. I feel her pulse. I'm thrilled that I get to keep her, that I get to make the rules rather than accept Ray's programming for her. But there is one thing she always did that I want to continue.

"Eyes down," I murmur. She lowers her gaze. Her body language shifts ever so slightly, increasing in its submissiveness, in its offer to yield, to succumb.

"My slave keeps her eyes down, at the floor or at my feet, where she belongs. She needs to be invited to look into my eyes."

"Yes, ma'am" she says.

"No, not 'ma'am." Try 'darling,' or 'lover,' or 'light of my life," I say, a  wry smile on my face.

"Yes, darling," she says. She's trying to be serious, but she can't. She grins, says, "Yes, lover. Yes, light of my life." Each endearment is a pleasurable spike to my clit, enhanced by that smile of hers.

"Perfect. If only there was enough time in the day to hear you say all three every time you speak."

I grip her throat more tightly, pull her down toward me, to smash her face against my chest, between my breasts. I run my hand and fingers around to hold the back of her neck.

"And I will call you 'slave,' 'toy,' 'cunt,' 'beloved.' What do you think of that?"

"I want to be called all those things," she whispers into my skin. Her hands rest lightly on my stomach, palms up, surrendering.

With my free hand and uninjured leg, I push and kick the sheet and blanket off of me. My hand on the back of Lucy's neck guides her face down my stomach, toward my mons.

"My beloved slave, I'm going to use you like the cunt you are, care for you like I would any priceless toy."

Lucy moans at my words. My pussy is salivating, eager to be touched, licked, massaged and penetrated. Once I've got her torso past my knee I pull my good leg up and out of her way, draping it over her back.

"Worship me," I say, "Worship the woman who owns you."

And she does. Her whole body trembles as she buries her face in my crotch. For a moment she doesn't breathe, she just holds still, letting my flesh cover and envelope her. She draws back ever so slightly and breathes in deeply. I let go of her neck and wrist, run both hands lightly across her shoulders, tracing an invisible pattern.

"Oh darling, I love the feel of you, the smell of you, the taste," she whispers. She sounds urgent, needy. She dives back in with her whole face, her chin against the mattress, her eyebrows lost in the fur of my sex. Her lips and nose press against the folds of my labia, drenched, I'm sure, in my excitement.

I feel her tongue as it parts my lips and slips in with a light, gentle touch. Then she flattens her tongue, pulls it out and presses flat against my entrance. I close my eyes and imagine what that must look like, with my labia curled and crowding around her tongue like a picture frame.

We both moan as she takes another breath and another dive. She slides her hands down, one takes up position just above the cleft in my mons, bearing down slightly behind my clit. With the other, she lifts and separates the lips with little pinches and pulls, then uses her fingers to rub and push gently down at the entrance to my vagina, along the perineum, slowly stretching me open.

"Oh, my sweet, cunning toy," I breathe, "you know what I like, don't you, my little cunt."

It feels incredible. My whole body responds, the sensitivity of my skin radiating outward from the pressure of her fingers. She licks my clit from below, presses down on it from above, maintains a slow, easy rhythm. I can hardly stand it. My hips start rocking, matching her rhythm.

"Ungh! Oh fuck!"

Lucy moans into my pussy, speeds up in response to my words.

I want to relax into the sensations and let them flow through me but it feels so fucking good; everything tenses up and the pleasure contained in the muscles and the blood and the skin at Lucy's mercy explodes into a hard, sharp orgasm. I scream it out, digging my nails into her shoulders, grinding my pussy into her face. I feel Lucy whimper and groan in empathy.

Everything is still and quiet for a moment as I come down from the orgasm.

I draw my nails up from her shoulders to her hair, roll her head back and to the side, push down on it so she's trapped between the mattress and my hands, with a view of my pussy. Her eyes are closed. She looks perfectly content to be wherever I put her.

"Open you eyes," I whisper, "Look at the pussy you just pleased."

Lucy opens her eyes and looks. I watch her as she looks, and an aftershock of pleasure rolls through me at the sight of her submission and adoration.