Fiction: Another Excerpt From "King of Ramona"

Notes: MF, MD, incest, mind control. Excerpt from a commissioned story. If you'd like to commission a story e-mail me: msmyrrh@gmail.com

* * * *

Eric was grinding his way through that night’s homework when he heard his sister again. At first he was irritated, distracted from parsing biblical passages for his Bible as Literature class. Then, as the sounds grew louder and somehow oozier, he found his free hand cupping his balls and his hardening member.

What if, he thought, hardly daring to admit it to himself, what if the spell for equality has brought Ramona down to my level of intelligence, instead of raising mine to equal hers?

The thought was distressing for a moment but, ultimately, so fucking hot. He was a typical teenage boy, ruled by his hormones and only a little more stupid than average, according to the SATs. It was hard to imagine his sister that horny and nearly impossible to imagine her that stupid, considering she’d gotten the highest possible scores on the SAT. The idea he had ruined his sister’s future by casting a spell made his hard-on rigid to the point of being painful. Eric unzipped his jeans and stroked himself in time to his sister’s moans and groans. Soon enough, they were both coming hard, each in their own rooms, for entirely different reasons.

* * * *

Eric came straight home after school. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and couldn’t focus in class; his every thought was about Ramona and what he had done to her. Some of his fantasies were about casting another spell to undo the first one, but most of them were about taking advantage of her new state in some way, whether it was taunting her mercilessly about how stupid she was or making her beg him to fuck her, or both.

He heard her moans before he even opened the front door. He locked the door behind himself, though their parents weren’t due home for hours.

He found his sister on the couch, skirt up and panties around her ankles, masturbating. He circled the couch until he could see her snatch between her wide-open legs.

“Oh, Eric,” Ramona moaned, “I’m just so -- oh! -- oh! -- oh! Here it comes! -- Oh yeah! -- Oh yessss!” Eric couldn’t believe his eyes. His dick was instantly hard, but all he could do was watch as she came.

“Mmmm,” she breathed, resting a moment, “Much better. Now maybe I can focus on my programming homework.” Her whole demeanor, from the lack of embarrassment that he was there, watching, to the brisk and sensible mop-up of the wet spot with her undies, froze Eric with indecision. She was innocent and oversexed at the same time; it wasn’t like anything he’d seen in porn.

His hard-on did the thinking for him and he found himself saying,  “Do you need any help with that?”

Ramona paused from pulling up her ruined undies and rolled her eyes.

“With what? Programming? Like you’d be any help.”

“No, I meant the orgasms.”

“The what?” she asked, snapping the elastic of her undies around her waist.

“You know, when you said ‘much better?’ That kind of big release that felt really good? That’s called an orgasm.”

Eric had her full attention, now.

“Really? That’s what it’s called?”

Eric nodded.

“Well,” she said, in a matter-of-fact voice, “looks like we’ve finally found something you know about and I don’t. What can you tell me about orgasms?” Eric looked at her with suspicion. He had expected more mocking. How could she not know about orgasms? In the face of abstinence-only education at their Christian school, hadn’t she done what he’d done: surfed the internet to learn about sex?

Ramona saw the way his eyes narrowed and she stepped back, said, “Eric, I’m serious. I really need your help. None of my study buddies would come home with me today because Brad told them I was a Jezebel! I need to get these crazy feelings,” she grabbed her hair at the roots with both hands and scrunched her face, “-- these cravings, really -- under control, but I need to do it without violating my purity promise. If you know about orgasms, maybe you know of a way to do that?” She let go of her hair and looked at him with puppy-dog eyes.

“Oh,” said Eric, believing her now, and ready to take advantage of her innocence, “I know all about that sort of thing. Let’s go up to my room and I’ll tell you about it.”

He let her go first up the stairs so he could admire her tight little ass. He was tempted to force himself on her but the real kind of revenge he wanted -- revenge for her contempt, her constant faux-mothering, her intelligence and her beauty -- would be best strung out, savored. He wasn’t sure he was up to the challenge of taking things slowly.

Once they were in his room and he’d locked the door, Eric said, “Why don’t you take off the rest of your clothes, Ramona, so I can teach you about your body.”

Ramona looked uncertain.

“Trust me, sis, I’m only doing this to help you.”

Ramona took off her undies and skirt, then her cotton, button-down top, then her bra. Eric couldn’t remember the last time he’d see her nude. Probably not since they were last in diapers, he thought, considering how conservative their parents were.

The view of his sister’s virginal flesh almost made him come in his pants. It took a few moment before he could speak.

“I’m sure you know that keeping your virginity means no penis in your vagina,” he said, “but there are so many other places a penis will fit and you should totally have fun with it.”

“Oh,” said Ramona, looking excited but worried, “Penises are,” she paused, bit her lip, looked at the floor, “I mean, they’re something I don’t know about.”

“It’s okay, sis,” Eric said, feeling a little sorry for her, “If you’re not ready for penises, there are always a boy’s fingers. They can make you feel really good. Even better than using your own fingers. That’s why it’s a bad idea to masturbate; you should have help instead of doing it all by yourself. But, really, God only cares about penis-in-vagina sex, otherwise He would have put hymens in every hole.”

“But I thought the whole point of a purity pledge was to promise to think and do things other than share my body with a man until I was married!” Ramona protested. Her eyes were wide with conflicted feelings.

“My understanding of it is that you can think about and do all these other things in order to keep from having penis-in-vagina sex until you’re married.”

Relief flooded Ramona’s face. She was already so horny again, even though she’d masturbated herself to orgasm mere minutes ago.

“Oh, Eric, thank you. I’ve felt a little bad about masturbating even though it’s made it easier to focus. I-- I want to do some of these other things. Can you show them to me?”

“Yeah. Get on my bed and I’ll show you what we can do with fingers.”

Ramona looked at Eric’s unkempt bed, then back at her brother.

“Can we, I mean, do you mind if we use my bed instead?”

“Of course we can, sis.”

She opened the door and walked out into the hall without bothering to put on clothes. Eric felt a moment of frisson at the possibility they might be caught together, even though it would still be another hour and a half or so before their parents got home from work.

Once in Ramona’s bedroom she lay on her back on her tidy, pink bedspread and waited, biting her lower lip, for Eric to teach her.

Eric sat on the edge of her bed and looked at her naked form for a minute. He was aching with need but he decided he’d at least respect her limits, even if he was willing to take advantage of the changes the spell had wrought in her.

Her skin was creamy white, almost flawless, with just the right amount of moles to add a little variety. She curved in all the right places, without being too skinny or too fat. Her ribs appeared and disappeared as she breathed. Her tiny, innie belly-button was adorable. Her nipples were small, hard, the areole sparsely fringed with pale, delicate hairs.

Eric started with those, rubbing one nipple with the lightest pressure, then the other, then gently pinching them. Each touch made Ramona moan and shift. Her hands twitched as they lay by her side.

“Ah,” she gasped, “Oh.”

“Sounds like you like that,” Eric said, putting his hands on his thighs.

“Oh, yes,” Ramona moaned, “Please don’t stop.” The way she shifted, restless on the bed, was so erotic.

“Maybe you could use your hands on me,” Eric suggested.

“Um,” Ramona said, her voice uncertain.

Eric traced a finger around the nipple closest to himself, then drew it down her tummy to rest slightly above her clit.

“I’m going to need some help, myself,” he said, “If I’m going to be able to focus on helping you. And then your hands will have something to do. Anyway, it would be bad if I had to masturbate, right?”

“Oh, okay.”

Eric stood, unzipped his jeans, and kicked them onto the floor. He sat back down next to his sister. Her eyes were scrunched closed.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

She made a little whimpering noise and nodded.

He suppressed a laugh. This was the same young woman who had gone on for hours about how fascinating it had been to dissect a frog! He hadn’t realized part of the reason she’d been so virginal for so long was that she was afraid of cock. The realization that his would be the first she’d see and touch exponentially increased his excitement. He freed himself from his tighty-whiteys, the head bobbing a little in anticipation.

“It’s okay,” Eric said, “It’s just your brother’s penis.”

He took her hand and guided it to his dick. Her fingers were limp, passive. He traced her mons with his free hand while using the other to guide her fingertips up and down his shaft.

“Feel how soft the skin is?” he said, “There’s really nothing to be afraid of. Come on, spread your legs a little.”

Ramona shifted her feet, bent her knees so her thighs parted. Eric leaned forward a little to look at her pussy, pink and wet and needy. He traced around the entrance to her hole then up to rub her clit.

Her fingertips slid forward until she gripped him in her hand. She moaned, “Oh, oh my.”

“You like that?” Eric asked, still rubbing.

“Oh,” she breathed, clinging to his cock, “yes-- yes I do!”

“Feels better than doing it yourself, doesn’t it?” Eric asked. Now that she willingly gripped him, he pushed down on her hand, encouraging her to start moving it.

“It sure does, Eric. It really does!”

“It feels really good to have you touching me, too,” Eric said. He was so close to coming, simply by having his sister’s naked body next to him, by touching her and being touched by her.

“Do you want to come again?”

“What?”

“Come is another word for orgasm,” he said, “Do you want to?”

“Oh yes, please!” she shouted.

“Make me come first then,” he said.

“What?” Her eyes flew open and she stared at him.

“You’re already doing a good job of getting me close,” Eric said. He stopped rubbing her clit. Her hips squirmed, looking for the source of all that pleasure.

“I-- Oh Eric, do I have to?” She looked so needy, so out of control compared to the smart, capable sister he was used to. It made him want to hold her down and fuck her.

“Yes,” he said, “You help me come, save me from masturbating, and I’ll give you your own orgasm. That way we can both stay pure.”

She pouted and said, “Show me how, Eric. You know more about this than I do.”

Hearing her admission was such a turn on.

“Look at it,” he said, “Look at your hand on my penis.”

She raised her head a little to look.

“It’s so -- so big,” she breathed.

“See the drop of liquid at the top?” Eric asked, “That’s precum.” He guided her hand up so her fingertips swept it up. His cock jerked a little and more precum appeared. He used her fingers to collect it and spread it all over his shaft.

“You can use precum to lubricate the penis so your hand slides around better. You can get a good grip without rug burn.”

Ramona giggled at this. She let him guide her but soon was enthusiastic about it, giving him a hand job without his guidance. It felt like forever to Eric, but it was only a few strokes later and he was over the edge.

“Here it comes, sis,” he panted, his eyes closed, “I’m coming!”

His ejaculate flew into the air and landed on his sister’s stomach. She eyed it with suspicion but she was pleased she’d been able to make him orgasm. She had worried it would take a long time and that he wouldn’t return the favor, but, once he’d caught his breath, he did keep his promise. He licked his fingers and drew them gently over the lips of her pussy, down, then up, to rub her clit. He had never been with a real girl, but thought he’d seen enough porn to do okay.

The closer she got to orgasm, the faster he rubbed, spitting on his fingers when they got too dry, until, a few moments later, her soft moans turned into screams of pleasure and her hips bucked in the intensity of sensation.

“Oh! Eric, I love your fingers,” Ramona said, once her body felt calm and relaxed. “Thank you so much for saving me from the sin of masturbating.”

“No, thank you,” Eric said in a mock-chivalrous tone, making Ramona laugh.

“And now I can focus on my homework,” she said, the paused, biting her lip, before adding, “Eric, don’t tell anyone, but these classes are getting really hard.”

Eric felt a pang of guilt. It wasn’t her fault she was finding the classes difficult, and he wasn’t smart enough to figure out how to help her. There was the spell book but, after botching the first spell, he was afraid to even look at it. He’d hid it behind his bedside table.

“Your secret’s safe with me, sis,” he said.

Fiction: The Chicago Flood of 2015, Part 9

They caught the train headed north into downtown Chicago. They had the car all to themselves at first. Harold helped Wendy into a seat, then collapsed and stored the wheelchair, before returning to sit beside her. Peter sat opposite them, facing backwards, a plastic tabletop between him and his coworkers.

"What the fuck were you thinking, playing with that phallus?" he asked.

"No one was playing with anything," Wendy said, her voice sharp, "I'm not going to feel guilty about something that wasn't my fault. Harold and I were examining the phallus when we were taken over by something or someone. I don't know what Harold felt, but I felt like I was in my body but pushed to the side. I felt everything that happened but I wasn't the one in control."

Harold nodded and said, "We were speaking a different language and acting differently, and doing things we wouldn't have done. It felt like it was me, but it wasn't. And the experience--" he paused for a moment, "I'm still not who I was before it happened."

"Fucking nobody is. I hate feeling like I'm obsessed with you, Wendy. It's fucking pissing me off and I want to-- to break things."

"Consort and guard," Wendy said.

"Harold gets to fuck you and I get to, what, break kneecaps if anyone tries to stop you?" Peter said, snorting in derision, "Fuck that and fuck you."

"Come on," Harold objected, "It's not like we chose our roles."

"Well, it kind of is, if you think about it," Wendy said, a small smile on her lips, "Peter's always been an asshole, always trying to be tough--"

"And Harold's always been a pussy," Peter said, sitting back and yawning. "Fine. Whatever. Once this is done and I'm free of this stupid compulsion I'm going to let DeReal know you stole the phallus and I won't have to deal with either of you anymore. Or Pierce, come to think of it. DeReal'll probably hire a cute young thing to replace you, Wendy, someone I can take under my wing, if you know what I mean."

Harold opened his mouth to say something but Wendy put her hand atop his and squeezed a little. He closed his mouth and looked down at the surface of the table. He felt tired, he realized, and finally noticed the dull ache at the bottom of his leg.

Wendy turned her head to look at the window. The lights of the car were bright, turning the window into a dull mirror.

"What's it like, being a goddess?" Peter asked.

Wendy didn't look at him. She was watching her dim reflection in the window, the way the highlighted curves of her dark skin contributed to the mirroring effect, but the parts of her in shadow seemed to open a hole into the night, revealing the rain, the structures, and the confused admixture of light and water in Lake Michigan beyond, something her white companions wouldn't be able to see in their own reflections.

"It's like being myself, but with more force behind what I speak, as though speaking makes things more likely to happen. I feel--" she paused, "Have you ever had a feeling of expanding past the edges of your skin, like your sense of self is bigger than your body?"

She looked at Peter, then at Harold. Harold shook his head, no.

"Sounds like the beginning of a mental breakdown," Peter said.

"It's often the beginning of a healthy recovery from a mental illness," Wendy said, looking back at Peter. "Anyway, I feel comfortable with all of it, which I think is what surprises me more than anything else. Shouldn't being a goddess feel more crazy?"

"I think the same thing about being a slave," Harold admitted, "It's just what it is, and I keep thinking I should be freaking out about it, but I'm not."

"But I am," Peter said, staring at Wendy, "This whole thing is driving me fucking nuts."

"Then you need to ask yourself, why are you resisting, when that's obviously so harmful?" she asked, meeting his gaze with her own. 

"Because giving in means giving up on changing things."

"No, it doesn't," Wendy said, "Harold and I are comfortable with our roles even as we're trying to reverse the spell or whatever this is. I had a choice, Peter, and I chose to try to end this."

"You're the goddess, though. It's not like Harold could accept his enslavement and then go against your decision if you'd chosen to just watch Chicago flood."

"That's true, and it's also true that you can relax and serve me wholeheartedly now, because we're on the same side. You want what I want, Peter, and you're helping me and I appreciate that."

Peter stared at her a moment longer before lowering his eyes. Wendy felt a shift in the energy radiating off him as his body relaxed, coming out of a pouting slouch and straightening up.

"At least I don't have to be your faggoty, simpering slave," Peter grumbled.

Harold laughed and sat back, stretching a bit. There was no point rising to Peter's bait and, anyway, he was perfectly content with taking care of all of Wendy's needs. "Faggoty" and "simpering" were about as inaccurate a description as one could get, though, he realized, he would have gay sex if Wendy asked him to. He'd probably enjoy it, too.

A few, very wet passengers sat themselves in the trio's car at the next stop, so they stopped talking. Peter looked at the new passengers, scanning for any trouble, then pulled out his smart phone and ignored Wendy and Harold.

The two were still holding hands, and now she let herself rest against him, putting her head on his shoulder. He found it simultaneously soothing and electrifying and his dick grew hard again. He tried shifting it to make it less obvious, but that just made it stiffer.

"Relax, Harold," Wendy whispered, "Keep it down until I'm ready." Harold was amazed to feel his erection recede. He realized he liked being under her control, subject to the effects she had on him. She gave an almost silent laugh and turned her head to kiss his shoulder.

"My right-hand man," she said.

"Technically, I'm on your left right now," Harold whispered. Wendy laughed quietly again and Peter looked up at the two of them, his mouth a straight, compressed line of disapproval, before turning his attention back to his phone.

Fiction: The Chicago Flood of 2015, Part 8

"Is it my imagination, or has the rain slowed since we had sex?" Wendy asked.

"I can't tell any difference," Harold said. He glanced away from his goddess and looked out at the dark sky and the light-streaked city below it. "Want me to check the weather?"

"See if you can find an hourly accumulation rate."

Harold picked up his digital tablet and turned it on. The hospital's wi-fi signal was strong and, he was relieved to see, didn't require a password. He searched for data on the storm and found a raw data file to download, opening it in Excel. It took a moment to correct the formatting and make legible graphs.

"When did we, uh, head down to the Repository this morning?" Harold felt uncomfortable referencing what had happened to his goddess. Just thinking about it made his heart rate quicken again.

"I don't know. Eleven-thirty, maybe."

Harold nodded. That sounded about right. He found the time on the graphs.

"Wow, okay, so look at this," he turned the tablet so they could both see the graphs, and he pointed to a brown line.

Wendy read the label for the brown line aloud, "Precipitation Potential. It's at zero percent, then jumps to seventy-five percent at about quarter to twelve, then one hundred percent at noon. That's insane. Sky cover goes up, wind speed--" Wendy's voice faded away as she stared at the graphs.

"That's the poem and the phallus and-- and us. We did that," Harold said.

"And here it dips, everything dips down somewhat." Wendy pointed to the right side of the graph, closer to the present.

"Not enough."

"No, but I know what that's tied to."

"That's about the time we had orgasms."

"Orgasms with each other, not the phallus. Obviously we just need to fuck until the rain stops," Wendy said, her eyes lighting up at the idea, "take the power of sex back into ourselves so Satis can't use it."

"I had two orgasms when-- when it happened," Harold said, "Maybe we only need to have another orgasm each?"

Wendy's face changed from one of excitement to one of concern.

"I came each time I pushed that thing into me."

"Wow," said Harold, looking up from the tablet to meet her gaze. "I, um," he cleared his throat, "I don't have much experience helping women with-- with having orgasms."

"But surely you've watched--," Wendy said, but Harold was shaking his head.

"I wasn't really into sex before that poem got into my head. I just-- I honestly don't know what to do."

"You did fine an hour ago," Wendy said, trying to sound soothing, "I honestly enjoyed myself and appreciated how you responded to me and my body. You're a good slave, Harold, getting me what I need and want, listening, helping."

There was a light knock at the door and a doctor let himself in, his eyes already down on his own digital tablet.

"So, Ms Freeman," the doctor said in a loud voice, still looking at his digital tablet, "The nurse said you'd like to be discharged."

"Yes. I'm feeling better now."

"That was a lot of fluid you lost, but the chart I'm looking at says the infusion rate has declined significantly in the past hour or so. It might indicate you're on the mend. Just wish we could figure out why you needed so much fluid in the first place. The ER said no drugs, no alcohol, no 10k runs. Have you had to urinate at anytime since you were admitted?"

"No, I haven't."

"They hook you up to a catheter?"

"No."

"And the sheets on your bed are dry."

"Yes. I'd rather continue my recovery at home, please. I can call your office or come in again if I start to feel dehydrated again."

"I'm tempted to keep you here just so I can figure out the mystery," the doctor said. He still hadn't looked at Wendy.

"She's a person, not a puzzle," Harold said, unable to remain quiet. The doctor finally looked up from his tablet at Harold, as if seeing him for the first time.

"And you are?"

"He's my boyfriend," Wendy said. Harold swallowed hard at her words. He'd never been anyone's boyfriend since his half-hearted attempts at romance back in eighth grade. Her declaration sounded weird to him; he considered himself her slave, not her boyfriend.

"I see," said the doctor. He made another note in his tablet before turning it off and holding it loosely by his side. He smiled at Wendy. "I'm discharging you. The paperwork you'll be sent home with includes a few recommendations: drink water, drink an occasional electrolyte liquid like Gatorade, no heavy lifting, no very hot shower or baths for the next few days, no trips to the salon to get your hair done, and no sauna until we give you the green light. You'll be given a sterilized cup to collect a sample the next time you urinate. Bring that by at your earliest convenience. We'll test it for a few things, make sure your electrolyte levels are holding steady, et cetera. Any questions?"

Wendy shook her head, said, "Sounds fine."

"Good. The nurse will be back soon with the paperwork and then you can get out of here. You two have a good evening."

* * * *

As Harold wheeled her out of her room he asked, "So where do you want to go?"

"To the mouth of the river," Wendy said, "But getting there's going to suck."

Harold was silent, thinking about how to get to the Riverwalk. The Oriental Institute was South of downtown Chicago by quite a bit. Before he had bought the Kenguru, he usually took the the train, enjoying the view of Lake Michigan.

"The train can get us all the way to Millennium Station," he said, "and it's another, what, four or five blocks from there to the water. I can drive us to the orange line in the Kenguru, if you don't mind being a little squished, and I can call ahead for a taxi to meet us on the other end. There's also the bus. I never liked it as much as the train, but it's a shorter walk, just at the corner, so we wouldn't have to take the risk that my car can't make it. But the ride is twice as long."

Wendy was silent for a moment, her lips pursed together.

"I just--" she started, then tried again, "Is it stupid to think we need to be in the rain to do this? By our own river? Maybe we just need to go to my place and have comfortable, normal sex."

"Maybe," Harold said, "It wasn't like we were in any particularly special place when we set this whole thing off."

"Only, it was special, in a way, wasn't it? To us, it was special."

"Is the river special to you?" Harold asked. Wendy shrugged.

"The Repository is more special to me, to be honest," she said.

"Then maybe we should go there."

"I'm-- I'm a little afraid. Trying to get to the river sounds daunting, but going back to the Repository sounds scary."

"I'm with you there," he said, "But here's what I think: you are channeling the goddess--you are, in fact, my goddess--so whatever you decide will be the right thing. That's our ace in this hand we've been dealt." He looked down at the back of her head, willing her to believe him. He noticed the way her fingers rested on the edge of his courier bag as it sat in her lap. He imagined her stroking a royal Egyptian cat, wearing the headdress of the Lower Nile.

"The train, then," she said, "If we're going to do this, let's do it right; we'll have the rain, the river, and the sex."

"And the phallus."

"I want to throw it in the river." Wendy sounded vicious for a moment.

"Me, too."

Harold raised his eyes and saw Peter coming running through the sliding glass doors to the parking garage. He stopped for a moment, peering around, and Harold noticed the taller man's wild hair and wild eyes. The moment their coworker saw them, he ran his fingers through his hair and tried to straighten his tie. He slouched toward them, trying to look nonchalant.

"Hey," he said, tipping his head back in greeting, his hands in his pockets.

"What are you doing here, Peter," Wendy asked, sounding suspicious.

"You guys are headed out to make it stop raining, right?" He didn't wait for an answer, "Listen, I need to be there in order for it to work."

"Why?" Harold asked. For the first time, he felt a touch of jealousy. He didn't want Peter to hurt Wendy, nor did he want Wendy to give him any of her attention.

"Coupla reasons. First, I was there when you did-- whatever you did. Kinda makes sense that I'd need to be there to end it. Symmetry or whatever. Second, I spent some time on the amphorae images and found glyphs around the lips of 'em and the rough translation is kind of a description of the ritual. You guys got some things wrong, of course."

"Considering we weren't in control--" Wendy started but Peter interrupted her.

"Listen, the sacrifice was supposed to embody Isis. You know that story about Satis collecting a single tear from Isis, she pours it into the Nile, the Nile floods, whatever. But the amphorae texts say Satis isn't collecting a tear but girl juice." Peter took a hand out a pocket to gesture at his crotch. "There was supposed to be a second woman, to embody Satis. Satis uses the dildo on Isis."

Peter looked at Harold, a leer on his face, "So, were you Satis?"

Harold blinked, his face flushing.

"Evidently I played Satis' and Isis' roles," Wendy said, "And, as your goddess, I'm telling you to stop being an asshole."

Peter stared at her a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Fuck you," he said.

"And yet you still deciphered this information for me and brought it to me," Wendy said, sounding calm and cool.

Peter looked at the floor of the hallway and nodded. "I couldn't not help." He seemed to shrink in size, to deflate, as if he was embarrassed by caring about her.

"So how do you figure into the ritual?" Wendy asked.

"The men in the ritual. Okay, wait, let me back up. So, you've got earth, air, fire and water, right? Isis is the water, she's the source of the water. Satis is the air, the air warms up, melts the snow in the mountains, sweeps the rain in. Then you've got the masculine roles. Earth witnesses and supports the water and holds the seed. That was me, I think, since I was the "stone that waits," right? And Harold brands himself. The fire is, like, the end of everything, the branding ends the ritual. You need all those representations of elements again."

Wendy and Harold were silent for a moment. Peter looked from one to the other, his expression both defiant and uncertain, as if he really wanted them to believe him but he wasn't going to show his disappointment if they didn't.

"I'm not sure I agree with that interpretation," Harold said, feeling for a moment like he was back on solid ground. "Usually the earth is considered feminine, not masculine. Did you bring any images of the glyphs?"

Peter gave him a angry look, opened his mouth to say something.

"Did you drive here?" Wendy asked. Peter blinked, confused for a moment, then nodded.

"Yeah."

"How are the roads?" Harold asked.

"Virtually empty," Peter said, looking from Wendy to him. "Everything's flooded. They've declared a weather emergency. No one's supposed to go out except for emergency vehicles."

"Trains still running?"

Peter shrugged. Wendy fumbled with Harold's bag until she found his phone.

"I'll look it up while we head to your car," she said, "We'll take a chance on the streets if the trains aren't running."

Nonfiction: "Science" as a Rationale for Dismissing Personal Experience, Particularly in a Medical Setting

One thing I'm enjoying about writing "The Chicago Flood of 2015" is that it gives me the opportunity to learn about things like ancient Egypt and explore questions like, "what happens when magic, science and medicine meet, particularly in a woman's body?" I like to play with genres not just because it's fun but because I think it's a useful way to confront stereotypes, to subvert the quick and dirty character sketches writers often use to kick-start a story. Attempting to portray realistic characters caught in unrealistic situations gives me more than enough opportunities to explore what I think and feel and learn about real life. Here's where I am when it comes to the question of how and why medical professionals might unconsciously feel dismissive of the women in their care, and why that's a problem.

Because science doesn't accept an individual's experience as evidence of the Truth of a situation unless/until that experience is repeated multiple times using the scientific method (for example, the Dunning-Kruger effect, which I just learned about; the effect has been recognized and discussed in philosophy and literature for over a thousand years yet it wasn't "real" until scientists figured out how to prove it), we find it easy to dismiss an individual's unique experience of the world.

The issue is muddied by the fact that we are instinctively driven to come up with stories to explain our limited understanding of the world, and the stories we've come up with over thousands of years have been false on a lot of levels, even when they explore deeper truths, and have resulted in commonly-accepted tales and myths, overgeneralization, racism, sexism, and socially-imposed ideas of proper behavior that interfere with our own objectivity when we explore ourselves and our surroundings.

Scientists and medical professionals, being human themselves, bring those internalized social stories with them, such as their own sexism for example, but can frame it as objectivity, putting their human subjects at a distinct disadvantage, since they aren't in a position that provides that valence, themselves.

But science, like stories, slowly gropes its way toward the truth. It is often wrong on the way there. At times, it can be used as a tool of repression. At other times, it can be used as an excuse for a lack of empathy.

When it comes to human sexuality, we remain mired in the mythology of the past and even science and medicine haven't been able to lift us out and clean it off the wheels of progress. We remain at the mercy of a medical industry that downplays women's health concerns, pushes drugs for erectile dysfunction, and fails to put any money into investigating ourselves as sexual creatures.

One of the most harmful stories we have to overcome today is the one in which women know less about themselves than those in a position of authority. It results in untested rape kits, undiagnosed--or diagnosed too late--cancer, and unnecessary suffering through all stages of a woman's sexual life cycle. A woman's story about herself may not align completely with the Truth as science and medicine currently describe it, but it benefits both the woman and her doctor to explore the story together as partners, to reveal the individual truths that might be hiding below the surface.

The point of using the scientific method, particularly in medicine, is to help people. Dismissing a person's unique experience of their lives means missing the point of searching for the truth.

Nonfiction: "Not to me, it hasn't."

We are surrounded by and subject to universal truths--math, the laws of physics, biology--but how we experience those truths is unique and individual to each and every one of us. Overlapping experiences and commonalities lead to generalizations, about life, the universe, and everything. What fascinates me, however, is when, in the middle of talking about how everything's been done before--every story has already been written, everything that can be said, has been said--someone stands up and replies, "Not to me, it hasn't."

It might be fair to say that science underpins the story arc--step by misstep, clunkily working its way from big bang down or from mitochondria up--revealing not the plot but the grammar, the rules behind our existence and engagement with the world around us. It arrives at a story that changes like a mosaic depending on the depth of focus. It threatens to erase us as individuals because it must always be on the outside, quantifying.

It's impossible not to recognize that everything's been done before, impossible not to realize that your own life has already been told in stories, and that ours may be a faded, simpler version of the ones we like to tell each other. Two generations after you die, there won't even be a story arc any more complex than, "Born, reproduced, died." And yet our lives are full, three-dimensional, intensely complex at the cellular level, the muscular level, and inside our brains, tucked away in our own little universe of emotion, insights, and doubt. We all either succumb to the story that our story has already been told, or we stand up for ourselves by focusing on the way the sunlight enters our eyes in a way it never has before and never will again.

This dichotomy fascinates me. I find myself looking for ways to resolve it. Where is the fulcrum, the balance point, the transition from universal to individual? Stories are often an investigation of this question, fluidly going backwards from individual to universal. We read the story of an individual and come away with larger truths. We dive into writing a story about a universal truth and come up for air holding individual characters up by the hair, forcing them to breathe so we can tease them apart and look for the universe in their DNA. We wax eloquent on the fact that we are stardust, a way for the universe to know itself, and we rail against the dying of the light--every light, not just our own.

In the end, we regret not the universality of our experiences as living creatures, but the chances we did not take--the lips we never kissed, the light we never saw, the road we never travelled. We reach the end of our insignificant yet deeply personal collection of moments with the thought, "No to me, it hasn't."

Fiction: The Chicago Flood of 2015, Part 7

Harold glanced at the IV bag. It was less than a quarter full.

"Where is it all going?" he asked.

"Into the rain, maybe," Wendy said, "Or a sacrifice to Satis. It's another reason we need to figure out how to stop all this."

"But you said you saw yourself ruling over Chicago. You can't do that if you die of dehydration."

Wendy met his gaze. She looked determined, queenly.

"I don't trust dreams. Do you? Our dreams, our obsession with the poem, that's what got us into this mess in the first place."

"But you are a goddess now, aren't you? You tell me--" he stopped, tried again, "you tell people what to do and they do it. You got me out of the ER, you got this room up here, Pierce, who never does anything out of line, got the phallus out of the truck for you. That wouldn't have been possible without some sort of magical power."

"Whatever power I have, it's not enough to save myself," she said, her voice quiet but strong, "I don't think the dream was a promise to me, but to whatever goddess I'm channeling."

"Satis."

Wendy nodded. "Possibly. Or Isis, or some ancient goddess whose name we don't know."

"Satis pours the water that makes the Nile flood. It's got to be Satis. I-- wait." Harold got off the bed. Forgetful of his own nudity, he went straight to the tablet and turned it on again.

"The pattern around the outside of the brand," he said, looking down at the image, then over to Wendy, "Those aren't flower petals, each one is the crown of Upper Egypt. That's a symbol consistently used to depict her."

Wendy grinned at him, held out her hands for the tablet. "Smart boy," she said, looking at the picture. "And I had a thought, too. Take off the bandage."

Harold peeled back the tape that framed the square of cotton to reveal the brand burned into his skin. Wendy reached for the switch on the light cord the hung by her head, turning on the lights.

"Come closer," she said. Harold took a few steps toward her. She lifted a hand, as if to touch the brand, but saw him flinch in anticipation. She put her hand atop her thigh, instead, and looked back at the image on the tablet.

"Cover it up again, slave. I want you to heal. We'll just reverse the image then take it into Tracer. I'm guessing it'll be easier to read if we look at it the way it was meant to be seen. Come, sit." She shifted her hips away from him, toward the IV, and tapped at the mattress.

Harold replaced the bandage and sat where she'd indicated, facing her, his right hip snuggled against her right thigh.

"My right-hand man," she said. Harold blinked, flashing back to his dream. He wondered whether or not to tell his goddess about it. Wendy handed him the tablet. "I don't use Tracer, so I'm guessing you'd be faster at this."

Harold took the tablet and reversed the image before importing it to the app he often used for pulling hieroglyphs or other text out of images. First he used guide lines to mark out the symmetry, then traced over one quadrant of it, following the flowing script over the guidelines where it appeared to overlap. He ignored the bulbous shapes of the crowns of Upper Egypt, leaving just the glyphs within.

"Satis," they both said, Wendy's voice a fierce, angry whisper, Harold's one of wonder.

"That's it?" Wendy's voice cracked, "Just her name? That's not enough. We need a spell to stop this!"

"But at least we know who--" Harold stopped speaking as his phone rang. He reached down for his bag and pulled out his phone. "It's Peter," he said, looking at Wendy for direction.

"Answer it."

Harold tapped the screen to accept the call. "Hello?"

"Harold, Peter. Listen. Those amphorae? The x-ray lab just e-mailed us images of the interiors. Not grain like we thought, but bodies, mummified females."

Harold swallowed, fear returning to his bones and muscles.

"Sacrifices?" Harold finally managed, his voice weak.

"Yeah, I think so. I think Wendy was on her way to becoming mummified."

"Why are you--"

"I know you didn't go home. You've been pussy-whipped. I'm just sharing information with Wendy, one professional to another."

"Thank you for letting us know about the amphorae."

"Don't mention it. Particularly to DeReal. He's planning on giving you some time off from work. Don't know if you'll be coming back." Harold opened his mouth to reply but Peter had already ended the call.

"What did he say?" Wendy asked. Harold told her about the mummies. She was silent for a moment, her eyes on his, before she said, "If you hadn't taken the phallus away from me, I'd be just like them."

"I think so, yeah," Harold nodded.

"That cache isn't going to hold any clues on how to stop this," she said with a sigh, "It was something they wanted, obviously some sort of yearly ritual, a sacrifice, something they thought they had to do to bring the floods."

"But it's real," Harold said, "It really is bringing a flood."

Wendy waved a hand, whether dismissive of him or the rain outside, Harold wasn't sure.

"What if this rain storm isn't related to what we did," Wendy said.

"I think it is," Harold insisted, "We know the geological and atmospheric science behind why the Nile floods every year, so of course this magic doesn't replace that. I'm not saying Satis makes it happen. I'm saying maybe she helps with its regulation, ensuring the right amount at the right time. And, in exchange--"

"In exchange, she gets a human sacrifice," Wendy finished for him.

"Or two," Harold said, "I would have killed myself if you had died."

Wendy made a face, as if to protest.

"I'm serious," Harold said.

"Well, let's hope that enthusiasm helps us find a way to stop this. We have to figure out a five-thousand-year old puzzle no one wanted to solve back then, a puzzle no one else has known about until now."

"It does seem rather impossible," Harold agreed, watching her. Wendy looked as though she felt hopeless. The queenly energy she had radiated appeared to have drained away. She gave a little shrug.

"Now at least I kind of understand what life was like for you," she said, her voice slow and sad, "hooked up to a machine on a regular basis in order to stay alive. I can't imagine dragging an IV around for the rest of my life."

Harold glanced at the saline drip. It was almost empty.

"I guess I'd better get dressed before they come in to replace that," he said, nodding at the bag. Wendy wasn't looking at him but at the rain, sheeting down the window, distorting the view of the skyline's lights and the clouds they lit from below.

Harold let her be and dressed in silence. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to help her.

"The sex helped," she said, as if reading his mind. Her voice was flat. Harold thought she didn't sound hopeful. "Maybe that's the next thing to investigate."

"How did it help?" Harold asked, zipping his fly.

"Have you ever heard of sati?" Wendy said, apparently changing the subject.

"Is that a variation on Satis' name?"

"No, it's the word for a widow's self-immolation in India."

"Just because it's similar to--"

"I know phonetic similarities don't mean much," Wendy said, cutting him off, "But it's an interesting link, this kind of female self-sacrifice."

"I don't think it's a real link," Harold objected as he shrugged on his shirt. Wendy sighed, watched him as he buttoned what buttons were left.

"Maybe not," she said, "I'm just trying to come up with something."

"The sex sounds like a better something. I hope you're not thinking of setting yourself on fire."

"No. No, but now I'm thinking about the old concept of matter, of everything being made up of fire, water, earth, and air. Women masturbate themselves into mummification so that Satis pours water. Widows commit sati by throwing themselves on the funeral pyre. Maybe another culture's story has women dying by being buried alive, and others sacrificed by, what, strangulation?"

"That doesn't sound like--"

"It sounds like patriarchy, is what it sounds like."

"I'm sorry," Harold said, sitting by her side. Wendy finally looked at him. He lowered his eyes and took her hand in his.

"Listen," he said, "I'll follow whatever leads you want me to, whether it's an investigation into all the ways patriarchal societies have come up with to kill women, or if it's sacrificing myself, or even if it's begging Peter for help. But I need you to be the goddess. I need you to be yourself. Don't give up. Please." He waited in the silence, watching his pale thumb rub at her dark skin. Behind his fear and confusion he wanted to take her again, he wanted to bite her while thrusting into her, sink his teeth into her skin in his ecstasy.

"It's hard to be a goddess when I just don't know what to do," Wendy said, wiping a tear from her eye with her free hand, "and I don't think we have much time to figure it out."

A nurse arrived with a full bag of saline solution and smoothly exchanged the empty one for the new one.

"How are you feeling?" she asked Wendy, smiling at her for a moment before focusing on the machinery read-outs. "You're doing fine, despite needing all this extra fluid. Considering how much it's raining outside, you could just be standing out there instead of hanging out here."

Wendy and Harold looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

"I'm feeling pretty good, actually," Wendy lied, surreptitiously wiping away another tear. "I'd like to be discharged."

"The doctor will need to confirm that it's okay for you to leave," the nurse said, making a note in her digital pad, "but I can let him know you feel ready to go."

"Yes, please," Wendy said. The nurse gave her another perfunctory smile and left.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Harold asked.

"Having sex in the rain has always been a fantasy of mine," Wendy said.

"I'm willing to give it a try," Harold answered. He lifted her hand and kissed it.

"If this doesn't work--" she began.

"We'll try something else. I'm not giving up on you."

Fiction: The Chicago Flood of 2015, Part 6

The rain was even crazier by the time Harold maneuvered his tiny little car down the ramps to the garage's exit. He swallowed, nervous, as the arm rose like a red flag and he pulled forward and into the storm. The Kenguru was built low to the ground to make it easier to wheel into and out of. Now that aspect of the vehicle was not an asset but a liability, as the water sheeting off the streets was higher than he'd ever seen.

More than anything, the noise of the downpour against the roof of the vehicle caused Harold's stress levels to kick up a notch. The little car did fine, losing traction only once, as it slipped through a pond at an intersection. Harold had the feeling he wouldn't be able to use it again, though, until he and Wendy figured out how to stop the rain.

The hospital's parking garage was full. An attendant was putting out signs in front of all the entry gates. Harold rolled down his window and yelled out, "Hey! Can I fit my car somewhere? I'm in a wheelchair!"

The attendant nodded and opened one of the gates for him, handed him a pass when he pulled forward.

"There are a few handicapped stalls left, sir," the attendant said. 

"Thanks," Harold said, "I appreciate the help. Wasn't looking forward to trying to roll myself down the sidewalk out there."

"I wouldn't be, either, you'd be liable to float away. You have a good day, now. Stay safe."

"Will do," Harold said.

Harold parked at the first handicapped stall he found and wheeled himself across the garage and into the hospital, his chair kicking up water streaming from a broken downspout.

This time around he wasn't sure he'd be able to get in but, when he rolled up to the front desk, the receptionist told him Wendy had been moved to a private room and gave him the number, saying she'd put him on the visitor's list.

Harold made his way up two floors and down a few corridors before he found Wendy's room. It was large, with a floor-to-ceiling window at the far end that looked out over wet rooftops, the shoreline of Lake Michigan beyond, streaked and blurred.

Wendy sat upright in her bed, watching the rain, the IV bag and pole like a silent sentry at her side. She turned to look at Harold when he opened the door.

"It's the Nile," Wendy said, gesturing at the window and the storm beyond it.

"Well, we've got the rain part down," Harold said as he wheeled himself over to her far side, "Thank goodness it's late Spring and all the snow's gone already. Though maybe, with all this, we need to talk to Satis or something, see if she's already gathered a tear from Isis."

"I've been thinking about that. What if the story of Satis predates the story of Isis? What if the poem is a prayer to Satis, or even calls her into being?"

Harold looked thoughtful, his fingers rubbed at the edge of the flap of his bag.

"I don't know. You know me, I'm more of a specialist in the later dynastic periods. I'm comfortable with demotic glyphs but, take me any further back, and I'm kind of lost. I mean, I know about the Naqada, but not much."

He glanced at Wendy's face. She was still looking out at the rain, her face bright and beautiful. He followed her gaze to see the view, large, fast raindrops picked out and shining in the low sun.

"Show me what you have," she said. Harold's brain automatically sorted through the multiple meanings of her words, even as he opened his courier bag and withdrew the box and the digital tablet.

"When I called Peter to get the phallus he said no, then called Pierce, to warn him, I guess. But Pierce got it out of the truck and gave it to me, himself. He supports you."

"Rewards for the good and punishment for the bad," Wendy said, waving her hand dismissively. "Unwrap the phallus."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Harold asked, "The last time you picked it up--"

"I'm not going to touch it, slave, you are."

"Okay," Harold said meekly. He broke the tape on the box with his car key, pulled back the flaps and lifted the phallus, hidden in a swath of bubblewrap. He used the key again to break the tape and unrolled the plastic sheet to reveal the stone cylinder. His dick gave a little leap, grew a little harder.

"Oh, Pierce, what a good boy," Wendy breathed. Her gaze was glued to the phallus but she kept her hands clasped in her lap. Harold didn't dare touch the thing. There was a layer of bubblewrap between his hand and the stone and he hoped it protected him; the cotton gloves he'd worn at the Repository certainly hadn't. He put it back in its cardboard box and felt his hard-on relax slightly, as if disappointed.

"I also brought my tablet from work. I copied the glyph matrix onto it, thinking we could use it to translate the brand."

"Good. Give the tablet to me."

Harold dug around in his bag until he found the tablet. Once Wendy had it and turned it on, she held it up.

"Take the phallus out and turn the stamp end toward me so I can photograph it," Wendy said. Harold carefully extracted the stone item from its box, still using the bubblewrap as protection, and held it horizontally, the butt end facing Wendy. Again, his hard-on grew more rigid. Once she had caught a clear image of the brand's design Harold put it away again, and he felt his dick dip a little with regret.

Wendy held the tablet so they could both look at the image. It looked almost like a flower, with a outer ring of stylized petals framing a more intricate and inscrutable pattern.

"Rather like Arabic," Harold said thoughtfully, "if you tied it into a Celtic knot."

"It is very fluid, very script-like, for such an old artifact."

"Older samples of Cuneiform tend to be more rounded," Harold said, "maybe this is from a related culture."

"Yes, but Cuneiform from 3000 BC was also more realistic, more like pictographs. This is highly stylized and abstract. Anyway, the current thinking is that hieroglyphs developed independently of other logographic or phonetic writing."

"Can we split the screen to see the image next to the glyph matrix?" Harold asked. Wendy nodded and used the stylus to bring up the matrix. They were silent, focused, Harold chewing at his lower lip while Wendy tapped her chin with the stylus.

The brand was symmetrical along both the horizontal and vertical axes, delicate loops and lines weaving through each other, adding to the difficulty of untangling the meaning, if there was any. Harold reached over to touch the screen, double-tapping on the image to enlarge it again.

"Maybe we need to tease out the glyphs," he said, "Or at least just get rid of the duplicates caused by the symmetry."

Wendy nodded and said, "You've got Tracer on this tablet, right?"

"Yeah, let me bring it up for you." Harold reached for the tablet. His fingers found Wendy's. She gasped and he jumped at the shock and the pleasure of her touch. He moaned as his hard dick gave an involuntary leap.

"I'm-- I'm sorry," he stammered. Wendy turned her gaze to look into his eyes. She looked hungry, almost predatory.

"Strip."

"I'm-- what?"

"You heard me, slave," Wendy said, "We need each other's energy."

Harold lifted the flat strap of the courier bag over his head and shoulder, then put the bag on the floor. He stood and removed his coat, hung it on the back of his wheelchair. Wendy watched intently as he unbuttoned his shirt. He found himself trying to make it sexy, turning his body a little to show her the profile of his ass and his hard cock.

Turning the act of disrobing into an show of desire was new to Harold. He felt awkward, but also less self-conscious. It was similar to how he had felt in the Repository, as though he wasn't completely in control of his body and emotions.

He shrugged, causing the collar of the shirt to fall away and reveal his shoulders, the delicate curves of his clavicles, then slowly unbuttoned the cuffs--more slowly than he had the other buttons--before swinging his arms down to let the entire shirt slip off and to the floor.

His gaze on Wendy's face, he hooked a finger under the tail of his belt and tugged it free of a loop. An inspiration took hold of him and he raised his free hand to cup the back of his head as he undid his belt, snap, and zipper one-handed, his hips thrust forward. Wendy's expression changed from quiet interest to watchfulness to lust.

Whereas his dreams had given him women to objectify, now he was the object of desire. The realization caused precum to ooze from the tip of his dick, seeping into the black boxers he wore. He felt no guilt at being on the receiving end of Wendy's gaze. With a little shake of the hips, his trousers shimmied to the floor. He wasn't sure how to make sock removal sexy, but he was so horny he didn't much care; he just wanted to be naked and in Wendy, over her, under her, even if it was simply under her feet.

Harold brought his other hand down, hooked a thumb in the waistband of his boxers. The hand that had undone his pants now held and stroked his hard cock through the fabric. He licked his lips slowly. Wendy, entranced, mirrored him, licking her own lips, rubbing her own sex through the sheet and the modesty gown she wore. Goddess and slave moaned simultaneously.

"Show me what you have," Wendy demanded, and Harold complied, one hand on the bed to steady himself as he stripped off his boxers and socks. The linoleum floor was cold on his foot. He climbed up onto the narrow bed, straddling her calves, his hard cock exposed and bobbing in excitement.

Wendy pushed down the sheet and pulled off the modesty gown. She was different than he remembered from the Repository, when her skin had been bronzed, her hair electrified and her face transformed by the power of the ancient stone phallus. Here, now, she looked human--both fragile and powerful--and that made her even more desirable to Harold. He wanted to worship every inch of her dark skin, meditate on the beauty and meaning of its subtle shading, sift through the multiple translations of unique and personal history written there.

Harold looked into Wendy's eyes. She nodded the smallest amount, looking every inch the queen, and reached a hand up to stroke his hair.

"Touch me," she said.

"Where," he whispered.

"Everywhere."

He slowly slid his hands over her skin--her knees, her thighs, the tight curls over her mons, out to her hips and up her soft stomach to her full breasts. His gaze shifted from meeting her eyes to watching her skin dip and return under the soft pressure of his hands.

She sighed and closed her eyes, arched her back to press her breasts more firmly into his hands. Harold cupped them, brought them together and pushed them up, then pushed his hands up over them to continue the journey to her collar bones. He traced along their lengths, out to her shoulders, and down her arms, the insides of her elbows, to her forearms, careful not to touch the IV tube that terminated at a needle taped to her skin.

Harold froze for a moment, looking at the needle, and Wendy opened her eyes.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice soft and full of concern.

"I-- I'm sorry," he said, wrenching his focus away from her forearm and the drip, "It's just-- the-- What's happening to me? I used to need dialysis."

"Shh, slave. Stop."

Harold took a deep breath and let it out. He felt himself falling into Wendy's beautiful black eyes.

"You've been healed in order to serve me. You do want to serve me, don't you?"

"Of course, goddess. Yes, yes, I do."

"Then trust me. Serve me."

"Yes, okay," Harold said. At the back of his mind, a small, nervous voice was still chattering away, enumerating all of his fears, but the rest of him was mollified, pulled back into the moment, aware of the pleasure of touching Wendy.

"There's a good slave," she moaned as he smoothed his hands over her, up her arms and over her shoulders and neck to cup her face. At her words his flagging penis reared up again, ready, undistracted by his brain's petty concerns.

Their lovemaking was tender and slow. Harold followed Wendy's lead, learned what each gesture meant, each involuntary reaction. He sank into her private world, became an extension of her will, of her desire to be pleasured. When she came he felt the contractions around his cock like a strong hand, pulling his own orgasm up and out of him. He closed his eyes and willingly allowed his goddess to take what she wanted.

After a period of silence Harold opened his eyes to find Wendy staring up at him, smiling. He smiled, too, amazed and entranced. The sun had set but the room was brightly lit from time to time by lightning. The white, square bandage on Harold's chest caught Wendy's attention. She bit her lip and sat up a bit straighter against the back of the hospital bed.

Harold pulled his flagging cock from between her legs and sat back on his haunches, watching her, waiting for her to tell him what to do next.