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.
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