Fiction: The Leopard: Ada, Part One

There was nothing I couldn't do, once I was like you. You, poor thing, trying so hard to understand the laws of physics, to leave the laws of metaphysics behind, played by the rules. But I, having grown up in a world of cells and atoms, I knew which rules I could bend, which tethers I could cut. 

Once you'd left my hospital room, my new body's family was ushered in by a nurse who demanded quiet and calm. They were anything but. Their daughter, dead for days, was now alive and smiling. There were screams, tears, repeated hugs and caresses, and it took all my focus to avoid hurting them accidentally. Ada, my new name; I heard it repeated endlessly. Ada, Ada, my darling Ada, my baby Ada, my lovely Ada, Ada, Ada. . .

The nurse finally hustled them out: the father, tall and thin, with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes; mother, with unwashed, unruly hair, dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, sallow and weeping; brother, slack-jawed and shell-shocked; sister, constantly teary-eyed, hardly able to look away from me. Once they'd left, the quiet rang in my ears like a bell singing, Ada, Ada.

I didn't know where my edges were. Lying in the hospital bed, I could feel my sense of self expand to include the bed, the air around me, the linoleum floor below and the plastic-shielded wall behind.

Sometimes I wanted to be back in that tiny space in your—my—head, I wanted to be nothing, to simply observe. But those times were relatively few and fleeting.

The nurse came back to check on me. She took my temperature and blood pressure, then checked my wounds. There weren't any. I'd unwrapped the splint around my fingers and pulled out the stitches from my healed skin. The nurse was surprised to find smooth, unmarked flesh. She backed out of the room, stuttering her intent to find a doctor. 

I stretched while I waited. I'd tried to be kind, to avoid frightening people, but it was becoming tiresome. I didn't want to have to explain anything to a doctor; I wanted to be out, to be free, to whirlwind around the city like a leaf or a bird or the wind itself, pushing the leaves and birds along the corridors of the streets and alleys. The wind is only the wind, the leopard is only the leopard, and nothing less.

You had gone along with all the tests and controls imposed upon you simply because you didn't know anything, every experience helped you learn. You learned to love my parents, loved what had been my life, and was willing to submit in order to keep those things. There was no need for me to go through the same learning period, and I knew nothing of my new family—Ada's family—to make the doctor's poking and prodding and difficult questions worth my time.

I resolved to unfetter myself. I untaped and removed the saline drip and needle from the back of my hand. I stood, naked, and strode across the room to open the door. Material from the stainless steel doorknob flooded over my hand to settle on my forearm. I left the doorknob with an impression of my fingers, as if they had sunk into a ball of butter.

The hospital hallway was bright and clean, reflective surfaces making my eyes water. It was quiet. I trailed my fingers across the upper half of the wall, above the resin wainscot, and the latex from the paint flowed up and over me, forming a cream-colored, skin-tight bustier. I closed it up with a stainless-steel zipper in the front. I turned back for a brief moment to see the remains of the paint—a chalky white dust—barely coating the wall board. I liked the bustier. I liked the way it moved with me. I made something similar for pants but didn't bother with a zipper this time; I realized there wasn't a need to have a mechanical method for clothing removal.

"Ada!"

I was at the intersection of two hallways, where nurses and aides worked inside a round island of countertops and computers. I walked left to find my—Ada's—family huddled in a corner of a waiting area.

"I'm very sorry," I said, "Ada is dead."

There was silence, from both the staff and the family.

A hand grabbed my arm.

"Ms Garcia, I can't imagine you feel well enough to be up and about. Why don't you allow me to escort you back to your room."

I turned to find a doctor. I resisted the urge to make his hand melt. Instead, I extended myself into him, along his nerves, to his brain and there I was the queen of all I surveyed through both pairs of eyes.

"I'm quite well, actually," I said.

"Yes, I can see that now." I spoke with his mouth.

"But I'm not Ada Garcia. You should double-check your records."

"Of course. I'll discharge you. You're free to go." I realized I rather liked having a puppet.

"Thank you, doctor."

"My pleasure, Ms—" I hesitated. I did like the name Ada.

"Ada Lopez," we said.

The family erupted in a chorus of objections and obscenities. Their daughter had come back from the dead only to reject them.

"Call security," the doctor called. To everyone there, it looked like he was escorting me away from Ada's family. Ada's brother broke apart from everyone else and came after us.

"You cannot break mama's heart again," he said, "you need a psychiatrist and drugs and whatever else can help you, Ada. You're my sister. You think I don't recognize my own sister?"

"Look closer, and you won't see your sister," I said, "your sister is gone." The doctor and I stopped. I held out my hand to Ada's brother and he moved closer to grip it. Through his nerves I brought him down to the scale of his own atoms, electrons circling like dizzy planets around the sun of the nucleus, then back up to his brain. Together we explored the memories in his synapses, the sight of Ada's body, very dead, very stiff. Then I let him go.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Who are you." His voice cracked, not with fear, but wonder and grief.

"Tell them," I said, "Tell them I'm not theirs."

Kink in Real Life: Does Your Doctor Know? Part 2

I finally went to a doctor for the first time in three or four years. I hadn't had health insurance in a while, mostly because I couldn't afford it. And, when I did, I never managed to make the time for a visit. The appointment went smoothly enough, even though, after the nurse gathered all my preliminary information, including my long self-care to-do list, the first thing my doctor asked was why I wanted to be tested for STI's, considering I'd been monogamous for so long. He asked me to repeat the part about considering hiring a sex worker. He was momentarily flustered but managed to remain professional. This was after letting me know he was a Christian. So.

Look, wanting to be with other people is normal, but that's not our social narrative. When something is outside of our social narrative we tend to want to hide it. But hiding things like desiring sex with someone other than one's primary partner can lead to a host of problems far, far worse than a one-night stand, which is why I chose to disclose my thoughts to my primary care physician within five minutes of meeting him for the first time.

I wanted to explain myself to him, to argue the pros of hiring a sex worker for a one-time event. Instead, I just said it was something my husband and I had discussed previously, that I wanted the tests as part of my approach to avoid harming others, and that I wanted to hire a woman because I felt that would be less threatening to Mr Myrrh. The truth is, it's not about Mr Myrrh, it's about me. The truth is, I probably won't hire a sex worker. The truth is, I'm really quite torn about sex as a monetary transaction and I'm sensitive to the possible moral and ethical issues. But I want that option there because, sometimes, at the height of these increasingly crazy perimenopausal cycles, I want a third person in my bed.

I decided that this was important to share with my doctor. I wasn't looking to shock him, poor thing, but I am resolved to follow a line of thinking that's very important to me: that if I'm not honest about what I'm experiencing then I am supporting a false narrative that does damage to others. And, if I can share the results of that honesty here, perhaps my own experience can help others choose to write their own stories.

Warmly,
Ms Myrrh

Fiction: Lesbian Assassin, Book 2: Mr George Spreads Cheer and Goodwill Toward Men, Part 3

The hallway is brightly lit, clean and institutional—a completely different feel than the Victorian Boudoir effect in the rest of the house. We hit the end of the hall and turn right, wrapping around the outside of the "business beds," as they're called. I can't believe I never noticed a lack of windows in those rooms. There are doors on my left, their finishes revealing the fact that they're metal, not wood.

I hear moans. I can't tell if they're from pleasure or pain. My palms itch for the grips of my guns. I ball up my hands and dig my fingernails in. Part of me realizes my stress reactions are relatively new; I never felt concern about women in trouble before the whole thing with Ray and Rowan. I clench my jaw. Emotional reactions aren't going to save anyone.

"You ever see how Ray did his girls?" Frankie asks as he opens the door at the far end of the hall. We head down a set of stairs, me slightly behind him, up a few steps so I can see the beginnings of a bald spot at the top of his head.

"No. I saw the maintenance equipment—the headphones at the dorm—but I never saw the initial process."

"Ain't room enough in any one city for more than one establishment like ours. Even though we all started with the same tech, over time we all got our own flavors. Ray had his honey pots, Mr George's got cheer and goodwill, Amos's got enough Texan gold to spill over into another building. Heck, I heard there's a place in Arkansas. Wonder what flavor of girl they like there."

One floor down there are to doors, across the landing from each other. Frankie opens the one on the left, labeled "C&G." The other one doesn't have a sign.

"Why even use mind control, anyway? Wouldn't it be cheaper to just hire women who want to be prostitutes?"

Frankie lets out a short bark of a laugh, "Now where's the fun in that?"

I'm instantly on high alert. I might be the kind of woman Mr George and Frankie might consider 'fun.'" The only reason I don't bolt is because Frankie let me keep my guns going in. If he was planning on abducting and brainwashing me, he would have had a second man and a pat down and a request to yield my weapons.

The room is narrow but long, probably the entire length of the house. It looks like a hospital ward. There's a man behind a desk near the door, multiple beds along the outside wall, a few privacy curtains hanging limp and useless. The beds are empty except for one. She's too far away to see much more than brown hair and pale skin.

"Frankie," the man says.

Frankie doesn't return the greeting. "She got a new name yet?"

"Mr George just e-mailed the suggestion of LaTrois, since she was here for LaDeux."

Frankie snickers. His back is to me as he picks something up from the desk. I hear a scribble. Without looking up or turning to me he says, "Rebecca's interested in seeing how we do things."

"Oh yeah?" says the guy behind the desk.

I try to smile at him, but I'm sure it comes out as a sneer. I lift my chin in the international badass greeting. He lifts his chin back.

"She's got to sign in, too," he says.

Frankie hands me a clipboard and pen and I realize why I could never do this job without someone like Rowan—and an organization like the FBI— forcing me to: this is the kind of evil that's fucking boring as hell. I sign in and toss the clipboard and pen onto the desk. Why a paper and pen, I think, when they've got fingerprint recognition built into their doorknobs? 

The guy behind the desk stands and walks us over to Nancy.

"Doc says she just needs a few more hours to prime," he checks his watch, "Nine o'clock I'll put the headphones on."

We reach the occupied bed. I put my hands on my hips so I don't reach for my guns or cross my arms. I stand back a little, giving Frankie and the guard—or nurse or whatever—some room, but I'm watching Nancy. She's pretty. Her eyes are closed, her breathing calm, her wrists and ankles bound in wide brown leather straps attached to the bed's frame.

"Doc find anything wrong with her?" Frankie asks.

"We're still waiting on the lab results from the blood tests," the guy says, "but everything else is fine. She's a healthy specimen, physically."

"And the psych eval?"

"Normal, for a lesbian. I mean, she was pissed and she was all, 'What did you do to her, you bastards!' But, yeah, normal. Brad dug up the tapes we used the last time we brainwashed a dyke. Can you believe it's been five years?"

Frankie shakes his head. "Just not enough of 'em around, maybe. Shame. We get a lot of requests for 'em." He doesn't look at me. He doesn't have to. I'm getting the subtext: "Fuck with us and you're next." Another reason for me to sell the act that I've bought in to the organization and won't make trouble.

Fiction: Lesbian Assassin Book 2: Mr George Spreads Cheer and Goodwill Toward Men, Part 2

Frankie doesn't look well. When I started working for Mr George a few months ago, Frankie was a muscular beanpole. Today he's a muscular string of dental floss, pale and damp. We've only had a few interactions, mostly working together to get rid of dead bodies, but it's been clear from the beginning that Frankie is Mr George's right-hand man because he's smart and serious and knows when to keep his hands to himself.

"Mr George sent me," I say as I walk up to him. He's standing in front of one of the doors that always stays locked. I've been looking for an excuse to see what's inside.

"He tell you what this is about?" Frankie asks.

I shake my head. "Just that you need an extra pair of hands and maybe a woman's touch."

Frankie grins. "A woman's touch, huh? Yeah, maybe. We got a dyke in there," he gestures with his shoulder, a little shrug toward the door behind him, "she's not sure she wants to work here."

All sorts of emotions are welling up inside but I'm pretty sure they just come out as a few extra eyelid twitches.

"I don't know how I can help with that."

"Mr George just wants to admit you to the next circle, maybe," Frankie says, shrugging.

"I'm glad he likes my work."

"Yeah, well, you did well enough at Ray's out in delRay but Mr George doesn't like freelancers on principle. He'd prefer you were part of the organization but he just don't have that many hit jobs, so he wants to find something else you'd be willing to work on." Frankie takes a moment to fiddle with his earpiece and turn the volume knob on his radio. "We got a few minutes out here while Doc finishes his examination. So, listen, her name's Nancy. She got here last night, tryin' to track down her friend. Turns out LaDeux was bi before she ever got here. Lost love, yadda yadda. Nancy sees LaDeux, professes her love for her, LaDeux doesn't recognize her—typical side effect of the cheer and goodwill, right—Nancy freaks out, wants to call the cops, and I chloroform her and get her out of the lobby before the guests arrive for the evening. Mr George wants to set her straight for her troubles."

"If you need to dispose of Nancy, I can do that," I say, thinking about how I'd smuggle her to Rowan, "But convincing lesbians to want cock isn't my typical thing. . ." I let my voice trail away. All that time hiding my real feelings from my mother made me a decent actress; Frankie has no idea how much his story and attitude makes me want to shoot him.

"Like I said, Mr George wants you to see the setup, see if you'd be a good fit for the operation. He'd rather hire you than someone we don't know. And, anyway, why dispose of a female when there's such a high demand."

I understand what he's not saying: by participating in the human trafficking, I become complicit in the operation and have more of a stake in its continued success.

Frankie and I are looking at each other. He's waiting for me to say something.

"I like my independence, but there haven't been a whole lot of other jobs recently," I say, arranging myself to look both resigned and curious.

Frankie nods at me. He pulls the radio out of its holster and speaks into it.

"Blake, status," he says. The hall is silent as he listens to his earpiece. "Yeah, good. Rebecca's coming in with me. . . Okay." His eyes had been roaming the wallpaper over my shoulder but they snap back to meet my gaze when he's done talking on the radio. "Just observe today. Cheer and goodwill take time, the way we do it, so's to keep the girls with some character, you know, so they aren't like blowup dolls. Gives you plenty of time to see what it's all about."

He half-turns and reached for the doorknob. It opens easily.

"Fingerprint detection on the knob," he explains, "Once you're on the payroll we'll program it to recognize your fingerprints, too, and it'll automatically unlock for you."

Who the fuck has that technology, I think to myself.  I follow him in to discover we've just gone from one hallway into another. That solves one mystery; comparing aerials and exterior images to what I'd originally mapped out when I gave myself a tour a few months ago, Rowan and the team said there was a whole lot of missing space.

Wednesday: Addams

I had been four or five days ahead of posting, which meant that, even on my busiest days I had something lined up to share. But now I have lost that lead—I must have had a lot of busy days lately—and have nothing to offer but my favorite Wednesday at the moment, Ms Addams, all grown up.

Here she is babysitting.

Excerpt: Kimberly's Kisses

Notes: Here's an excerpt from the story I've written for Archibael, winner of the 100th Post Contest. FF, FD, MF, D/s, lingerie/foundation garments.

* * * *

“Hey,” Kim whispered, nuzzling closer to her lover, “you awake?”

Jennifer gave a little whimper-moan, then sighed.

Kim, her face pressed into Jennifer’s shoulder, opened one eye. Her view was filled with her girlfriend’s opposite breast. She lifted a hand and tried to poke at the nipple, then giggled when she missed, her finger sinking into the soft flesh of the breast. No depth perception with just one eye, she thought. She tried again, this time getting her finger where she wanted it, pressing the nipple down, making it disappear from her view.

Jennifer growled and turned away. Kim followed her, trying to stay as close as possible.

        “It’s our morning to sleep in, you nut-case, lemme ‘lone,” Jennifer mumbled.

“But I have to tell you something,” Kim said, her hand still on her lover’s breast. Now her mouth was just behind and below Jennifer’s delicate ear. Kim looked at that ear, framed by brown hair and peach fuzz. She tilted her head back and licked at it. Jennifer swiped at her ear as if swatting away an annoying mosquito.

“Tell me once we’ve had coffee. In fact,” Jennifer said, her voice getting stronger, “Why don’t you get up and make us coffee, since you’ve got all that extra energy.”

“What’s the magic word,” Kim said, her voice taking on a quality that was half tease and half pout.

“Slave.”

That simple, single word had the effect they both wanted. Kim’s nostrils flared and she pushed her hips against Jennifer. Resisting the urge to bite the back of her lover’s neck, she rolled away from her girlfriend and sat up to stretch her calves before she got out of bed.

Asking Kim to make breakfast was something Jennifer rarely ever did. Breakfast was ready much more quickly if Jennifer did it, herself; not because Kim was a slow cook, but because it took her a while to get dressed. She never left the bedroom in a simple robe, much less naked, but had to first pamper herself with her favorite accoutrements. “Kisses,” she called them. Jennifer had learned long ago that Kim was willing to do whatever was requested of her, just so long as she was allowed free reign with all the kisses.

Kim’s foundation garments had an entire wardrobe to themselves: girdles, corsets, leotards and body suits, bras, gloves, stockings, garter belts--each type had its own drawer. They had been together long enough that the sound of the drawers sliding open and closed both stimulated and soothed Jennifer. She didn’t have to look to know Kimberly would start by choosing a thin cotton top to wear under a corset. That was her default style.

“Red?” Kim asked.

“Sure, slave,” Jennifer said, her eyes still closed, “you’ll look fantastic.”

More drawers opened and closed, with pauses here and there. Corset, Jennifer thought to herself, now garter belt. . . that would be the red undies next. She felt the mattress move and she opened her eyes in time, propped herself up on an elbow, to watch her beloved slide a nude, fully-fashioned stocking up one smooth, shapely leg, and check the seam before attaching the three straps that hung from the garter belt.

“Slower on the second one,” Jennifer said. Kim put one foot down, raised the other onto the bed, toes pointed, and drew the stocking up her leg as slowly as she could, her eyes on Jennifer’s. The look on her lover’s face made the kiss of the fabric that much stronger, that much more there. She wasn’t simply dressing, she was making love--to herself and her lover. Again, she checked the seam, then attached the straps. She held her pose for a moment longer, then grinned at Jennifer as she put her foot back on the floor.

“You’re a tease,” Jennifer growled.

“You like it.”

“I love it.”

“Can I tell you about--”

“I said after coffee, slave. Just stop talking and let me tighten that corset for you.” Jennifer sat up as Kim moved around to her side of the bed and turned to present her back to her lover.

“It’s just--”

“Shut up! My God! Do you need the ball gag?”

“No.” Kim’s voice sounded very small, very sincere. She was quiet as her lover tugged on the black ribbons, two on each side, and expertly tied a pair of pretty bows. Jennifer ran her hands down from the ribbons to the silk undies, then even further to feel the edge of the welts of the stockings and their transition to thinner material. Kim’s breath quickened.

“Kisses,” Jennifer whispered, her hands still moving across Kim’s thighs.

“Thank you,” Kim managed to breathe.

“Now coffee.”

“Yes.” Kim slipped on a pair of nude kitten heels and scampered out the bedroom door. Jennifer watched the rectangular, darker swatches of brown at the stockings’ ankles until they disappeared, then curled herself up under the duvet and closed her eyes.

Fiction: Lesbian Assassins Book 2: Mr George Spreads Cheer and Goodwill Toward Men, Part 1

The man in my sights isn't much to look at: short, squat, a dirty gray baseball cap on his head. When I pull the trigger, the cap flies off and his head hits the concrete sidewalk. He doesn't feel it; he's already dead. Mr George now owes me five grand. Too bad the feds will seize it as evidence.

It'll be a few minutes before anyone finds him—plenty of time for me to pack up and disappear. The cops'll find my rooftop hiding spot eventually, but by then I'll be long gone, with my gloves and my generic sneakers hiding my tracks. Rowan didn't approve any backup for me, considering I'm undercover and supposedly just another hit man for hire, and that's just the way I like it. I feel free, I feel sort of like the old me.

I break down my rifle and stuff it in the purple duffle bag labelled "Curves." I hate this bag. It was Lucy's idea, and I have to admit it's the perfect cover; what self-respecting assassin would ever admit she goes to Curves? I get out the mini-vac and suck up the dirt and air around me. No hair or skin samples for the cops. Once that's back in the duffle I walk quickly toward the roof access door, gravel crunching quietly under my sneakers. I hear a scream. I don't turn around.

* * * *

Mr George's office is odious. No sense of decor, but that hardly matters—the pressboard furniture, orange shag carpet, and faux wood panelling is all shrouded by rancid cigar smoke. I don't even try to hide my disgust; "bootlicking brown-noser" isn't my undercover role.

"Police scanner told us all about your successful job, Rebecca," he says as I cross the room to stand in front of his desk. "Congratulations. Terry'll wire the payment today."

"Thanks."

"Listen," he says, leaning back in his crap chair, his big belly like an iceberg rising over the paper ocean of his desk, "You only do hits or are you open to other jobs?"

I arch an eyebrow. I give the answer Rowan wants me to give.

"I'm open to whatever, Mr George."

"Good," he says, nodding to himself, "Good. So find Frankie. He's on duty in the back rooms. I ain't asking you to go salaried or whatever, I just have a thing that needs an extra set of hands. Might be good to have a woman around for it."

"Okay." I'm trying to read his expression through the vague haze. I realize the whole office—the bad decor, the cigar smoke, the paper-strewn desktop—it makes him inscrutable, which makes him dangerous.

I turn and head for the door, eager to breathe the relatively fresh air of the hall. 

"Rebecca," he says. I stop and turn back to look at him. "I know you got choices, being freelance, so I'll double the usual payment if you say yes to this project."

"Thanks, Mr George," I say. When I finally pull the door shut behind me, I'm wishing the feds didn't have to confiscate my income.

The brothel is a startling contrast to Mr George's office. Unlike Ray, he isn't even trying to hide the fact that all his girls are for sale or for rent. The office is in the basement of a converted Victorian home. Just about every remaining room is bright, airy and clean, even the laundry room. The girls look happy. The ones that come to Mr George's as skinny, unhappy waifs quickly become cheerful extroverts with just the right amount of flesh on their bones. It makes me want to slap them. Rowan wants to know what's behind the personality changes. She doesn't see how entering into prostitution can make an unhappy girl a happy woman. I'm reserving judgement, but I am curious, and so is Lucy.

I pull out my cellphone as I climb the basement stairs and call my wife. I like being able to say she's my wife. I bite my lip and try not to think about our wedding and our wedding night. It still makes me giddy and giddy is not useful when I'm on the job. Instead, I grab on to the pissed feeling I had when I realized Rowan wasn't going to let us have a honeymoon.

"Hey," Lucy says. I open the door at the top of the stairs and walk out into the kitchen.

"Hey," I say. I sit at a bar stool at the kitchen island. "I finished one job and now it looks like I might have another. Not sure when I'll be home."

"I made dinner," she says, her voice matter-of-fact, "But it'll keep."

"I'm looking forward to eating it."

"I'm looking forward to kneeling at your feet and feeding it to you one bite at a time."

My mouth and pussy flood at the same time. I swallow. I want to tell Mr George I'll learn about his special project tomorrow. Instead, I just sigh into the phone.

"I'm sorry," Lucy says.

"No, you're not," I reply, a dangerous note in my voice. I hear her breath snag, it makes me feel bolder, bigger. "I'll call again when I'm ready to come home."

"I love you."

"I know."

The dissonance between what we say and what we mean tickles my ears and my stomach. I'd inserted code into our conversation, letting her know I'm heading into something I'm a little worried about.

I end the call, check my e-mail, then launch the voice-activated recording app the FBI installed. I'm thinking they might find my next conversation interesting.

* * * *

Fiction: Party Games

“Ready?” Tom asked. He had one hand on the inside handle of the door, the other on my stockinged knee. His eyes met mine and I shivered in anticipation.

“Ready, darling,” I replied.

Tom let himself out of the car, then circled around to my side to open the door for me.

I took his arm, grateful for the support. The night was cool and a small breeze swept by. Under my red silk wrap and my black silk dress, my nipples grew hard. The small hairs at the back of my neck stood up and I shivered.

“Nervous?” Tom asked. I shook my head, smiling.

“Just the air,” I said.

There were other couples walking toward the large stone steps to the McMurray’s Summer home. The last party of the season, then we’d all be off to our Winter homes, our schools and work, and the intermezzo required to plan the Winter events. My eyes strained to see what Mrs McMurray -- Jackie -- might have done with the exterior decor to celebrate the end of the season.

Were the party mine, I would have held it at an earlier time of day, when we could enjoy the lasting sunlight, the moods of twilight, and the moon rise over the ocean. Jackie was always one to tip her hat toward our group’s teen gothic years, however, so perhaps that explained the late hour -- 10:30 to 1:30, the invitation had read.

The live band’s music poured out of the open doors and windows, along with the warm and welcoming light. We walked in silence toward the house, both of us anticipating the party and our own little game.

* * * *

“Which triggers do you want to play with tonight?” Tom asked as he selected my outfit. His voice was muffled; he was in my walk-in closet and I was in the bathroom, curling my hair.

“Surprise me, darling,” I called back.

He appeared in the open doorway, my black dress on a hanger in one hand an a pair of heels in the other. I looked at his reflection in the mirror.

“I love that dress.”

“It’s almost too simple,” he said, “but you’re so beautiful, you carry it off every time.”

I laughed, amused.

“But those heels,” I said, “You know as well as I do that we always have to park on their lawn--”

“I’ll carry you across the lawn if it means I can see you in these heels. You never wear them.”

“Because they’re so impractical,” I said, “and painful. You’ll have to carry me back to the car, as well, then into our own home.”

“Please wear them, darling,” Tom said, trying out his hangdog look. I looked at the shoes: the long, slender red spikes descending from thin black leather soles, masses of straps like clouds. Tom had given them to me for my birthday but I suspect they were more a gift to himself than to me.

“I’ll wear them,” I said. He grinned at me, delighted.

“I’ll carry you everywhere, then, and give you a foot massage once we’re home.”

“At two in the morning?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. He nodded enthusiastically.

I rolled my eyes and returned to my toilette. I had only an hour to look like I belonged to the social set we’d be mingling with that evening.

* * * *

The affair was formal, of course, the effect of which was that every man there looked slightly more handsome in their tuxedo and every woman looked slightly more uncomfortable in their dresses. I noticed I wasn’t alone in wearing uncomfortable but sexy shoes.

Jackie was at the door, kissing and hugging every guest.

“Darling!” she said to me, “I’m delighted you and Tom could make it!”

“And I’m so pleased to be here, Jackie,” I said, “It’s hard to believe the Summer’s nearly over and you and Richard haven’t had a chance to play doubles with us yet.”

“Isn’t it awful,” she said, nodding, her face open and innocent, “poor Richard’s ski accident made it impossible for us to do any type of outdoor activity together other than skeet shooting. At least you and I had our weekly get-togethers for tea.”

“And I’m so thankful for that,” I said, “I wouldn’t have survived the Summer without you.”

“Just as I couldn’t have survived Harvard without you, my dear.”

We hugged each other and Tom and I moved inside, allowing Jackie to resume her hostess duties.

“I love it when you make those bald-faced lies,” Tom whispered in my ear as we walked toward the large, open, living area. I giggled. Then he whispered, “Erotik essen.” I blinked.

“Oh, Tom,” I whispered, looking up at him, “did you really just say that?”

“Let’s see if you can keep up the innocent act while you slowly become more aroused with every bite you take,” he said, smirking. I couldn’t help but return his smile; I had, after all, asked him to surprise me.

As if on cue, a server arrived to offer us canapes from a silver tray. Tom took one for himself and one for me.

“Sie jeztz essen,” he said. I took the canape and popped it in my mouth; the trigger gave me no choice. The moment the pastry hit my tongue I felt the warmth begin to creep between my legs.

It was a task, pretending everything was fine. As I socialized with acquaintances and friends, it seemed as though servers were constantly offering small tid-bits of food, specifically so Tom could enjoy my discomfort and building pleasure. While I could theoretically moan in delight over the food, it wasn’t actually good enough to warrant that response; the other partygoers would find it rather odd. They’d most likely talk about my overreaction the next day. The most difficult part, however, wasn’t keeping quiet but keeping still -- the more I ate, the more I wanted to kneel at Tom’s feet and beg him to pleasure me.

At one point, as a small group of us were laughing about Adam Preissel’s story of his hunting dog’s attempt to retrieve Mabel Astinworth’s bathing suit top while she was still wearing it, I realized the two triggers had worked together to get me so aroused that the pleasure of it was trickling down the inside of my thigh. I caught Tom’s eye; he was standing where he could watch me from afar, his face betraying nothing about our game. By this time I was trembling with need but, like him, I was adept at hiding what I was feeling.

He crossed over to me and took my elbow in a gentle grip.

“If you don’t mind,” he said to the group, “I’d like to steal my wife for a moment.”

Everyone laughed or smiled politely as he steered me toward the bar.

“Are you alright, my beloved?” he inquired.

“I’m quite done with canapes and I’m quite sure I shall faint if you don’t take me now,” I said, my voice soft and urgent.

“The party had just begun and so has the game,” he said, “I’m nowhere near done playing with you.”

“I love this game,” I said dreamily as he took two flutes from the bar, “But I’m not sure how long I can play it without everyone here knowing something’s wrong.”

“You mean ‘right,’” Tom said, smiling at me. I smiled back.

“Yes. Oh so right.”

“Tell me,” he said, gazing into my eyes.

“I’m so wet, Tom. It’s sliding down, soaking into my stockings.” I took a deep breath, closed my eyes in an attempt to wrest control of my inflamed passion. “I need some sort of release. Please.”

He handed me one of the flutes of champagne and we raised our glasses to each other.

“Vergnügen,” he toasted. I flinched in anticipation as I took a sip of champagne. The flavor and the bubbles floated atop the sweet sensation of a strong, full orgasm. Tom held my waist as I leaned against him for support, a soft moan escaping my lips.

“Is she alright?” I heard Marcus Englebright inquire.

I opened my eyes and stood upright, doing my best to smile.

“The shoes,” Tom said, “I begged her to wear them.”

Marcus looked from Tom to me, grinning. “On behalf of all men, I apologize for our penchant for women in heels.”

“Apology accepted, Marcus,” I said.

As Marcus and Tom chatted about possible Autumn hunting opportunities in Maine, I sipped my champagne and enjoyed a calm afterglow. The orgasm meant the commands were lifted and now the flavor and bubbles of the drink were a sweet reminder of the fact that I’d just come amidst fifty of the most powerful couples on the East Coast.

I was also acutely aware of the fact that the orgasm had increased the amount of fluid making its way down my thighs. The skirt of my dress ended just below the knees. I hoped I could finish my champagne before I had to visit the powder room.

* * * *

“To signal distress?” Tom asked as he drove the sedan down the treelined road.

“Est ist mir leid,” I said automatically. We’d been through the rules and contingency plans so many times before. Knowing everything by heart, however, did nothing to dampen my anticipation, and the safety check only increased my appreciation of the man I married.

“To tell me the game is over?”

“Spiel est aus.”

“And you trust me,” Tom said, placing his hand on my knee.

“You’re the only one,” I said, covering his hand with my own.

“It will be a good game tonight. I have plans for you.”

A thrill ran through me at his words. I couldn’t help but smile.

* * * *

After refreshing myself in the powder room I found Tom amidst a group of younger men; the boys who would soon have wives who would host their own parties, whether they wanted to or not.

“Darling, you remember John Avery’s Jacob, don’t you?” he said to me as I took his arm.

“Of course!” I said, holding out my free hand for Jacob to press. “And don’t you look just like your father when he was your age. Quite handsome.”

Jacob smiled an easy grin and took my hand briefly before saying, “It’s good to see you again, Mrs Cranshaw.”

“Please, call me Evelyn.”

“If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, my wife had requested a walk about the garden.”

The boys nodded and smiled, and I nodded and smiled, and Tom guided me toward the open French doors which led out to the stone patio and the fresh air.

“Sie mienen Namen lieben,” he said in a low voice. Another trigger. “Now say it. Say my name.”

“Tom,” I said, and felt a small spike of pleasure.

“Again.”

“Tom,” I moaned. He grinned.

“You do realize I’m going to be begging you to let me orgasm again very soon.”

“I certainly hope so,” he said as he led me back to the party, “And I hope all that begging will be peppered with my name. In fact, I think tonight’s rules include using my name every time you speak to me or about me.”

I sighed happily and said, “Tom -- oh -- I love you.”

“And I love you, Evelyn.”

* * * *

“You and Tom make the sweetest couple. How did you two meet?” Mrs Mira Earns asked me after we air-kissed hello. I hid my reaction to my husband’s name by taking another sip of champagne.

Mira was Brian Earns’ latest trophy wife. While I adored Brian’s previous arm-candy, I didn’t hold any rancor for the latest model. I hoped she was stock-piling his gifts, however, because I didn’t expect to see her two Summers from now.

“I met Tom,” I swallowed at the bite of pleasure, “in second-year German at Harvard. Not the most romantic of stories, I’m afraid. Traveling to Germany with the class did give us a chance to know each other better.”

“I think it’s a cute story,” Mira said. I resisted the urge to ask her how she met Brian. “Do you still practice German?”

“All the time. Tom,” I gasped, “a-and I have a special place in our hearts for the language.” A burst of pleasure flared between my legs and I wanted to run to my husband and beg for another orgasm. Between the trigger and the alcohol I was growing very unsteady on my feet.

“Now that is romantic,” she sighed, “I’d love for there to be that little, unique connection between myself and Brian.”

I wondered just how much Mira had to drink if she was willing to admit that to a relative stranger, even if I was a bit more trustworthy or sympathetic than the other women here.

“I’m sure you’ll find something,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it. I resisted the urge to share more detail about our use of the German language. My desperation was growing and I finally couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m sorry, Mira, but I just remembered something I need to tell-- Tom-- oh!”

Poor Mira, I’m sure she was puzzled, but she smiled politely all the same. I walked as quickly as my shoes allowed toward my grinning husband. He’d placed himself so he could watch me over the shoulders of George Arkin.

“Ah, here comes the lovely lady now,” Tom said. George turned to find me stalking up to the little knot of men. I hoped my face didn’t look as flush as it felt.

“Hello, gentlemen,” I sang, trying to sound lively and happy. I was, truly, lively and happy, but also desperate and horny.

“And me?” Tom teased.

“Oh, hello, Tom-- mmm,” I hid my body’s reaction to his name by kissing him on the cheek. “I need to come,” I managed to whisper in his ear, before standing upright and smiling at the George and his companion, Terry. They stood virtually shoulder to shoulder, as intimate as two gay men could get at a party like this. After my conversation with Mira and the quantity of champagne I’d had, I wanted to recommend the fun of Tom’s party game to these two men. I adored George, with his kind eyes and quick smile. And Terry, his partner, had become a welcome fixture at the Summer parties, with his quick wit and sense of humor.

“Evelyn,” said Terry, stepping forward to kiss my cheek, “The only thing that upsets me about the end of Summer is the fact that I won’t see you for another ten months. Who is going to keep me at peak tennis performance?”

“It certainly won’t be me,” said George, patting his belly, “I much prefer to watch.”

“Yes, and shout, er, ‘suggestions,’” said Terry in a wry voice.

“I was born and bred for management,” replied George, sighing as though it just couldn’t be helped. “Speaking of which, Tom, just how much shouting of suggestions do you think you’ll need to do with Jacob Avery?”

At the sound of my husband’s name I grew weak-kneed and had to lean against him. He drew his arm around my waist, a silent signal that he knew, and was enjoying, what was happening to me.

“Probably as much as I needed when I was his age,” Tom said, chuckling. The two men grinned. I could barely keep my eyes open, now, only able to focus on the heat between my legs. I was so close to orgasm, but couldn’t, not without the trigger.

Terry seemed to notice something was wrong. He said, “It looks like you might need an early bedtime, Evey. You need your rest if we’re going to play one more game of tennis before George and I head for California.”

I forced myself to focus on him and give a little smile, saying, “I just can’t handle late nights like I used to.”

“Isn’t that true of all of us,” George said, “Jackie simply doesn’t want to admit we’re not teenagers anymore.”

“Some of us are actually old, now,” Terry said, nudging his partner with his elbow. George rolled his eyes.

A server strolled past with a tray full of glasses of water and flutes of champagne. Tom stopped him and asked, “Drinks?”

The three of us nodded and Tom handed champagne to the men and took water for us. He handed one of the glasses to me.

“Vergnügen,” he said, raising his glass. Terry and George raised their flutes. We all clinked our glasses. I was afraid to drink. Tom noticed my hesitation and wrapped his arm around me again. I leaned against him and sipped the water. The orgasm was stronger than the last and I hid my face in his shoulder.

“Are you alright, Evelyn?” Terry asked. I could hear the alarm in his voice, but it was all very far away, lost as I was in center of my personal storm of pleasure.

“I do think we might have to leave the party a little early,” I heard Tom say.

I sniffed as I raised my head and turned back toward our friends. I felt happily drained and relaxed, and I wanted so badly to share the secret with our two friends, but I merely said, “I might be coming down with something. The water tickled my throat and I nearly choked.”

“You poor thing,” George said, looking genuinely worried, “You ought to go right to bed. I don’t know why Tom dragged you out.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t his fault,” I said, “I mean, these shoes are his fault,” I pointed to my feet, “But I certainly wasn’t going to miss the last party of the season.”

“How in blazes are you going to be able to play a game of tennis with me tomorrow after standing around at a party in shoes like those?” Terry asked.

“Perhaps Tom and I shall place wagers,” George said, smiling, “I feel confident the odds are in my favor.”

We all laughed. Tom looked at me and held my gaze. I bit my lip in order to avoid saying, “Thank you for that wonderful orgasm.” There’d be time to say thank you in the car, and time, at home, to show my appreciation in other ways. For now, I had to rely on the silent communication between us.

I turned my gaze to George and said, “I do hope Tom takes you up on the offer of a wager. I intend to win tomorrow’s match. I will be wearing proper shoes.”

“And I have a few, er, sayings, that tend to help her focus on her game,” Tom said, “Now, if you’ll excuse us. It was great seeing you both.”

We all kissed and hugged. I was glad we’d ended the night with two of my favorite people. Tom fetched my wrap for me and we paused long enough to hug Jackie goodbye before we were down the stone steps and walking toward the car.

Tom held my elbow and stopped me by the fountain in the middle of the circular drive.

“Did you have a good evening?”

“I did. What with food, alcohol, frighteningly banal conversations, and multiple orgasms, I don’t think I would have missed this evening for anything.”

Tom grinned and then, like a dancer or a boxer, he moved swiftly and I found myself swept up in his arms, like a bride carried across a threshold.

“Erreichen die Höhe,” he said. I cannot completely describe what happens to my body when he uses that trigger. It has the effect of lighting up all my erogenous zones: my neck and shoulders, my armpits, the insides of my elbows, the skin between my fingers and toes, the backs of my knees, the insides of my thighs, my ass, my pussy, my clit, my scalp. It’s like a dozen tongues of fire and ice dancing all over my skin. A level of pleasure that makes me babble incoherently. I was not aware of my surroundings. I felt the effects of the trigger and I felt Tom’s hands and arms, and nothing else.

The rest of the walk to the car stretched out interminably.

“Niedergehen.”

I came down. Funny he would chose that word to relieve me of the onslaught of sensation, considering an alternative translation was “to become enslaved.” I was breathing heavily, a few tears running from my eyes. My body was exhausted. He set me down and opened the car door for me, and even strapped me in once I was seated.

“Are you alright?” he asked. I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.

“No need for the game to be over?” he asked. I swallowed and shook my head. We were leaving the party but the game could continue as long as we liked.