Red Rain

By L.Corvidae

Part One, Chapter One: Brown Eyed Girl

Wednesday, December Thirty-First, 1997

  In theory, the party at Harry's rental place was supposed
to be for a bunch of us to get together and watch the New
Year's fireworks display. December had been unseasonably
warm and the city had decided to hold it over the lake that
year. 

   In practice, Harry's back yard quickly became a mob
scene; teeming with twenty-somethings looking to get wasted
and get laid. In retrospect, so was I.

   A few of us had formed a cheesy jazz combo, and Harry
lured us into bringing our instruments with us and providing
some entertainment, before the real show started, with the
promise of free beer. As if anybody else seemed to be paying
for theirs. Jon showed up with a few drinks in him already
and Dan disappeared not long after along with a blonde he'd
been eyeing; so we ended up playing two whole songs before
calling it quits.

   Like most houses on the lake, Harry's was situated at the
wider end of a wedge-shaped parcel of land, about forty feet
from the shore. An eight foot tall wooden fence on one side,
and closely planted trees with a  hedge on the other, formed 
the border to his property; ever narrowing the closer one
got to the water. Eventually, it thinned to the point that
the actual amount of beach that Harry could lay claim to
with his "beach front" house was only about ten feet wide.
Ordinarily the yard felt spacious enough, a little too open
if anything; but with sixty-plus partying hearty within its
confines the place was giving me a bad case of
claustrophobia. 

   It had been raining all morning so everything was wet.
Still, I found a moderately dry stump at the perimeter of
the crowd, slung my saxophone over my back and sat down to
watch the parade of strangers pass by; half of whom I
probably should have remembered from high school, but
didn't. Someone put Harry's speakers in a window and soon
music was again wafting above the heads of the oblivious
revelers. It was an old CD. Seal. Kissed By A Rose.

   I was finishing up my second cup of beer and getting
ready to split when I saw her.

   She was of average height, though she looked taller on
account of her long, willowy limbs and her graceful,
swanlike neck. Her long, wavy hair was brown, and her face
was like one of those characters from a Japanese cartoon -
all eyes. Deep, brown eyes, like mahogany, that scanned the
throng with the intensity of a lighthouse beacon. For a
moment, they locked onto mine and I shivered. Then they
moved on again, passing me over as if I were nothing. 

   She looked young, too young. I'd have mistaken her for an
eleventh-grader trying to play with the big kids, but those
electrifying eyes did not belong to any teenager.

   She had on a top of black crushed velvet, and tight
fitting leather pants that matched. She started walking
towards me, her hips swaying in perfect sync with the
drifting music as if she alone could hear it. As the rolling
fog of human bodies parted before her, I could see that she
was walking barefoot on the grass.

   I was not alone in my admiration, as another young man,
bombed out of his skull if the way he was staggering was any
indication, sidled up to her, blocking her way, and began
talking. She didn't even seem to notice him at first,
despite his being right up in her face. Then, she fixed her
stare directly into his red watery eyes. She didn't say a
word, at least her lips didn't seem to move, but he suddenly
stumbled backwards, as if struck. 

   I didn't notice where he skittered away to. She was
standing right in front of me, leveling the full brunt of
her gaze upon me.

   "Do you actually play that thing," she said, pointing to
my sax, "or do you just wear it to parties to impress the
ladies?"

   "What would you like to hear?" I asked, trying to sound
cocky and unimpressed.

   "Harlem Nocturne, if you know it," she replied, equally
aloof.

   I grinned smugly in reply, slid my instrument back around
my torso, and took a deep, even breath. Wetting my lips
before placing them over the reed, I waited a heartbeat and
then began to blow.

   The brassy squall of the horn turned many heads. It
wasn't a very long piece, but it was showy. I can't say I
played the best I ever had, but I certainly gave it my all,
hitting a minimum of flat notes, and most of those during
the bridge, which I've always found a little tricky. 

   Throughout it all, she kept her eyes riveted on me. The
shouts of encouragement and catcalls seemed to melt away
under the powerful aura of her attention.

   As the last note faded, cheers and applause started up
amongst the other spectators only to be cut short as the
first shell burst in the air behind them,  bathing
everything in a deep crimson light.

   Everyone turned to watch, except her.

   "So?" I asked her.

   "So?"

   "You tell me. Do I actually play this thing, or is it
just to impress the ladies?"

   Behind her, the skies had erupted into vast green
infernos and glittering gold comets.

   "A little of both, I'd say," she replied, which was the
answer I'd been hoping for. She offered me her hand, which
I'd been hoping for as well. 

   Instead of leading me back to the house, or the impromptu
parking lot in the front yard, she pulled me through the
crowd and onto the thin strip of beach. Tugging at my arm,
she kept traveling laterally, moving from Harry's property
to the neighbor's; then onto another's, and another's. The
rows of tress or fences or low stone walls separating each
property from the other typically only stretched as far as
their lawns reached, leaving the strand open.    

   Most folks were having parties in their yards like Harry,
although some were merely content to relax on the back
patios with a beer in hand. None of them looked pleased to
see us trespassing along their patch of sand; but no one
said anything either. Each house we passed was lit by a
staccato of blues, greens, golds and especially reds. In one
flash, a group of indigo strangers glared at us from around
a barbecue pit. The next instant, a different set of scarlet
faces peered at us warily from patio furniture. 

   The shoreline began to curve, and the sand made way for a
hillock covered in long, unkempt grass. We picked our way
through the weeds and back down the other side, where the
sand returned. There was a fifty yard stretch of undeveloped
beach before disappearing for good as the earth rose
dramatically to become a steep, rocky slope. Just before
that point, there was a house.

   It was built part way into the side of the hill. The
floor plan was an elongated pentagon, and it looked a little
like a ship, with the prow jutting out to meet the lake at
an angle. There was a wood deck that wrapped around most of
the first story, and the roof came together in a high, sharp
peak, with a gable over the front door.

  We were perhaps twenty feet away when the skies burst into
one final, ear ringing, eye-popping finale. Then a thick
silence descended over the entire lake; marred only by a
distant sizzling. We kept walking, but it began to get to
me, so I finally said, "My name's Jordan, by the way."

  "Hello, Jordan," she replied tonelessly.

  There were stone steps set in the side of the hill that
led to the front door, and wooden stairs that led up to the
deck on the other side.  By keeping to the water's edge, we
ended up at the feet of the latter. 

   She climbed up onto the first step, and then turned to me
and said, "You favor you left leg when you walk."

   "Yes," I answered uncomfortably.

   "It's very slight, but I pay attention to the way people
move."

   "It was broken a while ago." 

   "I pay attention to the words people choose to use, too,
Jordan." 

   I wondered what that meant, but she didn't elaborate and
started up the steps.

   The back part of the deck overlooked the lake and had a
hot tub set into it at the farthest end. There was a set of
sliding glass doors leading into the house and she slid them
open by pressing her palm against the glass and shoving. 

   With the door opened, she turned back to me again.

   "It must have been a bad break, if you're still limping
after all this time."

   "It was," I said, begging her with my eyes to let the
matter drop.

   She was about to step through the door, when she again
halted, and, on a whim, turned to offer me her hand.

   "Camille," she said.

   "Nice to meet you Camille," I replied, taking her hand in
mine and planting a gentle kiss upon it.

   Holding hands, we crossed the threshold together.

  The interior was impressive. The second story only covered
two thirds of the available area, allowing the walls of the
living room to soar all the way to the roof. One of the
rooms upstairs had railings instead of walls, making it a
sort of balcony. An open kitchen area was situated directly
underneath it; and there was a stairwell leading up and
down, which was just off of sitting in the exact center of
the structure. On one side of the "prow" was the fireplace,
and on the other an enormous entertainment center. A long
sofa upholstered in gray leather allowed one to cozy up and
watch either a fire or the evening news. Matching easy
chairs were positioned at both ends. Directly behind the
sofa, in the middle of the room, sat a massive fish tank up
on a broad, boxy stand. I knew virtually nothing about fish,
but there were many different types swimming around; all of
which were brightly colored, and therefore seemed terribly
exotic.

  Behind me, the sliding glass door slid shut and suddenly
she was upon me. She slammed me against the wall next to the
mammoth TV, knocking the breath loose from my lungs and
sucking it away from me, hungrily. Her hands closed around
my wrists and she pinned my arms out to the sides. I was in
too much shock to do much of anything, except grow hard in
appreciation for the way her firm, hot body felt as she
ground it against mine.

   Somehow, I regained my senses, and gently tried to push
her back. There was a brief struggle, and then she allowed
herself to be moved; but not before taking my tongue between
her teeth. Their hard, sharp edges sliding across the soft,
vulnerable muscle. I shivered as the tip finally popped
free.

   She was looking at me with a contrite little half-smile.
"Is something not to your liking?" she asked, her voice
dripping with false innocence.

   "Just wondering what the rush is."

   "I see," she said, her body relaxing, "you're one of
those." She walked over to the sofa and sat down, crossing
her legs in a most ladylike manner.

   "Okay, Jordan. Take off your clothes for me."

   It took a second for her words to reach my
adrenaline-addled brain. As I fumbled for my belt, she threw
back her head and laughed.

   "Now who's in a hurry?" she taunted. "Take off your
shirt, first." Then, as an afterthought - "Please."

   I didn't remember my shirt having quite so damn many
buttons when I put it on, but I fumbled my way through them
and shrugged it off. As I reached for the hem of my
undershirt, she chided me.

   "Slowly, if you please."

   So, I pulled it up slowly, gradually exposing my abdomen
and chest. She hummed thoughtfully as each new inch of flesh
was exposed.

   "You were an athlete." she said flatly.

   "Yeah. Basketball."

   "Until you broke you leg?"

   I ducked my head down, my cheeks turning red.

   "I quit just before."

   "I see. Shoes."

   I kicked them free and leaned against a tall, slim
bookcase to peel off my socks.

   She got up off the couch and sauntered over to me,
pressing one hand firmly against my bare midriff. She looked
into my eyes and smiled seductively, circling around behind
me, keeping her hand pressed securely against my abs.
Standing on her toes, she was tall enough to press her
crotch into my ass, which she did with slow, firm grinding
motion. I was trembling with the need for her to touch me
more; to touch me there.

   She reached her other hand around my waist and began to
unbuckle my belt. I could feel it slide around my body as
she pulled it loose. Her hands then moved to undo the button
on my pants, and, almost daintily, undid my fly.

   She pulled away from me, and I moaned as my pants dropped
unhindered down my legs.

   She strode back in front of me, her eyes pointedly
focused on the bulge in my underwear. I squirmed
uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and in retaliation I
stared with an equal lack of subtlety at the gentle swell of
her chest. She was, at best, a B-cup; but that didn't
interest me as much as the two tiny, distinct bumps that I
was convinced I could see, even through the rich material.
It was immensely gratifying to believe I had her interest as
much as she had mine. Although, I would later have to admit
to myself that it the air outside had been pretty nippy. 

   She knelt; the move startling in it suddenness.

   "You weren't anticipating coming home with anyone
tonight, were you?" she asked, grinning.

   "Why do you think that?" I stammered.

   She poked a finger through a hole in the cotton; her
fingertip tickling one of my balls.

   "You would have worn less ratty underwear." If I'd been
flushed and blushing before, my whole head turned bright
crimson at that. The fact was, she was dead right. 

   Her other hand darted at my crotch and before I could
react, she had wedged several fingers into the hole and
suddenly ripped my drawers apart with one quick tug. Even
the elastic, worn out from years of service, offered no
resistance.

   The shreds of my underwear slid down my leg; and I was at
last totally exposed to her.

   She smiled, pursed her lips just millimeters away from
the florid tip of my cock, and stood up and walked away.

   She moved to the wall, and leaned up against it in an odd
way; facing it, as if she were expecting a frisking.

   "Unzip my top," she ordered.

   I had to lean into her, in order to get at the zipper,
and she rolled and thrust her leather-covered ass against my
prick, eliciting groans of frustration and delight from me.

   She turned around, shedding the velvet like a snake
escaping old skin. Her ribs poked out with alarming
definition underneath breasts that covered a lot of area,
but weren't that full.

   I couldn't have cared less. I dropped to a crouch and
clamped my mouth down over smooth, salty skin. Her nipple
had the firmness of a pencil eraser. I alternately sucked
and nibbled at it; my tongue flickering away at the rubbery
flesh with abandon.

   Her fingers slipped through my hair, stroking softly as
she sighed with pleasure. Then, her fist closed without
warning. I cried out into her breast in surprise and
indignation as she forcibly dragged my head over to her
other tit. When she released her grip I calmed down and
began to resume my ministrations, a touch less eagerly than
before, though.

   When she'd had enough, she placed her hands on my
shoulders and shoved me away. She strutted to back over to
the sofa and propped herself up against the back of one of
the easy chairs.

   "Get me out of these pants," she ordered.

   I was shaking with anticipation by that point and my
hands reached out awkwardly towards her crotch. She seized
my wrists and looked me in the eye.

   "Be a little more creative, do." 

   My thoughts raced around my head as I tried to think of
some other way. I know it sounds obvious, but at the time I
was honestly trying to figure out some way to grasp the tiny
zipper between my toes. Fortunately, my hormones did not
completely lobotomize me, and I lowered myself to my knees.

   She kept a tight hold on my wrists until I was at face
level with her crotch. She relaxed her grip then, but did
not release me altogether. I tipped my face in towards her
bellybutton and took the pliant leather between my teeth.

   Luckily for me, the top button was a snap. I nudged the
newly-created flap apart, nuzzling her tummy with the tip of
my nose. Then I gently bit down on the delicate little
zipper and started to tug it carefully southward. The click
of each set of teeth coming undone reverberated in my mouth.
My nose slid along the soft, smooth, damp surface of her
panties.

   Even undone, her pants clung to her body. I titled
backwards and got a quick glimpse of red satin covering her
promised land. She still hadn't let go of my arms, so
balance was a problem, and I could feel cramps starting up
in my calves. She gave my wrists a squeeze, setting me to
work, peeling the dark leather from her creamy, if sweaty,
skin.

   Rewarding work it was, too; as my cheeks were
continuously being rubbed against the swell of her hips or
the musky, tantalizing flesh of her inner thighs.

   When the pants finally lay in a wadded bunch around her
ankles, she stepped out of them, bringing her body right up
next to mine; and lifted me to my feet. I was astonished at
the strength contained within those skinny arms.      

   She let released me, only to reach down between my legs
and take my manhood in her hands. Her grip was firm, as
before, but not uncomfortably so. Just the opposite: I
shuddered at the thought of cumming in a swift, premature
explosion.

   "You seem pretty tightly wound down here, stud," she said
in a breathy voice that made my excitement that much worse.
"Are you sure you're not just going to go off at the opening
bell? Because I'd hate to think that I'm wasting my time
here with a man who can't go the distance, Jordan."

   "No." My voice cracked with lust. "I swear I can last!"

   "We'll see," she replied, not sounding convinced.

   I groaned as she let go of me and moved away. She pushed
the sliding glass door open again; and motioned for me to
follow her out onto the back deck. I winced as the acrid
smell of gunpowder overpowered my nostrils.

   The air was chilly and still, and a thick cloud of smoke
hung over the lake's eerily placid surface. Her thin, pale
body was like some child-goddess. She was beautiful, and I
wanted her.

   She turned to face me and leaned up against the railing.
She spread her legs wide, taunting me with those flimsy red
panties. My cock was so hard that it could have etched
glass.

   "Kneel," she said haughtily.

   At first I just sort of gawked at her. Then, carefully
trying to avoid the puddles of rainwater that spotted the
deck, I lowered myself back onto my knees. 

   I started crawling towards her, literally salivating at
the thought of tasting the tender flesh hidden behind that
satin. But she lifted up her right leg and pushed her foot
into my shoulder, holding me at bay.

   "Not yet soldier," she informed me. "First let's clear
your chamber of any live rounds you might be carrying."

   I stared at her blankly for a moment, then, realizing
what she meant, began to blush. It's funny how I could be
totally unselfconscious about ramming my dick into her most
private of places, yet the thought of playing with it myself
in front of her could be so humiliating.

   "What's the matter?" she asked, her tone mocking. "Do you
need a little encouragement?" She slipped one hand inside
her panties and I could hear the sound of her parting her
lips, almost like the sound of a kiss. Then she withdrew her
fingers, which glistened with moisture in the light coming
from the house, and gracefully slid them into her waiting
mouth.

   Humiliating or not, I began to jerk off like a madman.

   In contrast to my furious self-abuse, Camille slid her
hand back under the waistband of her undies, languidly
fingering herself. The muscles of her foot tensed against my
collarbone and she made a faintly erotic murmuring in the
back of her throat.

   I'm not proud, but it only took about a minute and a half
of frenetic yanking before my cock started shooting big
globs of pearly spunk all over the place. I was so focused
on that rippling triangle of fabric that I hardly felt the
endorphin rush. 

   Unfortunately, I wasn't concentrating on where all my
sperm was going, either. A big, shiny dollop landed squarely
on the instep of her left foot.

   Her angry glare was terrifying. I almost began to cry. I
was beyond all conscious, rational understanding of my
actions. All my male ego and pride had burned away, leaving
only an oppressive cloud of lust behind; so thick that not
even the release of an orgasm had dissipated it in the
slightest.

   I dropped to my hands, her right knee bending to
accommodate the move, and I stretched my tongue out and
licked my seed from the side of her foot. There wasn't that
much, but it filled my mouth with its slimy texture and its
nasty, salty taste.

    When I had finished I looked up at her, directly into
her crotch; her face staring down at me from some
unimaginable Olympian height.

   "If you're finished indulging your foot fetish," she
said, sounding curt, yet amused, "I would like to have sex
sometime before President's Day."

   Sheepishly, I dragged myself to my feet, and followed her
inside.     

   Her bedroom was not at all what I'd expected. The walls
had understated Victorian wallpaper, while a vanity and a
chest of drawers looked like authentic Georgian pieces. The
four-poster canopied bed was a reproduction meant to vaguely
match the other furniture. What particularly caught my eye
was a rainbow-hued pile atop the dresser. Apparently she
collected those Beanie Baby things and by the looks of it,
she had most all of them, no mean feat.

   Camille strolled around to the side of the bed, and
fished around for something in the drawer of a night table.
She motioned me over to her and dangled a small, square
packet in my face.

   "No arguments," she said. I shrugged it off, relieved
that at least one of us was prepared.

   She unwrapped the condom, and slowly rolled the latex
over my quivering, almost spastic, penis.

    "You reload this thing fast, don't you?" she quipped,
archly.

    "When I'm, uh, inspired..."

   Her smile showed a lot of straight, white teeth. 

   "What else can you do when you're inspired?"

   I kissed her. Our mouths grappled one another and this
time I pushed her: backwards onto the bed. 

   She let out a whooping laugh as she flopped onto her
back, and spread her legs apart invitingly.

   I'm a quick study when I have to be, and as I pressed my
face between her thighs, I took the smooth satin in my
teeth; the scent of her pussy - arousing, not unclean -
overwhelming me.

   I yanked her panties off with four sharp tugs, and she
whooped again in delight. I got an eyeful of pitch-black fur
and luscious, swollen lips. She was leaking precious fluid,
and I fixed my mouth to her and began to drink.

   Thrusting my tongue into her, I found her clitoris. Her
sighs became cries. I tongue-fucked her pussy; reveling in
its smell, in its taste, in its silky smooth texture. In the
process, I got a vague sense of her heartbeat and began to
meet its rhythm. She started to shove her pelvis into my
face, fucking my tongue right back.  Clear, sweet juice
cascaded down my chin and dribbled all up and down my
jawline. She began to pant loudly; and at the end of each
labored breath came a whimper.

   As her back began to lift off the bed, I tore my mouth
away, and began to claw my way onto the bed, slithering my
naked form on top of hers.

   She recovered quickly from the brink of orgasm. Her
dreamy eyes snapped open and her lips pulled back into an
impish grin. Suddenly we were wrestling; her girlish
giggling filling my ears even as her strong, lithe body
twisted and squirmed beneath me. We rolled, and she came out
on top, beaming triumphantly. If that was how she wanted it,
I didn't care, so I went limp - almost.

  She studied my face like a hawk, suspecting some trick;
but when she was convinced, she let go with one hand. She
slid it along my side, tickling me; before caressing my hip
and taking my cock into her palm. She guided me into her,
and with a husky grunt, thrust herself upon me.

   At first we made no sound; save for the rude, wet noises
of our bodies commingling. There was no other way to
describe it except that she was literally humping me. She
would slam her hips down to meet my feeble upward thrusts;
the upper part of her body held stiffly. She was propping
herself up by firmly grasping my shoulders; and as we
progressed, her grasp grew tighter and tighter, slowly
sinking her nails into my skin. 

   And yet, in the midst of all of that, I was still barely
aware enough to try and resist cumming, at least until she
had climaxed as well; despite it being painfully unnatural
to fight against it. Every cell in my body shrieked to
explode; and I wondered if I wouldn't burst apart with a wet
popping sound when I finally did cum and dissolve into a
puddle of slime.

   Camille's body bent backwards as she made one final
titanic thrust, squashing my hips deep into the mattress.
Her head ducked down violently, sweat soaked strands of hair
whipping my face and stinging my eyes. From deep in her
chest, she made a small, high-pitched squeak of surrender;
and she came.

   She held that position rigidly, while inside, the
post-orgasmic spasms of her vaginal muscles teased my penis
to the brink of rapture. Then she dropped on top of me like
a sack of hot, sweaty potatoes.

   I lay there, not quite believing, as her heavy breathing
rasped in my ears. One more thrust, one more twitch of her
womb, and I would have joined her in bliss. Yet I could not
bring myself to make that final selfish push; and so I lay
there, pinned beneath her, as my cock shriveled up, still
ensconced in her womanhood. 

   I wondered idly how many women had gone home with someone
from Harry's party and now found themselves in a similar
situation; wanting more, their lovers spent. It comforted me
a little to think that my disappointment in some small way
balanced the scales  for the selfishness of my fellow sex.
That, and, I knew that if I was an asshole about it, there
wasn't going to be any second time.

   As my thoughts drifted on such matters, long after all
threat of any ejaculation was over, Camille began lapping at
the perspiration on my neck. A sudden, not-at-all-playful
bite caused me to cry out in outrage and try to buck her. 
Giggling, she slid off of me and got unsteadily to her feet.

   "I have to pee," she said simply. 

   Seeing that trim, round ass waggle as she walked out of
the room was enough to bring my hard-on back to aggravating
fullness.

   Karmic justice or not, I was still horny as hell. I took
my erection in hand and began masturbating; the rubber still
slick with her juices. I closed my eyes and let my mind
drift back to scant seconds earlier, and within no time flat
I was flooding the reservoir at the tip of the condom. I
sighed with some small measure of satisfaction.

   I stripped my spent shaft of its rubber sheathing, wiped
myself off with some Kleenex from her bed table and tossed
the messy lot of it into a small waste basket by the vanity.

   I was just sitting back down on the edge of the bed when
she returned, brushing her teeth.

   "It's nearly two-thirty," she informed me. "Do you want
to sleep here?"

   "Uh, yes. Please."

   She shrugged as if it hardly mattered to her, then went
back into the bathroom to rinse. Upon reentering the
bedroom, she turned out the lights and we crawled under the
sheets together. My first impulse was to put my arm around
her, but she shoved it away.

   "Go to sleep, Jordan," she said, her tone flat and
unfriendly.

   But I didn't sleep; couldn't sleep. I lay awake all night
listening to her breathing as it rose and fell while she
slept. I wanted so much to put my head on her chest and
listen to her heartbeat. I wanted just to touch her at all,
anywhere. The nearness of her body was agonizing.

   After an eternity, the first light of the new year broke
through her bedroom window.

-------------------------------------------------- 
Hey where did we go, 
days when the rain came. 
Down in the hollow, 
playin' a new game.

Van Morrison, Brown Eyed Girl

 * * * Red Rain

By L.Corvidae

Part One, Chapter Two: White Rabbit

Friday, January 2nd, 1998

   I blew onto my hands and shuffled my feet nervously
before knocking again. It had begun to feel a lot more like
January in the last to days.

   The door opened up just a tiny bit, and I only got the
briefest of glimpses of Camille's face before she tried to
slam it shut again. I hadn't really expected her to throw
open the door and embrace me passionately, but I'd hoped at
least to get out a sentence or two.

   Acting on instinct, never my forte, I thrust my foot
inside the jamb; my Reeboks providing zero protection
against the crushing impact of the door.

   Yelping in pain, I jerked my foot back and did an
awkward, hopping back-step before tumbling backwards. I
clipped the back of my head against the railing, and my butt
connected with the hard pine decking with bone-rattling
force. 

   I sat there, stunned. All I could see was one big blurry
mass of Camille's house and the gray skies above. Then
suddenly everything snapped back in focus, and I looked up
to see her towering over me; her hands on her hips and her
face florid with rage, matching the red of her jacket. She
was more or less dressed exactly the same way as when I'd
last seen her, back on New Year's Day, except that several
strands of her dark hair had come loose from the tight bun,
and her jacket was open, exposing the silk camisole she wore
beneath.

   "Don't they have one night stands on the sorry-ass
slacker planet you live on?" she demanded angrily.

   "Sorry."

   "You sure as hell are!" She watched, without offering to
help, as I hoisted myself back on my feet. Or, rather, foot,
since my right foot was still throbbing.

   She said nothing, but held her ground and leveled her
intense brown eyes on me, as if she could push me away with
sheer will.

   I suddenly remembered what I had in my back pocket, and
was gripped with momentary panic at the thought that it
might have been damaged in the fall. As I reached around and
pulled it out, she made no indication of being interested in
anything other than my immediate departure.

   "Here," I said weakly, handing the little bear over when
I was sure I hadn't ruptured any seams. "It's for you."

   She took it from me uncertainly; her fingers gently
stroking the lavender fur, as if expecting it to rub off and
reveal me for a fraud. Her fingernail traced the contours of
the white rose embroidered in its chest.

   "Princess," she whispered.

   "Yeah, I noticed you had a bunch of those in your bedroom
when we, uh..." I broke off, embarrassed.

   She didn't say anything, just kept staring at it. I
started to limp away slowly when she looked up sharply and
seemed to suddenly see me again. Pressing the bear to her
chest with one hand, she reached out to me with the other. 

    "I'm sorry," she said, her voice full of more emotion
than I'd expected. "Please, come inside."

   When she saw me hobbling, she offered me her arm and
apologized again.

   I was no less impressed upon my second visit inside her
house. If anything, her incredible living room, with walls
open all the way to the roof, looked even more impressive
when you looked at the sliding glass doors at the southern
end and saw steam rising off the flat gray surface of the
lake. 

   She guided me to the sofa, helped me sit and, carefully
as possible, removed my worthless sneaker. We both winced at
the bruised mass at the end of my foot.

   All I could think of to say was, "Ouch!"

  "I'll get an ice pack," she said and gave my shoulder a
squeeze as she moved around the couch.

   I gazed around the room idly for a moment. I turned
myself around on the sofa, more to look at the fish tank
behind me than any other reason, but I noticed she wasn't in
the kitchen. A second later, I saw her start to emerge from
the lower depths of the stairwell.

    She returned to me, handed me an ice pack as promised,
and then sat down in one of the easy chairs flanking the
couch, cradling her newest Beanie Baby like it was a real
one.

   "How did you get this," she asked. "I've been looking for
weeks. It's not possible."

   I chuckled a little, then stopped abruptly as I pressed
the pack against my mashed toes.

   "You never asked me what I did for a living." I stressed
the word "I" since I'd asked her that morning. Not that I'd
gotten a response.

   "I didn't care," she murmured distractedly. Then she
looked up and stared directly into my eyes with that
electrifying gaze of hers.

   "What do you do for a living?" she asked, sounding
genuinely curious.

   "Well, on my sorry-ass slacker planet, I wear the proud
blue apron of a 'Toyz B' We' minimum wageslave." She laughed
and for a moment even my toes felt good.

   "They told me on the phone that they didn't get any in,"
she snorted indignantly.

   "We're supposed to lie about stuff like that," I
admitted. She gaped at me, shocked and upset.

   "Anyway, someone had a few of these guys..."

   "Girls," she corrected me.

   "Girls... stashed in the back. I guess they were waiting
for prices in the after market to get high enough."

   "I bet they'll be happy!" she said sarcastically, still
running her fingers over the toy.

   "Fuck 'em!" I said, and she turned her head back towards
me again, beaming.

   We sat quietly for some time after that. Finally I got a
little edgy and said, "I guess I wanted to say 'Thanks.' I
mean, I know it was just a one night stand for you, but it
meant a lot to me."

   "I kind of gathered that when you tried to make me French
toast that morning."

   "Tried? Hey, I make good French toast!" She made a little
grimace, unimpressed.

   I started eyeing the door sadly. "Well, I guess I should
go."

   She sighed, brushed the stray ribbons of hair from her
face and fixed me with a mysterious look, her eyes hooded
and unusually subdued.

   "Jordan?"

   "Yes?"

   "Would you like to know what I do for a living?"

   "Yes."

   She reached out her hand. I took the pack off my foot. 

   Standing, I wobbled uncertainly and had to lean on her a
little.

   "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked, sounding
concerned. "Oh God," she moaned," that's your good foot,
isn't it?"

   "It's not broken or anything. And it's okay, Camille. My
leg isn't always like that. Just when it rains. Okay?"

   "Okay," she agreed, uncharacteristically sheepish. 

   She led me down the stairs and stopped at a small landing
where a door had been added sometime after the house was
built. At least, the exposed framing looked new and out-of
place with the otherwise elegant construction. It was ajar,
but several serious-looking locks, including a heavy
deadbolt hinted that wasn't always the case. A second, short
flight of steps deposited us into a narrow strip of
corridor, ending with a door at one end and opening up into
a room at the other. A second door faced the steps directly,
but first she led me into the open room to the right.

   The walls were painted in ugly, institutional green, with
matching floor tiles. There was a sink and cabinets and a
fridge, but the most noticeable element of the room was the
big medical examining table in the center. There were little
knitted cozies on the stirrups, and one of those big halogen
lights mounted on a swivel arm bolted to the floor next to
it.

   "What? You're a doctor?"

   "I can be," she said, wrinkling her nose as she smiled at
me.

   The next room she showed me was even more puzzling. It
was a fourteen by thirteen square with blue tiles on the
walls and a aquamarine mosaic floor. There were shower heads
mounted in the corners, and a rusty drain in the middle of
the floor. It reminded me of the showers in the locker room
at high school. Lastly, in one forlorn corner sat a toilet,
and next to it a little black box that sported a similar
seat.

   I still didn't get it, not until that last room. 

   It had probably been meant as a garage, it was huge. It
spanned the length of the house, and took out fully half
it's width. Still, it felt smaller, largely due to all the
equipment crammed into it. Two imposing x-frames made from
black, lacquered wood stood side by side against the faux
brick facade covering the walls. There were benches and a
pillory and some tubular frame that looked like a jungle gym
designed by Dante. 

   The centerpiece of the collection had to be a seven foot
long box/table, covered in padded black leather and sporting
winches at either end. That wasn't all it had.

   The man must have been in his forties or fifties. He had
pale, loose skin and his spindly limbs were all stretched
out to their limits. At first I thought he had some kind of
skin disease because his chest was covered in little red
spots and his nipples were grotesque. Then I saw the candle
lying unlit at his side. His cock was struggling gamely to
get erect, despite the excruciating latticework of kite
string tied around it. She'd placed a pair of black satin
panties ass-backwards over his head, effectively
blindfolding him.

   Yet, he seemed to sense something, and suddenly called
out, "Mistress Eurydice? Is that you?"

   She grinned at me and put her finger to her lips.
Brushing past me through the doorway, she strutted over to
the table, her heels clicking loudly on the concrete floor.

   "That's right, Mr. Anderson. Mistress has returned." Her
voice was a silky purr that caused the hairs on my arms to
stand on end. She pried the wax off one of his nipples with
her nails and he groaned.

   "I got so tired of looking at that pathetic peanut
between your legs that I decided to get some of the real
thing," she taunted. He moaned some more and tried to writhe
around.

   "So while you've been down here, wriggling around like
the little maggot you are, I've been upstairs..." Her voice
dropped to a sultry whisper that had me squirming.
"Fucking..." 

   She turned to look at me, cocked her head to one side and
smiled. 

   "Fucking my new houseboy," she said cheerily, "Lars."

   I raised my eyebrow at that. Lars?

   "Isn't that right, Lars?" she asked me sweetly.

   "Uh... Ja?"

   One hand flew to her mouth while the other clutched
frantically at the table as she doubled over with laughter.
Tears were streaming from her eyes from the effort to keep
from making a sound, and an unsightly yellow stain began to
seep down her white stockings.

   Fortunately, her barely contained giggles were drowned
out by Mr. Anderson's renewed struggling and cries of
protest.

   After Camille regained control, she slapped him across
the chest and snarled at him to shut up. Then she glided
back towards me, weaving her way around the various bits of
bondage furniture. She pressed her body into mine and gave
me a long, lingering wet kiss while Mr. Anderson snuffled
unhappily.

   "Lars," she said loudly, pushing Princess back into my
hands, "be a love and take my new toy to my bedchambers and
wait for me there, would you?"

   "Ja," I replied, causing her to clutch at me as she
fought through another laughing fit. Meanwhile Mr. Anderson
started pissing and groaning even louder than before.

    I turned around and started to walk away when I was
startled by a sudden, sharp slap against my backside. I
wheeled around and she flashed me another quick, pixieish
grin before slowly closing the door to her playroom.

   About twenty minutes later I heard a car horn outside.
The only windows upstairs were in the bathroom, and through
them I saw a yellow taxi parked behind my Rabbit on the
gravel drive. Not too long after, Mr. Anderson came
swaggering out, dressed in some kind of gray suit.

   I didn't actually get to see him get in the cab, because
without warning, surprisingly strong arms encircled my
waist, and I was dragged back into the bedroom; my ears
filled with girlish giggling.

   She wrestled me around in front of the bed, before
finally shoving me face up upon it. Then she climbed on top
of me. She was hot, and sweaty, but she smelled like spring
flowers.

   "So?" she asked.

   I tried to think of some way to sum up what I was feeling
at that exact moment.

   "Wow?"

   "wow," she repeated softly. She leaned in close and
kissed me aggressively, she reared herself backwards, so
that she was straddling my thighs, her skirt bunch up along
her midriff. She began to unfasten my belt and said in a
low, commanding tone, "We've got to make this fast. I've got
another client in a half an hour." She broke into a sweet
smile. "Okay... Lars?" 

   "Ja," I said, and her eyes rolled back and she collapsed
into hysterical laughter.

* * * *

   "Eurydice," I whispered softly, seeing how the name felt
as it passed my lips.    Camille snuggled up next to me
under the sheets. 

   "It's from Greek mythology," she said.

   "I know that," I replied, a little hurt that she thought
she had to tell me.

   She sighed and snuggled even closer.

   "I'm sorry. It's just most of the time I get: Yuri-who?"
She adopted a 'stupid' voice. "Is that Russian or
something?"

   I gently brushed away some hair that had spilled onto her
forehead, and kissed her.

   "Eurydice," I repeated, grinning.

   She'd had two more clients that day. Both, like Mr.
Anderson, were middle aged men, who looked fairly prosperous
in their sharp, expensive suits. 

   The first was into watersports, and I politely asked if
Lars could sit out that session. Camille seemed a little
disappointed, but she booted up her computer and let me poke
around her web site, which proved an eye opening experience
in itself.

   Her last client was from England, and had overdosed as a
younger man on Dallas reruns. By the time Lars was trotted
out, the guy was on his hands and knees with a saddle
strapped to his back. She'd blindfolded him, like the first
gentleman, which was helpful since 'Lars' didn't much look
at all the way she was describing him/me, flattering as it
was to think of myself as a champion weightlifter with a
thirteen-inch penis.

   On the other hand, Camille looked absolutely the part,
clad only in a ten gallon hat, snakeskin boots and a wicked
set of spurs. She took great delight in having her new
houseboy run around fetching her various items from
different parts of the room: a crop here, a bridle there.

   She took a truly monstrous dildo off the wall and moved
towards me with a disquieting smirk. I took a frightened
step backwards, which caused a pained expression to cross
her face. When she was close enough, she whispered that she
just wanted me to hold it between my legs until she was
ready for it; then she went pack to her "pony" and climbed
into the saddle.

   I have to say, for a guy probably twice my age, he was in
incredible shape. He carried her from one end of the dungeon
to the other, enduring the occasional touch of the spurs or
slap of the whip with little more than a grunt. She finally
hitched him to the punishment bench, and fastened his wrists
to cuffs at the bottom, locking him down on all fours.

   She came back to me and retrieved the dildo, performing a
little fellatio routine on it before returning to her
client.

   Her game became clear when she began to prod his exposed
ass with the rubber cock, still holding my body heat. He
began to yammer excitedly, much as Anderson had upon hearing
that first "Ja."  I could imagine him picturing some
muscle-bound Nordic stud about to give him the ride of his
life. She just laughed cruelly, slapped his ass and shoved
it deep into his struggling body. He screeched, but when she
twisted the little cap at the end, starting it to vibrate,
he realized he'd been had and he dropped his head down and
let out a little sob. Whether it was relief, or
disappointment, I couldn't say.

   She then shooed me away to back upstairs while she
finished up. I waited for the now familiar honk of the taxi
and the slamming of the front door. A few minutes later she
came clomping up the stairs, still in her minimalist
"cowgirl" outfit. She spun around in front of the bed, and
dropped down heavily on it, letting out a deep breath as she
did.

   "I'm beat," she grumbled. I let the obvious pun pass.

   "I bet I know what you need," I said instead, waggling my
eyebrows suggestively.

   She eyed me skeptically. "Do tell."

   I sat down on the mattress and leaned down over her body,
affectionately kissing her bare navel. I heard her sigh
again, and her body relaxed as my tongue flickered in and
out of her belly button.

   I trailed my lips down the remainder of her abdomen and
through the dense black fur of her pubis. Sliding off the
bed, I knelt between her legs, tenderly teasing her lips
open with my mouth. She was a little damp already, and I
resolved to make her wetter still, slowly playing my tongue
in and out of her body, my hands gently massaging her
thighs.

   I glanced up to see if she was still skeptical, and
noticed that she was lying absolutely still. Only the steady
rise and fall of her chest gave any indication that she was
alive.

   "Camille?"

   She just mumbled under her breath, rolled onto her side
and drew her legs up.

   I smiled wearily. I took one of her feet in hand and
carefully removed the boot, then the other. Each time she
mumbled something incoherent and then pulled her leg back
when I was done.

   I picked up one of the sheets had fallen off the bed
during our earlier lovemaking, and, crawling into bed beside
her, covered us both.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 
And if you go chasing rabbits,
 you know you're going to fall

    Jefferson Airplane, White Rabbit

* * * * 
Red Rain

By L.Corvidae

Part One, Chapter Three: Whistling In The Dark

Friday, January 2nd, 1998.

  "Can I ask you something?"

   I looked over my shoulder towards the door. Camille had
the pizza box in one hand while the delivery guy shuffled
around, trying to make change.

   "Sure," he replied.

   "In your job, do you get a lot of women inviting you into
their homes to have sex with them?"  Camille was wearing
silk pajama pants, the color of apricots, and a lightweight
robe of the same material with only one button near the top
fastened. I couldn't imagine what must have been going on in
that poor Joe's mind as she stood there in bare feet, tummy
exposed, hair blue-black and slicked back from having just
come from the shower; looking for all the world like any
horny teenage delivery boy's dream. 

   "Uh, nope. Not really," he admitted.

   "Oh. Sorry," she chirped merrily, then closed the door.

   "That was mean of you," I chided as she set the box down
on the coffee table and flipped open the lid. It was still
hot enough that inviting wisps of vapor rose from the
greasy, sausage-strewn surface.   

   "That's why they pay me the big bucks," she chuckled,
snuggling in next to me on the couch and prying a gooey
slice from the pie.     

   "Doesn't it ever worry you?"   

   She was trying to bite through the cheese, but instead it
slid off the slice and plopped onto her chin, smearing
tomato sauce everywhere. She set what was left back down and
wiped her chin, sighing.

   "God yes," she said, finally answering me. "But I figure
if I exercise daily, and start eating healthy when I turn
thirty or so, I should be safe for now."

   "I didn't mean the pizza..." I hesitated calling her
'silly' or 'stupid', even in fun. "I meant, doesn't it worry
you to have those people come to your house, that they know
where you live?"

   She stopped fussing with the pizza, and turned to look
directly into my eyes. I knew immediately I'd said the wrong
thing.

   " 'Those people,' " she said frostily.

   "I didn't mean it like that!" 

   "Oh yes you did, Jordan! I could hear it in your voice.
'Those people.' Those perverts! Those weirdoes! Those
freaks!"

   "Camille..."

   "Because, of course, no normal -" she said the word like
she was twisting a knife, "person could possibly get turned
on a the thought of someone peeing on them or riding them
around like a pony! It's even in the DSM - Sadomasochism is
considered a mental illness - so, obviously only a drooling
psychopath would ever want someone to do those things to
them."

   "But consider this, Jordan..." Her cheeks were flushed
and there was a fiery light in her eyes. "if they're freaks
for wanting those things done to them, what does that say
about me that I enjoy being the one who does it!"

   I shifted miserably in my seat.

   "So, you're... really into that, then?"

   She laughed angrily. "No, Jordan! I took a test in high
school that said I'd do well in a career that involved whips
and human degradation!"

   I got up off the sofa and started to walk away.

   "Where are you going?" she snapped.

   "Downstairs," I replied wearily. "I'm going to get one of
those gags and shut myself up before I can dig myself in any
deeper."

   She leaned over and caught my arm. Looking down, I saw
her eyes soften, just a bit.

   "Do you know how long it's been since a man said all the
wrong things to me?" she asked.

   I shrugged.

   She sighed. "Too long." She pulled me back down next to
her. "It's almost kind of endearing."

   "I have a gift," I said dryly. She started laughing;
clutching my arm and burying her face in my shoulder.

   For a long time we just sat there, she leaning against
me, and watched the shadows lengthen. Finally, somebody's
stomach started grumbling again, and we started in on the
pizza; eating in silence.

   When there was nothing left but some disconsolate pieces
or orphaned crust and a big glob of cheese stuck in the
center of the box; I decided to tempt fate and ask another
question.

   "So, what was his problem?"

   "Whose problem?"

   "Anderson's. One minute he's upset that I'm there, the
next he's crying because I'm going away."

   "Oh, he was thrilled that you were going away. He was
just heartbroken that you were taking 'My new toy' with you
without getting to play with it himself."

   "I think he'd be disappointed if he knew what it really
was."

   "You cannot begin to imagine," she said, rolling her
eyes. "It's like they think I sleep in a coffin or
something."

   "You do look a little like Wednesday Addams, come to
think of it."

   She looked up at me and mugged a smile. "Thank you.
Everybody tells me that. Last year I went to a Halloween
party dressed up in a black dress and pigtails. Guess what?"

   "Nobody got it."

   She laughed. "No! Jesus! It drove me crazy! Everybody
kept coming up and asking me who I was supposed to be!"     
"What'd you tell them?"

   She smiled slyly. "That I was a serial killer."       I
grinned. "Because they look like everyone else."

   She didn't say anything, but she crawled in close and
snuggled her head under my chin.

   The world had grown dark, and the only light in the room
came from the weird purplish glow from the fish tank. I
could hear her breathing softly, and felt her ribcage expand
and contract peacefully against me. 

   "Can I ask you something else? Just one more thing?
Please?"

   She sighed heavily. "Only if I get to pinch you for every
question you ask after that," she replied.

   "What? Ever?"

   "That's two!" she exclaimed happily, one hand pinching my
inner thigh wile the other tweaked a nipple.

   "Ow! Hey! Ow!"

   She twisted around in my arms so that she was lying on
her back, her head in my lap, staring up at me.

   "Well, I figured neither of those were the question you
really wanted to ask, were they?" She batted her eyes at me
innocently.

   "Okay," I said, a little annoyed. She'd pinched hard.
"Let me think this through - and that's a request not a
question!" I added sharply, causing the blooming smile on
her lips to fade into a mock pout.

   "Same thing," she muttered sulkily, but at least she
didn't pinch. 

   I let out a deep breath. "What... is it about... I mean,
why do you..."

   She looked at me intently. "Why do I enjoy being a
dominatrix?" she asked. It was the first time the word had
been spoken between us, and she used it in such a casual,
off hand kind of way that it sent shivers down my spine.

   "Yes."

   She sighed and lifted herself out of my lap, making me
regret I'd said anything at all. She stood up off the couch,
arched her back and began swinging her arms around to
stretch them out.

   "I'm sorry," I stammered, "if it's something you don't
walk to talk about..."

   "No, it's all right. Really. It's just... well, I guess I
was expecting a different question."

   "Like what?"

   She got a gleam in her eye. "Are you asking?"

   I squirmed nervously. "Uh, maybe later."

   "I won't forget."

   "So? You were about to say..." I hemmed, trying to get
the subject back on track.

   "Well... I guess part of it is that I come from pretty
aggressive blood. My grandfather was in Korea, and my uncle
was a Marine sniper in Vietnam. My dad wanted to go, too,
but grandma was scared to death she'd lose both her boys, so
he stayed home and prayed for a letter from the draft board.
He always had a bug up his butt about that. He still does, I
guess.

   "Anyway, all of them, the whole crew, were hunters. Big
time sportsmen."

   She paused. her tongue flickered out unconsciously to
moisten her lips.

   "So, dad misses out on the war, and eventually marries,
and six months later," she winked at me and wrinkled her
nose, "little Camilla is born. Ta Da!" She lifted her arms
high above her head and took a sweeping bow.        "And six
years after that, my sister Stacey is born, and daddy begins
to clue in to the fact that he probably isn't going to have
some strapping young son to take into the woods with him
every weekend. So I got the call."

   Her smile faded briefly and she crossed her arms over her
chest in a curiously protective manner. Then she seemed to
suddenly brighten up again.

   "I got my first compound for my tenth birthday! Do you
know anything about bows, Jordan?"

   "Not really. Sorry."   

   She shrugged and sighed sadly. "Well, it was sweet! My
uncle didn't think a girl could handle the pull, but I
showed him! I took down a fourteen point buck on opening day
- with one shot!"

   She beamed with pride.

   "I have pictures somewhere. Eighteen and a half inches on
the inside spread!"

   "I'm not really sure what that means," I admitted.

   "No," she agreed sadly. "I guess you wouldn't." She
paused, took a few breaths, then started up again. 

   "Anyway, it turned out I hadn't killed it outright, just
mortally wounded it, so dad took me over to where it had
fallen to finish it off. It was lying on its side, and it
was straining for each breath. My arrow was sticking out of
its ribcage and there was blood running from its mouth and
nose. It was a pretty cold day, and there was steam coming
off the blood.

   "I remember standing over it, while dad knelt down with
the knife. And... I didn't feel bad about what I'd done at
all. Not guilty or mean, or even that sorry for the deer. I
felt good. I felt... alive... like I was where I belonged
and this was the way things were supposed to be."

   Her cheeks were bright crimson, and there were eerie blue
lights in the deep recesses of her eyes. Her breathing had
that same, post-orgasmic ragged quality to it.

   "I was only ten," she repeated softly.

   "Then a few years later, I discovered boys. Or rather, I
discovered that they no longer seemed quite as repulsive as
they did in my younger days."

   "Specifically, I discovered a boy. His name was Daniel.
He was a jock, like you..."

   "I was never a jock!" I interrupted. She looked at me
curiously, and in my mind I could imagine her thinking,
"Same thing," but she didn't press the issue.

   "Well, maybe Daniel would have said the same. That was
part of it, a big part of it. He hung out with the jocks and
his body was built like a jock, but his face had such
delicate features, feminine, really..." She smiled at me
evilly. "...like yours."

   "He had long, blonde bangs; and those sad, expressive
eyes staring up from underneath them made him look like a
poet, born two hundred years past his time. I didn't know
his name at first, so I just thought of him as 'The Poet,'
and not long after, 'My Poet.' 

   "At first, I was just infatuated with the way he looked.
Cupid's bow lips, tiny, upturned nose..." She smiled again.
"Come to think of it, the similarities are striking. Are you
sure your name is really 'Jordan'?"

   I wriggled on the leather cushions, suddenly unable to
get comfortable. "Positive."

   She hummed quietly and tapped her lips. 

   "Well, regardless, the whole thing came to a head. I was
mooning over him in studyhall, as was my wont, and suddenly
I had a vision. Daniel was running, naked, through the
woods. He looked magnificent, that hard, muscular body in
motion, sweat glistening on his skin. Except for his silly
bits. That's what I called them in those days, because any
girl knew you could take down a man easily with one hard
kick to them. They were flopping around between his legs
just looking pitifully ridiculous. He was running like hell,
all out, jumping over fallen trees and dodging between
standing ones.

   "He was running because I was chasing him.

   "I was naked, too, except for my wrist guard, and my
quiver. And I had my bow gripped tightly in my hand. And
when the opportunity presented itself, I dropped to one
knee, and lightning quick, drew and released all in one
impossibly fluid motion."

   As she'd been relating the story, she'd begun to pace
back and forth. She stopped at the part about firing,
directly in front of me.

   "And I hit him." She grinned. "Right-" she balanced
herself on one foot, like a ballerina about to make a
pirouette, and poked me in the side with her big toe, "-
there!" 

   Her whole face was red. Her eyes and her thin, pink lips
glistened with moisture. A bead of sweat ran down her
forehead.

   "And he fell. And I walked over to him. He had rolled
over onto his back, and those sad, tragic eyes seemed even
more tragic now that they were filled with helplessness and
tears. My arrow stuck out of the side of his abdomen, a bear
hunting tip: four razor sharp sides all dripping with gore,
and I ripped!-" Her sudden, yanking motion caused me to
recoil out of fright. "- it from his body, and cast it
aside."

   "Then I lowered my body down onto his, and I fucked him."

   "Wait. He could maintain an erection after all of that?"

   "Well," she admitted, batting her eyes bashfully, "it was
a fantasy, remember."

   She cast her eyes downward, her voice trailing off sadly.

   "I'm sorry, Camille! Please, go on."

   "That's it, basically. I didn't really know much about
what sex was supposed to be like, or, God forbid, what an
orgasm even was. I just sort of imagined that fucking felt
like they way I felt when I'd killed my first whitetail,
only, like, times ten." She sighed.

   "And that was it?"

   "No," she said reluctantly, "but I'm not sure I want to
tell you the rest. I think it would probably freak you out."

   I got up off the sofa and took her hand in mine. She
still wouldn't look at me, so I reached out with my other
and gently lifted her chin until we were gazing directly
into each other's eyes.

   "Please," I said in all sincerity, "I want to know."

   She tried to pull away, but I held on to her tightly.
Finally, she said, "I strung him up by his feet from the
branch of a tree, bled him, boned, gutted and jointed him...
and then I cooked the meat over a fire and ate it for
dinner."

   That did freak me out. It took everything I had not to
take a step backwards out of fear. We were both trembling.

   "Anyway, when I came out of it, I'd thought I'd peed
myself or something. My underwear was so wet and my pussy...
hurt... So I got a pass from the teacher and hurried to the
girl's room and when I got there and sat on the toilet, I
started instinctively... touching... myself. And it felt
good!" 

   She drew out the word so that it was a long, wistful
sigh: goooooooood!

   "And I was right," she said, her voice barely a whisper,
"it was exactly the way I felt when I killed that deer...
only so much better, too!"

   She lapsed into silence, and we stood there uncertainly,
face to face. Then, my hand shaking, I timorously reached
out and slid it under the waistband of her pajamas. She
sucked in her breath sharply as I slid my hand into the
yielding, sopping-wet folds of her vagina.   

   "Did it feel like this?" I asked softly; tenderly sliding
my hand in and out of her, grasping her rising clitoris
between the tips of my fingers. She bit her lower lip,
whimpered, and put her arms around my neck for support. 

   It was like shoving your hand into the hot, fertile soil
along the banks of the Amazon. I began to pick up my pace,
to squeeze her clit a little harder each time. Her hips
began to buck of their own accord and she began to make low,
guttural sounds, like some jungle animal. My hand was
immolated in her natural lubricant.

   As she came, she threw her head back and cried out
wordlessly in a surprisingly deep voice. Then her whole body
turned to jelly in my arms and I had to stagger-carry her to
the sofa where we dropped, she on top of me. 

   She continued to whimper faintly, curled up against my
chest, as I still played with her; my hand making short,
laconic strokes. I finally stopped, but neither of us made
any move to expel me from there. I could feel her pulse as
her blood ebbed and flowed through her vaginal walls.

   The urge to flip her over and plunge my cock into that
warm, damp furrow was terrible, but it would have meant
sacrificing the moment we were in; and I wasn't about to do
that for anything in the world.

   Several hours later, our bodies began to betray us with
their thirst, their hunger, their need to eliminate wastes;
and with heartbreaking reluctance, we pried ourselves apart.

   After satisfying our needs, we returned to the sofa and
sat next to each other, awkwardly. There was only one thing
that could be said between us after that kind of experience
that did not seem small and anticlimactic; yet neither of us
- well, I can only really speak for myself - could find the
courage to say it.

   Camille began to root through the pizza box, ferreting
out bits of crust that looked appetizing enough, and started
to much.

   After much thought and deliberation, I made a show of
stretching out my arm and proffering it to her. She looked
at it, then me, curiously.

   "What?" she asked, spilling crumbs out of her mouth.

    "I'm going to ask another question."

   She sped up her chewing, swallowed with an audible gulp,
and washed it down with a swig form the glass of cabernet
she'd poured during our "break." 

   "Okay," she said, "shoot."

   "I wanted to know what it was you thought I was going to
ask you." She turned her face away from me suddenly. She
crossed her arms over her chest as she had before.

   "Camille?" I asked, gently caressing her temple with the
same hand - freshly washed - that had pleasured her so,
earlier in the evening.

   She sighed mournfully, and peeked at me shyly from out of
the corner of her eye.

   "Whenever I tell my boyfriends what I do for a living,
they always have one of two reactions," she began in a
melancholic, yet matter-of-fact, tone. "Most run for the
hills, screaming..."

   "I was pretty borderline on that myself," I admitted. She
smiled; a wan, little smile.

   "The others, about thirty percent of the time I guess,
get turned on by it. And they ask me," she turned her head
back to look me directly eye to eye, "to dominate them, like
I do my clients."

   My face must have clearly shown my confusion, so she went
on.

   "Jordan, as much as I enjoy dominating men, it is work.
Hard work, that drains me both physically and emotionally
and at the end of the day all I really want is a back rub, a
foot massage, and maybe - maybe - a good roll in the sack,
not some whiny wannabe sub nagging me to take him down into
the dungeon and beat him!

   "At first, when they would ask, I kind of liked it, but I
always made sure to explain how I felt. I thought if they
cared about me, like they said they did, they'd understand,
but they never did. Most of them expected it, demanded it,
as if domination came part and parcel with going out with
me. Hell, some of them even tried to bully me into domming
them! Can you imagine? 'I bet the local vice squad would be
interested in what you're doing out here.' That kind of
crap!"

   "I bet they regretted that."

   "They did, but not in the way you're thinking. Do you
know the old joke about the masochist who says to the
sadist, 'Beat me!' "

   I said I didn't.

   "The sadist says 'No.' I'd tell them, 'Fuck You! Go ahead
and report me! They know all about me already!' So long as
there's no sex, no oral or genital contact, it's not
prostitution and I'm totally legal."

   "But don't you, uh, put stuff up their butts?"

   She giggled and rolled her eyes. "Well, sometimes," she
admitted. "But as I pointed out to our local constabulary,
if it's illegal to get paid for introducing a foreign object
up someone's ass, every cop in this county who's done a full
cavity search should be arrested!" 

   "And that is what I was afraid you were going to ask.
That you were going to be like the others and act as if you
had hit the jackpot and would get to live out your cheap,
Penthouse Forum fantasy."

   "Don't worry!" I laughed. I guess I wasn't convincing
enough, because she still didn't seem too happy, so I added,
"My Penthouse Forum fantasy was always the one where I'm the
pizza delivery guy who gets seduced by the beautiful
nymphomaniac heiress!"

   Her raucous laughter was indescribably gratifying. "Oh
God!" she cried out between guffaws, "The poor thing! No
wonder he never gets any! Did you see his acne?"

   We held on to each other and laughed. Eventually, I
started to get a little thirsty again, so I disentangled
from her and got off the sofa. Without warning, I felt a
sharp sting on my ass, and when I spun around, I saw her
hand darting back. She was curled up on the sofa, grinning
ear-to-ear.

   "Gotcha!" she said, wrinkling her nose.

   Not too long thereafter, we went upstairs and made love.

   Afterwards, we were content to lay entangled in each
other's limbs, sweaty and spent, and let the world pass us
by. Camille lazily ran one finger up and down the length of
my torso, softly humming a tune I couldn't quite make out.

   "Jordan?" she asked, breaking the long, post-coital
silence.

   "Mmmm?"

   "What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?" 

   "Eleven, I think."

   She sighed.

   "What?" I asked, "Why?"

   "Oh, it's just that, I was hoping you could sit in on
some of my sessions tomorrow. I... liked having you there."
Her hand slid further down along my body than it had been,
her nails gliding across my sluggishly responding penis.

   "I liked having someone watch me," she continued.
"Someone who appreciated my performance." Her fingertips now
tickled my cock as she played me with a feather touch. 

   "Most of my clients are so far into their own little
headgames that it's like they hardly even know I'm there."
She sighed again. I sighed, too, but for different reasons.
"I liked having someone there who saw me."

   "And there was one client I was seeing tomorrow that I
really wanted you there for." She took my shaft in her palm
and began jerking me in earnest. "The appointment is for ten
- surely you could stay for just a little while. Ten,
fifteen minutes?"

   I reached down and took hold of her wrist, bringing an
end to her hand job. With great reluctance, I pulled her
hand away from my groin.

   "Ask me again," I whispered. And when she did, I said
yes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 
A woman came up to me and said / 
I'd like to poison your mind 
With wrong ideas that appeal to you / 
Though I am not unkind

     They Might Be Giants, Whistling In The Dark 

* * * * 
Red Rain

Part One, Chapter Four: Champagne Supernova

Saturday, January 3rd, 1998

   After a hectic early morning, in which I dashed back to
my apartment to shave, shower, brush my teeth and get
dressed for work, and then dashed back to Camille's; the
wait for ten o'clock to roll around was interminable.

   My anxiety was made all the worse by the fact that she
had asked for me to wait down in the "dungeon room," where
no sunlight reached. I kept pacing back and forth among the
barbaric instruments of Camille's trade, frequently checking
my watch.

   At ten-o-two, the door opened.

   The woman who entered the dungeon before Camille was, in
a word, stunning. I was hard pressed to guess her age, for
her tall, tanned body was in peak physical condition and
sported large, full breasts that would've turned any man's
head. Her straw-colored hair was done up in an executive
style bun, and she had a black silk scarf tied over her
eyes.

   Having entered the room, she took a fretful step
backwards and bumped into Camille.

   "There's someone else in here with us," she said
fearfully.

   Camille launched into her "Houseboy Lars" spiel, and
ordered the woman to kneel down on the cold, hard concrete.
She shivered miserably as Camille walked away, picked out a
large, pink dildo, and put it in my hand.

   Shoving me towards her client, Camille said, "Now, I want
you to say hello, properly, slut!" Camille looked at me
expectantly, and, getting the message, I cautiously pushed
the tip of the fake cock towards the woman's trembling,
slightly-parted lips.

   At the first touch of the rubber, she flinched slightly,
but recovered with astonishing speed and wrapped her whole
mouth around it suddenly, her red lips coming within
millimeters of grazing my fingers.  

   "Let's hear some noise over there!" Camille called out,
picking up a coil of rope. The woman began to slurp and moan
loudly. It was convincing enough for me: my own cock began
to harden within the suddenly confining area of my pants.

   Camille laughed when she saw the arousal in my eyes, and
yanked the dildo away from both of us. She ordered the woman
back on to her feet and prodded her along with a few well
placed elbows to some leather cuffs dangling from the
ceiling by chains.

   I watched, spellbound, as Camille pressed her body
against the woman's, placed her hand on her client's hip and
ran it up, all the way along the bronzed flesh, over the
shoulder, and back down along the arm before gently closing
her hand over the woman's wrist. With unbelievable
tenderness, she lifted the woman's arm up, and gently
wrapped the cuff around it, giving the last exposed part of
the wrist a soft kiss before pulling the leather tight and
buckling it in place.

   After the second arm had been similarly secured, Camille
began fashioning a harness out of the rope in a surprisingly
grim, workmanlike manner. The ropes went around each breast,
capturing them in a rough, tight embrace. My cock was
throbbing at the sight of those round, golden tits turning a
deep, rich red.

   Camille wrapped the rope around the woman's waist, and
finished by pulling the remainder up between her legs so
sharply that both the woman and I gasped out loud. Camille
tied the end to a metal loop set in the ceiling, making sure
the line was good and taut. Every move the woman made, no
matter how slight, caused the rope to dig deeper into her
crotch.

   Camille walked over to where I'd been standing dumbstruck
and whispered into my ear. 

   "You like her tits, don't you?" She rubbed the flat of
her palm against my crotch. 

   "Yes," I replied, barely audible.   

   "I want you to go over there," she said, her other hand
now massaging my ass through my pants. "I want you to touch
her tits, fondle them, paw at them, like a man does."

   She gave me another little shove in the woman's
direction, and like some B-movie zombie, I lumbered over. My
hands were shaking as I raised them up to touch her.

   The skin of her breasts was dry and very hot. She moaned
out loud as I pressed my hand to them. At first I just
squeezed, clumsily. The sounds she made were like nothing
I'd ever heard before.

   Slowly, I began to manipulate her body a little more
adroitly, kneading the firm, yet pliant flesh, tweaking and
stroking the hardened nipples. She began to make sounds that
were more familiar, and more gratifying. Despite the air in
the room being a bit chilly, beads of sweat began to break
out all over her body.

   From over the woman's shoulder, I happened to see Camille
pick up something; something that I would truly term as
"nasty". It looked like a hydra fashioned from thick rubber
hoses, coming together at one end to form a handle. I
watched, continuing to massage the woman's breasts as
Camille walked up directly behind her moaning, sweaty
client.

   The flogger made a sound like a gunshot in the confined
space of the room. The woman screamed out of shock and I
even let out a yelp and jumped back.

   What happened next shook me like nothing ever had before.
The woman let out a long, frustrated moan, but not from the
pain. Instead, she began to shove her body forward, pushing
the limits of the chains that held her, ignoring the agony
that came from the rope as it sawed even further into her
most delicate of areas. All in the effort to thrust out her
breasts, desperately searching for my hands!

   Her lower lip quivered, and she whispered hoarsely,
"please! please!"

   My hands trembled uncontrollably as I fixed them to her
equally tremulous bosom. Camille struck her, again and
again. Each hit pushing her more and more against the rope
and into my hands. The woman's body was now bathed in sweat,
and my own pits were beginning to darken. Her cries grew
higher and higher, until they reached what was becoming a
very familiar pitch: the pitch of a woman on the brink of
orgasm.

   Then Camille stopped.

   I don't know who groaned louder, the client or me.
Camille looked at me with badly feigned annoyance and tapped
at her bare wrist. For a second, I just looked at her
stupidly, my hands cemented to that woman's heaving chest.
Then I got it, and checked my watch.

   10:15.

   I groaned again, miserably. Camille walked around her
client's fevered form. Wrapping her arm around my waist, she
gave me a long soulful kiss; followed by a quick touch of
her tongue to the tip of my nose.

   "Better get going," she whispered, hugging me tight.

    But she still had the flogger in her other hand, and I
didn't turn my back to her until I was well up the stairs.
She watched me as I backed away. She watched every step and
smiled.

   I got into work a few minutes before eleven, and went
right to the restroom to splash some cold water on my face.
With my remaining time, I slipped on my apron and poked
about the back room, where I discovered that the remaining
two "Princesses" in Tracy's stash had disappeared. From what
I gathered as the day went on, he'd been furious to find one
missing; but because he wasn't supposed to have hidden them
in the first place, he had to keep his inquisition limited
to brow beating to just a few of the high schoolers, all of
them girls.   

     Tracy was one of our two assistant managers, and an
asswipe. He'd convinced himself long ago that the reason
people, especially women, didn't like him was because he
weighed over three hundred pounds, but the sad fact was that
he'd have been an asswipe in any weight division. He would
intercept boxes before they got out onto the floor and
"liberate" them of any pieces that might be of value to
collectors, then he'd meet with local "Toy Dealers" out back
to sell them. The dealers would then turn around and sell
them to the collectors for two to three times what the SRP
was. One toy, a star trek doll, was so rare it actually sold
for thousands right out of the case, with a six dollar price
sticker still affixed.

   The main reason I didn't like him, aside from the fact
that he was an all-around bully, was that he'd convinced
himself that because I was in my twenties, I had to
therefore be an expert on computers. So, every time he was
working the same shifts I was, I'd be stuck behind a
keyboard, punching in numbers and pulling out data that was
usually two to three weeks out of date.

   That morning as I toiled in front of the monitor,  I took
some pleasure from his huffing and pacing up in the elevated
managerial area. Lisa, the girl who had rung me up the
previous day, had not cracked under his interrogation, and
we'd wisely scanned another, knockoff beanie that cost the
same, so there was no hard evidence that she was involved.

   She was working registers that day, and every now and
again we'd catch each other's eye and wink and smile
knowingly. She was cute, but she was also only seventeen.
Part of the smile on her end stemmed from the fact that she
was a bit of a self-styled computer nerd, and it amused her
to no end to see me fumbling about like a chimpanzee with
the store's. 

   Faced with screen after screen of mind-numbing numbers,
my mind began to drift back to Camille. I pictured the way
she looked, the way she smelled of perfume and soap, the way
she tasted when I made love to her with my mouth. I began to
fidget in my chair.

   I could even hear her.

   "Excuse me young man, but could you help me?" 

   I looked up, and had to refrain from laughing. She was
dressed like a femme fatale from some old black and white
picture from the forties. She had on a white suit with wide
shoulders, knee-length skirt, and round hat with a
ridiculously oversized brim. The black gloves, sunglasses,
and ruby red lipstick were the little touches that made the
whole ensemble just right.

   Before I could say anything, Tracy came lumbering down
from his perch and said, "Excuse me, ma'am, is there
something I can do for you?"

    Camille's cool gaze seemed no less intimidating filtered
through black plastic.

   "Yes," she said, her voice seething with disdain. "You
could move out of my way so that I might speak with that
helpful young gentleman, over there." She pointed to me. 

   Tracy had a face that leaned towards reddish to begin
with, but at those words his whole head turned the precise
hue of a radish. Sputtering, he moved out of the way and
clumped back to his little overseer's nest; where he glared
down at us with open resentment.

   "My Ten O'Clock had a message for you, but if I gave it
to you here, we'd probably be arrested!" she said quietly
enough so that only I could hear; giving me that cute,
girlish grin of hers.

   "Camille," I began, painfully aware that both Tracy and
Lisa were staring at us openly.

   "Oh, dear," she said, interrupting me. "I'm not getting
you in trouble with -" she tossed her head to the side to
indicate Tracy. "Well, don't worry, I can smooth feathers as
easily as I ruffle them." Her smile took on a unsettlingly
enigmatic appearance. 

   "But-" she added quickly and loudly, "I did come here for
a reason!"

   "Yes, ma'am," I said, getting up from my terminal and
walking around to the little gate that let me out of the
"bullpen."

   "Ma'am?" she asked, cocking her eyebrows and taking my
arm in hers like a lady of old. "Just how old are you, young
man?"

   "Twenty-four," I answered as she led me from the
mistrustful gaze of my supervisor.

   "Then you're a year older than I am, so don't call me
'Ma'am!' "   

   "Whatever you say, Miss..."

   "Tress," she said, grinning. "Miss Eurydice Tress."

   "Oh that's clever!" I said, dryly. She tried to pinch my
arm, but there was too much material between us for it to
have much bite.

   "Now what was it you wanted, Miss Tress?" I asked,
smiling cockily.

   "I have it written down," she informed me, releasing my
arm as she started to root through her handbag. She fished
out a piece of paper and stared at it, making a unpleasant
face as she did.

   "Something called a 'Starting Lineup'?" she asked,
uncertainly.

   "The sports stuff?" I couldn't keep the surprise from my
voice.

   "Does that include baseball?"

   I told her that it did and she nodded, still keeping her
lip curled.

   "They have some sort of dolls for that? The same size as
Barbie?"

   I nodded. "Yeah, we just got some of those in today."

   She looked at me hopefully. "Someone named Ken Griffin?
Grifter?"

   "Ken Griffey Jr. ? Yeah, I think we still have some."

   I led her to the Starting Lineup aisle. There were some
fathers and sons picking through the smaller figurines, but
I quickly spotted the green box I was looking for, and
plucked it off the shelf. She accepted it reluctantly,
turned it over in her hands, and finally handed it back to
me; motioning me to follow her into a less crowded aisle.

   "Do you think you could bring that by my house when you
get off work?" she asked. "I thought, perhaps, I might make
dinner for us, if you like."

   "Uh, sure," I replied, not really sure at all. "That'd be
after seven."

   She nodded. "I know," she said smiling softly. She
squeezed my hand in a parting gesture, and we went our
separate ways; me to the back room to put the doll in the
plastic bin which sported a piece of tape with my name
crudely written on it.

   When I got back to the front, I noticed Camille and Tracy
standing next to each other by the exit. He had a broad
smile on his ruddy face and she giggled like a schoolgirl
and played with the end of his tie. I shook my head slowly
and chuckled and resumed my toil at the computer, when I
caught Lisa staring at me intently from her post at register
four.

   I gave her my best "who knows" shrug and went back to
work without thinking another thing about it.

   By the time I arrived at Camille's door, it was dark and
I was tired. I rang the doorbell and took a deep breath. A
sumptuous hint of garlic and tomatoes lingered in the air
and I sighed contentedly.

   The door opened.

   I found myself staring into empty space. I could see
steam spilling out of the kitchen, and the big screen TV was
on; the computer-generated image of a pitcher in mid-throw
frozen upon the screen. Then I looked down.

   The girl couldn't have been more than eight. She was, in
every, unsettling way, Camille in perfect miniature: huge
brown eyes, long, black hair, even her expression reminded
me of the look Camille had given me several times that first
night: somber, serious, unimpressed. She had on an oversized
Cubs jersey and black dance tights which peeked through the
sagging neckline and various holes.

   Before I could get over my initial shock, the child spun
towards the kitchen, and, in a voice that would have made a
muezzin proud, bellowed, "CA-MIL-LAAA! Your boyfriend's
here!"

   I was still reeling when a second voice piped in from the
vicinity of the couch, "All right! The stud's here!
Woo-hoo!" I turned my head and saw yet another copy of my
lover sitting on the far end of the sofa, twisted around in
her seat to look at me.

   She was the same height and build as Camille, in fact,
her almost identical twin. Except that her eyes displayed
none of the maturity or intensity of her sister's.

   Camille - my Camille - ducked out from the kitchen. She
was dressed in a silk blouse with rose patterns on it and a 
flowing gypsy skirt. Her face was coated with perspiration
and her hair was out of place and her brow, even from across
the house, was sagging in an expression of near-desperation.

   "Casey! Don't just stand there! Invite him in!" she
snapped and disappeared back into the mists.

   "C'mon in," the girl, Casey, said, with zero enthusiasm.

   I shuffled into the house, feeling a bit like I'd
stumbled into the twilight zone, and suddenly remembered the
box I was holding in my hand.

   "I'm guessing this is for you," I said, handing it to the
child. 

   She looked at it without any apparent interest and
finally said tonelessly, "My daddy already gave me one for
Christmas."

   With that, she toddled back over to the sofa, tossing the
doll onto a cushion and picked up the controller of her
video game. The TV came back to life with a tinny rendition
of "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" and the canned electric
sound of virtual crowds cheering.

   Still under the watchful gaze of the older girl, I
gingerly made my way across the living room, and quickly
slid into the kitchen, steam or no steam. Camille was
laboring over a pot that was boiling over noisily. I could
hear her swearing under her breath, masked by the hissing
and sputtering as water spattered on the burner.

   "Nice," I said archly, wrapping an arm around her waist
and pressing her to me.

   "At least I set you up with a bribe," she replied,
craning her head around to give me a quick, soft kiss.

   "Daddy already got it for Christmas." Camille's shoulders
slumped and she dropped the lid back on the pot with a bang.
She also swore considerably louder than before.

   When she turned to face me, she seemed nearly in tears.   
  "I'm so sorry," she whimpered. "I really thought she
said..." I leaned in and cut her off with a longer, slightly
more involved kiss.

   "Hey get a room, why don't you?" called out the older
girl from her seat in the next room. "There's young children
here, you know?"

   Camille took my hands in hers and kissed the knuckles.

   "Well," she said, her voice thin and wavering, "you've
seen what I do for a living. You've heard my deepest
fantasy, now comes the scariest hurdle of them all."

   She sighed, heavily.

   "Jordan, let me introduce you to my family."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
How many special people change? 
 How many lives are living strange

       Oasis, Champagne Supernova 

* * * * 

Red Rain

Part One Chapter Four Section 2: Champagne Supernova

Saturday, January 4th, 1998

   "So," I hemmed nervously, "this is nice."

   It was like something out of the Twilight Zone. The three
women I was having dinner with might as well have been
clones, each at a different stage of development.

   I was seated at the head of the dining table, with
Camille on my right and Casey at my left. Stacey, the older
girl, was next to Casey, further down along the table.

   At least the food was excellent: spaghetti in a rich red
sauce that had bits of sausage in it, with stuffed mushrooms
and garlic bread on the side. There was a bottle of Corbel,
too, but Camille was drinking most of it herself.

   "So, uh, Casey, you like baseball, huh?"

   Casey, who had just slurped up one long noodle, liberally
spattering her face with tomato paste;  just rolled her eyes
as if I'd asked the stupidest question on earth. Stacey
snorted loudly.

   "Our father likes baseball," Camille answered sharply.

    "I do, too!" Casey insisted.

    "You know," I interjected, "I couldn't help
wondering..."

   "Daddy wasn't invited," Casey said, answering my question
before it had been asked in a small, sad little voice.

   "Father remarried after mother died," Camille explained,
seeing my curious look. "I don't get along well with her."

   "Stacey says Barbara's a 'cunt'!" Casey added. Both her
sisters shouted at her in unison.

   "You little troll!" Stacey added, punching the girl in
the arm.

   "Stacey!" Camille barked furiously, banging her fists
down on the table hard; rattling the china. I suddenly
wished she wasn't hogging all the champagne.

   Casey murmured darkly, rubbing her arm.

   "You know," I said, again desperate to change the
subject, "this meal is terrific!"

   "Get used to it, Stud," Stacey muttered. "Everything else
she makes tastes like bat barf!"

   Camille didn't say anything, but she glared murderously
at her younger sibling. In spite of the tension, Casey
giggled a little at "bat barf."

   Camille poured herself another glass while the rest of us
quietly stared at our plates; occasionally shoveling a
forkload of pasta into our mouths.

   "So tell me, Stud..." Stacey began.

   "Will you please stop calling him that!" Camille snapped.

   Undaunted, the girl ignored her sister and looked me
straight in the eye.

   "So how did you two meet?"

   "At a party, actually," I said as Camille knocked back
half of her refreshed flute.

   "Were you drunk?" she asked, giving Camille a dirty look
from the corner of her eye.

   "Not particularly," I answered. Camille had her hands in
her lap, curled up into tight little fists. I reached under
the table, took her left hand in my right, and gave it a
reassuring little squeeze.

   Stacey seemed disappointed, and quietly went back too her
dinner. Casey carefully placed both hands around her glass
of milk and lifted it to her lips. When she set the glass
back down, a deep, heady belch escaped her.

   "Good one!" Stacey laughed.

   "What do we say, Casey?" Camille said sternly.

   "sorry," the little girl answered meekly.

    "Jesus, Camilla," Stacey shot back, angrily. "Like
you're so perfect you never burp or cut the cheese!"

   Camille glared at Stacey, but the girl went on,
addressing me directly.

   "I hope you know your girlfriend shits milk white
chocolate!" 

   A stunned silence fell over the table.

   "Is that with... or without almonds?" I asked, batting my
eyelashes innocently.

   Stacey's jaw dropped open, and Camille looked at me with
open shock. Then the teenager broke into a wild, almost
hyena-like, laughter. I joined her, chuckling affably;
giving Camille's hand another squeeze. Casey joined in, not
quite getting the joke, but not wanting to be left out.

   Even Camille managed a tight smile at her own expense.

    We ate the rest of the meal in good spirits. As Camille
got up to bring out the sherbet, I felt a sudden urge to try
again with the small talk.

   "So, what time is Camille taking you two home tonight?"

   "She's, uh, not," Stacey replied, her eyes darting around
evasively.

   "I'm not what?" Camille asked, returning from the
kitchen. 

   When I told her, she made a strange face.

   "Well, Casey is staying until Sunday," she explained,
looking intently at Stacey. "And I just assumed Stacey would
just drive herself home."

   "I, uh, didn't see a car out there..." I said nervously.
Stacey gave me a dark look and Camille's tension returned
with a vengeance.

   "What happened to you car?" Camille demanded icily.

   "Geez! It was just a little fender-bender! You don't have
to get all postal about it! Carly's going to pick me up at
ten!"

    "You mean your stoner friend?"

   I shifted in my chair, suddenly very uncomfortable. I
caught Casey's eye and we regarded each other, embarrassed.

   "Wanna see my baseball cards?" she asked quietly. I
nodded eagerly, and she took my hand and led me away from
the burgeoning war zone.

   She led me to the stairs, and for an instant, I had a
horrifying vision of her calmly leading me by the hand down
the stairs, to that place of darkness; her piping,
melancholic voice the last thing that I would hear as the
door slams shut, saying, "We look like everyone else."

   Thankfully, she led me up the stairs instead; to the
second bedroom which had, up until then, registered in my
consciousness as little more than a closed door next to the
bathroom.

   The room was much like her sister's next door, save for
the fact that the furnishings were all obviously
reproductions, instead of genuine antiques; and all painted
in a matching white. There were pennants on the walls, all
Cubs, and a bookcase whose shelves were filled with binders
on the lower levels and a few assorted plastic figurines on
the upper ones.

   "This isn't my real collection," she said, stressing the
word "real." "These are just my doubles. My real
collection's at home." 

   She picked out a binder and we walked over to the bed and
sat down on the edge of the pink, quilted comforter. I
looked at pictures of people I didn't know, and listened to
stats I could care less about. The more she went on, the
more she relaxed.

   "Do you get to see a lot of games?"

   "I used to, all the time," she said, the glum quality
returning to her voice. "But now daddy spends all his time
with Barbara." She said the name like a child's taunt.

   "So... I guess you stay over here a lot?" I asked,
looking around the room again. After all, sweet as she was,
she did represent a possible hitch in my blossoming sex
life.  

   She shrugged. "Every other weekend or so. I think Camilla
wants to be my mommy."

   I looked down at her, surprised at her insight. 

   We sat quietly for a moment, the binder still open in her
lap. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my
billfold.

   "You wanna see something?" I asked, unfolding the worn
cowhide.

   She nodded, looking between me and the wallet with avid
curiosity.

   "Okay," I began, "this is a true story. Before I was
born, my parents lived in New York City..."

   "Yankees!" she said, breaking into a heartbreakingly
innocent grin.

   "Exactly," I said, returning the smile. "Anyway, my
grandfather was a taxi driver. Was his whole life. And
people were always leaving stuff behind in his cab. Jackets,
money, umbrellas..." I left out used condoms and
hypodermics.

   "The day I was born, right before he got the news, in
fact, he was cleaning out his cab from that morning, and he
found this - " I handed her the card, and her eyes became as
big a saucers - "wedged down into the back seat."

   The card had been bent in half, the corners were
dog-eared, and the border had severe foxing, but none of
that mattered to her.     

   "Joe Di Maggio," she whispered reverently. I nodded.

   "My grandfather always kept it in his wallet after that.
Considered it his good luck charm. When he died he passed it
on to me."

   I saw the way her eyes sparkled, the way her tiny hands
trembled as she held the ratty old thing; tenderly, yet
clinging to it for dear life.

   "You like that, huh?" I asked. She looked up at me with
newfound respect, and nodded solemnly.

   "You can keep it, if you like."

    "Jordan, no!" 

   I looked over at the sound of Camille's voice and saw her
standing in the doorway, her arms folder across her chest,
looking at me in the same awestruck way that her sister was.

   Casey jumped off the bed, calling out to her sister and
brandishing her newfound treasure like the Holy Grail
itself.

   "Look Camilla, look! Joe Di Maggio! Joe Di Maggio!"

   I laughed and stood up slowly. Camille was saying "Yes
that's nice," without ever looking at the card. Instead she
kept her eyes on me the whole time.

   "I can't let you..." she began.

   "Aw, it's pretty beat up. You can barely make out the
autograph."

   Casey shrieked with excitement and immediately began
thoroughly inspecting the card for the faded remnants of
ink. 

    "Jordan, it must still be worth..."

   Ignoring her, I turned to Casey.

   "Hold out your hand," I said.

   She did, giving me a funny look, and I gave her a quick
low-five.

   "Slapjack," I said in the parlance of my own childhood,
"no tradebacks!"

   "What's that mean?" she asked, puzzled.

   I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, but not
so low that Camille couldn't hear me.

   "That means she can't make you give it back."

   Casey started dancing around the room, while Camille
still glared at me with resigned irritation. I smiled and
gave her a fleeting kiss. She sighed, gave me a look that
indicated she didn't know if she wanted to hug me or punch
me in the nose, and then leaned in and gave me a second,
longer kiss.

   "It's past your bedtime!" she said loudly, resting her
forehead against my chest. 

   "Awww!"

   "Say good night to Jordan, please," Camille said, pushing
herself away from me reluctantly.

   The little girl walked over to me and stared up with
those huge, sad eyes.

   "Good night, Jordan."

   I smiled warmly back at her. "Night, Casey."

   Then Camille shooed me from the room as she began giving
orders for Casey to prepare for bed.

   I strolled down the stairs with a goofy grin on my face.
There was a cool breeze through the living room, and it
carried a smell I still remembered from college.

   Stacey was on the back deck, the joint clenched between
her lips. She looked of her shoulder at me as I stepped
through the open sliding glass door. 

   "Pretty expensive bribe for your girlfriend's kid sister,
don'tcha think stud?" she asked, taking a long drag. 

   She exhaled a cloud of noxious smoke and tried to smile
at me seductively. 

   "Makes me wonder what you've got for me!"

   "You heard all that, did you?" I asked, leaning up
against the rail beside her.

   She nodded, and offered me the cigarette.

   "Want some?"

   I shook my head and she shrugged her shoulders as if it
were no skin off her ass.

   "I don't know," I mumbled, turning to stare out over the
placid, gray surface of the lake. The air was cool, but it
had lost the bite of the previous days' chill.

   "Maybe it was a bit much, but fuck it! By the time I have
kids, baseball will so far out of it that they won't even
care who Joe Di Maggio was. Hell, I only really know about
him from the card, and 'Mrs. Robinson.' "

   "Who's Mrs. Robinson?" Stacey asked. I turned my head
slightly, to see if she was yanking me. She wasn't.

   "So tell me," I said, turning back to face her; leaning
up against the rail on one elbow, "why do you enjoy busting
your sister's balls so much?"

   "Maybe because she always acts like she has balls," she
said, taking one long, final drag. She flicked the remainder
away towards the lake; a cascade of sparks flitting through
the air before being swallowed up by the night.

   "She's a bitch," she said, blowing out a last, billowing 
plume up into the air. "She deserves it. You could do
better."

   "Why? You know someone who's available?"

   She smiled enigmatically, and was on the verge of
responding when the distant crunch of tires on the gravel
drive interrupted; followed by the grating bleat of a horn.

   "Gotta jet, stud," she said, backing away, still smiling.
"You watch out for those almonds, now. They get stuck
between your teeth!"

   She winked, and disappeared around the prow of the house.
A few seconds later, the car tore out of the drive loudly,
with a gratuitous flourish of the horn.

   Silence slowly settled down over things again. I turned
back to the lake and lost myself in its depths for a while.
Eventually I heard Camille close the sliding glass door
behind me. She took one breath and swore sharply.

   "God damn her!" 

   She leaned up against the rail next to me and sighed
mournfully.

   "Well, I guess I should be happy it's just weed and not
heroin... yet, anyway."

   I cocked my eyebrow and looked at her sidelong.

   "What are you? Joe Friday? Weed!" I laughed.   

    She laughed, too. "Mary Jane!"

   "Whacky Tobaccy," I said in a slow, southern drawl and we
both broke into laughter that lasted a long time.

   When the laughing had run its course, she sighed and took
my hand.

   "Walk with me," she said, leading me down the steps. We
walked hand in hand along the shore, moving steadily away
from the house. 

  We kept going until her house was just a vague, dark shape
at the end of the beach. We stopped a few yards before the
strand gave way to hills and grass and the shoreline curved
back towards the more densely packed beach houses.

   The moon was waxing, but it still wasn't very full.
Starlight reflected off the mirrored surface of the lake and
frolicked in the depths of her eyes.

   "I want to do something," she said, biting her lower lip
and glancing back anxiously at the house. I turned my head
and looked around. Even if Casey were to wander out onto the
deck, she still probably couldn't see anything clearly that
far away in the dark.

   "Take off your pants."

   I didn't need to be told twice. In seconds my khakis,
only one of two pairs I owned, lay in a wadded heap in the
sand, along with my briefs.

   Camille put her hands on my shoulders and gently eased me
down onto the cool, gritty sand. I laid on my back, staring
up at her with breathless anticipation. Billowing her long
skirt like a tent, she stepped astride my bare legs, and let
the fabric of the skirt cover my nakedness, the hem reaching
all the way up to my chest as she squatted down over my
cock.

   "Just so you know," she informed me, grunting from the
strain on her legs as she held her position, "I did not go
through dinner bare-assed! I took them off before coming out
on the deck!"

   With that, she awkwardly began thrusting her uncovered
pussy around; blindly trying to connect with my penis.

   When the head of my dick brushed up against the moistened
lips of her sex, I shuddered and had to suppress a sudden,
premature eruption. It took a little more, entirely
thrilling, fine tuning, but finally she was able to steer me
inside of her, and with a last, heavy sigh, she dropped on
top of me unceremoniously, our pubic bones banging together
painfully.

   She didn't lose herself in passion, as she always had
before, but rather rode me with a look of fixed
concentration on her features, sitting bolt upright, her
whole frame trembling a little from the exertion. The only
complaint I had was that the sand dug into my ass
mercilessly.

   After a few minutes on thrusting and groaning, she slowed
her already leisurely pace and looked me directly in the
eyes.

   "Hold very still," she said, deadly serious.

   She began lifting herself up off my cock, stopping
halfway. She kept herself in that position, again, showing
the obvious strain of doing so.

   She smiled, a chilling, wicked smile.

   The orgasm hit me, literally hit me, so fast and so hard
that I lost all conscious awareness of everything around me
for several minutes afterwards. It was as if she had, in one
unbelievable maneuver, managed to envelop my cock, my balls,
my thighs, my pubis - all of it - in the searing, wet juices
of her womanhood. The hardest hit was the penis itself,
experiencing a rush of heat and wetness unlike anything I'd
ever felt in all my life.

   I lay there on the beach, dizzy and gasping for air.

   Camille chuckled to herself and lifted her body off of
mine. As her skirt swept away, the dampness, which had so
warmed and thrilled my entire lower region a minute
previously, started to turn cold and clammy when exposed to
the night air.

   I suddenly realized just what she had done, and it sent a
second chill racing through me. I began to squirm, my ass
sloshing around in the soaked sand.

   Camille leaned into my field of vision, cheeks flush,
eyes bright and grinning from ear to ear.

   "Still think people who get off on watersports are
freaks?"  

* * * * * * * * * * * * 
How many special people change?  
How many lives are living strange

       Oasis, Champagne Supernova 

* * * * 
Red Rain

By L.Corvidae

Part One, Chapter Five: Tickled Pink

Wednesday, January Seventh, 1998

   By the time my shift ended, my pulse was racing and the
lining of my mouth had gone as dry as a scrap of papyrus
from ancient Egypt. I couldn't believe I'd said, "Yes."

   Sunday had revolved around Casey. First we took her to
the zoo, where she spent most of her time looking at the
bears. Later, Camille discovered that "Little Mermaid" was
playing at the cheap theater, but I begged off that
excursion.

   "Aw, c'mon," Camille chided, trying to drag me by the arm
to the door. "I can't believe you don't like 'The Little
Mermaid!' The music in that one's the best!"

   "Although," she added, smiling slyly, "I am a bit partial
to 'Be Prepared,' from 'Lion King!' " and she began singing:

    A shining new era  
   Is tiptoeing nearer

   Meticulous planning  
   Tenacity spanning -

   I'll Be king undisputed  
   Respected, saluted  
   And seen for the wonder I am  
   Yes, my teeth and ambitions are bared  
   Be prepared!

   She ended on a whooping "La la la!" and fell into my
arms.  

    "I'm sorry, really," I said. "It's just... Ariel kind of
reminds me of someone, okay?"

   Camille studied my face; curiosity and jealousy evident
in her expression.

   "Okay," she said softly, gently disentangling herself
from my embrace. She didn't seem happy, but she let it rest,
for the moment.

   Later, she came back from the film alone. Her shoulders
were slumped and her hung her head low.

   "Dropped her off yourself?"

   She nodded. "Figured I'd save Stacey the trouble of
having to come up with a lame excuse for getting out of it."

   I got up off the sofa and walked over to where she stood;
wrapping my long arms around her slender frame.

   "Jordan?" she asked, sounding very small and sad and far
away. "Would you mind terribly if we just cuddled in front
of the fire and passed on having sex tonight?"

   "No," I said, gently stroking her hair. "I wouldn't mind
at all."

   I didn't have school during the day like a lot of the
kids working part time, so it was pretty rare that I got a
weekday off. Camille, on the other hand, didn't like
scheduling clients at night, which had meant that Lars
hadn't put in any other appearances during the week.

   She'd been a little disappointed about that; I think she
liked having someone to perform for.

   She did do 'phone sessions,' though, and it was both
fascinating and disquieting to watch her sit and eat a
grapefruit, or peruse a magazine, while she coldly ordered
the men on the other line to snap rubber bands against their
testicles, or fuck themselves with dildos they happened to
have on hand. Sometimes I had to suppress a laugh as she
described in great detail the leather jumpsuits, latex
dresses or thigh-high PVC boots she was supposedly wearing.
Not that she didn't actually own such garments, but
typically, she'd make the calls fresh from the shower, in a
ratty green bathrobe and faded blue UNC sweatshirt
underneath.

   Occasionally, she would play with herself during a
"session," and once or twice she coaxed me, or Lars, to
play, too. It was weird to hear her breathlessly describe to
a total stranger what she was experiencing as I lapped
enthusiastically at her sweet, sweet pussy; but I also found
it pretty arousing, as well.

   On Tuesday, she gave me a spare key to the house.

   Later that night, after we'd gone up to her room and
rutted like wild animals, she asked me. And, tired and
partly delirious with post-orgasmic euphoria, I'd said
"Yes."

   The next day I bumbled around work like some distant
American cousin to Inspector Clouseau. Luckily for me, Beth
was working that day and not Tracy, or I probably would've
have gotten in some serious trouble. My agitation was made
worse every time I went into the back and saw my coat; the
bulges in the side pocket reminding me of what I'd stashed
there earlier that morning, while Camille was in the shower.

   When I finally got off work, I drove straight to
Camille's; tearing through the night like a madman.

   I got out of my car, walked to her front door, and
paused. My heart was hammering in my chest, the rush of
blood thundering in my ears. I tried to take several deep,
calming breaths.

   I had said "yes," and having said "yes," I decided that I
owed it to her to go through with it without fear or
hesitation. Besides, having watched her with her clients, I
definitely felt that the evening had... possibilities.

   Taking one final cleansing breath, I opened the door.

   The living room was lit only by a fire in the hearth, and
by the candles on the dinner table. A single chair had been
placed next to a setting for one.

   Camille walked out of the kitchen with a serving tray in
her hands. She stopped in her tracks and gawked at me in
surprise.

   "I wasn't expecting you for another fifteen minutes," she
said.

   She looked beautiful: absolutely beautiful. She had her
long black hair tied up in a ponytail. A black, three-ringed
collar was fastened around her neck. Aside from that, her
lithe, creamy body was completely naked.

   I forced an arrogant smirk upon my lips.

   "I come and go as I feel like," I said boldly, adding as
an afterthought - "Slave!"

   Her whole body shuddered when I said that word.

   "I'm sorry," she said nervously, "I'll get the rest of
your dinner finished right away."

   I looked at her inquisitively. She stared back, not
understanding.

   "Master?"

   "Oh!" she squeaked. "I'm sorry, master! Forgive me,
master!"

   I dismissed her with a callous wave of my hand. She stood
there a moment longer, regarding my demeanor with open
astonishment, and then, trembling, she set the tray down on
the table.

   My smirk was not all that forced as I watched her cute
little ass bounce as she scampered back into the kitchen.

   The instant she was out of sight, however, I felt my body
sag, as if someone had let all the air (hot air, I suppose)
out. I shambled over to the table, lay my coat over the back
of the chair, and sat myself down.

   I heard the slap of her feet on the kitchen linoleum as
she returned, and I forced myself back into a more rigid
posture.

   Saying nothing, I contented myself to let her lay the
food out in front of me. It was the same dinner as Sunday,
spaghetti, garlic bread, mushrooms, et all, but I had to
admit I was looking forward to enjoying the food without all
the sibling rivalry.

   She set the last pieces in place and froze; looking at me
expectantly. When I made no move to eat, a look of concern
began to cross her face.

   "Wine," I said coolly, and she skittered away with a
yelp, returning with a bottle of Merlot. I noticed her hands
were still shaking pretty badly as she poured me a glass.    
 When she had finished and put the bottle down on the table,
she looked to me again, hopefully. Without meeting her gaze
directly, I snapped my fingers and pointed to the floor next
to my chair.

   She dropped to her knees, blindingly fast. She was the
perfect picture of submission: kneeling, hands clasped at
the small of her back, her head bowed in charming obeisance.

   I suddenly found myself without the least bit of interest
in the meal I'd been looking forward to all day. Still, I
forced myself to eat bite after bite of the sumptuous feast,
not tasting a savory morsel of it.

   Suddenly, her stomach growled, shattering the stillness
of the moment.

   "Have you eaten at all today?" I asked without looking at
her.

   From the corner of my eye, I saw her mouth drop open into
an adorable little "O," as if, despite having worked around
food all day, the very idea simply had simply never occurred
to her.

   To suppress a smile, I heaped another helping of
spaghetti into my mouth. Scanning the table as I chewed
thoughtfully, my eyes fixed upon the long, slim sticks of
garlic bread; and a particularly mean spirited thought
entered my mind. 

   "Open your mouth," I commanded, reaching for one of the
buttery sticks.

   She looked so precious; like a little girl brave waiting
for the dentist to begin working on her teeth. My eyes began
to water up.

   Instead of a drill, I slipped one end of the bread into
the open space, delicately reached down to her chin with my
other hand, and gently closed her mouth shut.

   "Don't bite!" I warned her sternly. The five inches or so
of bread projecting from her lips wobbled comically as she
nodded imperceptibly.   

   I went back to eating as if nothing had happened:
spearing a mushroom with my fork, washing down every other
mouthful with the wine.

   Without any warning, I leaned over and took a swift bite
from the other end of the stick. For one brief second our
eyes locked: mine infused with false steel, hers damp with
deep emotion. 

   I righted myself in my seat just as quickly as I had
dropped, and chewed the bit of bread noisily.

   Thus I finished my dinner, swinging back to take another
bite every so often. Her stomach began to complain
incessantly, and drool started dribbling out of the corners
of her mouth. 

   One more pass, and our lips would meet. Her eyes betrayed
an overpowering eagerness for this to happen, and I could
almost imagine her trying to send me mental projections
urging me to take that last bite.

   My plate was clean, except for some sauce smeared around
its surface, and there was only a little wine left in my
glass. I turned to face her and smiled cruelly.

   She actually moaned out loud as I plucked the remainder
of the bread from her lips with my fingers. Unfortunately,
this caused her to accidentally inhale some of the saliva
that had been building up in her mouth, and as she broke
down into a coughing fit, I was torn between frantic concern
and hysterical laughter.

   She got her choking under control, fortunately, and
glared up at me with large, reproachful eyes. I was still
sitting there with that soggy bit of bread between my
fingers.

   "Stand up."

   She did as she was told, and I carefully swept the dishes
and trays and silverware and what not to one side of the
table with my arm.

   "Lie down. On your belly."

   She looked at me, full of curiosity, but slowly complied.

   She really more bent over the table rather than lying
down completely on top of it, which is what I wanted anyway,
since it put her ass right up beside me, right where I
wanted it.

   I took the nub of garlic bread and used it to sop up much
of the sauce still left on my plate. Then, with an artist's
delicate touch, I began to paint Camille's asscheeks with
little dabs and long, red streaks. Her body convulsed and
she started to mutter something, but I gave her a
not-so-playful swat, and she quieted down.

   When her derriere was sufficiently adorned in rich tomato
paste, I popped the squishy bit of bread in my mouth,
savoring the fact that it was sodden with her spit, and
allowed it to dissolve completely before swallowing.

   I think Camille was still trying to figure out just what
the hell was going on when I leaned over and ran my tongue
across her ass with one long, slow stroke. Inch by inch I
cleaned off her ass as she shivered and moaned. When I was
done, I pushed her legs apart a bit and, quickly dipping my
fingertips into the last of the Merlot, daubed a thin trail
of wine up the crack of her ass; followed immediately by a
slow, probing lick.

   From that position I didn't need to worry if she was
enjoying herself. I knew she was. I could smell it.

   With tremendous reluctance, I pulled my face from between
her legs and wiped myself with a napkin.

   "Are you ready to go downstairs, slave?" I asked, cupping
the hot, quivering flesh of her ass in my palm. 

    "Oh, yes!" she replied dreamily. Another slap elicited
the appropriate "Master!"

   I laughed and stood up, ordering her off the table. She
started to walk towards the stairs when I snapped my fingers
loudly.

   Camille stopped, turned around, and gazed at me with
wounded, needy eyes. Ignoring them, I pointed to the floor
again and she complied; a lot slower this time.

   I picked up my coat from the chair and reached into the
pocket; pulling out the first surprise I had squirreled away
for her that evening.

   She looked at me, too shocked to say or do anything; and
I met no resistance as I clipped the end of the leash to her
collar.

   I started down the stairs. Camille, on all fours, trailed
placidly behind.

   We entered the dungeon and I led her to a low, padded
bench; which I promptly sat down on. I ordered her onto my
lap and she crawled up obediently.

   However, I hadn't thought things through all that well,
and in that position her body was pressed firmly against the
erection that was straining valiantly against my slacks. She
giggled and squirmed and kicked her legs, knowing full well
that each wiggle and twitch ground her hips more firmly into
me.

   I regained control with a hard, swift slap to her ass.
The giggling and kicking stopped immediately. I spanked her
again, as hard as the first time; the sound of the impact
reverberating off the walls. She began to writhe again, but
for entirely different reasons.

   I had meant to give her twenty strokes, but I stopped at
ten. I just couldn't take the way her body grated against my
crotch any longer.    So I told her to stand up and I
watched, worriedly, as she rubbed at her backside with both
hands and gave me a pouty look.

   At first I was worried that I might of gone a little too
far in spanking her. It wasn't like I had thrashed her as
hard as I could have, but I hadn't been pulling any punches,
either. Then I noticed how tightly her lips were pressed
together; the tiny dimples at the corners of her mouth.

   She might have been fighting a smile, but I had no such
compunctions.

   Breaking into a wolfish grin, I said, "Get on the table,
now."

   She took dainty little ballerina steps over to the same
table where so many of her clients had know both heaven and
hell, and climbed up without any hint of reservation or
fear. She laid down on her back, wriggling around a little
in a fruitless attempt to relieve pressure off her bottom,
and stretched out her arms and legs in anticipation of my
next move.

   I hate to keep harping on it, but she was so damn
beautiful. I wanted to chuck all the bondage games out the
window and just climb on top of her and ride her until our
bodies came apart under the stress and we melted into one
single, pure protoplasmic entity.

    Instead, I walked over and seized her wrist. She
trembled as I locked the cuff on. Then I secured her other
hand, then her feet. I cranked the winch so there was just a
hint of tension on the chains, but not so much that she'd
hurt herself if she were to flail about.

   After all, I was expecting her to be flailing about in
another minute.

   "Having fun so far?" I asked her, gently touching the
outer lips of her pussy. My fingers came back moist.

   She replied in a sultry, sibilant whisper. "Yessss!"

   "See? There you go again!" I shook my head sadly.  "I
don't think you're as into this as you say you are!"

   She looked at me blankly, and then cried, "Yes, MASTER!"

   I just kept shaking my head. "Nope, Nope. I'm not
convinced. I think maybe I should just give you a little
time alone to think this whole thing over." 

   As she continued to cry out "Master!" over and over like
a mantra, I made a show of checking my watch.

   "Hmmm.... Maybe I can catch the last half of Jeopardy! if
I hurry."

   I started to walk away as she began practically
screaming, "No Master! Please Master! Wait! Master!" 

   "Of course," I mumbled, as if to myself but really for
her benefit, "by then it'll be prime time and I'd hate to
miss ER, so I guess that'd be about four hours or so,
depending on what's on the news..."

    As I reached the doorway, she cried out the word "No!"
like the long, mournful howl of a dog.

   "You think hard now," I said, turning out the light.

   The room was plunged into utter, complete darkness. I
stood frozen in the doorway, listening to her whimpers and
the heavy laboring of her respiration. I'd draped my coat on
one of the pegs by the door, and stealthily I reached into
the pocket and pulled out the other item I'd cleverly
thought to prepare myself with earlier in the day.

   Her breathing changed, became more even. I think she'd
figured out I hadn't gone anywhere.

   Still, trying as quietly as I could manage, I started to
creep back to her in the darkness, my "weapon" clutched
tightly in my shaking fist.

   Suddenly I banged my shin against something low and
sharp. I swore loudly and Camille began to giggle.

   "You could've just blindfolded me, you know," she said.

   "You think that's funny do you?" I said crossly.

   "Oh, no, 'Master!' " The word oozed mockery.

   "You just laugh," I said, my hand finally connecting with
the soft leather edge of the table.

   "You laugh all you want!"  

   Actually, when I ran the feather along the side of her
torso, she more shrieked than laughed.

   "Jordan no!" she cried! "Please not that!"

   "Jordan is it?" I asked sternly, playing the devilishly
light edge up and down her ribcage, up into her armpit and
along the undersides of her breasts.

   She screamed and laughed and the chains that held her
clattered fiercely as the thrashed around in a frantic
effort to escape.

   I moved around to the other side, ad suddenly she'd
rediscovered "Master."

   "No Master! Please! Oh! Oh!"

    Her long, wild fits began to leave her breathless, and
when she begged, it came out as a cross between a sob and a
desperate gasp for air.

   I poked my fingers back between her legs to scout out the
area before I applied the feather, and as the tickling there
began, she whined a deep, piercing whine and her whole body
arched, like a cat's, lifting her back high off the table
top; accompanied by the sharp ripping sound of sweaty flesh
parting from leather.

   By the time I took her ankle in my free hand, her pleas
had become incoherent babbling; her laughter, a shrill,
hysterical titter.

   When I had finished with her second foot, Camille lay
exhausted; capable only of producing whimpers and sweat. I
chuckled to myself and unbuckled my pants.

   It was like climbing on to the hood of a car that had
driven for hours in the rain. Except this car was soft and
yielding.

   It occurred to me at that moment that up until then, if
lovemaking could be considered a kind of dance, she had
always led. The notion that I would get to be the fuck-er
for a change, instead of the fuck-ee, outweighed any moral
qualms I might have been feeling about forcing myself upon
her in her weakened condition.

   Literally drooling, from both ends, I took my cock in my
hand and navigated it into her lush, steamy interior. 

   The sex was beyond believing. She lay there, dead to the
world, yet never had her body felt more vibrant and alive
then at that moment. I fucked her in the crude, rough way
that, as she had put it, "a man does," and when I came,
blood, or light, or maybe God, exploded behind my eyes, and
the world went form black to red.

   My shuddering gasps betrayed my complete vulnerability at
that second as I squirted my seed into her womb. Then,
groaning, I pitched forward and collapsed on top of her, our
sweat pooling together on the padded surface beneath.

   In the depths of my contented dementia, I heard the
chains clink again. She was trying to lift her arms. I
dragged one of my hands across the interminable length of
the table top and fumbled with the buckle on one of her
cuffs.

   The leather finally sprang apart, and her arm rose from
the table and flopped loudly onto my back in a sloppy,
exhausted embrace. I didn't have the energy to free her
other hand, so we just lay there like that and gently
drifted off to sleep.

   The next morning I was confronted with a familiar scent
as I stepped out of the upstairs shower. Hastily drying
myself off and throwing on my clothes, I drifted downstairs
and found the table set for two, with each plate holding a
generous helping of French toast.

   Camille came out of the kitchen, wrapped in her robe and
sporting a pot of coffee.

   "Good morning, you!" she practically sang, beaming.

   "Hello back at you," I said, grinning like a fool.

   As I sat down, she absent-mindedly reached over and fixed
the top button of my collar and then took her own seat. Her
robe fell open as she did, revealing nothing underneath.

   We sat, smiling at each other like idiots.

   "I, uh wanted to apologize for last night," I said at
last, awkwardly breaking the silence.

   "For what, exactly?" She sounded genuinely curious.

   "Well, that I, uh, that you didn't... that I didn't think
to make you... bring you to... you know? Uh, cum."

   "Oooohhhh," she said. "Well, you don't have to worry
about that, silly boy!" She grinned impishly, wrinkling her
nose.

   "Wait! You mean you?..."

   She just smiled and nodded.

   "When? I mean.. how?"

   "Well, if I told you that, you'd have real power over me,
wouldn't you?" she replied coyly.

   I just shook my head and chuckled to myself.

   "You know," I said, trailing my finger along the rim of
my juice glass, "I sort of felt a little insulted last
night."

   "Why was that?"

   "Well, you kept looking at me so surprised. Like you
weren't expecting me to be that good!"

   "I was expecting something different," she said,
stressing the last word.

  "Oh come on," I said, teasing her, "admit it, you expected
me to be a big dork and I knocked your socks off!"

   "Why do I get the feeling," she started, feigning
annoyance, "that you won't be satisfied until I declare that
I've never had a boyfriend dominate me who took control as
naturally as you did or excited me as much by doing so?"

   I looked up from my breakfast; my ego feeling a little
stung.

   "Only if it's true," I said earnestly.

   She didn't say anything, but she smiled and winked. That
was good enough for me.

   As I started to eat, she sighed, loudly. I looked up,
curious; a drip of maple syrup running down my chin.

   "Thank you," she said with disquieting earnestness.

   "No problem!" I replied, laughing a little. "Happy to be
of service, ma'am!" I added a tip of an imaginary hat.

   My tomfoolery failed to crack the surprisingly serious
expression that had settled on her features. She got up from
her chair, walked around the table, and took my hands in
hers.

   "I think I'm in love with you," she said.

   I felt my throat tighten. Tears came to my eyes.

   "How would you know for sure?" I croaked.

  She looked up at me, raised her head, and kissed me full
and deep on the lips. We parted, staring into each other's
eyes and panting like a pair of marathon runners.

   "I could call in sick," I suddenly blurted out.

   She smiled warmly at me but shook her head.

   "You'd better get going, I don't want you getting in any
trouble on my account."

   I brought her hands to my lips and kissed them.

   I got up, reluctantly, and started for the door. Just
before I got there, the phone rang.

   I have to admit, I dragged my feet a little those last
few steps so I could overhear her conversation.

   After a few, terse, monosyllabic replies, she finally
said - whispered, to be more precise, "Oh, please! Not
today!"

   I turned around at the strained quality to her voice. Her
face was ashen. She saw me out of the corner of her eye and
began to wave irritably towards the door; shooing me away.

   "Camille?"

   "Okay," she said brusquely to the person at the other end
and hung up quickly.

   "What are you still doing here?" she asked angrily.

   "Nothing, I guess," I said, turning for the door.

   "Jordan! Please! Wait!"

   I looked back at her. She looked on the verge of tears.

   "I'm... sorry. It's just.... the usual shitty timing that
always seems to happen to me, okay? I had no call to snap at
you like that."

   "Camille, is everything okay? Is it about your family?"

   She laughed bitterly.

   "Everything is about my fucking family," she said darkly.

   "Please, Camille. Is there anything I can do?"

   She sighed mournfully.

   "Could you bring you saxophone with you when you come
over tonight? I'd... I'd really love to hear you play
again."

   "Sure. Are you sure that's all I can do?"

   She nodded.

   "Jordan?"

   "Yes?"

   "Thank you for last night. Thank you for making me feel
loved last night."

   "Okay..." I said, desperately not wanting to leave.

   "Now go to work, please."

   I still hesitated.

   "Camille?"

   She'd been staring off into space after she'd stopped
talking. She looked back over at me with her big, beautiful
brown eyes.

   "Yes?"

   My palms were suddenly gushing. My head was spinning, my
heart was racing.

   "I love you, too."

   She smiled. 

   "I know."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *  * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
Seeing things that you do / 
And being one of the few 
Whose habit-forming, tradition-
ignoring ways to me are fine 
Well I'm tickled pink 
To think That you are mine

    K.d. Lang, Tickled Pink 
* * * *  
Red Rain

By L.Corvidae

Part One, Chapter Six: Violet

Thursday, January Eighth, 1998

   I had just hung up my coat when Beth popped her head out
of her office she shared with Tracy and gave me a surprised
look.

   "What the hell are your doing here?" she demanded
irritably.

   "I'm scheduled to work today," I answered, confused;
almost saying it like a question.

   "Didn't you get the message I left on your machine?"

   "Uhh..." I blushed. I'd hardly spent a full hour in my
apartment over the last few days; blowing through mostly to
pick up a change of clothes for work and brush my teeth. I
hadn't even bothered to look in the direction of my phone
that morning.

   Beth sighed heavily. She was in her late thirties, maybe
early forties, and, in the words of my friend Harry,
"Decidedly not unattractive." To tell the truth, she did
make an occasional appearance in those "every six seconds"
thoughts about sex.

   "Tracy fucked up the schedule again," she told me in an
exasperated voice. 

   She began to explain it to me, but basically all I heard
was that I didn't have to work that day, but I would have to
come in on Sunday.  

   I was grinning like an idiot as I drove towards her
house. I felt like a kid who gets out of school early for
snow. Part of it was also that I was still dizzy over how
fast our relationship was moving. 

   But it was a good kind of dizzy.

   I wound my way through the gravel trail that served as
both road and driveway to her house. As I reached the end, I
gave a sharp, appreciative whistle. A bright red Ferrari was
parked in front of her garage. Pulling up beside it, my
rabbit looked like something that the other car had squeezed
out of its butt.

   I dawdled for a minute, admiring the sharp Italian
machine. The vanity plate read: TBRUN TGRE

  The first that that I noticed upon entering the house was
the acrid smell of tobacco. 

   "Who the fuck are you?" demanded a rich, brassy, female,
but not at all feminine, voice from the vicinity of the
couch.

   I looked over, startled, and saw a heart-shaped face
staring at me from under a mane of golden curls. A tailored
Italian jacket was draped over the back of the sofa, and her
voluptuous form was squeezed tightly into a black silk
camisole. Her blue eyes were like marbles: beautiful, but
cold.

   Those soulless eyes bore into me as I stood stupidly in
the gaping doorway. They were nothing like the eyes of
Camille's other clients. In fact, they were far more like
Camille's: hungry and hard. 

   "I'm, uh, Camille's boyfriend," I said, holding up the
key as if that proved it.

   "Her boyfriend?" she asked, sounding astonished.

   I cast my eyes nervously about the house.

   "That's right. Where is she, anyway?"

   A cruel smile crept up upon the edges of her lips.

   "Oh, she's here," she stood up. In heels she was easily
six feet tall. Her shoulders seemed very broad, and though
she was carrying extra weight on her body, she carried it
well. She stubbed out her cigarette in a plate she'd gotten
from the kitchen and motioned for me to follow her.

   "Let's go say hello," she purred.

   With each step down the stairs, the hairs on the back of
my neck seemed to stand up straighter and taller. She moved
like a panther, her plush behind rocking seductively in
front of me as she sashayed down into the basement.

   My heart was hammering in my chest as we turned left at
the bottom of the stairs and entered the dungeon, and a
soft, pained groan escaped my lips.

   Camille was suspended by her arms at the far end of the
dungeon. Her ankles had a wooden bar cuffed to them, forcing
her legs apart. Her face was all but obliterated by a rubber
cup that covered her mouth and chin, and a thick leather
blindfold strapped over her eyes. Vicious little clamps had
been attached to each nipple, and lead sinkers hung from the
ends. Worst of all, the butt end of a thick vibrator poked
rudely out from between her pussy lips. And even across the
room, I could hear it hum.

   Her whole body was shivering, sweat ran from every pore.
Her breasts were covered in bright red stripes. My knees
buckled and I had to lean against the door jamb for support.

    Camille's state did not seem to bother the zaftig
stranger at all. If anything, she chuckled to herself,
amused, and strode across the room to the suffering girl.

   "Well, my Darling," she said in a taunting, sing-song
voice, "you've been very, very naughty this time, haven't
you?"

   Camille made some kind of muffled sound in protest, but
the stranger just laughed. I thought I was going to be sick.

   "Oh, really?" she replied, as if she had understood
Camille's every word. She reached her hand behind the dark
drapery of Camille's hair, and unbuckled the blindfold.

   Camille blinked as the leather band was pulled away, saw
me, and moaned.

   The stranger but down the blindfold, and picked up a
riding crop where she had apparently let it lay before
taking a break.

   "Very naughty, indeed!"

   Camille's eyes were like two brown saucers, welling with
tears. For a moment I started into them, transfixed with
horror and helplessness.

   Then the sound of the crop striking her ass and her
subsequent agonized shriek; cut through me like a scalpel.

   "Stop it!" I cried out.

   The woman turned her hateful blue eyes on me.

   "That's another ten lashes for sweet Camille here," she
said, grinning evilly.

   "You touch her again you fucking bitch and I'll..."

   "That's twenty!" she bellowed over my threat. "Keep it up
and I'm afraid that by the time you're done all this
alabaster skin is going to look more like raw hamburger!"

   I froze; tears running down my cheeks, my hands clenched
in useless fists.

   Still grinning maliciously, she reached up and unbuckled
the gag. I felt another wave of nausea pass over me as I
watched the long, thick penis be extracted from Camille's
mouth, along with a cascade of drool.

   Camille hung her head low, whimpering like a kicked
puppy.

   "If I were you," her tormentor offered, "I would tell
your new 'boyfriend' - " she twisted the word like a knife "
- to stop writing checks that your butt will have to cash,
my Dear."

   "Jordan," Camille whispered, her voice tense and raw with
pain, "please go wait for me upstairs. Please..." 

    "Camille?" I asked, my voice wavering.

   "Please!" she begged.

   My shoulders slumped, and I turned myself around with all
the enthusiasm of a man about to go to the gas chamber. With
each step that led me out of the room I found myself
questioning my manhood; every fiber of my being screaming at
me to turn around and 'rescue' her.

   As I stepped across the threshold, I heard the crack of
the whip, followed by a piercing scream that tore what
little of my heart was left to pieces.

   When the second lash fell, I snapped. I spun on my heel
and charged back into the dungeon, my blood pounding in my
temples.

   Camille's eyes went wide with surprise and horror, but I
ignored her shouted pleas to stop. The woman, who'd had her
back to me, turned slightly, and seemed to almost have a
bemused look on her face as I cocked my arm back and swung.

   And then she wasn't there.

   Not that she disappeared through some trick of magic or
Star Trek teleporters; it was just that she sidestepped my
punch so smoothly and so easily that it just felt like she'd
blinked out of existence for a second.

   It's funny, the way your mind works at times. As my
follow-through sent me hurtling through empty air, my
thoughts suddenly went to Spiderman, of all things!

   He used to have this enemy named the Kingpin, who was
this enormously fat guy, but under all the fat, he was
incredibly muscular, and I think he was like a blackbelt in
martial arts.

   Anyway, the way she had hustled her mass out of my way
reminded me of the way the Kingpin used to kick the crap out
of Spidey and Daredevil all the time.

   This was all in the span of less than a second, keep in
mind, but I suddenly felt my left arm wrenched up behind my
back, and my forward momentum increased as I was pushed from
behind.

   With the concrete wall hurtling towards my face, my mind
continued to play its loopy little free association game.

   The Kingpin had a son who became a criminal, just like
his old man, and he called himself "The Rose." There was a
white rose embroidered over Princess' heart. "Kissed By A
Rose" had been the song that had been playing when I saw
Camille for the first time. And that was from the soundtrack
form a Batman movie, which was itself a comic book...

   I smashed hard against the concrete, doubly so as she
slammed her body into mine; knocking the wind from my lungs.

   She rammed her knee up hard between my legs and I felt my
knees buckle. Still holding my arm against my back, she rode
me down to the floor as I collapsed.

   "Samantha no! Please!"

   "Very bad move, bitch!" she hissed in my ear, ignoring
Camille's screams. "I could snap your fucking neck like a
twig!"      I felt the weight ease off my back. She kept
hold of my arm while her other hand slipped under my belt
and took hold. Hauling me like so much luggage, she dragged
me from the room and up the first flight of stairs, tossing
me roughly onto the landing.

   "But not today, bitch!" she said, and slammed the door
shut.

   I lay curled up in a ball for quite some time after that.
The sound of Camille's whipping could be faintly heard
through the door. After a few wrenching moments, I finally
began dragging myself up the second flight.  

     Camille kept the icepacks in the small fridge
downstairs, so I had to settle for a bag of frozen peas to
soothe my aching balls. Holding the bag between my legs, I
crashed on the sofa and waited.

   And waited.

   And waited.

   It was another thirty minutes before my amazonian
adversary came clomping up the steps; her own body bathed in
sweat, stray curls plastered to her deceptively cherubic
face.

   She walked over to the couch, retrieved her jacket, and
paused to regard me with practiced contempt.

   "Think fast!" she said, and suddenly tossed the vibrator
she'd used on Camille's pussy at me. 

   I was too slow and it his me square in the chest with a
dull splat; the juices staining my shirt while some wild
droplets spattered my tearstained cheeks.

   "She's all yours, darlin', " the witch drawled mockingly.
"But I wouldn't count on any hot lovin' for a few days. Made
her take the last ten to her twat!"

   "You fucking bitch!" I cried angrily, leaping to my feet,
the peas dropping to the floor.

   "Now, see, you're already starting in on demerits for
next month!" she warned me coolly.

   "There's not going to be any next time! You're never
getting anywhere near her ever again!"

   She laughed a patronizing little laugh and started to
walk away. When she had reached the front door she paused
with her hand on the knob and turned her head to the side;
giving me her profile.

   "Better make sure, Darlin'. " she said, and then opened
the door and stepped outside.

   Long after I heard her car peel out with the patter of
flying gravel; I was still standing there, facing the door,
consumed by rage, consumed by guilt, impotent.

   Finally I forced myself back down the stairs, back into
the dungeon.

   Camille was down on the floor, curled up protectively on
her knees with her back exposed. I couldn't help but gasp as
I saw the awful sight of welts and streaks crisscrossing her
body like some sick parody of a road map.

   She was crying quietly.

   I went to her and knelt down beside her. But when I tried
to put my hand against an unmarred patch of flesh at her
shoulder, she began shrieking at me to go away.

   "I don't want you to see me like this!" she sobbed. 

   But I couldn't just abandon her a second time, so I took
a brief leave and ran up to the second floor, grabbing her
bathrobe off a hook on the back of the bathroom door and
then sprinting back downstairs again.

   She hadn't moved.

   Tenderly, timidly, I draped the terrycloth robe other her
body. Her ass was a deep, solid red, and it turned my heart
cold to see it.

   All my instincts at that moment were wrong. I wanted to
hold her, to cradle her and rock her and whisper soothingly
in her ear that everything would be all right. But her
entire body was one live nerve ending and every reassuring
word I said rang hollow in my ears.

   Feeling utterly defeated, I stood up and went back
upstairs.

   Having little to do up there except sit and pick myself
apart for being a weakling and a coward, I decided to make
some soup. I wasn't really hungry, and I doubted she'd have
much of an appetite, but it smelled good and it kept my
hands busy and my mind partially occupied.

   I poured myself a bowl and took it to the dining table. I
just sat there and stared at it; watching the steam rise off
its surface.

   "You were supposed to be at work today," said a hollow
voice.

   I looked up to see her standing at the head of the table,
the robe hanging loose and open; but at least she'd put it
on.

   "There was a mistake with the schedules," I said feebly.
"I... God, I'm so sorry, Camille."

   The silence that followed was almost unbearable.

   "Camille..."   

   "Don't Jordan! Don't ask me to explain myself to you."

   "But... you weren't enjoying that! I've seen you with
your clients, Camille and you didn't look anything like they
do when you dominate them!"

   "Tell me something Jordan," she hissed, her eyes becoming
as hard and as frightening as those belonging to the woman
who'd been tormenting her. 

   "Tell me the most awful, awful, awful thing that has ever
happened to you in your entire life! The thing that claws at
your soul and leaves you feeling broken whenever you just
think about it! Tell me that, Jordan, and maybe - maybe!
Maybe you'll have the right to question me!"

   I turned my head away, ashamed, but when I heard her
choke back a sob, I looked back. Her composure had
completely shattered and she was crying again, her beautiful
face scrunched up in a masque of pure agony.

  I got to my feet and walked swiftly to her; my arms
flailing awkwardly at my sides as I tried to decided whether
to embrace her or not. Fortunately, she made the decision
for us both; throwing her body into mine and wrapping her
thin, strong arms fiercely around my middle.

   As carefully as I could, I returned her embrace as she
wept openly into my chest. I gently let one hand trail
through her dark, flowing hair and struggled through more
tears of my own.

   I held her as long as she needed to be held. Eventually,
her arms began to relax.

   Clumsily we waltzed over to the couch and I carefully
eased her down onto her side. There was a small stack of
wood just outside on the deck, and, kissing her tenderly on
the top of her head, I left her for a brief moment and
picked up a few logs.

   I added a starter log and set the whole thing off with
one of those long handled matches. She had several in a vase
on the mantle.

  "Jordan..." she said in her trembly little voice.

   "Yes?"

   "Did you bring your saxophone?"

   "It's in my car, sweetheart. Lemme go get it.

   Once outside, I noticed several new dings and scratches
where the spay of loose rocks had pelted my car. But it was
only when I peeked in the window that I truly got upset.

   The contents of my glove compartment were strewn all over
the passenger seat; as if she didn't even care if I knew
she'd riffled through them.

   I swore angrily, popped the hatchback, and pulled out the
case for my sax.

   I had to fight to get my temper back under control by the
time I got back into the house. Camille was still in the
same spot where I'd left her; staring into the dancing
flames with the intensity of a pyromaniac.

   I opened the case, setting it down empty on one of the
end chairs. Draping the shoulder strap over me, I knelt down
by her side and took her hand in mine.

   "Anything in particular?"

   She sighed. "You know what I want to hear."

   I took a deep breath, released her hand, and started to
play Harlem Nocturne.

   It wasn't even yet noon.

   I played off and on for several hours until at last her
eyes drooped shut and she fell asleep. Even then I still
played, softly, for a few minutes more before setting my
horn aside and contenting myself to merely watching her as
she slept.

   She had baggage, to be sure. She had damage. But when
Camille smiled there was no woman on earth more beautiful
than she, and I think I would have marched through hell
itself, just to see her smile. Not six hours earlier I'd
told her I'd loved her. Watching her sleep, I realized just
how much I'd meant it. I vowed silently at that moment that
I would never fail to protect her again.

  For dinner, I decided to make French Toast. After all, it
was pretty much the only thing I knew how to make. Standing
over the sizzling skillet, I could feel the damage my body
had taken earlier begin to catch up with me. By the time I
emerged from the kitchen, a plate in each hand, my gait was
down to a stiff shuffle. 

   Camille had gotten off the sofa and was sitting at the
head of the dining table, with her robe cast carelessly
around her shoulders.

   She looked up at me, and smiled. It was a tired, weak
smile, but it lit up my world.

   It was the best kind of dizzy there was.

  "All we need is someone who knows how to make a lunch and
we're set!" she joked.

  taking a bite, she suddenly exclaimed, "Hey! This is much
better than last time!"

   I smiled wryly. "That's because you had powdered sugar on
hand this time," I explained.

   She returned the smile, looking a little less weary, and
ducked her head shyly. "Well, I didn't pick it up just
because of you!"

   "Yes you did."

   She didn't say anything, but her cheeks began to turn
red.

   "You seem a lot better," I noted, sitting down awkwardly.

   "I recover quickly, Jordan. I have to. It's part of my
job, in a way."

   A part of me never even wanted to think about that
horrible dungeon ever again. And yet, I found myself
intrigued.

   "Really? How so?"

   She sighed and wiped away some syrup from the corners of
her mouth.

   "My clients pay me to give them a fantasy. My part in it
is to play the part of the cold, impervious dominatrix. It's
a role as rigid and unyielding as a Barbie doll - and about
as true to life. Just, instead of a vacuous grin, I'm
expected to have a sneer permanently molded upon my plastic
face.

   "What that fantasy does not include is any sign of
weakness; any frailty that might tip the client off that
perhaps there is a human being under all that leather and
attitude. They pay for power, authority, domination; not
menstrual cramps or the flu or a lot of hobbling about
because I twisted my damn ankle thanks to one of those
fucking stiletto heels!

   "It's a little like being an athlete, I guess," she said,
peering up at me from under her eyelashes intently. "You
play through the pain. Inside and out."

   "It almost sounds like you're the one who... uh..." I
broke off, foot firmly in mouth.

   "Like I'm the sub and they're Masters?" she asked
pointedly.

   "I'm sorry, Camille! I didn't mean -"

   "I don't know, Jordan. Maybe that's the way things really
are. Maybe I am just a prostitute. A whore."

   I stood up. My eyes were sore from all the crying I'd
been doing, yet they began to well up again anyway. I walked
over to her end of the table; her eyes tracking me, her
expression one of puzzlement.

   I got down on one knee and took her dainty hand in mine.

   "You are NOT a whore!" 

   "What am I then?"

   I kissed her hand.

   "An artist."

   "I..." she stammered, "..I don't know."

   "I do."

   "I...uh... I guess that means I have to die before I'm
appreciated, huh?"

   "Not by me, Camille," I said, kissing her hand again.
"Not by me." 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 
You should learn when to go     
You should learn how to say no
     
Hole, Violet

* * * *  
Red Rain

Part One, Chapter Seven: Crimson Winds

Friday, January 9, 1998

   Camille and I spent Thursday night in each other's arms;
chaste, and yet more passion flowed between us than in all
our rough exchanges of bodily fluids put together.

   The next morning I called my machine while she took a
long hot shower.

   The first message was from Nat, reminding me of a
practice session for the band. Since it had been set for
Wednesday, I skipped ahead.

   The next was Beth's, informing me not to bother coming in
to work "tomorrow." 

   Skip.

   The third was Nat again, and he didn't sound happy.
"Since when do you ever go out? Where the hell are you?"

   Skip.

  The fourth, and final message was a cheerful sounding
woman I'd never heard before. 

   "Hi, this is Melissa from Marsh, Cartman, Broslofski and
McCormick. I'm just calling to confirm your appointment with
Samantha Hain at ten o'clock Friday morning. Thank you."

   I felt a cold corkscrew spiral up my backbone. 

   As much as I longed for a rematch, I felt constrained by
my still not really understanding the relationship between
'Ms. Hain' and Camille. 

   To make matters worse; even I had heard of Marsh,
Cartman, Broslofski and McCormick. They were the biggest,
most successful law firm in town. They'd even been
representing the Governor during the latest big scandal.

    It seemed laughable, all things considered, but I
couldn't help wondering if the bitch was actually going to
sue me!

   I didn't want to go, but I would be Goddamned if I
allowed her to think she'd scared me off. Still, that was
easier said than done. I had to take time off from work, and
Tracy was working the day shift. He was pretty pissed off
about having been tripped up in his own stupidity, and
wasn't real receptive to the idea of me taking my lunch
early for a "doctor's appointment."

   By that time I was too wound up to take much shit. I
barked some kind of challenge that if he didn't like it he
could fire me, knowing full well that with the Inventory
coming up on Monday, he couldn't afford to, and then went
about my usual routine of straightening up and putting out
backstock to refresh depleted areas. I left a few minutes
after the doors opened at nine-thirty.

   The offices of Marsh, Cartman, Broslofski and McCormick
were located in the "New Bank Building" which held the
distinction of being the second tallest building in the
city. The tallest was the Ramada, which always struck me as
looking like a giant penis thrusting upwards from the flat
prairie landscape.

   They had a the whole floor pretty much to themselves, and
I had to admit being impressed by sweeping scale of the
reception area. The walls were lined with paintings from
several up and coming "primitive" artists, and the top of
the circular receptionist's desk was jade green marble.

   The receptionist herself, Melissa, was quite a sight
herself.  She had a bright, unforced smile, and even
brighter blue eyes, a lighter shade than her Hain's.

   "You must be Jordan," she said, taking me back a little.

   "Uh, yeah." I replied.

   "Oh, she said you'd be handsome!" she said, wrinkling her
nose as she smiled in a gesture eerily reminiscent of
Camille.

   "You can go right on in, Ms. Hain's expecting you!"  

  She gestured down a short hall and I meandered up to a
door that ahd a brass plaque bearing the name "Samantha
Hain, esq."

  I entered the office without bothering to knock.

   Inside was no less an impressive sight than the outer
area: large and uncluttered by much furniture, save for a
large oak desk, behind which Ms. Samantha Hain was sitting.
Behind her, a large plate glass window opened out onto a
spectacular view of our mediocre skyline.

   The walls were covered with degrees and plaques and
photos of Hain with the last few governors, Senators, sundry
political figures and local celebrities.

   What caught my eye the most, however, was a white
bow-shaped object mounted on a pedestal just beside her
desk. It must have measured a yard long.

   "Ahh, admiring my little trophy, are we?" she teased.

   "Those jaws belong to one Galeocerdo cuvieri," she said
proudly. "Sadly, now deceased."

   I stared at her blankly.

   "Tiger Shark," she purred, flashing her own menacingly
wide grin. "They're notorious maneaters."

   "Cute..." I mumbled. I looked over at her and in spite of
myself, broke into a little smile.

   "What?" she asked.

   "It's just... I don't know... A little clichéd, isn't it?
Lawyer by day, sadistic bitch by night?"

   "No more clichéd than a twenty-something looser working a
dead-end job at the mall," she replied coolly. 

   I felt myself blush as she scored the hit.

   "Please, Jordan, do have a seat. I was hoping we might
have a nice, civilized discussion."

   "I'm not staying that long!"

   She sighed.

   "You see, Jordan? It's just that kind of disrespectful
behavior that caused poor sweet Camille so much suffering
yesterday!"

   "You fucking bitch!" I cried out furiously, taking a step
forward before remembering how easily she'd wiped the floor
with me.

   She clucked in mock sadness.

   "And you just insist on making things worse for her the
next time, don't you?"

   "Is that your idea of 'civilized?' " I spat bitterly.
"Threatening Camille if I don't do what you say?"

   "Appreciating that one's actions have consequences beyond
themselves is a hallmark of a civilized society, Jordan,"
she answered with unnerving calm. "Otherwise you have
anarchy."

   "Now sit the fuck down!"

   She hadn't raised her voice from that professorial tone,
but it still hit me like a left hook. I found myself
dropping into the chair before her desk without even
realizing what I was doing.

   "Good," she purred, her eyes narrowing to slits as she
regarded me intently.

    "You know, Jordan, I really feel like I owe you
something of an apology," she said, shocking me.

   "Really?"

   "Mmm-hmmm. I've always believed that people in this town
are such a dull, depressing lot. But I have to say, picking
through your life last night proved quite an entertaining
experience!"

   "What?" 

   If possible, her grin grew a little wider, and she pulled
a sheaf of papers from a drawer in the desk. She made a big
production of tamping them against the desk until the were
stacked together in a tight, neat bundle.

   "Your name is Jordan Philip Geiger. You live alone in a
single room apartment, you own an 85 Volkswagen Rabbit, and
you carry a balance of two thousand dollars on you credit
card. 

   "You were born in Chicago in 1974, but you moved here
after your father got a job with the State. You're quite the
mutt, really. Irish, Scottish, Dutch, French by way of
Canada, and of course, one quarter Jewish. A very
interesting mix.

   "Your father is an example of the Peter Principle in
action: having risen to middle management and stayed there.
Your mother is a substitute teacher. And you have a sister
who's two years younger than you, in college out west. A
nice school, actually. Does she know Chelsea?"

   My hands had become a pair of rock-hard fists, and I
could hear my breath as it whistled angrily through my
nostrils.

   "You found that all out in one night?"

   She laughed. "They don't call this the 'information age'
for nothing, my dear!"

   I squirmed in my chair,  at the thought of just how
exposed all our lives really were, and she continued.

   "Unlike your sister, you went to State, and flunked out
after only one semester. What caught my attention about that
was the fact that you started in the Spring. That intrigued
me to no end!

   "And really, that's where all the really interesting
things begin, with you, isn't it? By the time you got to
school, you were already on the road to being the loser
you've become today."

   I literally wanted to kill her at that moment.

   "You were such a good boy. 'B' average in high school, no
arrest record, no tickets even. In fact the only trouble
you've ever seemed to find yourself in was that unfortunate
little altercation just before you were supposed to
graduate."

   I turned away and stared at the carpet, my heart was
beating in my chest like a jackhammer and a nausea settling
over my stomach.

   "Frankly, I was shocked to learn that such a terrible
thing could ever happen in such a quiet little suburban
community! Four men with baseball bats beating the living
daylights out of one poor, defenseless high school senior,
for no apparent reason! Just awful!"

   She grinned.

   "But what surprised me even more was just how completely
the Sheriff, Sheriff Green, back then, wasn't it? How he
seems to have done so very little to solve such a disturbing
crime, particularly when you were such good friends with his
son!"

   Her voice was mocking, taunting, pushing me. Camille had
been right: just thinking about those events the pain
returned anew and clawed at my soul and left me feeling
broken and guilty all over again.

   I wondered, fearfully, just how much Hain really knew.

   "You were good friends with his son, weren't you? I mean,
the two of you were on the varsity basketball team
together."

   I grit my teeth and stayed silent.

   "I wasn't living here at the time, but from what I can
tell, it was quite a year for you boys. You won the city
tournament and your school was going to State for the first
time in your history. Apparently the whole community went
apeshit over it.

   "Myself, I don't care for sports. I'd much rather watch
young men play with their own balls than some sorry
substitute. The drama of homoerotic combat is so much better
when it's taken pure.

   "But they sure loved you boys, didn't they? You could
have almost gotten away with murder, if you'd wanted to!"

   I looked up in shock, the pit of my stomach falling out.
Her expression was unreadable.

   "It's such a pity you boys lost in the first round. But -
I've misspoken, haven't I? You didn't lose, because you
weren't there. For some strange reason you quit the team
just after winning the City Tourney."

   She studied my face, but I was determined to give her
nothing more than what she had.

   "And then, of course, the night after the team lost, you
suffered that terrible attack while taking out the garbage.

   "As I said, it was a most interesting read."

   "Are you this thorough with all of Camille's boyfriends?"
I growled.

   "Only the ones she's in love with."

   That snapped my attention right back to the present.

   "She told you that?" I asked, suddenly realizing that she
hadn't really come out and said the words to me the other
day. The thought of her confiding in that... monster...
hurt.

   "Don't be silly! Of course not!"

   "Then..."

   "Haven't you figured out by now that what Camille doesn't
say is always more telling than what she does? In your case,
the deceitful little bitch didn't say a damn word to me
about you. Which means she didn't want me finding out about
you, which means she must care for you very much, indeed."

    She flashed me that grin that turned my stomach.

   "And I'm ever so grateful to you for barging in and
fucking up her little ploy. She might have actually gotten
away with it if you hadn't."

   Whatever guilt I had felt before now quadrupled itself
and seemed to take up residence square inside my churning
gut.

   "In fact, I'm so grateful, that I've decided to call us
even on that pitiful little display of machismo you pulled
yesterday!"

   "Terrific," I groaned.

   "Of course, even with the slate clean on that score,
there are still any number of instances of rudeness and
lapses in courtesy on your part that poor Camille will have
to answer for.

   I felt the heat return to me and I had to choke back a
"discourteous" exclamation.

   "Why her?" I finally managed to say through my rage. 

   "Because I expect her to be accountable for the company
she keeps, Jordan."

   "That's not fair!"

   "Oh, I'm sorry! Did life suddenly become fair and nobody
bothered to tell me?"

   I couldn't meet her pitiless gaze any longer. I stared at
my shoes as a frosty silence descended upon the room.

   She had talked so much, had seemed so enamored of the
sound of her own voice, that the sudden quiet was unnerving.

   I looked back up at her and saw her leveling an almost
predatory gaze upon me. she seemed on the edge of her seat
with anticipation.

   Suddenly, the whole thing made sense. I swallowed hard
and ducked my eyes away.

   Still, she broke the standoff first.

   "I know what you want to say, Jordan."

   "Then why are you waiting for me to say it?"

   "Because I want to hear it. I want to hear you say it.
Surely, if you love her, it can't be that hard a choice."

   But it was. I could feel myself begin to shake a little.
Tears began to flow unbidden down my cheeks. I thought of
Camille lying in that awful puddle of bruised human flesh.

   "Punish me," I said softly.

   "Good.... good...." she cackled. "Beg me, Jordan."

   My head snapped up and I looked into those hard, soulless
sapphires.

   "Beg me, and this time, say 'hurt' instead of 'punish!' "

   My breathing was becoming increasingly labored. My blood
pressure was off the charts.

   "I bet sweet little Camille's caboose looked like a
rotten banana this morning, didn't it?" she chuckled.

   "Please," I said, my voice cracking under the strain.
"Please hurt me."

   She batted her eyelashes at me.

   "Why of course, Darling," she cooed. "I'm just a girl who
can't say 'no!'"

   All the energy left my body. I felt my shoulders sag and
my posture droop.

   Hain reached over and punched a button on her phone.

   "Melissa, Darling, could you come in here?"

   My head shot up, blood drained from my face.

   "What?"

   "Right away, Ms. Hain," chirped the mildly distorted
voice at the other end.

   A second later I watched, horrified, as the sweet young
girl with the red bow in her hair entered the office and
promptly walked up to the desk and fell to her knees. 

   Hain just laughed at me.

   "Don't be fooled by the names on the door outside,
Darling! I own this fucking firm, don't I Melissa?"

   "Yes, Mistress," the girl replied smoothly.

   "Now, Jordan, Darling, be a love and take of your
clothes."

   I blushed down to my roots. My mouth dried up.

   I noticed that despite the submissive bow of her head,
Melissa was eyeing me every bit as hungrily as her mistress
was.

   Hands trembling, I began to unbutton my shirt.

   Piece by piece, I stripped for them in a hesitant,
mechanical fashion. They were like a pair of statures, still
and silent up until I shed my pants.

   My traitorous cock poked long and stiff against the
cotton of my briefs. I found myself with no place to look.
Hain was in front of me, Melissa to my right. To my left the
bleached white jaws gaped with unthinking hunger; and if I
looked down, I had to confront my own hard prick.

   Tilting my head back to stare miserably at the ceiling, I
hooked my thumbs in the elastic, and shed my briefs.

   "Impressive," Hain cooed softly. "What do you think
Melissa? Bigger than Stanley's but not quite as big as
Kenneth's, wouldn't you say?"

   "Oh, yes, Mistress!"

   I felt mortified as they bandied about the names of
colors as they tried to describe my shading. They discussed
the size of my balls and how low they hung in relation to
other men's.

   But it occurred to me that if a little humiliation was
the worst I endured, I could probably count myself lucky.

   Just then Hain stood up and walked around the desk.

   "So tell me Melissa, what shall we do with our newest
toy?"

   "Use the bitchmaker on him!" Melissa called out
excitedly.

   Hain cocked an eyebrow and sounded genuinely surprised.

   "My goodness, you're an aggressive little thing today,
aren't you my dear?"

   "Yes Mistress!" the girl admitted.

   Hain sighed.

   "Well, as much as I'd love to bend this macho fuck over
my desk and rip out his colon, I'm afraid Camille would
never forgive me for popping his cherry!"

   Despite being completely naked, I was still very much
tempted to bolt for the door. Almost as if she could sense
it, she made a motion to Melissa, who crawled around on her
knees and moved directly behind me. I flinched as I felt her
warm, soft hands reach up and grip the backs of my thighs.

   "No," Hain mused, "I think a much simpler lesson is in
order for today."

   I gasped aloud as she slipped her hand between my legs
and took hold of my balls. 

   "Still a little sore from yesterday?" she asked
tauntingly, and then began to squeeze.

   "Oh God!" I moaned as she tightened her grip slowly and
relentlessly.

   Behind me, Melissa held me firm, despite my shaky legs.

   My breathing became ragged. I started to weep openly.
Hain continued to stare into my face with all the emotion of
one of her beloved sharks. And still her grip tightened,
plunging me deeper and deeper into pain with every passing
second. Melissa grunted as she found herself having to prop
me up as my knees weakened.

   "I think maybe I should give you to Melissa," Hain said
thoughtfully. "Under all those ribbons and bows she's really
quite a sadistic bitch and I know she's been just dying for
a nice piece of meat to sink her teeth into."

   "Would you like that, Melissa, darling?"

   "Oh, yes, Mistress!" came the call from behind me, along
with the sudden sensation of her hot, moist tongue sliding
along the crack of my ass.

  "Not today, though," Hain mused.

   "Awwww!"

   My testicles were in a vice of iron, I didn't know how
much more they - or I - could take.

   And her grip tightened slowly.

   "You want me to stop, Jordan? You want me to let you go?
Just say so, Darling. After all, what is Camille to you,
really? Just another warm hole to shove your dick into. The
world's full of stupid little skanks like her. I'm sure you
could be happily humping away with someone new in no time!"

   I cried out form the pain and began to sink as Melissa's
strength faltered. As before, Hain followed me all the way
down.

   By the time I hit the floor I was blubbering like a baby.
My entire world was clenched in her fist.

   And just like that, it was over.

   Actually, the worst pain of all came when she released me
and the blood rushed back. I doubled over and flopped
sideways on the floor, howling in agony.

   At the same time, she held out her hand to Melissa, who'd
gotten out of the way when my fall seemed inevitable, and
said, "Clean."

   Melissa scurried over on her knees and began lapping away
at it like a well trained dog. I noticed her ass was even
waggling in lieu of a tail. I felt like throwing up.

   "Well, Darlings," Hain announced. "As lovely as it's
been, we all do have our lives to get back to! I have to go
make sure the wheels of Justice turn and Melissa has phones
to answer, and of course you, my dear, must get back to
mopping up baby vomit in aisle seven-C, mustn't you?"

   I thought that was it. I heard footsteps leave the office
and I started to crawl towards my clothes. Hain put the
spike of her heel down on top of my outstretched hand and
ground it as I screamed in pain.

   "But I will be seeing you again soon, Darling. Sooner
thank you think!"

   Laughing wickedly, she pulled her foot away and walked
out the door. And the worst of it was I knew I'd have to
scrape myself off the floor and somehow go back to work.

   And then, I'd have to tell Camille.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
Force of anger, 
Mordant senseless wrath
Manifold is the 
Terminus of oneself

    Dark Tranquility, Crimson Winds 

* * * * 
Red Rain

Part One, Chapter Eight: Fiddler's Green

Friday, January 9, 1998

   Of all the possible reactions I imagined Camille
experiencing when I told her of the day's events, a hard,
sharp slap to the face was not one of them.

   I staggered back, putting my hand up to my reddened
cheek.

   "Camille?"

   "How could you? How... dare you!"

   "I don't understand..."

   "God Dammit, Jordan!" she bellowed. "What were you
thinking?"

   "I... I..."

   "Christ!" she swore angrily, and then dropped heavily
into one of the chairs around the dining table. "She could
have seriously hurt you," she said in a calmer, sadder tone.

   "I wanted to help you, Camille."

   "Oh, thank you, Jordan!" she snarled, her voice oozing
sarcasm. "Thank you soooo much! It'll be such a help knowing
I can no longer trust you to show good sense anymore! It's
such a help knowing that from now on I'll have to be worried
sick about your safety every time you're out of my sight!" 

   "I was just supposed to stand back and let her do those
things to you?" I snapped back.

   "Dammit, Jordan! You think she dragged me into those
chains?"

   After my "visit" to Hain's office, I had spent the next
six hours almost continuously on my feet, with a constant
throbbing pain between my legs.

   The only thing keeping me standing during that whole
hellish time had been the thought of Camille.

   "What the hell is wrong with you?" I exploded. "The way
you're acting, you'd think I was the one who did those
fucking things to you!"

   The temperature in the room dropped precipitously.

   Camille, looking directly into my eyes, held up her left
arm.

   "Jordan, all she did was hurt this." 

   Before I could even cry out for her to stop, she'd raked
the nails of her right hand down along her forearm, creating
five long, thin, red trails along the soft white flesh. Tiny
specks of blood welled up in the wake.

   "Camille!" I shouted in horror. I bolted to her side and
tried to take her injured arm in my hands. Instead, she
garbed my hand in hers and pressed it to her chest, over her
heart.  

   "You hurt this," she said  plainly.

   I wobbled uncertainly on exhausted legs.

   "What was I supposed to do?" I asked, near tears.

   "You should have trusted me to fight my own battles,
that's what!"

   She sighed heavily and looked down to the floor.

   "Jordan, I already have one child whose well being haunts
me every night and day. I don't need another!"

   "Camille, I'm so sorry, I never meant to -"

   "I think you should go home, Jordan," she said coldly.

   "Camille?" My voice squeaked pathetically.

   "I'm not breaking up with you," she informed me wearily.
"But, please, I just need some time alone to think. Okay?"

    "Okay," I said, the weight of the world settling upon my
shoulders.

   I turned and started to walk away. When I reached the
front door, I stopped and turned to her and said weakly, "I
really am sorry, Camille."

   She didn't lift up her head to look at me.

   "I'll call you in a few days," was all she said.

   The rest of that night was unbearably long.

   And it was only the beginning.

   It was amazing how the previous week had seemed to race
by so quickly at the time, yet looking back, which I did a
lot of on that Saturday, it felt as though a year or more
had passed.

   I was aware of each and every second as it ticked by with
infernal languor that weekend; a condition only made worse
by the fact that I worked the floor both days - constantly
shuttling between helping customers find products they knew
for a certainty existed (but could seldom name or describe)
cleaning up messes, working a register when the lines got
too long and lastly putting out as much backstock as I could
in anticipation of the inventory on Monday.

   I didn't even want to think about Monday. The only good
thing about it was that the store would be closed to the
public while we went through and accounted for each and
every item of stock in the store left over on the shelves
from the Christmas boom.

   She didn't call on Saturday or Sunday, and by the time I
set out for what was likely to be the longest, slowest, most
tedious day of the year; my spirit resigned itself to
defeat. I entered the store just before sunup and left long
after the world had gone dark again; taking some small
solace in the fact that since the company wouldn't spring
for overtime, I would be able to sleep in the next day and
still get paid for "phantom hours."

   I was so tired by the time I stumbled into my apartment,
I didn't notice the blinking light on my answering machine
for several minutes.

   When I did, I got tripped up in a drift of laundry on the
floor and nearly sent myself flying in my frantic dash to
get to the phone.

   There were two messages.

   "Jordan? This is Camille. I guess you're at work."

   I winced, and grit my teeth as the second message began
to play.

   "I'm outside your store, Jordan, but it doesn't seem to
be open today. I guess you must be somewhere else. Too bad."
Click.

   "No!"

   In a frenzy I grabbed the machine and without even
thinking, I hurled it across the room, where it exploded on
impact with the wall.

   I sank to my knees, my chin dropping to my chest, and I
began to sob.

   In the midst of my crying, I heard a faint rapping at the
door. And then a muffled voice.

   "Jordan? Are you all right?"

   Camille!

   I jumped to my feet and nearly ripped the door of its
hinges in my mad need to get to her. I think she was shocked
a little at just how wild I must have looked.

   "Uh..." I stammered, trying to calm down. "Please, come
in," I said clumsily.

   She entered my apartment cautiously and looked around. It
was the first time she'd been over. To tell the truth, there
wasn't much to look at. Cinderblock bookcases and a beat up
futon, an old TV on a rolling stand.

   And of course the smashed remains of my answering machine
lying in a jumble of plastic on the floor. 

   "I... I'm sorry," Camille said, sounding embarrassed at
the sight of the wreckage. "The lights were on but the sign
said closed and I didn't see your car until after I'd called
and was driving off - you'd parked so far away - I should
have called back..."

   "No... it's okay. We're supposed to park like that, give
the customers the good spaces..."

   "Oh, I see." 

   We hovered around each other awkwardly.

   "So..."

   "So."

   "Well, you're here. That's a good sign, I guess, right? I
guess that means you don't hate me."

   "Jordan, my... caring for you was never at issue. That
wasn't what I needed to think about."

   "Then... what did you need to think about?"

   She sighed and sat down on the edge of the futon.

   "Actually, most of it was about what you said about them
being the masters and me being the sub. About me being a
whore."

   "Camille! I..."

   "I know what you said, Jordan! And..." her voice
softened, "...it meant a great deal to me, okay? But the
fact is that I don't think being an artist means you can't
be a whore as well. In fact, just the opposite. Look at all
the people who make commercials or greeting cards or even
most movies these days. Think about all the talent and
creativity given by God that gets squandered in the name of
taking home a regular paycheck."

   Her voice trailed off and she stared into space for a
moment.

   "I think my whole life people have looked at me and seen
what they wanted me to be instead of who I am. My dad wanted
a son so badly, and for years I tried to be one for him!
Stacey wants somebody to blame for everything that's ever
gone wrong in her life. Samantha...."

   She sighed sadly.

   "She's probably the only one I've ever said no to,
Jordan. She wants a kindred spirit so badly, someone to
share her dark little world with. And when I wouldn't, she
found a way to get to me."

   She looked me dead in the eyes.

   "And you nearly gave her a second."

   Before I could apologize yet again, she spoke.

   "And of course my clients! I always fooled  myself into
believing that because I was the one wielding the whip, I
was the one in charge. But now I have to wonder if on some
level I didn't just start doing this professionally because
deep down it's become ingrained in my nature to meet the
expectations of others.

   "And... I'm tired of it. I'm tired of fulfilling
everybody's fantasies."

   Her eyes suddenly seemed to open up onto depths beyond
anything I had ever imagined.

   "I have fantasies of my own, Jordan."   

   I hesitated. Everything I wanted to say seemed small and
stupid and rash.

   Finally, I said, "You know I love you, Camille."

   She sighed and looked away into the corner.

   "I know, Jordan, which is why this is so hard for me."

   "I... I don't follow you..."

   "Jordan, I care about you so much, but I don't think
you're the one who can give me what I want."

   "What I need," she amended hastily.

   "Why?" I asked, fighting back tears.

   Her eyes swung back to meet mine, looking hurt and
fearsome.

   "Because of that stupid fucking stunt you pulled on
Friday! You told me once you were never a jock, but going to
confront Sam in her den like that was such a totally fucking
jock thing to do!

   "And don't you dare try to say you did it for me! I
neither asked, wanted or needed you to go there. It was all
your bullshit macho pride that drove you, and don't try to
deny it!"

   This time I was the one who looked away.

   "When I looked into your eyes, Jordan, I thought I saw
something. Something special, something different; but you
proved that you're just like the rest of them: possessive,
arrogant and selfish. How can we be equals if you don't
think I know best how to run my life? 

   "And if we can't even be equals, Jordan, then you
certainly could never give me what I want right now. It's
not in you."

   "I could try!" 

   "It wouldn't be real.  You'd just be doing it to appease
me. You'd just be tolerating it to indulge your kinky
girlfriend."

   "That's what people do, Camille! They compromise!"

   Her eyes burned into mine. I'd never seen her angrier or
more hurt.

   "Not everyone, Jordan." she said coldly. She stood up
suddenly and brushed past me as she walked swiftly for the
door.

   When I heard the knob rattle, I spoke out in a loud,
clear voice.

   "If it were as fucking easy as all that, you'd have found
someone already!"

   I turned around. She was standing as still as a statue. I
could hear the ragged hitch of her breathing and the rattle
of the knob as her hands shook.

   "Wouldn't you?"

   "Maybe I would," she said in a whisper.

   "Camille, maybe I don't really understand what it is you
want. And maybe I can never really give it to you. But love
you enough that I'm willing to try. I'm willing to make an
effort. And that has got to count for something!"

   She turned slowly, visibly upset. She looked down at the
floor, she swallowed hard, her lip trembled and her hands
balled up into little fists.

   I took those shaking fists in my hands and said in as
gentle and soothing a voice as I could, "Please give me
another chance."

   I reached out and gently passed my hand through her hair,
caressing the side of her face.

   "Please let me try to fulfill your fantasies."

   "It would be so hard for you, Jordan."

   "Then I'll be like Boxer in Animal Farm: 'I will try
harder!'"

   "Camille," I said softly, "I don't want to lose you!"

   "Then you're a fool!" she sobbed, and threw her arms
around my neck and kissed me.

End Of Part One.   
 * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He doesn't know a soul / 
And there's nowhere that he's really been 
But he won't travel long alone / 
No, not in Fiddler's Green

 Tragically Hip, Fiddler's Green

* * * * 
Red Rain

Part Two, Chapter One: Purple People

Monday, January 19, 1998 

   On the in-house music channel, Tom Petty was signing
about how "the waiting" was the hardest part; and in the
back of my mind, I was thinking to myself, "You tell it,
brother!"

   Camille had insisted that I take at least a full week to
think over what it would really mean for me to become her
"slave." The ensuing seven days felt more like seven months.

   So it was, that on the gray, drizzly Monday morning
following the store's inventory, I was edgy, horny, and more
than a little scared about what the future would hold.

  The Hot Wheels people had already been through at the
store's opening, and had left a huge mess, as usual; so,
grunting irritably, I bent over to pick stray castoffs from
the bin up off the floor. It was in that position that a
pair of strong hands gripped my buttocks, and a voice I'd
hoped never to hear again began to purr.

   "Mmmm... just how I like my men!"

   Jerking away quickly, I spun and stood face-to-face with
Ms. Samantha Hain.

   "What the..." I suddenly remembered my surroundings and
bit back the word 'fuck!' "... are you doing here!"

   Her eyes traveled the length of my body, like a butcher
sizing up a hog, and then said, with a mocking little smile
on her full lips, "We need to parley. Go on break."

   "I can't just *do* that, you know!" I hissed back at her.

   "Oh yes you, can. I just had the most delightful little
chat with your manager."

   "T... Tracy?"

   She nodded coldly. "I assure you, you're mine until
further notice. Now, let's get moving, boy!"

   Half in a trance, I followed her as she led me out of the
store and to a small bench littered with butts. She sat
down, ostensibly the model of demure womanhood, and then
tenderly patted the seat next to her.

   With almost insurmountable reluctance, I sat down.

   "Camille is going to be pissed about this," I said under
my breath. Hain just laughed.

   "Oh, you don't get to play that little shit card on me
again, Darling! Camille and I have already had our little
Mexican standoff over my unauthorized summoning of you to
the office!"

   "Care to guess," she said, flashing her teeth, "who won?"

   "I do have to give you some small measure of credit
though, for coming clean to Camille. But then again,
confessing after the damage has already been done is really
your M.O. isn't it?"

   I looked deep into her soulless eyes. She didn't even
have to pull out the file folder from under her arm. I knew.
She knew.

   "You'll be pleased - or is that disappointed, maybe? - to
know that they still keep this under pretty tight scrutiny
down at the DA's office. Good thing, too. A harrowing story
like this could wreck the lives of several promising young
citizens. And yours, too. Just tell me this, did you *ever*
bother to check up on the girl again? See if she was even
still alive?"

   "She... moved... while I was still in the hospital..."

   "Yes, apparently someone tied a brick around her cat's
neck, set it on fire, and threw it through their living room
window. I guess that's better than the baseball bat
treatment, but her family still got the hint."

   I looked down at the cigarette littered sidewalk,
ashamed.

   "Is she? Alive, I mean?"

   "Alive, yes. As for anything else, I couldn't tell you."

   "So... have you told Camille?"

   "Told her what, Jordan? That she's in love with a
rapist?"

   I felt my face burn with righteous indignation.

   "I *never* - "

   "That's just it, though - you never did shit! You just
stood there, twiddling your thumbs, or was it pulling your
pud? - while your buddies on JV raped that poor little
sixteen-year-old child! In a way, you're *worse* than those
other boys were, Jordan! At least they embraced the fact
that they were monsters and took what they wanted! You
weren't monster enough to join them, nor man enough to try
and stop them! You're *nothing* Jordan!

   "Maybe you thought by going to the DA and confessing
afterward, that made it all better, but that's bullshit,
Jordan! Her life was already irrevocably fucked up and all
*you* did was try and alleviate your own vacuous guilt! Of
course, maybe if your shitbag DA had had some balls, he
might have gone forward with the case, and you'd have would
up in jail where, I assure you, you'd develop some fucking
empathy for rape victims pretty fucking fast! But I guess he
figured since the whole thing took place in Sheriff Green's
own recroom, that he couldn't count on an awful lot of
police support. And besides, there was the State
Championship to think about, wasn't there?"

   She broke off for a moment, and stared at the cars as the
passed by.

   "There's one reason I haven't gone to Camille with this
yet, Jordan. And I need to hear it from you. Why did you
quit the team? I mean, why did you *really* quit the team?"

   I sat, gazing off at some point on the horizon, where my
past had just collided violently with my present, and tried
to remember exactly what I'd been thinking all those years
ago. At the time, of course, it had seemed pretty obvious;
but as the years had passed by, I'd begun to wonder, myself.

   "I knew the DA wasn't going to prosecute," I said softly.
"And I guess I felt in my heart that the only way to reach
those bastards, to touch their black and venal little souls,
to punish them for what they did, was to take away the only
thing that mattered to them at all."

   "The State Championship?"

   I nodded. "That trophy. Shiny and gold sitting in the
case out in front of the gym, all by itself with a little
plaque that had their names on it for all future generations
of students to walk by and admire. They didn't have anyone
else nearly tall enough to play center, at least, not with
any semblance of coordination."

   Hain smiled. "Good," she said. "I was hoping that was it.
And then you in turn got what was coming to you. Your
punishment."

   I felt my leg throb unsympathetically. "I guess."

   "Guess, shit! You *know!* "        I didn't say anything;
just sat there, rubbing my thigh absent-mindedly.

   "What do you want from me?" I finally asked, morosely.

   "I want you to keep your word."

   "Huh?"

   She looked straight into my eyes and deep down into my
soul. "I want you to do what you told her you'd do. I want
you to make her happy."

   "I don't understand."

   She laughed. It sounded bitter. "There's a huge fucking
shock! Is it so inconceivable to you that I might actually
care about Camille? Might actually, God forbid, love her?"

   "I'm sorry," I said coolly, "but all I think of when I
see you is Camille's body, hung from the rafters like a
piece of meat, raw and red from your idea of 'love!' "

   "And all I will ever think of whenever I see *you,*
Jordan, is a small and frightened girl I've never met,
begging and pleading from under a pile of horny, rutting,
teenage boys; and the gutless coward who stood by and didn't
lift a finger to save her."

   She fell silent, and for a short time the only sounds in
the air were those of rainwater dripping from the roof and
distant traffic.

   "It may surprise you to know, Jordan, that my hold over
Camille is far from infinite. In fact, I've only just really
begun to appreciate how quickly the sands are running out on
me, and then..."

   "And then it ends between us, I think," she said,
sounding full of genuine regret. "I burned away whatever
gratitude she may have felt towards me long ago; and then
went right to work corroding all the bonds of affection we'd
built up between us over the years. All to live out a stupid
fantasy that, in retrospect, was better left alone."

   "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Is that it?" I
asked sharply.

   "Oh, fuck you, Jordan! I don't care about your sympathy!
I'm trying to explain why I don't just crush your sorry ass
like the bug you are! My time is running out, and you seem
like the most promising rat turd she's dragged home so far.
Therefore, I've decided to turn you from a liability into an
asset."

   "What do you mean?"

   "Well, for starters, I renegotiated my original deal with
Camille! Oh, Christ! Was she ever pissed! She actually
slapped me in the face!" Hain chuckled to herself. "But
she's too close now to back out."

    "Too close to what? What the hell is it you have over
her anyway?" I demanded.

   She looked at me out of the corner of her eye and smiled.
"I'm afraid that's covered by attorney-client privilege,
Darling. Just like this little tidbit now is," she said,
waving the file folder and slipping it back underneath her
armpit.

   "As of right now, Darling, I'm an official member of Team
Jordan. I'm going to make certain you become the submissive
Camille *needs* not just the boytoy she *thinks* she wants!
I've seen her go down this path one too many times before:
always starting out thinking she's in charge, only to find
the tables turned on her when she winds up so desperately in
love that she lays down and lets her 'sub' walk all over
her! I see the slightest hint that you're trying to top her
from below and I swear I will *annihilate* you!" 

   "Whatever you think of me," I said softly, "I do love
her."

   "Good," she said, nodding. "You should keep that firmly
in mind in the weeks to come. It may make it easier for
you."

   Hain stood up and smoothed out her jacket and skirt.

   "I've enjoyed this little tête-à-tête, Jordan. And I do
so look forward to beginning your training." she started to
walk away, leaving me to try and absorb what had just
happened.

   Before stepping off the sidewalk, however, she halted and
turned her head slightly.

   "Say, Jordan, does that manager of yours, Tracy, have a
steady girlfriend?"

   "What? Huh?" I stammered.

   "Tracy. Woman. Yes? No?"

   "Uh... I don't think so... uh..."

   She smiled and seemed to unconsciously adjust her
carriage to thrust out her chest a little further.
"Interesting. Ta, Darling!" she said, blowing me a kiss as
she stepped off the curb.

   I sat on the bench until the world stopped spinning. It
took an awful long time.

   By the time I got back to my apartment, I was exhausted
and starving. Apparently Tracy had decided to regard my
"parley" with Hain as my lunch break. As I staggered into
the room, I instinctively glanced over at the empty table
where my answering machine used to reside.

   "Crap!" I mumbled.

   At the exact moment my body flopped onto the futon, I
heard a soft, familiar knocking on my door.

   Forcing myself onto my feet by a sheer act of willpower,
I lumbered to the door and opened it.

   Camille was in my arms almost immediately. She was
crying, and clung to me so tenaciously that I had a hard
time shutting the door again.

   "Camille, what is it?" I asked, my blood running cold in
my veins. What if that bitch had lied to me? Had told
Camille anyway, after getting my hopes up with a lot of
somewhat-happily-ever-after bullshit?

   "I'm sorry!" she sobbed. "I'm so sorry!"

   "For what? Camille?"

   She pulled away from me with the same sort of reluctance
I had felt sitting next to Hain on that bench.

   "I... just think... maybe we shouldn't go through with
this after all, Jordan. I've had a lot of time to think!"

   "I thought this week was about *me* having second
thoughts!" I said, trying to keep my tone light.

   "This isn't a joke, Jordan!" she almost shrieked. "I
think this is a bad idea, that's all! I'm calling it off!"

   I walked over to her and gently took her hands in mine.

   "Why, Camille? Tell me why."

   She looked away, eyes drowning in tears.

   "Please," she whimpered.

   "No, tell me why."

   "Samantha," she said simply.

   I nodded sympathetically. "I'm not afraid of her."

   "You should be, Jordan," she whispered. "She'll hurt
you."

   I squeezed her hands until she looked back into my eyes.

   "A week ago you were furious at me for not trusting you
to fight your own battles. Well, now this is my battle,
too."

   I looked into her vulnerable, liquid eyes.

   "I love you Camille. No matter what else happens. Always
know that I love you."

   Camille sighed and melted back into my arms again.

   "I love you too, Jordan," she said, sounding so much like
her tiny sister that I almost started to cry. She lifted her
head from my breast and met my gaze with a far more
confident expression.

   "Make love to me, Jordan," she said softly. "One last
time as equals, before you cede you power to me. Make love
to me."

   The tears began to run down my cheek. "Whatever you say,
my Lady." 

   I leaned forward and pressed my lips to hers, her mouth
opening eagerly to accept my kiss. My hands began to massage
her small, soft breasts through the silk of her camisole;
her nipples stiffening nicely against the tender skin of my
palms.

   She pulled away and slowly dropped to her knees before
me.

   "Pay attention, Jordan," she said, undoing my belt and
sliding the zipper open. "It won't be long before it'll be
your turn!"

   Giggling, she took my hard cock deep into her warm, wet
mouth.

   Gently entwining my fingers in her long, dark hair, all I
could do was sigh.

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
It's grim but never dubious as motives go 
No matter what it takes she promises a show 
Thunder wishes it could be the snow 
Wishes it could be as loved as she can be 
These gifts are here / For her / For you / For me

 Tori Amos, Purple People 

* * * *  
Red Rain

Part Two, Chapter Two: Midnight Blue

Friday, January 23, 1998

  The countryside dropped away outside my window as our car
started up into the hills. I had an all-too brief view of
the dells spreading out behind us before a dense wall of
evergreens sprung up from out of nowhere and hemmed in the
road.

   With the view outside reduced to a blur of brown and
green, I turned my attention to Camille. She had the window
down and her long, brown hair was streaming about her head
like the feiry mantle of same ancient pagan goddess.

   I reached over and put my hand on her shoulder and gave
it a tender squeeze.

   "Hey," I said, "You're hard as a rock!"

   Camille's eyes never left the road, and, glancing at her
hands, I could see she had a white-knuckle grip on the
steering wheel.

   "Is everything okay?"

   "I'm just a little nervous," she replied in a clipped
tone.

   "I'll be okay," I said softly. "I promise."

   Maybe it was fate, or kismet or God-knows-what, but when
Beth, the other manager at work, took a look at the
timesheets, she suddenly realized that Tracy had fucked up
again and scheduled me for another fifty hour work week - in
addition to all the overtime I'd pulled the week before on
the inventory. What that translated for me was a rare
three-day break from my job; which just happened to coincide
with the beginning of Camille's "training."

   Well, technically, *my* training.

   Still, when she'd mentioned the Lodge, I suffered a
sudden failure of courage. Submitting to Camille would be
hard enough on its own, and throwing Hain into the mix
wasn't going to help any at all. But to do it in public,
amidst total strangers...

   I studied the curvature of her cheek, the corner of her
mouth, the laugh lines around her wide, brown eyes.

   I *will* try harder, I thought grimly to myself.

   She began slowing the car down, and piqued my curiosity
when she pulled over onto a gravel paved rest area.

   "Come on," she said, taking my hand for a moment before
slipping out the door.

   "Where are we going?" I called after her as she skipped
ahead, weaving in and out of the trees.   

   "Jordan!" Her voice echoed throughout the woods like some
far-off dryad.

   "I'm here! I'm here!" I groused, stumbled through into
the small clearing she'd found. She walked up to me, her
face flushed and beaming.

   "I love you," she said, taking my hands in hers and
leaning her body into mine.

   "I love you, too."

   I looked down into her liquid brown eyes and brushed away
some loose stands of hair from her angelic face. Camille
ducked her head down in her patented, shy-but-sexy look. She
had a goofy grin on her face.

   "Jordan, take off your clothes."

   "Here? Now? Can't we just wait till we get to the lodge?"

   She shook her head. "Nuh-uh!"

   I sighed. All I could see around me were pine needles and
rocks, and under those were probably a million wood ticks.

   Cursing softly, I began to undo my collar.

   I was after I'd gotten my shirt off that I noticed
Camille was making no move to get naked herself. When I
called her on that, she said simply: "I wanna watch you."

   "Great. Should I do a little dance?"

   "That won't be necessary."

   She gestured for me to give her my shirt, and she started
to fold it up fastidiously as I unbuckled my belt and
unzipped my fly. Eventually, I was standing before her as
naked as the day I was born, and feeling like a total ass. I
wondered briefly how her clients could actually *pay* to
feel this way.

   "Well?" I asked her, expectantly.

   She wiggled her nose at me like a bunny and, with all my
clothes bundled up in her arms, darted back into the woods.

   "Camille! Dammit!"

   I started after her, the soles of my feet expertly
locating every single jagged piece of granite on the ground
between the clearing and the car. At the rest stop, I
hovered nervously at the tree line, not wanting to expose
myself to the road.

    Camille had the trunk open, and was putting my clothes
into what looked like an oversized doctor's bag. I watched,
more curious than alarmed as she zipped it up. 

   Then she padlocked it.

   "Hey!" I yelled, emerging from my cover.

   "C'mon sweetie," she called back at me. "We don't want to
be late!"

   "Camille! This isn't funny!"

   "It's not a joke, Jordan," she said, dropping the bag in
the trunk and slamming it shut. "Did you really think you
were going to hang around all weekend in your khakis like
some Dockers ad? Welcome to slavehood, Darling."

   The way she said "Darling" made my blood run cold.

   Camille just smiled quietly to herself.

   I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to
stand on end as we approached the lodge. There was a very
serious looking stone wall blocking the front approach,
which rose up nearly ten feet off the ground. A small booth
was set into it next to the pair of elaborate wrought-iron
gates.

   As our car stopped at the gate, a security guard stepped
from the booth. I squirmed miserably, hands plastered to my
groin.

   Despite a very real and legitimate looking uniform, I
couldn't help but shake the impression that I was looking at
one of those illustrations in a Frederick's Of Hollywood
catalog: the type where the hot models show off some sexy
lingerie modeled after real-life work clothes.

   The only part of her that I could not attest to being
drop-dead gorgeous were her eyes, which were hidden away
behind a pair of silvered aviator glasses. But I knew she
was leering at me, savoring my humiliation.  

    I can't honestly say that if our positions had been
reversed, I wouldn't have done the same.  

    After checking Camille's name off of a clipboard, the
guard returned to her post and the gates began to slide open
noiselessly. Camille rolled the car through and onto a drive
that cut through the well-manicured grounds.  

  Now that we were finally there, I began to pay serious
attention to what lay outside the car instead of just
letting my mind drift. The lodge was a four-story stone
building with terraces along each side, with two large barns
slightly behind the main building on the northwest corner.
There a small topiary maze on the eastern side, and the
entire compound was bordered on two sides by encroaching
woods and on a third by a small lake.

   Suddenly, emerging from one of the barns in screaming,
surreal glory, came a buggy and rider.

   The "buggy," more commonly called a "harness," a light,
one person vehicle, was being pulled by a human being: a
man, to be exact, strapped into a pretty elaborate "harness"
of his own. He was largely naked, except for the leather
straps that bound him to the buggy, boots that had feet
sculpted to resemble hooves, and an hellishly uncomfortable
looking leather helmet that covered up his eyes and
terminated in a tall ostrich plume.

   As the incredible rickshaw sped by our car, I could see
that his nipples had been pierced and bells hung from the
rings. The woman driving him have his reigns a hard jerk,
and they slowed long enough for her to give me a deeply
unsettling once-over, as well as give Camille a jaunty
salute.

   "Oh shit," I whispered, the pit of my stomach falling
out. 

   The parking lot was filled with BMW's, Saab's, racy
sports cars, and even a minivan, of all things. We pulled
into one of the last available slots and Camille killed the
engine.

   "Ready?" she asked me.

   "No," I admitted.

   She smiled sympathetically at me and leaned across to
give me one last, fleeting, sweet kiss.

   "Let's go, Jordan," she said, opening her door.

   My heart in my throat, I followed her.

   As I walked across the drive, I instinctively clasped my
hands over my exposed crotch. Without warning, a sharp pain
bit at my knuckles and my ears were fill with the slap of
leather on flesh.

   Yelping, I looked over to Camille, and saw her with a
thin leather rod in her hands. The expression on her face
was cold, cruel.

   "Don't do that," she said sternly. 

   It took every ounce of control I had to drag my hands
away from their protective function. When Camille seemed
satisfied that I wouldn't make the same mistake again, she
tapped my shoulder with the rod and ordered me to get moving
again.

   The lodge was very old and had a definite
English-countryside feel to it. We walked up a flight of
steps, she prodding me gently ahead of her. The lobby was a
large square area with a flight of stairs to the right and
open archways on either side of the door.

   What really caught my fancy, however, was the skeleton
mounted on a transplanted boulder in the middle of the room.
It was a Dimetrodon, a prehistoric reptile often mistaken
for a dinosaur.

   For a moment, I gawked in childlike amusement at the
sight of the fossil; then Camille grabbed the back of my
neck and forcibly jerked me to the left, shoving me roughly
into the parlor.

   It was almost as if I *had* stepped into a hunting lodge
in the English countryside. Women sat comfortably upon
tasteful, Victorian furnishings; while their naked slave
lounged at their feet like faithful hounds. There were at
least twenty "Dommes" in the room, representing most ethnic
groups and body types. They were garbed in all manner of
fabric; from elegant crushed velvet to billowy lace, shiny
PVC, glossy rubber and supple black leather.

   And all of them, slave and mistress alike, were looking
at me. 

   Sitting in a high-backed chair in the center of the
throng, like a queen in her court, was Samantha Hain. She
had stuffed her voluptuous frame into a red, low-cut leather
dress, with matching red patent-leather boots. She was
flanked by a pair slaves: Melissa - who I recognized from
her office - and a male slave with full pouty lips and a
George Clooney / Roman style haircut. Melissa, at least, had
a scandalously short leather skirt covering her nether
region.

   Samantha's expression was radiant, triumphant.

   As she stood, Camille tugged at the back of my neck,
pulling me down to me knees.

   "Well, well, well, little fly. In my parlor at last, eh?"
she cooed. Girls giggled, and the males made soft, rude
dismissive sounds, unimpressed with what they saw before
them.

   My face felt like it was on fire, my head felt like it
was on the verge of exploding. Samantha circled me and I
could hear her give Camille a long, slow, wet kiss. My whole
body trembled with the effort not to break down and cry.

   "I have a present for you Jordan," Hain said in her
honeyed voice. "Let's just go and get it, shall, we
Darling?"

   Taking Camille's hand, the two women left the room by a
side door, and suddenly I was alone: alone and naked in a
room full of complete strangers.

   After they'd gone, a few conversations picked up where
they'd left off, and a few new ones began. One or two Dommes
continued to regard me with casual interest, maybe even with
sympathy.

   After what seemed like forever, Camille and Hain returned
to the parlor. Hain was bearing a large brandy snifter
filled with a translucent amber fluid.

   "You must be terribly thirsty after such a long drive,
boy," Hain said, handing me the glass. "Do drink up."

   It was warm.

   "Wh.. what is this?" I asked, forgetting all the protocol
Camille had tried to drum into me in the last few days. I
needn't have worried, the question seemed to amuse Hain as
she returned to her throne.

   "Apple juice, Darling. It's good for you."

    I looked to Camille, desperate and revolted. Her eyes,
which had always been so open to me before, now had the same
opaque cast as her erstwhile "mentor's."

   "Drink," she said emotionlessly.

   My hands trembled as I lifted the glass to my lips. Tears
began to squeeze out of the corners of my eyes in spite of
all my efforts to stop them. 

   I love you Camille, I thought to myself. I love you I
love you I love you...

   I'd intended to chug the filthy stuff quickly; swallowing
the whole snifter full in one big gulp, if I could. But when
the tepid brine flowed into my mouth, I was suddenly
overwhelmed by a cloying sweetness that caught me completely
off guard and  the sudden shock made me gag reflexively. I
spat the nauseating solution out in a explosive plume of
vapor amidst a chorus of laughter and catcalls.

   "What's the matter Jordan?" Hain asked over the revelry,
voice dripping with insincere concern.

   "That... that was *apple juice*!" I sputtered, trying to
wipe away the spatter of juice that was dribbling down my
chin. The laughter at my expense doubled.

   "Well, of course it was, silly! Why, whatever did you
*think* it was?" she asked.

   I looked angrily into her eyes, trying to allow my rage
to overmatch the all-consuming desire I felt at that moment
to curl up into a ball and die.

   "I mean, I know you like to be peed *on* Jordan, but I
had no idea you liked to drink the stuff too!" Hain crowed,
sending a javelin straight into my heart with pinpoint
accuracy.

   "My, my, Jordan! Look at the mess you've made, and not
even here ten minutes!" Hain drawled.

   "Come here, you bad little whore, you need a spanking!"

   I would rather have actually drank piss than to touch her
flesh, yet, when I again looked to Camille for some hope of
respite, I found her eyes as closed off to me as before.

   "Go to her, Jordan," she said.

   Leaning forward in her seat, Hain spread her legs.
Despite my mounting apprehension, I shuffled to her and
clumsily stretched myself out gingerly upon her lap. It
didn't matter that she smelled good, or that her flesh was
tender and warm; just being in physical contact with her
made me ill.

   I wobbled in the fruitless attempt to put both hands down
on the floor to try and steady myself. Slowly, but firmly,
she closed her legs back together, trapping my dangling
genitalia between her thick, muscular thighs.

  I groaned and tried to shift my weight again, but she only
laughed.

   "Don't even bother! there's no such thing as a
comfortable position where you're at!" she said, squeezing
her legs together just a little bit harder.

   Gazing up helplessly at Camille, I was suddenly struck by
the memory of our early "play" session in her dungeon,
where, ironically, I had chosen to spank her as a "light"
punishment.

   Hain, however, held back nothing as she brought her hand
down hard against my ass. The slap itself was painful, but I
endured an even greater shock as my hips tried to pull away
from the pain; my penis pushing forcefully between her legs.
Her thighs were smooth, but dry, and the friction as my cock
slid in their grip burned fiercely; but not in an altogether
unpleasant way. My groaning grew louder.

   Instead of pulling her hand away immediately, she kept it
pressed up against my flesh, gently squeezing the area she
had just struck.

   Humming thoughtfully, she wedged her hand between my
firmly clenched cheeks, the tip of her index finger playing
with my hole.

   "My," she cooed, "you have been a good little boy! So
clean back here, and so tight!" She punctuated her last
sentence by poking her finger just the tiniest bit inside
me. I whimpered miserably.

   She yanked her hand out and slapped me again, even harder
than before. She only allowed herself a quick grope before
raising her hand for a third strike. Then a fourth, a fifth.

   Each blow fell harder and faster than the last. Each
thrust between her legs drove me mad with pain and raw lust.
I began to cry out with the sixth strike, but that just
egged her on to spank me more.

   Just as my body begin tensing for orgasm, she clamped her
legs shut, crushing me. I bellowed in pain as my testicles
were squashed.

   "Don't you dare cum until I tell you to!" she snapped
icily.

   "Oh God!" I exclaimed in agony.

   "Fuck God, bitch!" she hissed, landing a blow that was
part slap and part a rake of her nails. I screamed in terror
and pain.

   "If you want to beg, beg to me!"

   "Oh Mistress! Please I..." my words were cut off with a
shriek as she sunk her nails into my reddened, swollen
flesh.

   "Mistress," she chortled. "You finally got that part
right, didn't you slut?"

   "Mistress, please!" I begged again, not caring who she
was or how much I despised her. I *was* a slut, and I cared
about in the world at that instant was that precious,
precious split second of pure gratification. 

   "Maybe later," she said, spreading her legs wide and
shoving me off her lap and onto the cold, hard floor.

   There was a light round of applause in the room from some
of the Dommes. Some looked put off by the whole display,
while others appeared almost as ready to pop as I was.

   I gazed up, aghast, to Camille, who continued to regard
me with a look of bemused contempt. My head was swimming
with the taunting and contempt of the others. If Camille
hadn't stepped forward when she did, and toss her keys into
my chest, I probably would have just rolled over onto my
stomach and begun to weep openly.

   "All right, Jordan. Bring in my luggage and take it up to
room 205. Then put my things away and come back down, do you
understand?"

   My mind was drifting, lost and alone, through the vast
seas of my misery.

   "Jordan?" Camille said, calling me back down into my
wretched reality. "Do as I say."

   Staggering to my feet, I shuffled back out through the
archway and out the front door, no longer concerned in the
least about my naked state.

   Camille's bags were astonishingly heavy, and I was bowed
under the weight of them as I lumbered back into the lodge.
I deliberately hurried past the archway to the parlor, where
I could hear the women still chatting excitedly and
laughing. I didn't even bother to look at the Dimetrodon
this time, but rather hastily dragged myself up the two
flights of stairs to the third floor (which, in the logic
that seemed to be prevailing for the day, had all the rooms
numbered two-oh). 205 was part of a suite on the western
side of the lodge, with a stone balcony that overlooked the
barns and the lake.

   I dropped Camille's luggage onto the four-poster bed and
began to methodically, robotically, go about transferring
her clothes and fetish gear to the drawers and closet.

   When the last pair of delicate silk panties had been
tucked away in the impressive walnut bureau, my knees gave
out and I wobbled to the bed, sank to my knees, and began to
cry. It was too much and too soon. The complete and utter
sense of degradation overwhelmed me. Most of all, I wanted
*my* Camille back! My sweet, charming, affectionate Camille
who cuddled her silly beanie babies like they were real
children; the Camille in the woods who had told me she loved
me.

   ...Right before playing me for a sucker, that is.

   I still had my face buried in the bedcovers, sobbing
freely, when the door opened behind me.

   "Aww... what's a matter, puddin'? Had a tough day?"

   I turned my head and glared furiously at Hain. She stood
in the doorway, arms folded over her ample chest, beaming
down ecstatically on my misery.

   "I can't *do* this!" I moaned.

   "Too late for that! The time to back out was back at the
mall, Honeybuns." 

   "I *can't!* I *can't* take it!"

   Her look of glee chilled several noticeable degrees.

   "You should have seen the look on Camille's face when you
walked out of that room, Jordan. She was so proud you held
your own, didn't break down. I thought she was going to cry
from joy. I *warned* you about letting her fall in love with
you, what I would do if you tried to back out after that
point had been reached."

   "So tell her!" I screeched at Hain. "Go ahead and tell
her, you bitch! I don't care! It's too hard! All those
people looking at me, laughing at me! I can't do this!" I
turned and pressed my face back into the bedspread.

   "I should have told her from the start anyway," I said
morosely. "She has a right to know."

   "You know, Jordan, there was one other question I had
when I read the report you gave to the DA, one other nagging
little tidbit I meant to ask you about." 

   "What?"

   "How much of the whole story did you ever end up telling
your parents, Jordan?"

   I craned my neck around slowly, until I was again staring
down her lifeless blue eyes.

   "You... *fucking* bitch!" I half-sobbed, half-bellowed.

   She smiled; the way a cobra might.

   "I thought as much. All right Jordan, time to get up off
the floor, splash a little cold water on your face and
collect yourself. It's almost time for dinner to be
served..."

   Her eyes at once had the relentless penetrating energy of
a laser, and the cold, pitiless voracious quality of the
hard vacuum of space.  

   "... and your mistress needs a place to sit!"

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
Ain't got no regrets / 
And I ain't losin' track Of which way I'm going / 
Ain't gonna double back

                       Lou Gramm, Midnight Blue 
* * * * 
Red Rain

Part Two, Chapter Three: Red Day On Blue Street

Friday, January 23, 1998

   Of all the ways to have spent my weekend; staring into
the pimply, doughy asscheeks of another man was not exactly
number one with a bullet.

   I suppose I should have been happy, as I struggled there
on all fours, that it was Camille sitting astride my back
while she ate dinner, and not Hain.

   Every so often she'd sneak a few scraps from her plate
down to me and I quickly learned to recognize the way she'd
subtly shift her weight before doing so; particularly after
having part of a red potato mashed into my ear.

   As light as she was, easily the slightest of the whole
crowd, I was still unused to having to bear that kind of
weight on my back for so long, and I breathed a soft sigh of
relief when she finally pushed away her plate and stood up.

   Because the weather continued to be freakishly warm that
winter, they'd chosen to serve diner out on the back patio.
From there, it was just a short walk to where lounge chairs
had been set up, allowing the women to rest comfortably and
watch the sun set beyond the lake.

   Camille had maintained her icy demeanor when I'd come
downstairs, but as she settled into a chair of her own,
there was an intensely gratifying tenderness in her voice as
she ordered me to massage her feet - using only my mouth, of
course!

   Suckling and tickling her bare toes with my lips, out of
the corner of my eye I could see the rose-colored sunset
mirrored in the surface of the lake. It was beautiful.     
Several of the Dommes lit up cigarettes or even cigars, and
several more sent their slaves scurrying off to the kitchen
to fetch them bonbons or other sweets. They casually chatted
about all manner of subjects, but mostly gossiped about
those Dommes who weren't there. With my initial humiliation
out of the way, I was regarded by most as just another piece
of ass, and was allowed to disappear into my role as
affectionate lapdog and enjoy the surprisingly laconic
serenity of the moment. 

   Camille giggled and squirmed like a little girl as I
nibbled on her instep, and in a strange way, I actually
found myself feeling some small measure of gratitude to Hain
for having dragged me back into the "game," even if it was
by the balls. Curiously, she had chosen to go straight back
inside the lodge after dinner, taking haircut boy and
Melissa with her.

   I can't say I missed her. 

   After a time, the topic of conversation drifted around to
music. The question was soon posed, "What do you hear in
your head when you're in a scene?" Busy, as I was, with
Camille's feet, I didn't hear all the answers, but I do
remember one Domme nearby talking a bit about Suzanne Vega's
"Blood Makes Noise," and then:

   "What about you, Camille?"

   The feet I'd been so tenderly ministering to were
suddenly jerked away as Camille pulled herself into a tight
ball.

   "I don't want to say, it's embarrassing."

   "Awww, come on!"

   "Tell!" the others started to chart. "Tell!"

   Camille sighed and rolled her eyes and unwound herself;
allowing me to continue with my duties.

   "Okay, but don't laugh." 

   Several not-so-earnest promises were made to that effect.

   "How Deep Is your Love," she said. Dead silence followed.

   "By the Bee Gees?" she added hesitantly.

   "You mean, the *Disco* song?" someone asked
incredulously.

   "Yes!" Camille snapped defensively. Laughter began to
ensue.

   "Isn't that one awfully mellow?" the Suzanne Vega fan
asked.

   "I don't know, I just like it. I like the words." 

   She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and, swaying
her head from side to side, began to sing in a reedy voice,

I believe in you    
You know the door to my very soul    
You're the light in my deepest darkest hour    
You're my savior when I fall    
And you may not think I care for you    
When you know down inside that I really do    
And it's me you need to show    
How deep is your love

Suddenly, another Domme picked up the tune, and the two of
them began singing in shaky harmony:

How deep is your love, 
how deep is your love    
I really mean to learn    
'Cause we're living in a world of fools    
Breaking us down    
When they all should let us be    
We belong to you and me    
How deep is your love

   As their voices faded and the song ended, a round of
applause arose from the others, along with some lingering,
good-natured ribbing.

   The conversation continued to drift along from topic to
topic, until the pauses between each new round grew longer
and longer, and the world grew darker and darker. A Domme
yawned, then another. They began to stand and stretch, and
halfhearted plans for the next day were hastily worked out.

   I took my cure from the other slaves around me and only
rose to my knees when it was Camille's turn to rise.
Samantha emerged from within the lodge with her slaves in
tow.

   "So," Hain said, eyeing me frostily, "have you made a
decision what you're to do with him for the night?"

   "I guess I'll send him to the kennels," Camille replied.
"He has to learn sometime."

   "Good," Hain said, smiling cruelly. "Paul can show him
the ropes, can't you, Darling."

   "Yes, Mistress," he replied.

   Paul stepped down off the patio, onto the grass, and Hain
slipped an arm around her receptionist's waist. Camille and
I lingered for a moment, something unspoken passing between
us, and then I turned on my heels and hurried after Hain's
slaveboy.

   I'm not sure I really needed a guide. Most of the slaves,
those who had come with somebody and a great many more who
just seemed to be "property of the house" were all filling
in towards the first of the two barns behind the lodge.

   "Since this is your first time," Paul said, his voice
very deep and masculine, "you'll be kept out of the
lottery."

   "Uh... lottery?"

   He saw my worried expression out of the corner of his eye
and cracked a smile. 

   "To stand watch, Jordan. In case of a fire or something."

   "Oh," I said, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

   "They also draw for morning cleanup duty."

   "What do they clean up?"

   He just smiled a little wider. "You'll see."

   Once inside the barn, I could suddenly understand why
they called it "the kennel" as well as why they'd need to
post someone on lookout duty. Instead of stalls, as you
would find for horses, there were two rows of large cages on
either side, with a second set of cages stacked directly
atop the first.

   It was then that I noticed something interesting. All the
women were climbing up into the cages along the upper row,
while all the men were getting down on their knees and
crawling into the lower set.

   "Some slaves were created more equal than others," I
muttered under my breath.

   "Exactly!" Paul laughed, giving me a "friendly" jab in
the arm.

   As I wandered down the aisles, looking for an empty berth
for the night, I noticed a short, though comely young thing
hovering awkwardly by an open cell.

   "Miss?" I asked, forming my hands into a step for her.

   "Why, thank you, kind sir," she said, curtseying in an
all-too imaginary gown. After helping her up, I clambered
into the open cage beneath her, and tried to settle myself
as best I could; considering that the cold metal bars dug
pitilessly into my flesh.

   Eventually, the sub on watch made his way around the
cages, closing and locking each one for the night. The
lights suspended high up from the rafters flickered, and
then the whole barn was plunged into pitch blackness.
Amazingly, there was already a goodly amount of snoring in
the air, as slaves, well used to the rigors of their
lifestyle, dropped off into sleep with enviable ease.

   I, however, was not so lucky. For one thing, I was cold,
both from being naked as well as the metal bars. For
another, the way the bars kept digging deeper and deeper
into me, I started having disturbing visions of cheese
graters and garlic presses.

   The only concession to human limitations I could find
were the large glass bottles clipped to the bars of the
cage. Each had a curved steel tube on the bottom with a ball
bearing in the tip, to keep the water inside from running
out. If you pushed the ball away with your tongue and
sucked, you could usually get a modest mouthful of pure, if
tepid, refreshment.

   Once my case of cottonmouth had been alleviated, I was
able to once again obsess on every other aspect of my
discomfort. Nevertheless, I began to drift off into at least
some vague state of semi-consciousness, when suddenly I felt
something warm and wet dribbling all over my ass and thighs.
But it wasn't until I heard the faint giggling above me that
I made the connection.

   "HEY!" I bellowed angrily, shattering the relative
silence. Several males nearby began to shout back angrily at
me to shut the fuck up, and many of the women snickered at
my unhappy introduction to the finer points of life in the
kennel. 

   "Aww... what's a matter, Jordan?" the girl above me
taunted. "I thought you *liked* pee-pee!" Those femsubs who
heard that part broke into hysterical laughter, and even a
few of the boys chuckled at my expense too.

   The only solace to be found was that, in the dark, they
couldn't see how red my face was.

   Or my tears.

   The sun had not yet risen when the lights came back on in
the barn with an audible snap. A different "watchdog" made
the rounds, opening the cages back up again, and the whole
tired, sore lot of us wormed out way out of our steel pens
and feebly tried to stretch out our aching muscles.

   I noticed, after futilely trying to work out the crimp in
my spine, that the girl who'd been in the cage above me was
still cowering in it's confines.

   "Are you afraid of heights, or me?" I asked her, my voice
raw and cracked.

   "A little of both," she admitted.

   Offering her my hand, I gently pulled and then lifted
her, until at last, her dainty feet were back upon terra
firma. She gave neither thanks, nor apologies.

   As our group milled about the barn door, waiting to be
released into the world for another day of abasement and
servitude, I couldn't help notice one sad-eyed soul, who
lingered behind with a garden hose in one hand and a mop in
the other.

   "Cleanup duty," Paul said, having draw quite close when I
hadn't been looking.

   "I figured," I said as the doors swung open, revealing an
eerily still gray pre-dawn world.

   "I don't envy him," I said, playing follow-the-leader as
we were herded out towards a dock on the lake.

   "You think it was bad last night? You should be here when
a bunch of them are all on the rag! It's like a fucking
Hammer movie!"

   "Jesus! Is that even safe? I mean, with AIDS and all?"

   Paul just shrugged.

   At the edge of the lake, we were ordered out onto the
dock, and I couldn't help but eye the firehose held by one
of our warders with a good deal of uneasiness. The other sub
conducting maneuvers had a plastic bag and suddenly thrust a
little packet into my hand.

   "The shampoo is environment-friendly," she informed me
mechanically. "The packet is not. Bring it back with you."

   So, forty of us, naked all, marched out onto the creaky
old dock and waited, shivering, for them to turn the hose on
us.        The first pass of searing cold water slammed into
us at chest level like the concussion wave from a grenade.
Several luckless subs lost their footing on the slippery
planks and tumbled shrieking into the lake. Taking my cue
from Paul and others, I ripped open the shampoo with my
teeth and immediately began lathering up my hair as best I
could.

   Each subsequent sweep of the hose seemed to be
deliberately aimed at waist level, and in order to rinse out
my hair, I had to duck my head down into the maelstrom of
pounding water and flapping cocks. All the while I kept the
empty packet clenched tight in my fist, as if my very life
depended on it.

   Finally, after soaking and chilling us to the bone, the
assault ended and we were allowed to drag our sodden forms
back onto solid ground.

   "Christ," I sputtered, trying to catch my breath.

   A slightly older male guffawed heartily and slapped me
hard on the back, knocking free what little wind I'd managed
to suck back into my lungs.

   "Back in the Navy, m'boy, they'd send us off to
firefighting school and lay into us with hoses that had
*real* kick behind 'em; makes the setup they got here look
like a squirt gun!"

   "Great," I muttered, trying to push myself up off the
ground.

   One by one, we returned our empty packets to the warder's
plastic bag, and then were ordered up the slope and to the
lodge to begin our daily tasks.

   The problem, I realized as I trudged along with the rest,
was that as far as I knew, I had no daily tasks assigned to
me. I had an unpleasant vision of loitering around outside
of Camille room like an ass until at last she came out and
claimed me.

   I needn't have worried too much about it, for there, on
the patio, waiting for Paul and I to arrive, was Melissa.

   She was dressed the same as the day before, which was to
say that she had two scandalously short flaps of black
leather covering her crotch and ass, with laces holding them
together along the side. Other than that (which was,
nevertheless, more than just about anybody else was wearing)
her ripe, lithe body was exposed for all to enjoy.

   "Good morning boys," she called to us as we neared. "Did
we have fun last night?"

   Paul chuckled, then told her about my golden shower.
Melissa laughed and I found myself staring at the grass as
my cheeks flushed.

   "All right, Paul, you're on wakeup duty." Paul grunted an
acknowledgment and started up the steps. 

   "What about me?" I asked.

   "You're to come with me. Mistress Samantha has big plans
for you today, and I have explicit instructions on how to
prepare you." 

   "Great," I muttered.

   "Oh, and Jordan, my face is up here."

   Blushing even deeper, if such a feat were possible, I
tore my eyes away from Melissa's bountiful chest. Normally I
wasn't the type to ogle, but when you have such a full,
bouncy pair just... there... in your face, it was hard to
resist.

   She laughed again and motioned me to follow her inside,
and as we walked through the lodge, I couldn't help noticing
that her butt was quite shapely as well. I had a sudden
vision of bending her over the marble topped sideboard we
were passing, ripping away that laughable excuse for a skirt
and splitting her hot, luscious snatch with my hard, aching
cock.

   "This place is getting to me," I mumbled. 

   Looking over her shoulder, her eyes darted down to my
bobbing erection.

   "I can see," she said, smiling. "When was the last time
you came, Jordan?"

   "Tuesday? No, Monday, I think. Camille asked me not to...
you know..."

   "Wow, six days. That must seem like a lifetime to a young
buck like you."

   "It gets harder each day," I confessed.

   She giggled. "If it gets much harder, Jordan, you're
going to burst a seam!"

   We climbed up the stairs and made our way towards
Camille's suite. However, instead of entering 205, we ended
up going in to 206. The room was pretty much the same as
Camille's except the colors were all done in light shades of
pink, instead of dark earth tones. I noticed, too, that the
bed looked unslept in.

   "All right, Jordan, into the bathroom, please."

   "Why?"

   She sighed. "I told you, I have to get you ready for
Mistress Samantha! Look, I only have a certain amount of
time, and then it's *my* ass that will suffer if you're not
ready, okay?"

   "You're asking for an awful lot of empathy from someone
you wanted to use the - 'bitchmaker' was it? - on," I said
coldly.

   She stopped in her tracks and for the first time, someone
beside me looked away ashamed, cheeks rosy.

   "I'm sorry about that, Jordan. I really am. It's just
that... Samantha likes to be around women who are as vicious
and spiteful as she is. If you're not, then she doesn't
respect you. You're not really a woman. You of all people
should understand what it's like when she wants you to
behave in a certain way. She just... has a way of making
you..."

   "Yeah," I said thoughtfully. "I can accept that, I guess.
But it's not like you and I are ever going to be friends,
Melissa."

   She nodded slowly. For the first time I noticed how tired
her eyes looked.

   "Understood," she said. "Now can we please just do this.
Please, Jordan?"

   "Okay," I said, and followed her into the bathroom.

   The first things I saw were the cuffs sitting on the
toilet tank. They were hard leather and sized for a man's
wrists.

   "Bend over the toilet seat with your ass to the shower,
please," she said.

   "Uh, what exactly are you preparing me for?" I asked,
suddenly feeling that increasingly familiar jolt of nerves
whenever things seemed like they were about to go bad.

   "Jordan, please."

   I did as she asked, the slate tile floor incredibly hard
against my knees.

   "Put your hands behind your back," she said.

   Sighing, but determined to go through with it, in spite
of all common sense, I put my hands behind my back. It came
as no surprise when she put the cuffs on my wrists, thus
locking my hands behind me. It also screwed up my leverage
to the point that I could no longer get out of my position
on the floor if I wanted to.

   Melissa reached into the cabinet under the sink and
pulled out a clear plastic bag: a big, clear plastic bag.

   "What's that for?" I asked, the first dewy beads of sweat
forming on my brow.

   "This is for your enema," she said, hanging it from the
rod holding up the shower curtain.

    "Excuse me?" I squeaked, suddenly testing whether or not
I really could get up again. I couldn't. My long, gangly
arms that had been such a boon when I'd played basketball,
were now a tremendous dead weight that held me down.

   "At least two, and definitely until you're clean," she
intoned dryly. "You do not want to know what happens if
you're not clean when she checks!"    

   "Melissa, please!" My heart jumped as I heard the
snap-snap of surgical gloves. "I've never had one before!"

   "First time for everything," she said in a businesslike
tone. She began to daub KY jelly at my asshole.

   "Oh, Jesus!" I sobbed. "Please! Just tell me if it's
going to hurt!"

   "Probably. If it's your first time, then I'd say
definitely. It's a large dosage, frankly, and she wants it
pretty hot, and I think she chose the soap for maximum
cramping."

   There was a book I'd read during my brief stint in
college where there was an assassin who had a sort of
mechanical snake implanted into her thorax. Whenever she
kissed a victim, the snake would dart down her throat and
into him and shred him from the inside. That's what was
going through my mind as Melissa eased the Bardex nozzle
into my anal cavity.

   More terrible still, however, was the soft puff puff puff
that followed, and I could feel the intruder growing fat
inside of me.

   "Noooooo!" I howled.

   "Mustn't risk losing a precious drop," she said.

   The water hit me with the force of a boxer's left hook
and the dexterous grace of a sea snake. It filled and
distended me, searing my inviolate inner workings with its
unbearable heat. And it took each turn and kink in my
intestinal tract with the sinister sinuousness of the
aforementioned serpent. 

   And it hurt. God, did it hurt.

   And that was the really awful part about it all, the trap
of it: the more my body fought in vain to expel the invading
flow, the more my guts thrashed in agony. I was beyond the
capacity for forming words to plead for mercy; the noises I
made were akin to those wild animals made when losing a
fight for their lives.

   I pushed and pushed, making mad, shuddering sounds; but
the water pushed back, harder.

   And then, just when it seemed as if the whole horrible
mess was going to spill into my stomach and cause me to
vomit, Melissa was dragging me backwards, hoisting me
awkwardly onto me knees and then into a sitting position on
the edge of the tub. I felt the plug in my rectum deflate
and in one sudden, soul-wracking rush, I was expelling;
liberating myself.

   The sensation of freedom, of lightness, was greater than
any post-orgasmic glow I had ever experienced; and the long,
slow groan I made was proportionally impressive.

   Slowly, the room around me began to come back in to
focus, like a Polaroid developing. Melissa was hovering over
me, looking surprisingly shaken.

   "Wow," she hemmed awkwardly, brushing some sweat-soaked
strands of hair from my face. "I guess you *haven't* had an
enema before!"

   "I think," she admitted sheepishly, "I used too much
soap!"

   Once again, I teetered on the brink of complete emotional
collapse. Staring into Melissa's sympathetic eyes, my only
desire in the world was to be held, to be comforted. I
*needed* the touch of another human being at that instant
more than I had ever needed anything before or since.

   And yet...

   And yet, somehow I  knew in my heart that, empathetic or
no, Melissa was Samantha Hain's slave. And as Melissa
herself had said, Hain had a way of making people do what
she wanted them to. So, I knew that any breakdown, any plea
for tenderness, any cry for affection; would ultimately get
reported back to Melissa's hateful mistress.

    And in my mind's eye, I could see Hain, grinning
exultantly with the news. I could see the bitch slipping her
fingers into that castrating pit of hell she called a
vagina; taking pleasure from my abject misery.

   Tears came, in spite of my efforts, but my backbone
stiffened and my chest began to swell out.

   Fixing Melissa with a steely gaze, I said simply, "Didn't
you say you were supposed to give me two?"

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
Somebody showing me the magical way 
Somebody waving the key to my chains 
They must believe I was born yesterday 
They must believe I've got sand for my brains

   Tony Banks, Red Day On Blue Street

 * * * * 
Red Rain

Part Two, Chapter Four: Pretty In Pink

Saturday, January 24, 1998

   The tile was cold beneath the soles of my feet as I stood
as still as I could. I could feel a strange tingling running
up and down the length of my limbs as they encountered the
air without their covering of fine hairs for the first time
since puberty. Despite the fact that Melissa had freed my
hands after the second enema, I resisted the overpowering
urge to rub the naked skin along my forearms. 

    My forced rigidity was largely a result of the fact that
Melissa had chosen to shave my pubic region last; and for
obvious reasons, I didn't want any slip-ups.

   She seemed to be taking longer down there than she had
with the rest of my whole body. I think she enjoyed the way
I would flinch every time she "accidentally" brushed her
hands or blew her breath against my hardon.

   I had never considered myself excessively hairy, but
looking into the mirror over the sink, I was struck by the
vision of my pink, smooth body. She had spared nothing from
the neck down, and had even dropped a hint or two about
coming back for my eyebrows at some later date.

   I was on the verge of reminding her that she was the one
on a schedule when she reached over to get a towel and began
wiping the last of the foam away.

   I sighed a little as she worked the warm, wet cloth over
my loins. Then, suddenly, I felt something other than
terrycloth slide against the sensitive head of my engorged
cock.

   I glanced down to see her peering up at me. Her mouth
hovering microns away from my erection.

   "What are you doing?" I asked, nervously.

   Her smile grew a little broader, and her tongue eased out
beyond her lips and languidly wrapped itself around my
cockhead. I began to pant, wanting her to stop, and yet,
obviously, wanting so much for her to keep going.

   Her tongue released me from its grip, and she said, "I
thought maybe we could be friends after all, Jordan."

   "Please... don't..." I stammered as she buried her face
into my hips and began running her tongue along the length
of my shaft.

   "Please, Melissa!"

   "It's okay," she murmured, continuing to lap at me. "You
don't have to worry about Mistress Samantha. She knows I
have a crush on you." With this, she took me into her mouth
fully and sucked slow and sweet. 

   She worked her head back and forth for several delicious
seconds before breaking away again.

   "She didn't tell me I couldn't do anything. And believe
me, Jordan, she's *always* very precise about things like
that!"

   "Still... I... I!" My voice jerked up an octave as she
began nibbling at my foreskin. "I... don't want this to
happen! You'll tell her and she'll tell Camille."

   She chuckled sexily. "From what I understand, Jordan, she
has enough to destroy that relationship a million times
over. Now just sit back, baby, and enjoy the ride!"

   She deep throated me again, far me aggressively than
before, moaning huskily as she sucked me hard and massaged
my flesh with her tongue. Abandoning myself, I wound my
fingers in her hair and began meeting her thrusts with my
hips. I fucked her face greedily for a minute, until my
orgasm knocked the wind out of me and Melissa eagerly
suckled and swallowed my cum.

   She put her hands on my buttocks, and continued to rock
me back and forth, sliding in and out of her mouth slowly;
each new spasm producing less and less semen that was then
hungrily gobbled away.

   With alarming suddenness, she pushed herself away and
plopped down onto her butt, coughing.

   "Oh God! Are you all right?"

   Half coughing, half laughing, her face reddening
dramatically, she waved off my concern until at last she
could draw in another breath.

   "Well!" she said, pounding her sternum and giving up one
last hack. "Haven't had that happen in a while!"

   She waved her hands at me and I reached over to help pull
her off the floor.

   "Whew!" she said, patting me on the chest. "That was
fun!"

   "Sorry."

   She looked up into my eyes and smiled brightly.

   "Awww... don't feel bad, Jordan! I really did enjoy it,
just a silly mishap at the end there, honest!"

   "Really?" 

   She nodded emphatically, and then led me back out into
the bedroom. I was ordered to stretch out face-down on the
bed, and she tenderly began to powder me like a baby. I kind
of enjoyed it. Then she produced an odd device that looked
like leather swim trunks.

   "What's that?" I asked, uncertainly.

   "This is a penis restraint device. And believe me Jordan,
you need one!" she giggled, but I felt my heart sink.

   "Wait! I'm not sure I want to do this..."

   "Oh, come on Jordan. It's not so bad. Compared to the
enemas you just took, it should be like a walk in the park.
Besides, men always look sooo sexy in them!"

   "Okay," I said, breathing heavily. "Okay."

   Following her instructions, I first lifted one foot, then
the other, as she slid the device up my legs like a pair of
underwear. The I had to stand as she adjusted it around my
waist and went about the decidedly uncomfortable process of
bending my reawakening cock into the leather pouch where it
would be pinioned facing south for the foreseeable future.
By the time Melissa clicked the tiny padlock into place, the
discomfort level was already becoming unbearable.

   "See?" she aid, showing me myself in the vanity mirror
while running a hot, soft hand over my abdomen. "Sexy!"

   "How long do I have to wear this?" I asked, squirming.

   Melissa just shrugged and walked over to a dresser. She
came back with a rose colored bra, a pink satin corset with
dangling garters and matching silk hose.

   "What are those for?" 

   She smiled. "You." 

* * * * 

   Samantha entered the room as Melissa was applying the
last touches of makeup. I think it was the first time I ever
saw her genuinely speechless.

   "My goodness," she said when she'd finally recovered,
"what a hot little slut you *are!*"

   Melissa had used just enough rouge and eyeshadow to give
my already delicate features an unmistakably feminine cast.
She had overdone it on the red lipstick, however, which
seemed incongruous with her otherwise light, sophisticated
touch.

   The corset crushed my long torso into a passable
hourglass shape, and heaved up my pecs enough that the bra
shaped and molded them into passable, if small, set of tits.
The bra - which felt as though it was designed for an
emaciated ten year old - sliced deep and painfully into my
flesh.

   "You almost look like something worth fucking," Hain
commented dryly. She strolled over to Melissa, and yanked
back on the girl's hair, forcing her mouth open for a long,
deep kiss.

   "Naughty bitch," Hain muttered, wiping her mouth with the
back of her arm. 

   "You never said I couldn't," Melissa insisted.

   "Don't get technical with me, little whore! You know that
pretty girl hole of yours is my exclusive property!"

   Melissa turned red and looked away. To my surprise, Hain
reached out to caress her cheek instead of slap it.

   "Still, you did a wonderful job on shithead, I have to
admit. But... the proof is in the pudding, as they say." She
turned and fixed her cold eyes on me. "Come here, shithead,
lie down on the bed."

   I pulled myself out of the chair slowly, still not used
to moving with so much of my body so constricted.

   "Move!" Hain shouted, reaching over to give my ass a hard
slap. I started to sit on the edge of the mattress when Hain
backhanded me across the face.  

   "On your *belly* you stupid fuck! Jesus!"

   I rolled over onto my stomach and she grabbed my ankles
and roughly yanked my legs apart.

   "Hold him," I heard her say to Melissa. A moment later, I
heard the chilling sound of another glove snapping taut
against a hand.

   Hain unceremoniously pried my asscheeks apart. My hands
balled in to impotent fists against the smooth satin
bedspread as she rammed a finger inside my tired, sore
rectum. Just as abruptly, she pulled the finger out again
and I choked back a sob.

   "Very nice job, indeed, Melissa," Hain purred. "I think
you deserve your reward in spite of your little
indiscretion."

    "Thank you mistress!" Melissa said, breathlessly.

   "How long has it been, Darling?"

   "Four months, six days, Mistress."

   I looked over my shoulder. Hain had one of Melissa's full
breasts in each hand and was squeezing and massaging them
forcefully. Melissa's eyes were dreamy and heavy-lidded and
her mouth gaped slightly.

   Hain reached into the small, patent leather bag she wore
at her side and produced a ring of keys.

   "Take off that ridiculous loincloth, Darling."

   Melissa froze. She looked over at me with a curiously
worried expression.

   "Please, Mistress... not in front of..."

   "Why? Because you like him? Because you enjoyed sucking
his cock and you want to again someday?"

   "I just don't think..."

   Hain lashed out and literally ripped away Melissa's
skirt. The girl squealed unhappily and tried to cover
herself, but Hain grabbed one of her wrists with her free
hand.

   I hadn't noticed, mostly because it was black leather on
black leather, but Melissa had been wearing something on
underneath her skirt, after all.

   It was a penis restraint device, just like mine.

   Melissa was moaning miserably and trying to twist away
from Hain's grip as the Dominatrix worked to unlock the
small padlock and undo the lacing. Grunting savagely, she
pulled the leather briefs down Melissa's thighs, exposing a
short, thin penis and tiny, shriveled balls.

   Melissa stared at the floor and fought back tears. I felt
my stomach churn.

   Samantha locked my gaze and sneered, "Care to return the
favor, cocksucker?"

   Melissa cried out and tore free of her mistress, slamming
the bathroom door shut as she dove inside.

   Hain looked at the door and chuckled smugly.

   "Enjoy that?" I snapped bitterly.

   "Oh spare me your sanctimonious bullshit, Jordan! I
wasn't the one on the verge of puking when I found out I'd
just gotten a blowjob from one of my own! Or maybe you were
so sick because you wanted to do a lot *more* with sweet
little Missy than just a crude hummer in the bathroom!"

   I hung my head low, unable to say anything.

   "Let's just do whatever the hell it is that you want to
do," I mumbled.

   "Awww... just when I thought *maybe* they were finally
going to drop!" she sneered. "All right, slut! Get up! Let's
go."

   I wasn't sure who I hated more at that moment - her or me
- but I got up off the bed.

   The second floor of the lodge, the one with the rooms
marked one-oh, was the level with the "playrooms." Samantha
led me into a long rectangular room with on a few pieces of
heavy equipment lining the walls. It felt like an empty
dance hall compared to the cramped quarters of Camille's
basement dungeon.

   There was a richly upholstered, imitation Louis Seize
chair by the door, and a red pair of four inch stiletto
heels rested on the plush velvet seat. Leaning on the wall
next to the chair was what looked to be a bamboo fishing
rod.

   "As I noted earlier, Jordan, you do make an attractive,
if slightly butch -" I pulled away as she tried to run her
fingers through my short hair, " - woman, but, as they say,
you gotta walk the walk, my Dear."

   I gaped in disbelief as Hain picked up the shoes and
offered them to me.

   "You've got to be kidding me! I'm already six-three as it
is! I'll be a freaking giant!"

   "Melissa once thought no one would ever believe *her* as
woman, either, Jordan. Now put on your shoes."

   I looked into her eyes with no real hope for pity and was
not surprised.

   "Samantha, Mistress Hain, please, I... I have problems
with my legs..."

   "After suffering a compound fracture? I'm not surprised.
However, the question is: is it bothering you at this
moment, Jordan?"

   I ground my teeth and looked down helplessly at the
floor.

   "No," I admitted quietly, and reached out to take the
shoes. 

   They were so small, I thought they were going to rip
apart at the seams as I tried to cram my enormous dogs into
them. Hain did up all the buckles herself, tightening the
shiny footwear to blood-restricting snugness.

   Standing all on its own was a nightmare. The shoes seemed
to be biting my feet, grinding the bones. I felt like I was
standing out on the ledge of a skyscraper somewhere; and the
bare stone floor looked very hard.

   "In order to perform your inevitable duties as Camille's
sissy maid - and I assure you, that *will* happen - you need
to be able to walk about in heels, Jordan. Convincingly, at
the least; and preferably in as seductive a manner as your
boney ass can manage! Therefore, you are going to practice."

   She pointed to the other end of the room, so far away it
seemed lost in shadows.

   "You will walk from here to there and back again. You
will do this at least twenty times. If, at any point, you
feel you can no longer go on, then, fine, we stop for the
day. And you make up the difference with your ass!"

   I stared at her, unsure and appalled.

   "Shall I demonstrate what I mean, Jordan? Fine, lean over
this punishment bench, here," she said, indicating a dark
wooden sawhorse.

   I nearly dropped to the floor like a sack of bricks on
that first, trembling step. After a few more, equally
nerve-wracking strides, I leaned forward and discovered
convenient hand grips on the side.

   "For each lap you do not complete, you shall receive one
of *these!*"

   There was the sound of air being slashed, and then
suddenly it felt as though a flight of hornets had formed up
into a perfect line and had all descended upon my ass. 

   I righted myself and saw her holding the fishing rod;
wielding it like a samurai with a katana.

   "One," she reiterated coldly, "for each lap!"

   I could feel the pain from the blow linger in my buttocks
as I started out on my first, timid, shaky steps across the
unimaginably vast distance. The stinging sensation lingered
and penetrated deep beyond the fatty tissue, into the muscle
so that with each new step I not only had to deal with my
awkward footing, but also a spreading stiffness my upper
legs.

   I had almost gone about halfway to completing the initial
leg of my first lap, when Samantha called out to me, "By the
way, if you fall, that's an automatic additional stroke
penalty!"

   Anger filled me and I began to wobble precariously from
side to side. Steadying myself, I focused on Camille, and
the next step.

   Amazingly, I actually made it to the far wall and back
with toppling over, and with each new foray, I became
increasingly comfortable with both my balance and my
footwork. My center of gravity was still far too high off
the ground for me to really be considered at ease, and the
shoes themselves had my aching feet locked in a crushing
deathgrip; but so long as I concentrated on the simple
mechanics of heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe, I felt my pace begin
to quicken and my herky-jerky twitching start to pass. 

   In fact, on around the eighth go around, I believed
myself to be moving at, for me, at that time, a nice, smooth
clip.

   Unfortunately, I was not the only one to notice this.

   "Okay, Jordan, enough mincing about like my spinster
aunt! Time to start shakin' that thing, baby! Work that ass!
Make me want to come over there and make a woman out of
you!"

   "Haven't you done enough?" I grumbled; nevertheless
trying to manage swaying my hip while moving my foot
forward.

   "Aww, what's a matter now, Jordan? Feeling like your
precious little manhood is under siege? Want to go run to
Mommy Camille and have her make it all better? You're
already a simpering little pussy, Jordan. It's just now a
question of getting the rest of you caught up."

   Her words hit home a little harder than usual that time.
The truth of the matter was that I *was* feeling awfully
confused at that moment. The makeup on my face felt greasy
and unnatural, the clothes were binding, painful and
strange. As much as I hated to admit it, a part of my psyche
was still in free-fall from the idea that I'd had my penis
in another man's mouth. And to top it all off, I was now
trying to swish my ass around like some streetwalker on the
strip.

   Was this really what Camille wanted? A man who was not a
man? Or was this exercise merely indulging some personal
kink of Hain's; intended to wear me down a little more
before she finally moved in for the kill.

   I wished so much for Camille to be there with me at that
moment. And I wondered, somewhat concerned, just where she'd
gone off to without me.

   "Walk bitch!" Samantha snapped, and my long, lonely march
picked up again where it had left off.

   I went on like that for another ten, interminable laps.
My only consolation was the eventual discovery that if I got
my rhythm right, the ungainly way one moved in heels could
actually *aid* in the tantalizing sashay of a strut. The
trick of it was to think of it as one fluid motion, instead
of two.

   As I was returning from my eighteenth lap, I heard a low,
sharp whistle which caused me to look away from my feet for
the first time in over an hour.

   "Not bad," Camille said, lounging in the doorway. "Not
bad at all!"

   I had one mad rush of pure joy at the sight of her before
my heart once more turned to ice in my chest.

    She was wearing a shiny catsuit of black latex that
looked as though someone had simply painted her naked body
with oil.

   But what caused the frosty fingers of fear to throttle my
brain was the long, glossy shaft that rose up out of the
inky well between her legs. She had slipped one hand around
the base and, consciously or unconsciously, was ever so
slowly stroking it in masturbatory fashion.

   "I hope your busy morning has left you hungry, my
Darling," she said, languidly advancing into the room.

    "Because it's time for your noon feeding."

   The stocks were low enough that even in my bar feet, I
would have been bent over at an extremely uncomfortable
angle. With the heels on, however, it felt as though my ass
was jacked up to the stratosphere.

   "And how was Paul?" Hain asked from somewhere out side my
field of vision.

   "Adequate," came Camille's reply.

   "Just adequate? Last time I seem to remember you waxing a
bit more eloquently, my Dear."

   "Last time I seem to remember him being better, my Dear." 

   I wanted more than anything to see Hain's face at that
moment. At the same time, I wondered feverishly just what
Paul was supposed to have been better at, exactly.

   Slick, cool fingertips glided across my shoulders.

   "Still, it's nice to see Melissa hasn't lost her touch,
at least."

   "Yes, well, she does get so much more practice at
dressing up boys, now doesn't she?" Hain snapped irritably.

   Camille ignored her tone and strode around in front of
me; the tip of her latex dildo waggling right before my
eyes.

   "I think I told you once what a pretty girl you'd make,"
she said, running her gloved fingers through my hair. 

    "I was right about that, Jordan. And I hope I was right
about you being hungry, too. I hope you're drowning in own
drool, salivating at the prospect of having my sweet, hard
cock in your mouth." 

    Actually, my mouth felt dry as a bone at that moment.

   "Because, Jordan, there's a part of this that you can't
see. A lovely little rubber nip, that even now is pressing
up against me in a most delightful way. But when I start to
fuck your mouth Jordan, the motion of shoving my cock in and
out of you is going to cause that little nip to rub up
against me in an even more delightful way. Not as nicely as
a tongue, maybe, but there's just some intangibly satisfying
quality to *fucking* somebody, that oral sex just always
seems to lack for me." 

    Her fingers knotted into a fist in my hair, and she
poked the dildo up to my lips.

   "And looking the way you do, my sweet, and feeling the
way I feel, I don't think just fucking your mouth is going
to do it for me, Jordan. And that's why I hope you're nice
and hungry and have lots and lots of spit in that pretty
mouth of yours. Because you're going to want my cock to be
all wet and slippery when I get around to shoving it up your
ass!"

   I don't know if I was gasping, or about to protest, but
the second my lips parted, she drove her hips forward and
rammed her cock straight down my throat. For one brief,
panic-addled instant I forgot I could breathe through my
nose and I found myself both choking and gagging at the same
time. Camille held my face buried in her crotch while she
aggressively humped the back of my throat.

   She eased into a series of swift even strokes, never
quite allowing the shaft to escape the confines of my mouth.
She punctuated the end of each inward shove with an
additional "push" and an angry grunt. She was gripping my
hair so hard I was afraid a whole swatch of scalp would just
rip free.

   Instinctively, I tried to escape, barking the underside
of my wrists futilely against the unyielding wood of the
pillory. Her pace began to quicken, and the animalistic
sounds of her mounting pleasure grew louder and less
constrained. She began to stab at my throat with the same
ferocity of her initial thrust. 

   She screamed and with her free hand, clutched at the
lacing along the back of my corset for purchase; ramming one
last mighty thrust down my gullet as she came.

   She did not immediately pull out, but rather leaned
indolently on top of me with her "cock" still lodged in my
esophagus. Gurgling incoherently, I fought against the
overpowering urge to gag while renewing my useless effort to
escape my bonds.

   "So," she said, presumably  to Samantha. "You want to get
in on the act, too, huh?"

   "If you don't mind, darling."

   The rubbery shaft slid clear of my throat and I was at
last able to cough and sputter and gasp for air.

   "Be my guest, Darling. But his ass is mine."

   "Wouldn't have it any other way, Love."

   My mind was only just returning to some semblance of its
normal operating parameters when I was met by the sight of
Hain's plush belly moving in to block my view. She had taken
off her dress and I could see the thin red stretch marks and
tiny blue veins amidst her pallid skin.

   And as Camille placed a cool, latex clad palm on each of
my hips, Hain turned to face me and I found myself staring
down the translucent barrel of another rubber dick.

   "Bend your knees, Darling," Camille said behind me.
"Don't make me have to get a milk crate."

   Operating on some level beyond my conscious mind, I did
as she said.

   "The important thing to remember, Jordan," Camille said,
the tenderness of her voice sounding as if it were from
another time and place altogether, "is that you try and
relax your body as much as you can."

   Hain guided her cock to the point where the gummy tip of
it was pressing against my lipstick-smeared lips. The penis
restraint device had a strap that ran from the sack that
held my genitals in constrictive abeyance, up through my
asscheeks and ended up connecting up with the back of the
waistband. Camille undid the strap to allow herself
unfettered access, and the whole leather-bound package
drooped a few degrees.

   I stifled a sob as Hain began winding her fingers in my
hair.

   "Relax," Camille said again, and began to fuck my ass.  

    When they had finally finished with me, I was hardly in
any shape to stand, let alone strut about like a runway
model. This didn't seem to bother Camille much at all; she
merely placed a collar around my neck, snapped a leash to
it, and ordered me to crawl after her. Hain had her own
luckless slaves to look after, so, mercifully they parted
ways on the landing. Camille half led, half dragged me down
the stairs and out the back way.

   We circled along the water's edge for what for what like
miles, until at last I felt my muscles begin to falter
completely, and I dropped lifelessly to the grass. I felt
Camille's hand tenderly caress my face and felt her soothing
breath at my ear.

   "Just a few feet farther, Love," she whispered. "Just a
few feet more."

   Dragging myself on my belly like a snake, I crossed those
last few feet.

   She had chose a small rise by the shore, not even a hill,
where an old willow tree stood. Camille sat down with her
back against the tree, her "cock" still jutting up
incongruously from between her thighs. I collapsed into a
puddle of protoplasm at her feet.

   "I love this place, Jordan," Camille said wistfully as I
heaved for breath. "It's so beautiful and calm. Even when
there's a party going on, you can always find some quiet
little nook to escape to. The rafters in the barn, the edge
of the pier, this old tree."

   She sighed.

   "I don't come up all that much. I always feel awkward
about not having a sub of my own to bring with me. I mean,
it's not like there are any rules, mind you, and there are
plenty to go around, but still, I always felt like there was
something lacking when I'd come up here alone. Something
lacking about me. I suppose I could have always brought a
client up if I really wanted to, but that somehow always
felt like it would be worse. Like I had to cheat."

   Another, longer, sadder sigh.

   "Oh, you're probably halfway into a coma right now. God
knows, you've earned the rest. I didn't want it to be this
hard for you to start out with... I'm not sure I ever wanted
it to be this hard... but I'm kind of glad it has been.
Samantha was wrong about you, Jordan. About you not being
much of a man. I think the real test of a man comes when he
has to choose between himself and the ones he loves."

   I felt my heart sink lower than it had at any other point
in that whole, arduous weekend.

   "Camille," I grunted, too exhausted to manage more than a
single word at a time.       "Eep! You *heard* that did
you?" she laughed, sounding pure and sweet and everything
that I'd fallen in love with.

   "Camille..." I croaked. "Have to..."

   "Are you hurt?" she asked, a sudden nervousness edging
into her voice. "I mean, seriously? I know we were rough,
but I didn't think... Jordan?"

   "No... not that..."

   "Oh!" She breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

   "Please..."

   "If it's not an emergency, then just shush, sweetheart!
Lie there and try to rest a little."

   I started to talk again, but she gently put the tip of
her booted foot over my mouth.

   "I said hush, Jordan! Take a nap. Dinner's not till six
so you can get four good hours if you're lucky. If it's
really important, we can talk after that."

   I wanted to push, to speak in spite of her, but the
darkness overtook me like a swift summer storm.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 
He's walking around / 
In this dress / 
That she wore She is gone / 
But the joke's the same Pretty in pink 
/ Isn't she / 
Pretty in pink

                The Psychedelic Furs, Pretty In Pink 
* * * * 
Red Rain

Part Two, Chapter Five: The Golden Rule

Saturday, January 24, 1998

    In my dreams, it was again New Year's eve and Camille
and I were back in her bedroom. Our bodes were locked
together and as I groped her mossy pubic mound while she
slathered her hot, slippery tongue in and out of my mouth
and all over my face.

   Cracking open one sleepy eye, I found myself staring into
two, thoughtful brown orbs, set in a field of tawny fur.

   Crying out in alarm, I jerked away from the dog,
inadvertently tearing out a handful of grass. The dog, a
German Shepherd, leapt backwards itself, dropping it's tail
between its leg as it growled at me nervously.

   Camille's sprightly laughter sounded from somewhere
behind me, and, keeping one watchful eye on my new canine
friend, I craned my neck around to find her.

   She was strolling up the lawn unhurriedly from the lodge,
a pair of apples in her hands; nearly bent double from
laughter.

   "Do you two want to be alone?" she asked me impishly,
leaning her back up against the willow and easing herself
down to the ground.

   Grimacing, I wiped the dog drool away from my mouth,
spitting liberally.

   "You left me!" I said angrily.

   She tossed one of the apples at me and I clumsily fumbled
it as it smacked into my chest.

   "I thought you might like a little something. You haven't
eaten anything since we left yesterday. Besides, Mikey's a
love, aren't you Mikey?"

   The dog, hearing its name, began to wag its tail eagerly,
and ambled over to Camille, angling for a treat.

    I watched as she - willingly - kissed the hairy beast,
and the turned my attention to devouring the apple in my
hand enthusiastically and messily.

   Camille started giggling again, and I suddenly found
myself struck by the absurdity of the moment, of the image
of me sitting on that grassy knoll like some forgotten extra
from Paris Is Burning, my face a morass of lipstick, saliva,
and apple mush.

   We began to laugh together. Mikey, spooked by the sudden
outburst, skittered away again and began to bark at us in
alarm. It only made us laugh harder, until we were both
rolling around helplessly on the cool grass. 

   Eventually, we came to rest side by side, staring up at
the gray skies; chests heaving with the effort to draw
breath. I think I could have been content just to lie there
with her that way forever, but just then a shadow fell over
us.

   "There you two are!" Hain grumbled, looming over us with
her hands on her hips. "Get up. We have a little crisis."

* * * *

   The doors they used in the Lodge were solid pine with oak
paneling, so even with my ear pressed right up against the
wood, I hard a difficult time hearing Melissa. Apparently,
she hadn't come out of the bathroom since storming into it
earlier that morning.

   "Please," I called out for the fourth or fifth time. "I'm
sorry! Please come out!"

   "Go away!" I heard her scream back in reply.

   "Let her rot in there," Camille said icily. She had not
taken the news of my indiscretion terribly well, and had
seated herself on the bed, eyeing me coldly from across the
room. The trickles of sweat streaming down my forehead were
quickly becoming a deluge.

   "Please!" I called to the door again. "I shouldn't have
reacted that way! I'll do anything to make it up to you, I
swear, only please come out!"

   "Anything?"

   "Yes! I'm so sorry, Melissa, honest to God! I'm the last
person on earth to be judging anybody!"

   "I want to talk to Camille," she said. I looked over at
my stormy-eyed mistress and felt my largely empty stomach
churn.

   "Okay," I answered nervously.

   I got up from the crouch I was in and walked penitently
to Camille.

   "She wants to talk to you," I said, not able to meet her
vengeful glare.

   "Does she?" Camille asked sharply, and threw Samantha a
quick look. The older woman sat in a overstuffed chair in
the corner of the room, with Paul hovering at her side. Hain
gave Camille a curt nod and I felt the bitter bite of frost
against my skin as she brushed past me.

   "What is it?" she barked into the door. From across the
room, I couldn't hear the reply, but Camille nodded
thoughtfully.

   "Yes," she said, "I think that would be acceptable."

   She turned to face me. "On your knees, slaveboy. You have
some serious apologizing to do!"

   I did as she commanded and Camille strode back around to
stand directly behind me. The head of her latex cock, still
jutting as attentively as ever from between her legs, bumped
into the back of my skull and stayed pressed there.

   The heavy door swung open and Melissa took a few,
hesitant steps into the room. Her eyes were red and her
cheeks shone in the light. A part of me wondered bitterly
why Hain couldn't accept her share of the blame for
humiliating the sensitive young transsexual; but those
seemed to be the rules in this fucked up place.

   As before, I was struck by the astonishing incongruity of
the image before me; although I did do a better job of
keeping my reaction to myself the second time around. In all
respects, from her long, shapely legs, trim waist and full
breasts, to her sweet, heart shaped face; Melissa was in
every way the lovely young lady. Except for the slightly
atrophied set of genitalia dangling between her legs.

   Reaching down between those smooth, milky thighs, she
took her thin penis in her hand and began gently stroking
it.

   "I guess you don't want to fuck me so bad anymore, huh,
Jordan?" she asked sadly.

   I started to say her name, but she cut me off.

   "If I had a pussy, you'd be first in line to want to lick
it like the dog you are, but freaks like me make you sick to
you stomach, don't they?" she snapped.

   "I don't think you're a freak," I said earnestly. "And
you don't make me sick. I just..."

   "Well, then," Melissa interrupted, "you won't have any
problem returning the compliment I gave you earlier, will
you?"

    "Compliment?" I asked, not understanding.

    Melissa walked boldly over to stand directly in front of
me. I could feel Camille wrap her rubber clad hand around
the back of my skull, holding me in place. Despite its
withered appearance, Melissa cock had swollen up to a
reasonable semblance of an erection under her manipulation.

   "Suck it," she said coldly.

   The small puddle of applesauce made a run back up my
esophagus, but I managed to swallow it down at the back of
my throat. I looked deep into Melissa's eyes, bruised and
bloodshot.

   Opening my mouth greedily, I lunged forward and swallowed
her cock. Melissa had said something earlier about having
been locked up for several months, and the skin definitely
had a musty, unclean taste to it that almost made me gag.

   Still, I forced an ecstatic moan from my lungs as I
worked my mouth up and down the length of her shaft in what
was becoming an all too familiar ritual. I didn't want to
take her in too deep because the back of my throat was still
pretty tender from the battering it had received earlier;
not that it was that much of a problem, given Melissa's
deteriorated condition.

    After a few seconds, I let it slide out of my mouth
altogether and began licking and nibbling up and down the
length of it, the same way Camille had done to me in the
past. I really did not like the looks of her balls, the
hormone shots had taken their toll; but I still slurped them
up and suckled on them for a little bit before finally
returning to not-so-deep-throating her dick.

   I tried to think of it as just another dildo: a salty,
warm, pulsing dildo. It couldn't be possible that I was on
my knees, sucking a man's cock in front of the woman I
loved, the woman I hated, and a relative stranger. 

   Melissa began to make soft, grunting sighs that I
recognized all too well, and suddenly Camille jerked my head
back violently, just in time for me to have an eye-to-eye
encounter with Melissa's penis as it vomited up slightly
yellowed cum all over my face. Melissa gripped the base of
her shaft and milked herself for a few more laden spurts
while I tried to deal with the dizzying reality of the hot
slimy seed that was oozing all over my face. 

   When Camille reached across and began mopping up the
mess, I almost cried. Melissa's eyes opened, and she had a
look about her of drowsy euphoria, mixed with a lingering
contempt when she gazed down at me. In the background, Hain
began to applaud slowly.

   "Clean me," Melissa ordered, thrusting out her hips at
me. 

   Closing my eyes tight, I took her cock in my mouth and
began to wipe it off with my tongue. The semen tasted
sharply of salt and had the consistency of mucus. I
swallowed the filthy stiff as quickly as my throat could
heave it down.

   When I'd finished to her satisfaction, Melissa withdrew
and ambled heavily back into the bathroom. She didn't bother
to close the door as she relieved herself.

   I watched her, or at least the invitingly feminine back
side of her, and felt a terrible sorrow settle over me. The
score might have been settled, but I had the feeling I was a
long way from making amends.

   Camille walked around to assume the same position over me
Melissa had just vacated. I looked up at her with wounded
eyes and begged for some kind of understanding or
forgiveness.

   Instead, she shoved the sodden Kleenex into my mouth and
ordered me to eat it.

   Ironically enough, the end of that unfortunate scene just
happened to dovetail with the serving of dinner.
Temperatures had dropped as precipitously outside as they
had inside, and so the Dommes were all seated in the dining
room, on actual chairs.

   Since I wasn't needed, Paul led me wordlessly out through
the back and across the grounds to the kennel. A small
galley had been set up in the rear of the barn, and the
former navy man, dressed soley in a stained apron and a
spiked collar, was dishing up plastic dog dishes of
unappetizing gray slop.

   Since there was nothing to sit upon, the slaves took
their bowls to some unoccupied corner of the barn and sat
down on the ground. Some held their dishes up to their
mouths and supped their gruel up directly, others used their
hands as crude spoons and there were a few who, in the
spirit of the place, got on their hands and knees and
scarfed their meal up doggy-style.

    By the time I arrived and got my "food" the only
unoccupied floor space was near the door, where the stream
of slaves coming and going kept a continuous stream of cold
air circulating in from the outside.   

    Propping my back against a cage, I tried to settle my
bare buttocks against the hard-packed dirt. A passing gaggle
of comely young ladies giggled at the sight of me, still
dressed in my sullied whorehouse finery. The snap on one of
my garters had broken somewhere along the way, both my
stockings had runs, I was covered in brown and green streaks
from rolling around on the grass and there were spots in my
hair that it stood out in tacky, matted clumps where
Melissa's semen had dried.

   And, of course, my manhood was still wrapped up snugly in
its leather restraint.

   Paul sat down close enough to keep an eye on me, but far
enough away to discourage conversation.

   My stomach grumbled, but I was too depressed to eat. 

   I was just beginning to wonder how my life could get any
worse when the door to the barn opened and Samantha walked
in. To my complete and utter lack of surprise, she headed
straight for me.

   Tired and aching, I glowered up at her deceptively
cherubic face and sneered, "I guess I should be honored, you
don't look like you skip meals often."

   She smiled tightly back at me.

   "Such a smart mouth. If I didn't know firsthand all the
wonderful things it can do, I think I'd break every tooth in
it."

   "What do you want?" I asked miserably.

   "What do I want - Mistress!" she said, nudging me in the
crotch with the pointed toe of her shoe.

   I lapsed brooding silence.

   "I thought you *might* be interested to know that Camille
isn't nearly as angry with you as you might think!" she
said.

   "And why would you want to tell me that?"

   "From keep you from despairing *overly* much."

   I looked up at her quizzically. She began to laugh.

   "Oh, Jordan! You pathetic little shit! If you lose *all*
hope then you're likely to say or do something foolish
because you don't think it matters anymore! Camille's angry,
make no mistake about it, Darling, and even now she's
planning something evil to get back at you, but once you've
paid your penance, she'll forgive you!"

   "And I'm just supposed to believe you? That she's going
to just forgive and forget?"

   "Oh for God's sake, dumb ass! Who do you think she
*really* blames for what happened? Hello!"

   "Yeah, well, it's funny how she would feel that way."

   Hain laughed a little more. "Oh, Darling, if it'd been
one of my schemes, you wouldn't have gotten off with merely
licking Melissa's little clitty! I'd have made you suck a
real man's rod! Like Paul's."

   At the sound of his name, Hain's sub looked over at us
curiously, then, seeing that he hadn't been summoned, went
back to scooping up his meal.

   "No, my sweet, stupid fuck, I'm afraid Melissa played us
both! Duplicitous little bitch! I'm quite proud of her,
really."

   My head was spinning, my heart began to pick up its pace
again.

   Fighting back the burgeoning jubilation, I looked Hain
square in her dead, shark's eyes.

   "Mistress," I said, choking on the word, "If you have an
ounce of humanity left in you, I beg you, please, tell me
that this isn't some new game of yours. Please."

   She paused for a moment, not quite showing any particular
emotion.

    Presently she said, "Jordan, do you really think that if
I saw *any* opening to comfort her and perhaps get back in
her good graces, I'd be standing around here wasting time
with *you?* Believe me, Jordan, she's not over you yet. Not
by a longshot." 

    I settled back to ponder that when she spoke again.

   "Why, Jordan, you haven't eaten a lick! But I *know* you
must be starving! Your stomach was making so much noise
earlier during your walking lessons I was contemplating
giving you an addition lap for punishment!"

   She kicked off her right shoe and dipped her sweaty foot
into the bowl.

   "Oh, my goodness! You've let it grow cold, Darling!"

   Withdrawing her toe, she hiked her leg up, waving her
foot in front of my lips.

   "Clean," she said sternly.

   Displaying my disgust openly on my face, I licked the
porridge off in a brisk, workmanlike manner. 

   Hain smiled at me with her patented mock-sweetness and
fished around with her foot, trying futilely to put her shoe
back on. Failing that, she kicked off the left, unzipped her
skirt, and peeled it away, giving me an eyeful of the curly
blonde fur of her cunt.

   She hooked my dish with her instep, dragged it between
her legs, and squatted. Her piss dribbled out of her in an
uneven stream, liberally dousing both the ground and the
already watery dross.

   "There," she hissed, her cheeks flush, cruel eyes
sparkling, "that should warm it up a bit for you!"

   Hoisting herself back up, she turned to the sea dog and
called out, "No more for this one until he eats what he
has!"

   "Yes, Mistress!" he yelled back amidst a chorus of
titters and outright laughter.

   Zipping her skirt back into place, she gathered up her
heels and strutted out the door.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Crush 'em with a cracksound 
and then hang 'em out to dry 
And sprinkle a little good strong fairy dust 
right into their eyes 
It's the golden rule 
Or so I read in a poem somewhere

         Alisha's Attic, The Golden Rule 

* * * * 
Red Rain

Part Two, Chapter Six: Dirty Black Hole

Saturday, January 24, 1998

   My guts were still churning around the nauseating
cocktail of oats, tissue paper and human excreta, when I
head a voice call my name.

   "Jordan? Are you okay?"

   I looked up and for a second stared blankly at the pretty
slavegirl who hovered near me. At first I didn't recognize
her, then suddenly it hit me: she was the one who thought it
great sport to piss on me while I tried to sleep.

   "Come by to top me off?" I spat bitterly, kicking the
still half-full dog bowl towards her. She took a hopping
step backward as it skittered by.

   "I wanted to see if you were all right," she said, a
little irritably. "Some of us are starting to worry about
you."

   "Yeah, right!" 

   Still careful to keep some distance between us, she sat
down on the ground.

   "Look, Jordan, I'm sorry nobody's come out to give you a
big hug, but this place isn't intended as a support group
for bottoms. That doesn't mean it doesn't upset some of us
to see you suffering."

   "I thought this whole place was about suffering."

   She sighed. "We all have our own idea of Heaven, Jordan.
And of Hell. I used to be married to the sweetest, most
wonderful man on the planet. He adored me and doted on me
and treated me like a princess. I was the envy of all my
friends; but inside, I didn't feel happy at all. I felt
trapped, suffocated, like I was a zombie on some Caribbean
island.

   "Now I feel... alive... sexy... I know it sounds messed
up, but no matter how long or dutifully my husband would
give me head, I never came like I do now when my mistress
whips my breasts. As much as I knew, intellectually, that he
loved me, I never *felt* as loved as I do when my mistress
offers me the toe of her boot or her ass to kiss. I know
that I should feel demeaned, degraded, and I do in a way,
but in making these sacrifices to her, for her pleasure, I
get back something... indescribable."

   She sighed.

   "And the very fact that you're sitting there with no clue
about what I'm talking about worries me terribly; especially
after watching you actually eat about half of this... filth.
Most the other subs think you're just another poseur who
deserves to get kicked around, but I don't, not anymore. I
don't quite know what you are, Jordan, and it worries me."

   I stared at the floor, at the dark stain of Hain's piss.

   "I don't know what I am anymore, either."

   I looked back up to the girl, but her attention had
shifted to the barn door. A worried expression crossed her
features.

   Following her gaze, I looked over and saw Camille
standing in the entranceway.

   She had shorn herself of the catsuit and had changed into
jeans and a sweatshirt. She leaned against the frame of the
barn door and looked down on me with bemused contempt.

   "You look like shit, little boy," she said.

   I was overwhelmed by a tremendous sense of both guilt and
relief at the sight of her, and, weeping like a baby, I
crawled on my hands and knees to her and began planting
frenetic kisses to the toes of her shoes; babbling a torrent
of apologetic gobbledygook. The slavegirl returned to her
small clique further down inside the barn.

   "All right, Jordan," Camille said. "Let's go."

   I started to stand up, but she placed a firm hand on my
shoulder blade and pushed me back into position.

   "I like you on all fours like that" she said.

   Outside, the world had entered a dusky gray twilight and
the air had grown cold enough to bite. As I scuttled along
behind my mistress, I could feel my nipples grow painfully
hard against the binding fabric of the bra.

   We entered the Lodge and made our way up the stairs and
to Camille's room. Once there, she ordered me to stand up,
and proceeded to finally rid me of my emasculating costume.
The bra hurt almost as much coming off as it had going on,
and left deep red lines cut into my skin. To my delight, she
fished out a small key and even undid the lock on the penis
restraint, eventually removing the device altogether.

   "Go take a bath, Jordan," she told me, her tone neutral.
"You smell."

   After all I had been through that day, soaking in warm,
sudsy water felt absolutely glorious. I could have lounged
in the tub all night long if Camille hadn't eventually
called out from the other room that I should finish up in
short order.

   I scrubbed my face and hair vigorously and let the water
drain out, drying myself off with a big, fluffy towel that
felt like a cloud against my skin.

   In fact, the whole bath experience proved so soothing to
my nerves, that I actually stepped out into the other room
with a spring in my step that had been heretofore absent
during the course of my abasement.

    Camille turned to look at me, her features set in full
harsh Dominatrix mode. Her carefully crafted expression
crumbled, however, and she began to laugh hysterically at
the sight of me, doubling over and slapping at her legs as
her whole body convulsed uncontrollably.

   I could only stand there like an ass and stare back at
her in confusion. Every time she would look back up at me,
the laughter would get worse, until she was rolling around
helplessly on the carpet, clutching her stomach like a
candidate for an appendectomy.

   Overcome by curiosity, and maybe even a twinge of wounded
pride, I walked over to the dressing table and took a good
hard look at myself in the mirror.

   What I saw was a face covered in smeared red,
bluish-greens and black. I looked like Tammy Faye Baker on
an bad, bad day. 

   "Hey!" I said, shocked and upset.

   Camille, who'd been steadily getting her fit under
control, burst out with another round of  braying laughter.

   "Oooohhh... shit!" she called out in the middle of her
latest round of hysterics.

   I turned around and saw her sitting upright on the floor,
a large, dark stain spreading throughout the front of her
jeans.

   "Damnit," she said, her voice still interrupted by
frequent bursts of giggling. "You dumbass, Jordan!"

   She reached out to me and I helped her to her feet.
Camille ordered me to sit at the dressing table while she
ducked in to the bathroom. A second later, she emerged,
having cleaned herself. She'd also stripped down to her
birthday suit. My eyes fell to the dark patch of fur between
her legs, and for a moment the need to make love to her was
so overpowering that I almost began to cry.

   She walked over to me, opened a drawer in the table, and
pulled out a large jar.

   "You have to use cold cream you silly thing!" she said,
still taken by the occasional titter. She opened the jar and
began to gently, lovingly apply the cream to my face and
wipe away the clownish morass coating my face.

   When she was done, she ordered me to go into the bathroom
and wash my face off. Glancing into the mirror over the
sink, I could still see faints traces of red and blue in
spots, but at least it was out of the realm of Barnum &
Bailey.  

   When I returned, Camille was sitting on the bed. Her
earlier stern-Domme look had been replaced by a smiling,
sly, vixen look.

   "You *do* have a way of making me laugh," she said.

   I walked to her swiftly, dropped to my knees and placed
my head in her lap.

   "Mistress, please, I'm so sorry about..."

   "All right, Jordan! Enough with the mea culpa's! Without
totally relieving you of all blame in this matter, I do
appreciate that Samantha has her own agenda for you; and I
can imagine that by this morning you must have been pretty
desperate for any kind of affection. And, I suppose I know
all too well what boys are like."

   She sighed.

    "I probably should have kept you with me last night and
sent you to the kennels tonight!"

    "Mistress, no! It wasn't your fault!"

    She laughed. "Oh, I never meant to imply it *was!* Don't
fancy yourself off the hook yet, my Dear!"

    She stood up and patted the bedspread.

   "Get up here and lie down on your back," she instructed.
"I'm going to teach you a little lesson."

   I crawled up onto the bed as she had said to and allowed
her to gently buckle fleece-lined cuffs to my ankles and
wrists before tying them to the thick, sturdy bedposts.
While she pulled the lines tight, I still wasn't stretched
out too uncomfortably, aside from the obvious unease I felt
at being splayed out spread-eagle and naked.

   Camille walked slowly to the foot of the bed, and leaned
in onto the mattress, between my legs. She took the base of
my cock into her hand and began to squeeze, hard, but not
painfully so.

   "Whose penis is this?" she asked me.

    "Whose... what?" I sputtered.

    "Wrong answer, Darling," she purred. I felt her wrap
something - tight - around the base and snap the ends
together. The effect on my member was immediate, it began to
throb and swell far more than I could remember it doing in
the past.

    The sensation was distressing, but still not exactly the
stuff of nightmares.

   "Whose cock, is this, Jordan?" she asked again, causing
me to twitch and squirm as she tenderly raked her nails
across the underside of my penis.

    "Yuh... yours?" I stammered.

   She smiled.

   "You don't sound so sure, Darling." She grabbed my balls
up, gave them a hard squeeze, and began wrapping another
leather apparatus around the distended skin of my scrotum.
The sensation of having my testicles forced away from my
body was unpleasant enough, but once she'd finished doing up
the laces, she clipped a chain with weights attached to the
spreader, and let them drop off the end of the bed.

   I groaned in sudden, sharp pain, my back arching off the
bedspread while my body undulated forward, trying
desperately to follow my balls off the bed. The restraints
on my arms, however, held me firm until my muscles began to
cramp and I had to drop back down to the surface of the bed.
My pulse quickened and a sheen of sweat broke out over my
body as I felt my testes droop further and further away from
my body.

   "Mistress, please! They're tearing off!" I whined.

   "Not at all, you silly thing. I'm sure it must feel that
way, though," she said, punctuating her thought with a cruel
tug on the chain that made my stomach do cartwheels.

   She walked over to the dresser and returned holding a
cardboard box in one hand, and a wicked looking but-plug in
the other.

   The plug, unlike the dildos that had been used on me
earlier in the day, was tapered at the base, to allow my
sphincter muscles to hold it in position. The more important
difference, however, was that unlike the dildos, which had
been smooth, more or less, the rubber plug was completely
covered with tiny studs.

   Camille opened up a small packet of lubricant and made a
show of greasing up the plug. I could feel the tender inner
walls of my rectum suddenly began to ache from the memory of
their earlier abuse.

    Moving my testicles aside, Camille began to
unceremoniously shove the plug up inside my body. Given how
sore I still was from my earlier buggering, those little
knobs might have well have been metal spikes.

    "Whose ass is this, Jordan?" she asked, even as the
physiology of my own body betrayed me by locking the
instrument of my torture into place.

   "Yours Mistress!" I cried out in agony. "It's all yours!"

   "Even this?" she asked, taking my cockhead in a grip of
steel.

   "Yes!" I moaned. "Yes, mistress! Yes!"

   "Do you want to know," she began, still crushing my cock
with her hand as I writhed in misery, "what you did that
really upset me today, Jordan?"

   At first I just moaned and cried wordlessly until she
clenched her fist so tightly that I exclaimed, "What,
Mistress? What?"

   "It's not that you stuck my cock in Melissa's dirty
little mouth," she explained, easing up her hold just a
little bit. "I suppose it might well have ended up there
sooner or later, depending on my whim. No, Jordan, what
makes me angry with you is that you didn't tell me about it!
A selective omission is the same as a lie, wouldn't you
agree?"  

   I might have said "yes." In the state I was in, I might
have said whatever she wanted me to. Even in the haze of my
suffering, however, her words got through to me and chilled
me to the bone.

   "From now on, my darling little whore, you're going to
always tell me everything, aren't you?" she asked.

   "Yes! Yes! Yes!" I screamed.

   "Good," she said thoughtfully, and undid the weights from
my balls. Thanks to the spreader, the sense of relief was
limited, but it was at least something.

   Reaching into the box, Camille pulled out a rubber dog
bone, the kind you could find at any pet supply store in the
country. She moved around the bed and climbed up onto the
mattress, allowing her naked body to press down on top of
mine.

   Looking deep into her eyes, I pleaded with her
voicelessly to let me go. Instead, she wedged the bone into
my mouth like a bit.

   "You're going to need something to bite down on," she
whispered silkily into my ear.

   As she pulled herself away, I groaned loudly for her to
come back. I was tempted to spit out the chew toy and plead
with her directly, but a part of me suspected that Camille
knew what she was talking about.

   She returned to her post at the foot of the bed.

   "My cock?" she asked, allowing her soft warm fingertips
to brush against the velvety skin at the tip.

   I nodded vigorously.

   Camille reached into the box and pulled out a candle.

   I'm not sure what kind of sound I made, even as my eyes
tried to explode from my skull. The best guess I can make
would be the squeal a hog makes when it's being castrated.

   Unmoved by the sight of my head thrashing from side to
side, begging "No! No! No! No!" she produced a lighter, and
lit the wick.

   I turned my head to the side and tensed for the
inevitable.

   "Jordan," she said sternly, "look at me."

   I lolled my head back around to look. The candle's flame
leapt and flickered merrily while Camille's eyes plunged
deep into my soul.

   "Is this my cock?" she asked, her voice gentle, but firm.

   Gazing into her eyes, I felt something shift loose inside
me. Sobbing, I slowly began to nod.

   As the first searing drops of wax dripped down onto my
cockhead, I sank my teeth deep into the rubber bone and
hissed. Drip after harrowing drip, she began to coat the
length of my penis - her penis from that moment on. The skin
beneath the cooled globules of wax sang out; vibrant and
agonizing.

   Camille was reduced to a peach-colored smear as I gave
vent to my suffering through the only avenue available; my
tears. Scorching droplets to my overextended balls brought
forth a growling screech of new pain. Finally, as her whole
cock glowed with an awful, unnatural heat, she blew out the
candle and set it aside.

   In prying off the hardened wax, Camille's fingernails
felt like daggers when she would accidentally jab the
immolated flesh.

   My whole body, from head to toe, was awash in
perspiration. The satin bedspread beneath me was sodden. I
let out a long, groaning breath and allowed the tension to
drain from my exhausted muscles.

   Then, I felt the mattress shift slightly down at the foot
of the bed.

   Lifting up my head, I saw Camille crawling onto the bed,
looking for all the world like a panther stalking her prey.

   As she slithered over my body, the tormented tip of her
cock slid along her smooth, hot belly.

   When she had positioned her crotch directly over the red,
throbbing, overripe mass of her cock, she began lowering
herself upon it.

   "It's so warm," she whispered huskily as her sopping
pussy engulfed the swollen meat, burning the wounded flesh
still further with her body heat.

   I squeaked and whimpered pitifully as she tortured me
with the very act of lovemaking. Her sighs and moans were
sweeter and full of more raw pleasure than any I could ever
remember. Each climax was an awesome, shuddering event.

   As she built towards her third, roaring orgasm, I began
to faintly feel the dim memory of mounting pleasure myself.
I began to fuck her back, thrusting my hips up to meet hers
as she began to growl in hungry anticipation for the coup de
grace; and this time I was right there with her.

   But even as I abandoned myself to cross that soul
shattering precipice of ecstasy, the true purpose of the
leather implements were made bitterly clear as they
short-circuited my orgasm with excruciating effectiveness.  

   As one last raw cry of physical pain and spiritual
despair rattled up from my lungs, Camille came with all the
violent passion of a birthing star.

   Pitching forward, her damp, spent body pressed on top of
mine like a wet blanket, unabating erection still inside
her.

   As she panted for breath, I heard her whisper faintly,
"love... you..."

   Trapped beneath her, I basked in her love, and suffered.

   Later - perhaps as much as an hour, perhaps as little as
ten minutes, who could say? - Camille peeled herself away
from our union and dragged her weary body off the bed. She
ambled into the bathroom, relieved herself, and staggered
back into the room, hovering in the same spot where she's
spent so much time tormenting me.

   Smiling a weird smile, she reached between my legs and
unfastened the leather cock-strap. The rush of blood back
into my system was painful enough to rouse me to a state of
semi-alertness. She removed the butt plug as well, sending
new pangs of hurt through my anus.

   "Poor thing," she said, taking the "toys" away. "Poor
thing."

   She came back and tenderly wrapped her hand around her
cock.

   "Camille," I groaned, trying furtively to move away.

   She began to slowly, carefully, pump her hand up and
down. Despite the care she took, the skin was raw and I
wasn't sure how much more I could endure.

   Picking up her pace, Camille began to speak to me in a
low, sultry voice. She promised me endless night of riding
my face and long slow lessons on how to take pleasure from
having her fuck me in the ass.

   Finally, I felt myself tense for another orgasm, moaning
in anticipation and yet fearing that she might yet find a
way to trick and deny me.

   "Cum," she said, and suddenly, I was cumming.

    Despite a terrible pain in my testicles as they tried to
draw up, I was spurting thick gooey rivers of seed all over
my bare belly, sighing and groaning and Camille continued to
milk every drop from me, licking the overflow from her
fingertips and giggling in a sexy, self-satisfied way.

   I remained tied up until she'd cleaned up the mess, and
then she undid my bonds. Curling her hot, sweaty body up
next to mine, she pulled the covers over us and we drifted
off to a deep sleep; wrapped in each other's arms.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 
Reach into the fire, see if you can feel my soul 
Burning with desire, to be free from this dirty black hole
Can you bring me liberation? 
Do you know the depth of my obscenities? 
Love is lost, love is cold, love is sick, love is dead 
When love is in the shadows of insanity

    Steve Vai, Dirty Black Hole 

* * * * 
Red Rain

Part Two, Chapter Seven: Dark Star

Sunday, January 25, 1998

   I woke from my heavy slumber as the first light of
morning broke through the window. For one heart stopping
moment, I realized that Camille was no longer in bed with
me. Sitting bolt upright, aggravating half a dozen muscles
I'd strained in trying to fight my bonds the night before, I
looked worriedly about the room.

   Camille was sitting by the window, watching the sun rise.
She had on a silk pajama top and in the rosy halo of light
she looked beautiful.

   Hearing the groan I made as I moved, she turned and
smiled warmly at me.

   "Good morning, my love," she said brightly.

   At that moment, I loved her more than my own life. My
heart sank in my chest.

   Feebly clawing my way out from under the bed sheets, I
slid off the bed and began crawling towards her. My
prostrate posture was due more to the fact that my aching
muscles could barely heft my weight than it was my desire to
supplicate myself.

   Shuffling to her side, I lay my head in her lap, and
sighed unhappily.

   Gently running her fingers through my hair, Camille
asked, "What is it, Jordan? What's wrong?"

   I could feel my heart breaking under the strain of my
love for her.

   "Camille," I said mournfully, "there's something I have
to tell you about..."

* * * *

   Meandering aimlessly out onto the patio, I showed up just
in time to watch the soaked and shivering subs come
scurrying back from their morning "shower."

   My legs felt rubbery and weak underneath me, I decided to
sit down on the cold stone and watch the plumes of steam
rise from the lake. The numbness in my body had started well
before my naked skin had been exposed to the chilly morning
air.

   Suddenly, something pointy poked into my back.

   "What's new, pussycat?" Samantha Hain asked cockily.

   I turned and craned my neck to look up at my hated
nemesis.

   "I told her," I said tonelessly. "Everything."

   Samantha made no outward sign of even hearing what I'd
said, save for a slight twitch in her left eye. The next
thing I knew, her foot was connecting violently with my jaw
and I was tumbling off the patio with blood in my mouth.

   Staggering to keep on my feet, I could feel the hard,
sharp contours of a tooth floating freely inside my mouth.
Hain was advancing on me; with the sun behind her, her head
looked like it was wreathed in flame.

   "You stupid fucking bastard!" she roared.

   I managed to get my arm up in a clumsy forearm block as
she tried to land a punch. At the same time I spat out the
errant tooth onto the frosty grass.

   I think she was surprised that I'd moved to defend
myself; but not nearly so surprised as when I followed up
with my left and punched hear dead in her twisted,
kewpie-doll face. 

   Hain staggered back, swearing; a thin trickle of blood
leaking from her button nose.

   With a wild screech, she charged, swinging wildly as I
tried to defend myself. She got in a hit to my gut, bowling
me over; and then, with a hateful cry, kicked viciously at
the leg that bore my old injury.

   Howling angrily, I grabbed a handful of yellow curls as I
tried to stumble away. Clumsily, I pummeled her chest as she
stomped on my bare foot with her heel.

   She caught me across the face with the back of her
knuckles and I tumbled backwards, dropping to my knees.
Blood dribbled freely from my mouth as I heaved for breath.
My arms hung limply at my sides like lead weights.

   Hain sensed my exhaustion and curled her face up into a
sneer of victory. She lifter up her arm and cocked it back
slowly to deliver the coup de grace.

   Before she could land it, however, there was a flurry of
movement and a male sub suddenly charged in between us,
while another male and a Domme, each grabbed hold of Hain's
arms and tried to pull her away.

   Hain screamed and shrieked and staggered about, half
dragging, half being dragged. The male in front of me held
up his hand to my face in a needless warding gesture. I
wasn't going anywhere.

   "I'll sue all you motherfuckers! I'll rip out your
fucking hearts and shit in your open chests!" she screamed.

   "ENOUGH!"

   The call cut through Hain's wild tirade and caused me to
jerk my head towards the Lodge. Camille was standing on the
patio, having slipped into a pair of jeans. She regarded the
both of us with an expression of unadulterated white-hot
hostility.

   "Enough."

* * * *

   The last of the crew that had followed us back into the
Lodge and to the parlor filed out the door, leaving only a
single outsider in the room. She was a statuesque redhead,
who hovered in the middle of the room, between Hain and I.
We were seated, ironically enough, on a pair of love seats
with matching upholstery, situated on opposite sides of the
room. Camille sat herself upon the high-backed chair that
had so reminded me of a throne a lifetime ago back on
Friday.

   "I can handle this, Catherine," Camille told the woman.

   "Are you sure?" She didn't sound very confident in
Camille.

   "Yes. Thank you. Please give my apologies to the others
for this... unpleasantness."

   The domme - Catherine - relaxed her stance, slightly. For
a moment she and Camille regarded each other warily. Then
she turned and walked briskly out of the room, pulling the
doors shut behind her.

   "Camille..." Hain began.

   "SHUT UP!" Camille screamed, scaring the hell out of me
and visibly shaking Hain. I even heard the doors rattle as
somebody poised themselves to come running in.

   "I... am so.... ANGRY with *both* of you!" she hissed,
her chest heaving, her eyes burning into me.

   Slowly, her breathing settled down into a soft, even
rhythm and her fists unclenched; yet her eyes still brimmed
with fire.

   "I'm sick of it! I'm sick of all the games! I'm sick of
the lying and manipulation! I'm so fucking sick of feeling
like I'm some bone caught between two fucking dogs!" she
sobbed.

   We sat there, in a silence so awkward and awful it made
the kennels look like the Hyatt.

   "Since I can't have you both in my life, I guess I'm
going to have to choose."

   She looked over at Hain.

   "There was a time where you were the only sane thing in
my whole life," Camille said, her voice trembling. "I'll
always love you for that, no matter how much chaos and pain
you've brought to my life since then."

   Samantha cast her eyes down. "Camille..." she said
softly, pleading.

   "That is why I choose you," Camille said.

   I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach. My whole
body seemed to wobble on the edge of my seat like some
earthquake damaged skyscraper. Samantha seemed no less
astonished. Her head jerked up violently, jaw agape, eyes
filling with tears.

   "You... do?" she managed to choke out.

   "Yes, Samantha. I choose you... to be my slave."

   Samantha jerked backwards sharply, reeling.

   "Camille..."

   "I love you, Samantha, and I can never repay you for what
you're trying to do for me... but you've also used that
gratitude, abused it terribly. You've taken advantage of me
and I will never allow you to have power over me again. If
that means that you choose to stop helping me... so be it. 

   "However, I *will* forgive you. If you come to me, right
now, on your knees!"

   Camille said the last three words in voice that send
chills down my spine. She pointed to the toes of her bare
feet and glared directly into Samantha's eyes.

   Samantha, unable to bear it, turned away, sobbing.

   "I... I can't!" she moaned.

   Camille's gaze leveled off, into empty space. She nodded
slowly and sadly.

   "So be it, " she whispered, and then turned to look at
me.

   "All right then, Jordan. The position is yours, if you
still want it."

    Making a loud sobbing sound in the back of my throat, I
dropped to my knees and began to crawl to her. She stopped
me short by pushing against my shoulder with her foot.

   "Before you accept my offer, you should hear it out
first! I do love you, Jordan, but... in a way you've
betrayed me more, hurt me more.  And that doesn't begin to
scratch the surface of how I feel about..."

   "Camille, please! I'm so sorry! Please!"

   She nodded, not a trace of sympathy in her eyes.

   "If you come with me, Jordan, you will look back on this
weekend as an idyllic time. I will demand total submission
from you, abject subjugation. You will devote your entire
existence to serving me, Jordan. Your family, your job,
friends, all other concerns will be abandoned, do you
understand?"

   "Yes!" 

   "If there were any way to make things right with this
poor girl whose innocence you betrayed by your...
cowardice... but, after all this time I imagine your
reappearance in her life would only serve to stir up old
demons, not lay them to rest. But your crime is more than
just the betrayal of a single woman. You've hurt us all,
diminished the spirit of us all. In addition to merely
taking care of my needs, you will further be expected to
restore amends, to redeem yourself to womankind, and to *me*
in particular as Her representative.

   "I'm not sure you can, Jordan. I'm not sure that I ever
will forgive you. If you want to try, I will let you, I
still love you enough for that; but... I cannot promise that
after weeks, maybe months of hardship, privation,
degradation, pain, that I won't just someday become sickened
by the very sight of you and cast you out anyway.

   "I will push you, Jordan. I will test you, every day. I
will hurt you. Fail, and you're out on your ass with nothing
but the bruises to show for your efforts; succeed, and all
you do is earn the right to endure the next test."

   She liked her dry lips and swallowed.

   "Do you understand?"

   "I love you, Camille!"

   She nodded again.

   "Then, hopefully, that may carry you through the dark
days ahead.

   She withdrew the foot from my shoulder and pointed down.
Weeping uncontrollably, I threw myself to the floor and
began to worship her feet desperately.

End Of Part Two

* * * * * * * * * * * * *     
Dark star crashes, / 
pouring its light into ashes.     
Reason tatters, / 
the forces tear loose from the axis.

                                 Grateful Dead, Dark Star 
* * * * 

Red Rain

Part Three, Chapter One: Love And Little White Lies

Thursday, April 2, 1998

   The sound of rain pattering against the deck woke me. My
old injury throbbed painfully as I peeled myself off the
cold tile of the kitchen floor. According to the small
digital clock on the counter, it was only about twenty
minutes or so before it was time for me to get up anyway, so
I clambered stiffly to my feet and shut off the alarm.

   My first stop was the bathroom, where I sat down on the
toilet, a necessity thanks to the stainless steel chastity
belt that had become my constant companion. Peeing was
relatively easy; but thanks to the chain that ran right up
the crack of your ass, you had to make certain your cheeks
were spread pretty far apart when you took a shit or you'd
have a real mess on your hands.

   I suppose visitors must have thought it strange for
Camille to have a water pick in her ground floor lavatory,
but it's real purpose had nothing to do with dental hygiene.
Instead, I used it to wash out the little steel tube that
held the penis, flushing out any stray drops of urine. The
cool water strumming against the tip was as close to
masturbating as I'd come since the belt had arrived late in
February.

   From there my next stop was the watersports room down in
the dungeon, where I took advantage of the shower. Although
hot water was not expressly forbidden, it would mean a
severe beating for me if Camille should run out. After
trying unsuccessfully for the first few weeks to get the
timing just right, I had eventually just given up and only
used the cold.

   The days of my jumping out of bed at the last minute,
slipping on a clean pair of pants and a shirt and driving to
work were but a memory to me. Upon returning from the Lodge,
I'd quit at the store - much to Beth's great annoyance,
moved out of my apartment, and had even, at my Mistress'
insistence, sold my old Rabbit.

   My whole life had become Camille; serving her, pleasing
her.

   Gone, too, were the days of Lars, Camille's masculine
weightlifting houseboy. 

   Now she had a maid named Pansy.

   After my shower, I had to give myself a hot, sudsy enema
before tracking down the rear shield for my belt; the one
with the attached butt plug. Once found, it would be locked
it into place with a grunt and a grimace.

   Sometimes, as I wriggled into the waist-cincher and
garters that marked the beginning of Pansy's day, I would
think of Camille, still sprawled out in her bed upstairs,
asleep. Before waking her, I would often just hover at the
side of the bed and just look at her face; so soft and
angelic in her slumber. Sometimes, she would forget for an
instant upon waking, and look at me with a drowsy sort of
affection in her eyes. Then the moment would be lost
forever, and the hardness would return to her eyes. 

   Pansy's D-cups were provided courtesy of an artist in
California who'd done some special effects work in the
movies. The latex harness was a very realistic skin tone
that didn't quite match up with mine, but was good enough.
The tits themselves were filled with the same silicone packs
once used by plastic surgeons and had a very realistic
bounce to them.

   They also weighed a ton.

   My hair had been grown out and had lately had been cut
and dyed to make me resemble the pinup queen Betty Page, if
girlfriend had played for the WNBA.

   Like many women, doing my face used up the single
greatest block of my time. It had to be just right to pass
Camille's strict aesthetic standards: bold enough to brand
me a slut, but not so heavy-handed that it looked cartoonish
and sloppy. 

   It had occurred to me one morning, staring at myself in
the mirror as I blotted my lipstick on a tissue, that I'd
become the Amazonian, raven haired, wasp-waisted, top heavy,
stereotypical image of a Dominatrix that Camille could never
be.

   I still had to slip on the fishnet stockings and PVC
uniform before my morning ritual was complete and I could go
upstairs and wake Camille. On days when my leg was acting
up, I was spared the six-inch, red, fuck-me heels, and was
allowed to don the calf-high boots that buttoned up along
the side.

   My duties as Camille's sissy maid were surprisingly
vanilla, considering the effort put into getting me into
character. I kept the house clean, cooked, did laundry.
Camille brought home some books on HTML and soon I was
taking care of her web page for her. I even started making
iced tea for some of Camille's regulars, who often came out
of their sessions dehydrated.

   On the weekends when Casey came to visit, I was
dispatched to the dungeon; where I would spend my days and
nights cooped up in the box that formed the base of
Camille's torture table. If I couldn't hold my water before
Camille came down to give me one of two daily bathroom
breaks, I would use an empty water bottle. The plug made
taking a shit a non-issue.

   I wondered sometimes if Casey ever asked about me.
Camille never said much.

   As hard and lonely as those weekends were, they were
still better than the alternative. Camille would often have
parties on "off" weeks, and usually I spent the whole time
running my ass off serving her guests in every conceivable
way: waitress, masseuse, pussy licker, cocksucker and
sometimes even toilet.

   On other occasions, I would spend the evening bound,
often totally mummified in Ace bandages; except for my
genitals, which knew their only freedom from the belt at
these times. Of course, I knew no real pleasure from being
released. My cock would be exposed through the wrappings for
anyone to whip or pinch, or, most awful yet, fondle and suck
to the very brink of climax. By the end of such an evening
(which was usually the dawn of the next morning) I would be
half-mad; aching with the need for that one last touch that
would push me over the edge. But it never came.

    The closest I came in those months to any sort of sexual
satisfaction was the vicarious enjoyment of Camille's
orgasms. 

   The rain had ended by the time I reached Camille's
bedroom. I called her name gently until her eyelids
fluttered and opened sleepily. 

   That morning, there was no halcyon moment of confusion.
She eyed me with a bored, contemptuous look and yawned.

   I took that as my signal, and started for her bathroom,
when she called out to me.

   "Not today, whore. Just go make my breakfast."

   I turned around and stared at her stupidly. I'd become so
used to the routine that, amazingly, I found the prospect of
a morning without the salty and acrid taste of her piss in
my mouth disturbing.

   A few minutes later, standing over the range, frying
Camille's bacon; I had to keep reminding myself to pace
myself. Usually I had spend a few minutes retouching my
makeup after my morning toilet duty.

   A part of me hoped that this change might mean the
cessation some of my other, even more onerous daily rituals.
And another part was steadily getting more and more nervous.
If there was one thing that had been literally beaten into
me that winter and early spring, it was that changes in the
routine always seemed to herald something bad.

   Camille came downstairs, looking like any other
professional woman about to face a long day at the office.
Briskly and brightly I served up her breakfast and, at her
signal, went to the fridge to get myself a shitshake.

   The name was something of a misnomer... a little. It was
really just one of those weight-loss shakes, chocolate
flavored; and while it didn't taste like shit, exactly, it
wasn't very good.

   I poured my meal into a small dish and settled back down
onto the floor to eat.

   Maybe it was just my nerves, but I thought I could feel a
palpable tension in the air.

   When Camille had finished, I got to my feet and cleared
the table. For one moment I looked at her, agitated and
expectant.

   "It rained earlier?" she asked.

   "Yes, Mistress."

   "Looks like it's stopped now. We'll do it on the porch.
Go get the cane, whore."

   Sighing inside, I trudged over to the water-heater closet
and fished out a long, wicked, rattan staff.

   Camille opened the sliding glass door and I felt cold,
damp air wash over my arms and legs.

   Shoulders slumped, I marched dutifully out onto the
patio, handed her the cane, and turned to face the lake,
gripping the railing firmly.

   Camille hiked up the back of my skirt, exposing my bare,
bruised buttocks to the morning air. I felt her grope
around, instinctively feeling out a spot that had healed up
well enough. I never thought of my ass as being particularly
large, but I have to admit, Camille had a unique way of
locating some seemingly fresh patch of flesh to thrash every
morning.

   "Do you want to be beaten, whore?" she asked, as she did
every morning.

   And like every morning, I felt a lump start to steadily
grow in my throat.

   "Yes, Mistress."

   "Why should you be beaten?"

   "Because," I said, my voice cracking under the strain, "I
am a coward and a whore."

   CRACK!

   It's strange what a human can adapt themselves to. For
the first month after being belted, I had gone around so
desperately horny that I literally ached *inside;* not just
in my cock and balls, but in the pit of my gut. Now I hardly
noticed it unless I was freed up and teased at a party. By
the same token, I'd somehow adjusted to the awful sensation
of being fucked by the butt plug every time I took a step.

   But I would never get over the bite of rattan against my
flesh.

   "Thank you, Mistress," I grunted through tears and
clenched teeth. "May I have another?"

   CRACK! CRACK! CRACK...

* * * *  

   After paying my daily penance, I was dismissed to go
about my chores while Camille psyched herself up for her
first client of the day.

   Aside from answering the door, and occasionally serving a
regular tea, I had very little to do with Camille's clients.
However, after a guy had visited a few times and Camille
felt comfortable enough around them, she'd play a little
game.

   Before going down into the dungeon, she'd have me kneel
before the client and then ask them if they might like a
nice blowjob from her sissy slut.

   By that time, most knew there was a man somewhere
underneath Pansy's glossy, whorish exterior, and they
refused the offer flatly. 

   Of course, this gave Camille an excuse to take offense
and launch into full raging "Domina Mode," dragging the poor
fool down into the darkness. Sometime after binding, gagging
and teasing them a little, she would summon me. Camille
would don a mighty strapon and I would suck it down like it
was my last meal on earth. Often, by the time I was done,
there would be profound regret vividly evident in their
eyes, but the offer was only ever made once.

   Every now and then, someone would actually say "Okay" to
Camille's offer, and for a heart wrenching second, I could
see her coldly thinking it over. But then she'd bark angrily
at him that he was a sicko or a faggot and, again, they
would be bullied down the stairs to get their money's worth
of abuse.

   Some days, instead of seeing clients, she would take off
in the morning; or write off the afternoon. I never knew
where she went on those occasions, and she made it clear
that asking would be a dangerous idea. 

   There were other times where I'd happen by when she was
on the phone, and it seemed pretty clear she was talking to
Hain. 

   I began to notice a certain correlation between those two
events. There were times, as I heard her car drive away,
that I would sink to my knees and collapse into tears.

   As unbelievable as it might seem, I only ever thought of
leaving once. It was only a week or two after the Lodge, and
Camille wore her anger and pain like a bad sunburn. You
could feel it if you stood too close.   

    One night, on a non-Casey weekend, she went out and
didn't return until two in the morning. She was drunk, and
she wasn't alone.

   I suppose there were worse possible outcomes for that
night other than watching the woman I love fuck another man.
But it sure didn't feel that way at the time.

   The only thing that had kept me from walking out the next
morning (in the days before the belt, it was a much easier
option) was the aura of guilt she seemed to carry with her
all that next morning, piggy backed onto her hangover. After
that night the open hostility seemed to have burned itself
out, and she settled into an attitude of cool, patrician
authority.

   I missed her laugh most of all; her too-loud raucous
laugh.

   The rest of that particular day passed by like any other.
I answered her E-mail, made her bed, greeted her clients,
dusted and vacuumed, lapped up another shitshake for lunch.

   Just another working day for Pansy the sissy slut.

   That evening, I fried Camille up a pair of cheeseburgers
for dinner. She ate quietly, and my earlier trepidation
started to resurface as she pushed away the plate,
half-finished, and asked me politely to join her out on the
deck.

   It was cool out that evening, and the decking was still
wet from the rain, yet I nevertheless, lowered myself to its
clammy surface as she sat down in a folding chair and
propped her feet up on the railing.

   "We need to talk," she said, sounding far away and
unfocused.

   "Okay," I replied, fighting up another weepy spell.

   "First of all, in a few weeks I'll be going away on a
vacation."

   She looked down at me.

   "That... sounds... great, Mistress. May I ask where?"

   She sighed heavily. "The Caribbean. Actually, it's not
really a vacation exactly. Arthur's been pestering me to
spend a week with him on his company boat out there."

   I felt a surge of jealousy. Arthur was one of her
clients: a slick English suit. I didn't like him because he
was always pressuring Camille to let him get off during a
session. And, I think, he pushed for out and out sex
sometimes when I wasn't within earshot.

   "I've been holding out, but I do so want to see that part
of the world, visit the islands," she sighed wistfully. "He
finally offered me eight grand to go with him. Dominate
him."

   She looked back at me, the expression on her face seemed
to be challenging me to say something. Instead, I merely
nodded my head sadly.

   "Why don't you ask it?" she snapped.

   "Ask what, Mistress?" I said, genuinely confused.

   "Am I gonna fuck him?"

   I swallowed hard and looked away into the darkness.

   "That's your decision, Mistress."

   "That's right! My decision! And *if* I end up fucking
him, which I still haven't decided on, it will be because I
*want* to! NOT because he paid me, understand?"

   "I understand, Mistress."

   "I'm not a whore! Who's the whore here, Jordan?"

   I turned and glared balefully into her eyes. It was rare
those days that I could muster up the intensity necessary to
win a staring contest with her, but that night she broke off
first.

   "I'm the whore," I spat bitterly.

   She nodded in an overly enthusiastic manner, and I
thought I heard her sniffle a little.

   "Jordan?" she said, her eyes not leaving the basalt
surface of the lake.

   "Yes, Mistress?"

   "When I get back... I think... I know... things are going
to be different. They're going to change."

   "As you wish."

   "I... I'm going to travel more. I mean, real vacations,
not this shit. In fact, I'm going to stop making my living
this way altogether! And I'm going to sell the house, too!"

   I tried to let that all sink in.

   "I... I think I'm leaving here, Jordan." She sniffed
again, and I thought I saw twinkles of reflected moonlight
stream down her cheeks.

   "Oh," I said, my head spinning like a tilt-O-whirl. "You
mean you're leaving *me.*"

   "Jesus Christ, Jordan! Not everything in my life revolves
around you! Does it ever fucking enter your mind at all that
I *might* have had a life before you, and that just maybe
I'll still have one after you're gone!"

   I didn't know what to say. She sighed and when she spoke
again, her tone was much softer, almost the way it had been
in the time before the Lodge.

    "I'm sorry Jordan. You don't know. I shouldn't blame you
for not understanding. You have been a good slave, Jordan.
You really have. A lot of my friends have commented on how
envious they are of me. They don't know what you did, and
they don't ever have to! If... if you like... I could set
you up with one of them. Whichever one you'd like."

   "Someone... else..." I said slowly, anger building inside
me. "Is that what you think I want? Is that the explanation
you cling to for why I've gone through all of this? Because
I *wanted* to?"

  "Oh, go to hell, Jordan!" she snapped viciously.

   "I don't want to be someone else's *slave*! I... I don't
even want to be with someone else! Camille... all I want is
to be with you!"

   "I... can't... *trust* you, Jordan!"

   "Not after all I've been willing to endure for you?"

   She shook her head "no."

   I felt my shoulders slump and my heart die in my chest.
What more was there? I'd reached the end of the stick and
found that the carrot hadn't been there all along. A part of
me wanted to just walk into the lake and let the cool water
settle over me forever.

  Camille started to cry, and I sat there, more confused and
tormented than ever. 

   Looking over at her from the vantage of the cold, damp
wooden deck, I didn't see the cruel bitch who had beaten me,
sodomized me, pissed in my mouth and degraded and
emasculated me;  I saw my sweet, mercurial Camille. I saw
the woman who had glowed with such pure, girlish glee as she
tenderly cradled her newest Beanie Baby; now hounded and
heartbroken by forces that I might never even know. So I did
the only thing my heart would allow.

   I got up off the deck and held her tightly in my arms,
perhaps for the very last time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 
Every day I watch my mirror /
Getting a little older, wiser, sadder with the years 
Missed chances / 
Forgotten romances Starting now to loosen with the tears

      Marc Almond,  Love And Little White Lies 

* * * * 

Red Rain 

Part Three, Chapter Two: Red Rain

Wednesday, April 22, 1998

   Old habits die hard.

   True Camille had made some noises about sending someone
over to check up on my while she was away, but we both knew
her heart wasn't in it.

   Still, old habits *do* die hard.

   I found myself sleeping on the kitchen floor, cleaning
myself, donning my Pansy persona, eating my shitshakes, all
as if it were any other day. I even wore the plug, unlocking
it on my scheduled bathroom breaks using the key she'd left
behind in case of emergencies.

   I probably would have whipped my own ass, if I could've.

   Puttering about the empty house, I found myself reminded
of my first impression of it as I'd approached from the
strand: a big, beached sailing vessel of yore. 

    Only, it had become a ghost ship with Camille gone.

    And I was the ghost.

    Camille hadn't elaborated much about her plans after
that night on the deck, but I'd gotten the impression that
wheels had been put into motion and the house was on the
market.

   Quite probably, I was, too.

   Every now and then, maybe once an hour, I'd briefly
entertain that possibility. I'd try to think of Camille's
friends (most of whom, thankfully, thought as little of
Samantha Hain as I did!) and pick and choose among them: the
prettiest, sexiest, kindest (an essential criterion!) the
one with the personality that seemed to match mine... when
I'd had one... the most.

   Inevitably, those thoughts led me to feeling guilty and
depressed. I knew that my time was running out, that she was
casting me off; but the very idea of serving another felt...
wrong... traitorous. I clung fervently to that moment of
tenderness on the deck as a sign all was not lost; even
though it seemed in the days that followed that nothing at
all had changed.

    I was still wrestling with my emotions when I heard the
crunch of tires on the gravel outside. Peeking out the
window, I saw a car pull up into the drive.

   For a second, I wondered if Camille had really gone
through with her threat to keep tabs on me after all. In a
strange way, it made me almost giddy with delight to think
that maybe she did still care about me on some level after
all!

   As I watched, the doors opened and a man and a woman made
an ungainly effort to pull themselves from the car. The
woman I recognized at once: it was Camille's sister, Stacy.

   Even at that distance, I could tell them apart. Camille
was thin, maybe unhealthily so, but Stacy seemed to border
on emaciated. 

   She and her companion staggered towards the front door. I
know I was imagining it, but I swear I could smell the booze
from where I was standing.

   As they drew closer I got a better look at the man. He
reminded me of one of the early-morning crew of
thirty-something males who had no real job and went around
to all the stores buying up hot collectible toys like Hot
Wheels and Star Wars.  His thinning, greasy hair was done up
in a ponytail in the back, and his eyes were bloodshot
specks from my vantage point; from being high or drunk, I
couldn't say.  

   He had on a sleeveless Harley Davidson T-shirt, exposing
crude tattoos up and down his arms. They both seemed to be
leaning on each other for support as they inexorably
stumbled onto the font porch.

   It was at this exact moment that I suddenly came to my
senses. Looking around frantically, I knew I didn't have
time to run down the stairs, unlock the dungeon door and
slip inside, not in the heels I was wearing! So, even as I
heard a key scrabble at the lockplate, I scurried across the
living room, dragging the vacuum behind me, and stuffed
myself inside the downstairs closet, next to the water
heater. 

   The front door opened just as I pulled the closet door
almost shut, and I heard a raspy voice exclaim "Whoa!" as
they shambled into the house.

   "Toldja," Stacy said in a bitchy little schoolgirl sneer.

   He lumbered by my tiny sliver of vision and then was gone
again.

   "You sure she ain't here, man?" he asked.

   "I already told you, Chuck, the cunt is off sailing
around the Bahamas or some shit! The bitch!"

   "Yeah, cool," 'Chuck' mumbled. "Where's the fucking
booze?"

   The sound of wood being rent made me jump.

   "Be careful, dumbass!" Stacy barked sharply.

   "I told you," Chuck drawled between an audible swig,
"don't be callin' me dumb."

   "Yeah, I forgot! It takes a fucking brain surgeon to be
unemployed!"

   I could feel my heart pounding forcefully in my chest; my
palms began to sweat.

   "You got such a fucking smart mouth," Chuck growled. "Why
don't you come over here and wrap that smart mouth of yours
around my dick, bitch!"

   Stacy moved into my line of sight and in spite of all the
tension in the air, I almost broke out laughing. Her hands
were placed firmly on her hips and her head was cocked to
one side in an almost perfect mirror image of her elder
sister in "Domina Mode."

   "Why don't *you* come over *here* and use your *dumb*
mouth to lick *my* pussy, asshole!" she snapped.

   "Or are you too fucking stupid to handle even that?"

   Considering how rickety he'd looked approaching the
house, Chuck surprised me by how fast he darted in to her.
With an angry grunt, he backhanded Stacy and she tumbled
screaming over the back of the couch.

   Chuck nodded, as if pleased with himself, and began
climbing over the back of the sofa. I could hear Stacy
softly crying from the other side.

   Chuck was standing on the cushions when he began to
unfasten his belt and slide it from his dirty jeans. In a
move that I was personally all-too familiar with, he bent it
double and pulled the ends tight, making a loud, terrifying
snap.

   "You need to be put in your place, bitch," he said.
"Maybe you won't run that mouth of yours so much!"

   I watched, reeling, as he lifted his belt skyward over
Stacy's shrieking pleas.

   Just then, something strange happened.

   I could hear somebody yelling, bellowing at the top of
their lungs; and there was a curious wind blowing in my
face. I could see Chuck's face clearly, every wrinkle, gin
blossom and bit of food caught in his mustache. He looked,
in a word, astonished.

   Then I slammed into him and we crashed into the home
entertainment center.

   It suddenly occurred to me that the roaring in my ears
might very well be my own voice, but I had other concerns at
that moment. I managed to get in a solid punch dead into his
leathery face before he shoved me off of him.

   He swung the belt instinctively, but I blocked with my
arm, allowing the leather to wrap around it. With a jerk,
the distance was closed between us again, and I began
hammering him in the gut. He reached out, and in a dizzying
instant of semi-clarity, I realized he had grabbed hold of
my tits. Snarling, he heaved me bodily into the brick facade
of the fireplace, knocking the wind out of me.

   Grinning like a skull, he wrapped one oily hand around my
throat.

   Praying for tennis shoes, I stomped my stiletto heel into
the top of his foot.

   Chuck howled with pain and doubled over. I took the
opportunity to land one, then another solid blow to the side
of his head.

   My hands fluttered behind me as I wobbled unsteadily. I
felt something cool and solid brush my palm and reflexively,
I grabbed it.

   I swung my arm around, and was about to bring the
wrought-iron poker down on his head, when I head Stacy
scream at me to stop.

   I froze, and slowly, my arm lowered. I turned to look at
her. She had regained her feet and was gaping back at me in
utter disbelief; a dark blot forming on her right cheek.

   We just stood there for a minute, breathing heavily as
Chuck moaned.

   Then, sounding as if she could not believe she was saying
the word, she asked, "Jordan?"

* * * *

   I'm not sure what was worse: the sting of the antiseptic
on my knuckles, or the smirk that the devastatingly cute PA
had on her face as she applied it.

   At the very least, I was in a room, off from the main ER
and out of sight. After calling the police, I'd more or less
abandoned Chuck and rushed Stacy to the hospital. I can't
imagine what everybody must have been thinking as we
stumbled in through the doors. To make matters worse, I
discovered after being secreted away that one falsie had
been ripped during the fight, and not only had silicone had
leaked everywhere, but my figure had taken on a definitely
lopsided appearance.

   The cops came to question me about the incident. Stacy
had backed up my side of events and, in a fortuitous bit of
chance, they happened to wheel Chuck in at the time I was
being questioned. He was strapped to the gurney and
screaming like a maniac; and one of the paramedics with him
needed stitches for a split lip. 

   Sitting down, my height wasn't as obvious, and throughout
my interview, the junior officer gawked at me with naked
incredulity. A part of me, the Pansy part, actually found
him kind of adorable.

   After the cops left, and the PA had finished up, she
looked at me and said, "If you weren't so tall and had those
shoulders, you could pull it off, you know."

   "Thanks," I replied wearily.

   There was a gentle rattle of glass from the doorway, and
I looked up to see Stacy awkwardly standing there, knocking
softly at the glass window in the door.      "Hey," she
said, flushed and unable to make eye contact.

   "Hey," I said back. "You okay?" She nodded.

   "Thank you," she said meekly. "We were both so fucked
up... I don't know what he would have done. And then you
came flying out from nowhere and I thought - damn! - did we
just do coke or acid?" She laughed nervously.

   I'm not sure what would have been said next, but at that
instant there were raised voices in the hall, and suddenly a
man in a suit came barging into the room, trailed by an
angry retinue of hospital staff.

   "You little tramp!" he bellowed at Stacy as he seized her
arm, yanking her towards the door. 

   "Daddy!" she cried out. 

   "Hey!" I called out.

   Our eyes met. I could see the emotions cycle through him
at superhuman speeds: anger, resentment, disgust, contempt,
fear, anger again....

   Without saying another word, her hauled her out the door
and through the throng of objecting doctors and nurses,
leaving me to sit alone in my little room, off from the ER
and out of sight.

* * * *

   "Thanks, Harry," I said again, for what felt like the
hundredth time that day.

   "No problemo, mi amigo!" he replied, handing me a frosty
beer.

   Leaning back in the lawn chair, I looked out over the
surface of the lake and reached down between my legs;
scratching my crotch to the point of near-masturbation.

   "Uh... you want to be alone, there?" Harry asked.

   I laughed a little. 

   "Sorry, long story."

   The same cute PA who'd tended to my wounds had returned a
few minutes after the scene with Camille's dad and had asked
if there was anything else I needed. A half an hour later I
was dressed in cutoffs, a T-shirt and a pair of topsiders. I
thought it best not to ask where they came from. I'd also
removed my face and piled my hair up underneath a generic
ball cap. The prosthetic boobies went into a dumpster, along
with the rest of Pansy's outfit. 

   With a few borrowed bucks, that I swore I'd repay, I took
a cab back to Camille's.

   Chuck had thrown quite a tantrum waiting for the police;
and Camille's big screen TV as well as her majestic aquarium
were both smashed to pieces. I spent most the rest of the
night picking up dead fish and shards of glass.

   When I had finally restored some small shred of order to
Camille's home, I found the emergency key and unlocked
myself from the chastity belt. I stood there, like a pervert
in the park, fondling my cock and balls for several sweet
minutes before taking a long, hot shower.

   By the time I was done, it was well past midnight, but I
got dressed anyway, and walked out along the shore.

   Retracing the route Camille and I had taken that first
night, I passed by dark, slumbering houses and shadow woods
before reaching Harry's place.

   Standing on the beach, sand squished between my toes, I
laughed and almost began to cry. A light was on in his
window, almost like a beacon welcoming me home.

  I crashed in one of Harry's guest bedrooms until
mid-afternoon, and bummed some ill-fitting clothes. Harry
didn't ask what I'd been up to for the past three months,
and I didn't tell him. We sat around, and drank some beers.
It was good to be a guy again.

   My only real problem was an almost pathological need to
touch myself. After being belted so long, I needed to cum,
and badly. I kept meaning to ask if Harry knew any girls
that would be up for a little hard and fast action with no
strings attached (knowing full well that he did) but I never
got around to it.

   For the time being, I was content to sit in Harry's back
yard and watch the sun set. Early crickets began to chirp
and spring peepers joined the chorus.

   "Listen, buddy," Harry said, slapping my shoulder, "no
offense, but I gotta jet. Already made plans. Places to go,
people to do, you know."

   I chuckled.

   "No problemo," I said, shaking his hand.

   "I'll try not to get in too late!" he said.

   "Don't rush yourself on account of me," I replied.

   We said our good-byes and Harry loped up the incline and
into the house.

   I sat around quietly, staring off into the dark cobalt
sky beyond the lake. Gradually, I became aware of another
presence there with me.

   She was standing along the water's edge, at the far
corner of Harry's property. At first I wasn't entirely sure
she wasn't just a mirage. Her hair had been done up in a
hasty bun, and her clothes were wrinkled and messy.

   When she sensed that I had finally taken notice of her,
Camille walked forward slowly. She stopped a few feet away
from me and hovered there. Outwardly she looked a fright,
but she had that same cool aura that had surrounded her that
very first night.

   "Sorry about the house," I said, breaking the silence. "I
suppose in retrospect I should have handcuffed the bastard.
I mean, it's not like there's a lack of ways to restrain a
body in that place."

   "You first priority was to get Stacy to the hospital.
Make sure she was all right. I appreciate that."

   "How do you know that I wasn't making sure *I* was all
right, huh?"

   She sighed angrily and sat down on the grass.

   "Because I talked to her, you ass! She told me how
frantic you were to make sure she was okay, how you insisted
the doctors look at her before they got to you, despite the
fact that you looked beaten all to hell, okay?"

   I grunted noncommittally and took a swig of beer.

   "Even so, I guess that still doesn't make me even for
what I did before, huh?"

   "I don't know, Jordan. Maybe I'm not the best person to
consult on how much punishment is not enough or too much."

   "That's funny. I was getting the feeling that you were
the expert in meting out just desserts!"

   "You could have said 'No,' Jordan. To any of it, you
could have just said no!"

   I looked deep into her eyes.

   "And then I would have lost you."

   "Christ! Would that have been so bad? I mean, how the
fuck can you love me anyway? What is it you think you see in
me that makes it worth what I've put you through?"

   I sighed sadly and shook my head.

   "I'm sorry, Camille. I guess I can't explain it. Not to
you at any rate.  It's not about some kind of rational
cost-benefit analysis. It's all about your smile."

   "My... smile?"

   "And the way your hair smells, and the way you have a
terrible singing voice but you never let that stop you...
and... and a hundred other things. And I didn't 'think' I
saw them, they *were* there!  Maybe I haven't seen many of
them lately, but I guess I hoped... if I held out long
enough... But I guess it's pretty clear now how you feel
about me."

   She looked up at me with tears swimming in her eyes.

   "Oh, you asshole!" she cried and started to crawl towards
me. I stretched out a foot and propped it against her
shoulder, holding her back.

   "Jordan... please... don't you understand? I still...
I..."

   "And that's why you were going to ship me off to one of
your girlfriends? Because you *care*?"    

   "Well... yes!"

   "Jesus, you are fucked up, Camille!"

   "Jordan! It wasn't like I was giving you to Samantha! The
women I had in mind are only into the scene casually, as a
game! If you gave them just a fraction of the same devotion
you've shown me, my God, Jordan! They'd *worship* you!"

   "I don't want to be worshiped, Camille. All I've ever
wanted was you."

   "I'm sorry," she said, choking back a sob.

   "For what?" 

   "For... everything! For how I've treated you..."

   "Camille, you made it clear from the very beginning that
was a part of you, and I accepted it. Like you said, I could
have said no. I wouldn't have even minded the last three
months half as badly if I honestly thought my suffering had
made you happy, but it didn't, did it?"

   "No. Sometimes... I don't know! All I know is that when I
called the house and you weren't there, I..."

   I took my foot off her shoulder and she came to me and
buried her head in my lap, crying softly.

   "I'm sorry!" she said over and over again as I ran my
fingers through her hair. "I'm so sorry! Jordan... please...
come home with me. Love me..."

   I sighed and gently cupped my palm against her cheek.

   "I love you, Camille," I said.

   I stood and helped her to her feet. She hugged me in a
light, timid way. Hand in hand, we walked out onto the shore
and walked slowly down the strand.

  To her house.

   To her bed.

   Together.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *     
Special Note:

   With just one more chapter to go, I'd like to give very
special thanks to Sara, Vickie and most especially to El
Tigre Grande! for their tremendous support and enthusiasm
for this particular story. 

* * * * 

Red Rain  

Part Three, Chapter Three: Caribbean Blue

Friday, May 1, 1998

   The suit was new and it itched. I kept scratching at my
arms as we drove through town.

   Camille had said very little about where we were going or
why, but I got the sense that she was incredibly  tense. In
fact, she had been possessed by a sort of nervous energy all
week.

   Camille drove through the gates of the park and pulled up
into an empty parking space. Just over the crest of a small
hill, I could spot the carillon tower.

    Camille put the car in park and turned off the engine.
She craned her neck around to look out the windows, as if
searching for something and, not seeing it, sighed.

   "Jordan," she said, "can I ask you a question?"

   "Oh, God, Camille, it's not going to be what I think it
is, is it?"

   At least once a day, for the seven days since we'd
reunited on the beach, she asked the same basic question.
And at least once a day, I found some way to duck it or put
it off.

   "Why are you here?" she asked.

   "On this planet?" 

   "Jordan! Please! Please, I have to know. Right now. Why
do you stay with me? How can you still care about me at
all?"

   I massaged my temples and sighed heavily.

   "Jesus, Camille! It's just not good enough for you, is
it? You just can't accept that I love you. You really need
some sort of cold, logical explanation, don't you?"

  "I don't know," she said softly, but I knew that she did.

  "Okay, fine, how about this? If I leave you, then I have
to go through all of that shit about dredging up my past all
over again with the next girl! And I *really* don't want to
go through that again! There, does that make you happy now?"

   "No," she said sadly.

   I reached over, took her hand and brought it to my lips
for a gentle kiss.

   "I've spent the last six years of my life dwelling on the
past, Camille. It burns you out after a while. I think I'm
ready to start living for the future now. And I'd like, very
much, for that future to be with *you,* okay?"

   She was about to say something when an all-too-familiar
red sports car pulled up alongside us.

   It was Samantha Hain.

   I hadn't seen her for several months, and it looked as
though she'd lost some weight. Her jacket hung on her a bit
too loosely, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

   Camille got out of the car and, smiling warmly, clasped
her hands.

   "This is it?" she asked, rocking back and forth on her
heels. "Isn't it?"

   Hain nodded. "I think they know what's coming and they
want to avoid getting spanked in open court," she said,
looking pointedly at me.   

   "Don't get any ideas," I said coldly.

   Camille sighed loudly. She took my hand and squeezed it
tight.

   "Sorry," I said.

   We walked up the hill and Camille and I sat down on the
bench in front of the reflecting pool  that surrounded the
carillon. Hain paced back and forth anxiously. After a few
minutes of sweating it out in the hot, unfamiliar wool, we
spied a pair of figures emerge from the distance and slowly
wind their way around the edge of the duck pond and up the
gentle southern slope.

   One of the men was Camille's father. The other was an
older, stately gentleman, who reminded me a bit of old
photographs of General Lee. He was in the lead, and as he
crested the hill, he went straight for the bench and gave
Camille a polite nod.

   "Camilla," he said, his voice possessing that rough, yet
smooth texture of a old-time Country singer.

   "Uncle Patrick," she said curtly, stiffly nodding back.

   For a moment I stared at the man in confusion.

   "I thought your uncle was in the Marines," I blurted.

   Uncle Patrick smiled warmly at me and said, "Uncle, in
this case, as in old friend of the family."

   "Are you?" Camille snapped bitterly.

   Uncle Patrick took the rebuke well and turned to
acknowledge Hain.

   "Counsel."

   "Counsel." she replied coolly. 

   Camille's father, who had been lagging behind on the walk
up the hill reached our group and glared at me balefully.

   "Is that him?" he demanded. "Is that the faggot?"

   "This *faggot* saved Stacy's *life* Daddy!" Camille
shrieked back at him, and then, turning to me, said
sheepishly, "Well... you know what I mean..."

   I patted her hand as Uncle Patrick called for calm all
around.

   "This is the kind of environment she'd be growing up in!"
Camille's father continued angrily. 

   "What kind of environment does she have with you?"
Camille barked back. "You're always out raising money for
your next fucking campaign, Stacy's a fucking drug addict
who's hell bent on suicide!"

   "Barbara's there!"

   "Barbara *hates* her, and you know it!"

   "Now, now," Uncle Patrick said is his calming, gravely
voice. He turned to Samantha.

   "We do, nevertheless, have some worries about the fact
that she runs her... business out of the home. My client is
understandably concerned about the sort of element that will
be going in and out of there."

   "Camille has already said she intends to give up the
profession, Patty," Hain replied smartly. "And you might be
surprised just who numbers themselves among that 'element'!"

   Uncle Patrick laughed softly.

   "I just might at that," he said, his blue eyes twinkling.
"All right, then. We'll concede custody."

   "What?" Camille's father exploded. "What is this
bullshit? You're supposed to be my lawyer!"

   Uncle Patrick turned on his client and said brusquely,
"I'm your friend, too, Jack, and I'm acting like one right
now. I can't keep going up before the judge with my dick
hanging out in the wind, swearing on one hand that Camilla's
claims are totally baseless and then on the other doing
everything in my power to keep him from ordering the tests
that would settle things for good!"

   "Besides," he added, "If the court rules against you, it
all comes out in the papers. This way we can still keep it
moderately quiet."

   He turned and looked Hain straight in the eye. "Right?"

   "My client's first priority has always been Casey's
welfare. Having this splashed all over the media would be in
no one's best interests, as far as we're concerned."

   Patrick nodded agreeably.

   "It's settled then."

   Camille cried out with joy and leapt up to hug Patrick,
while her father unloaded a invective laden tirade at
faggots, lawyers and ungrateful children. He turned and
stormed off down the hill, presumably back to his car;
although secretly, I wouldn't have minded (or been much
surprised) if he'd dove into the pond.

   "Thank you," Camille said through her tears.

   "Just doing what I ought have a year ago," Uncle Patrick
said, smiling tenderly at her. "You'd probably better pick
her up tonight. I don't think he'll do anything, but it'd
just be for the best all around, all right?"

   Camille nodded emphatically. Uncle Patrick gave her a
warm kiss on the forehead and then swiveled around to follow
his client back through the park.

   Camille jumped up and down and squealed wildly. She ran
to Samantha and gave her a huge bear hug. Hain received it
stiffly.

   "You did it," Camille said.

   "Ah, he just blinked first. Not much of a fight, really."

   "*You* did it, Samantha," Camille insisted. She pulled
away, but took Hain's hands in her own. The two women stood
facing one another in silence.

   "Maybe... next week sometime we could have lunch together
and... talk," Camille said softly.

   Hain's facade began to crack. She sniffled and nodded
awkwardly.

   "I'd... like that."

   The two parted and Hain began to slowly move down the
other side of the hill to where we had parked. She stopped
about five yards away and turned back to say something.

   "Oh, Jordan?"     

   "Yes?" I answered, nervously.

   "Tracy sends his regards," she said, giving me a knowing
wink. 

   As she walked away, I shifted back around in my seat.
Camille was standing there, almost in a trance.

   "My baby," she said like a mantra. "I'm finally getting
my baby."

   I stood up and walked to her. Taking her hands in mine, I
looked deep into her rich brown eyes.

   "I am so *totally* confused right now!"

* * * *

    "I don't get it!"

   I looked into Casey's soft brown eyes and shrugged my
shoulders.

   "Beats me, kiddo. I only work here."

   Camille sighed irritably from her side of the couch.

   Casey looked to her and said again, "I don't get it. How
can you be my Mommy?"

   "Sweetie, I just explained it to you! I was very, very
young when I found out I was going to have a baby. Too
young."

   "Uh huh..." Casey said, echoing my own earlier experience
of hearing the story.

   "And Daddy was just starting to get into politics..."

   Casey made a face like she never wanted to hear *that*
word again. I can't say I blamed her.

   "... and it would have looked bad for him to have a
teenage daughter who was having a baby..."

   "I thought that sort of thing went out in the fifties," I
said under my breath.

   "Anyway," Camille said, giving me a look to keep quiet.
"Anyway, Mommy and I went away for a while, which was
actually not such a bad thing because we'd been apart from
each other for a while and..."

   "Why were you apart?"

   "It's... a long story in itself, sweetie, and it really
is better for you to be a little older before you hear it."

   I arched my eyebrows quizzically at that, but I kept my
mouth shut.

   "Anyway," Camille said for the fourteenth or fifteenth
time that afternoon, "Anyway, we got to spend some time
together and when we came back, we brought you with us!"

    "Where was Stacy in all of this?" I asked, forgetting
myself. Camille flinched.

   "Daddy thought it would be for the best if she didn't
know," Camille admitted, looking pained by the memory, "and
since he didn't have time to take care of her himself, she
got sent off to live with aunt and uncle."

   "The *Marine* uncle?" I asked.

   She nodded unhappily.

   "I bet that was fun!"

   Camille sighed. "Please, Jordan!"

   A lot of things suddenly dawned on me at that instant. I
nodded sympathetically and shut my mouth for good.

   "So... anyway... for Daddy's sake we told everybody that
you were Mommy's baby, and not mine. And, at the time, I
thought that really would be for the best, sweetheart! I was
so young and so confused and I had no idea how sick Mommy
was going to get or I swear I never..."

   Her voice choked off sharply.

   For a kid who'd just been told, a couple of times, that
her whole life had been a lie, Casey seemed pretty
nonchalant about the whole thing. She swung her head around
to give me another slightly puzzled look.

   "So... does that mean you're my Daddy?" she asked.

   "Uhhh... Camille?"

   Camille laughed in spite of all the emotion of the moment
and said, "Well... we'll see, okay sweetheart?"

   Casey mulled it over. Finally, she looked up at Camille
and said, "I *still* don't get it."

   Camille sighed heavily and rolled her eyes and I couldn't
help but giggle a little.

   "Look, sweetie, why don't you and I go out for a walk on
the beach and I'll try and explain it again, okay?"

   "Okay."

   Camille looked me in the eye.

   "No boys allowed!" she said sternly. 

   Casey giggled and said "Yeah!" sticking her tongue out at
me.

   I held up my hands in supplication and smiled at them.

   "Okay! Okay! I'll just stay here and put some of Casey's
things upstairs for her. Maybe I'll order some pizza, too,
so you'll have dinner waiting for you when you get back,
how's that sound?"

   "Pizza? Yay!" Casey cheered. Camille gave me a dirty
look, but nodded anyway.

   We all stood up and walked out onto the deck together. It
was getting late in the day and the sun was already hovering
over the far edge of the lake. I smiled as Camille put her
arm around the little girl's shoulders and slowly began to
lead her down the steps and across the beach.

* * * *

   I had only just finished putting away some of Casey's
toys when, upon coming back downstairs, I saw a man in a
suit standing on the back deck, gazing out at the setting
sun.

   For one heart-stopping moment, I imagined it was
Camille's father, come to extract some kind of horrible
vengeance on us all and that he had Camille and Casey's
heads in a cardboard box, like the end of Seven.

   But the man's build was all wrong, and his hair was a
lighter shade of brown, almost sandy blonde.

   He was a little startled as I slid open the door.
Glancing at his face in profile, I didn't recognize him at
all, not even from Camille's clients. 

   "Can I help you?" I asked.

   He laughed good-naturedly.

   "Sorry about that! Didn't mean to trespass. It's just...
well, it's been quite some time since I saw the sun set over
the lake from here. I guess nostalgia got the better of me."

   He had a soft, yet masculine voice, and his pale blue
eyes twinkled kindly.

   "You used to live here?"

   "Summers I did. My wife and I... ex-wife. We'd come out
here on the porch and watch the world put itself to bed.
Hell of a show, my boy. Speaking of which, they still do the
fireworks displays out here on the Fourth?"

   I nodded and he picked up the gesture in return.

   "So... were you thinking of buying it back? The house?
It's up for sale."

   He laughed again.

   "Not really. Hadn't thought about it. I don't suppose
Camie is in, is she?"

   "No," I hesitated, still not sure of the stranger. "Not
at the moment."

   He sighed and nodded his head again. "Well, it's probably
for the best. I heard the news and I thought... well, I'm
not sure what I was thinking. Nostalgia again, I suppose.
Tell me, does the child look very much like her? Take after
her side, I mean?"

   "Oh, yeah!" I said, smiling in spite of myself. "Aside
form their ages, they could be twins."

   "Well, that's something," he said, unselfconsciously
rubbing his index finger along his prominent nose. "I
suppose she could have drawn a worse hand form the ol' gene
pool!"

   He turned slightly, and seemed to really see me for the
first time. He smiled warmly and asked, "So... are you
Camie's new master?"

   I hesitated for a second, a little bowled over at the
question. Then, slowly, as if informing both he and I, I
said, "No... I'm Camille's... sub."

   He laughed and slapped the railing.

   "How marvelous! I mean, I'd heard what she was doing out
here, but that was for *money* and I didn't put much stock
in it! How delightful to hear how far she's come!"

   He turned back to look out over the lake again and shook
his head.

   "Not the sultry little runaway with the big eyes anymore,
is she?"

   He sighed.

   "It was those eyes that did me in, you know. I mean,
looking at her body, it was blindingly obvious she was
underage, but there was something about those eyes..."

   "I know," I echoed softly.

   "I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "Perhaps I will buy
this place back again. Piss my Ex off royally, I bet." He
chuckled.  "The only thing we could agree on in the whole
damn divorce was giving Camille this place. Only damn thing
of mine she didn't end up walking away with, frankly."

   "You... she... *gave* Camille this house?" I asked
incredulously.

   "Seemed the least we could do, old sport, under the
circumstances and all. She really was quite an exceptional
little slavegirl, you know, for the six months we had her.
Looking back on it, I think the missus loved that girl more
than I did. That's why it pissed her off so much, you know.
Not that I fucked Camie, but that I fucked Camie *without*
her!"

   "Ummm... look..." I said, a little uneasily, "they should
be back in a few minutes if you'd like to wait..."

   He shook his head from side to side in a slow, mournful
gesture.

   "No... I think it's a bit late for me now. It looks as
though she has everything well in hand." He sighed
wistfully. "She always did, you know. Even as a slave, she
always was on top of everything..." 

   He turned and started to walk around the deck towards the
front of the house.

   "Should I tell her you were here?" I called after him.

   He stopped and seemed to think it over.

   "Yes, please, if you would."

   "Uh... who should I say exactly *was* here?"

   He pivoted around and closed the distance between us,
offering up his hand in a firm, friendly handshake.     
"Hain," he said. "Basil Hain. She'll know."

   I don't know how I kept from tumbling over the side of
the deck, but I watched him withdraw unhurriedly and I heard
his car pull away from the drive.

   A second later, I heard a light, chirping giggle borne on
a cool spring breeze. It was promptly joined by a full, rich
musical laugh that made my pulse quicken and my lips pull
into a smile of their own accord. 

   Turning around, I leaned against the railing and watched,
glowing, as my girls rounded the corner and started to come
back home.

The End

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
 ... if all you told was turned to gold, 
if all you dreamed were new, 
imagine sky high above in Caribbean blue ...              

  Enya,          Caribbean Blue