"Jake," I repeat, rolling the name around my tongue. 'What are you doing in Michigan?"

She hitches her shoulders. "Guess I started driving one day and ended up here."

I watch the muscles in her arms flex.

She's renting a room, but I take her to my flat. I'm not exactly sure why, but I don't want to have s.e.x with her in a motel.

We both know that's the deal. And that's good, because it's what we both want.

I already saw it back at the club in the way she looked at me while I stripped. Those Docs of hers firmly on the ground. She was solid. Her intentions were clear in every move she made, whether blowing smoke out the car window or stroking her big square hand intently up and down the inside of my thigh. We don't talk much in the car on our way to my flat.

"Actually, I don't usually go to strip clubs." She says this and looks at me intently from the pa.s.senger seat. I can't remember if I'd actually asked her about it.

We're going to f.u.c.k the way I strip. I can feel it.

I've just closed the heavily padlocked door behind me when I feel the touch of her hands. Her fingers trail down the sensitive skin of my hips...

When I touch her it's her back I feel, all muscled and coiled and hard. Our bodies aren't touching yet. We're just breathing. I take hold of her wrist and guide it up inside the front of my shirt. I neglected to put my bra back on after my set. Her fingers brush skin, making my nipples strain. My hands travel down and ma.s.sage her a.s.s through the coa.r.s.e material of her navy cargos.

"I'm not going to f.u.c.k you up against the wall or something trite like that."

"Umm...okay?"

The corner of her mouth tilts as she looks at me. I want to kiss her real bad. She shakes her head. "Where's your bed?"

I lead her to it. It's unmade, of course. It's not like I was expecting company.

Jake pushes me down. She stands at the edge of the bed, legs slightly apart, feet firmly on the ground.

"Get over here," I can't believe I'm telling her what to do. Jake takes her shirt off, but the undressing goes no further. Her stomach is ripped. f.u.c.king washboard flat. Chiseled. She crawls on top of me and we finally kiss.

Her tongue is hot. I taste cigarettes and beer and smell sandalwood and the faint musk of aroused sweat. I pull her down on me and sigh into her throat at the weight bearing me down into the wasted mattress. I can't move. She holds me down with no effort at all.

Jake doesn't stop my fingers from pulling at her b.u.t.ton fly but I'm having a hard time because she's heavy and her hips keep bearing down on me. Frustrated, I try to push against her stomach, push her away, just for a moment.

Our kiss breaks wet and breathless. The morning air feels tight.

"Want me to f.u.c.k you?" Jake asks.

"Jesus, yes." I've never had a butch show such respect, such restraint. The girls I sometimes pick up at the club usually can't wait to get my clothes off. Sure it's a kick; and a compliment.

When they buy into the stripper fantasy.

I feel Jake's hand touch mine down between her legs. Our fingers tangle and I hear metal b.u.t.tons pop. I force my hand inside her pants and feel the substantial c.o.c.k she's packing. Jake exhales loudly when I start fondling it leisurely.

''Not so fast," I say as she tries to push me away. Where is her restraint now? With my other hand I reach out without looking and fumble on the bedside table until I find half a tube of KY. I take my hand away from her only long enough to squirt a generous blob of the warming liquid into my palm and then return it back through the fly of her boxers and smear it slowly up and down the length of her c.o.c.k.

My hand moves slowly up and down. I'm all too aware of the effect it has on Jake as the base of her c.o.c.k applies subtle pressure on her c.l.i.t every time my hand disappears way down.

"f.u.c.k..." Jake growls. Her eyes are half closed, generous lips slightly parted. She looks as if she's momentarily forgotten about me. My hand keeps up its pace, never faltering; steady and slow while Jake's breathing becomes shallower and faster.

I sit up until my mouth reaches her ear and say, "Let me jack you off."

Jake grunts as my hand inside her cargos suddenly becomes more insistent. "You're going to make me come," she hisses between clenched teeth.

I don't say anything, but my hand starts to stroke her c.o.c.k faster.

I'm surprised when Jake suddenly seems to gain her awareness again.

With one strong arm she pushes against my chest, pushes me flat on my back. She suddenly remembers-she's the one in control.

She rips my hand away from her crotch and holds it down against the mattress so hard it hurts. With her mobility restricted, lying on top of me and holding me down, she nevertheless manages to free her c.o.c.k.

For a moment she struggles with it and I fight against her to even up the ante, but f.u.c.k me, she's just too strong.

Jake pushes herself into me with a sneer-the first sign of dominance I've seen in her all night.

The breath catches in the back of my throat but I make no sound.

Instead I hear the bed knock hard against the wall. There's the sudden release, a whoosh of blood as Jake releases her grip on my wrist.

Quickly-before she can restrain me again-I lace my hands behind her neck just as she starts f.u.c.king me.

Her strokes are long, slow and deep. Her eyes don't leave mine for a second. She starts to breathe hard and move harder too. I start to say things; even, I think, beg her to please, pleaseplease not ever stop.

I feel like I am going to detonate. My head is spinning and I'm mumbling half-formed words. Jake pulls herself up to lean over me and starts f.u.c.king me really hard and fast, barreling me toward a swiftly approaching o.r.g.a.s.m that on the one hand I want and on the other want to postpone, to chase away.

Neither of us can stop ourselves.

I shudder and buck beneath Jake and she keeps pushing, keeps riding me until she comes herself. I think she shouts some obscenity at the wall behind us. Either the wall or at me, I'm not sure. Both prospects are equally erotic.

I wake up early in the morning, thirsty as h.e.l.l. Jake is sleeping, her broad, strong back toward me. I sneak out of bed and go to the kitchen.

I'm swallowing mouthfuls of Fresca when I feel her behind me.

Neither of us says anything. She pulls down my clean pair of panties and f.u.c.ks me from behind against the cold kitchen sideboard. And rough.

This time she lets her fingers do the talking, all the while whispering harshly just below my ear how G.o.dd.a.m.n beautiful I am.

Wouldn't you want that? Such devotion and aggression in one perfect package. I'm drunk on her. I'm lucky that she's fallen in love with the Midwest. Every night when I strip she's at the back with her beer.

Watching me. She sets me on fire.

MIRROR.

EVA VANDETUIN.

he's not afraid of me yet, but she wants to be.

I've left her alone in the bedroom, told her to strip and put S on the black leather cuffs I've left out for her. Now I'm watching her through the keyhole. This rickety Victorian house allows old-school peeping, and I appreciate that. The room is just a little drafty, and I've left it cool, knowing body heat will warm it once we get started.

In the meantime, she's kneeling on the bed with an expression that's both nervous and a bit sulky. There are goose b.u.mps on her skin, and her nipples are taut with the chill. I've left her waiting long enough so that she's gone through at least one cycle of tension and calm and back to tension again. She is, perhaps, just a little annoyed. My mouth twists in a half smile. The waiting is delicious. So is watching her while she doesn't know she's being watched. Her hands move restlessly on her thighs, the rings on the cuffs glinting in the light; she chafes her torso, arms, and b.r.e.a.s.t.s for warmth, and maybe for comfort.

I choose that moment to open the door and she looks at me, faintly embarra.s.sed to be caught touching herself, even in such an innocent way-and the embarra.s.sment annoys her too, and puts a bit of defiance in her eyes. She stares at me coolly, like an ordeal is about to begin, as if we're not both here because we want to be. My breathing quickens a little, pleasantly restricted by the corset I'm wearing; I feel armored next to her nakedness.

Standing in front of her, I catch her hands in mine and hold her arms out away from her body to take a long, hard look. Her chin tips up a little, but she gazes at me steadily as I admire her: teardrop-shaped b.r.e.a.s.t.s with prominent blue veins, nipples clenched and flushed red, generous hips, a spa.r.s.e triangle of dark hair below the graceful curve of her belly. I trace a finger down her breastbone and abdomen, teasing her cleft. "Show me," I tell her, and still holding me with hard eyes, she spreads her legs to display a lovely smooth-petaled flower of a c.u.n.t, flushed deep pink with blood. I take my time, then look her in the face, smiling, letting the hunger show. She looks back at me unwavering, gray-green irises set under long, straight black lashes. She wants to be touched and she won't say it. I'll make her wait.

I sit on the bed behind her and pull her against me so she can feel the leather and hard boning of my corset against her back, how exposed she is next to the thickness of my sh.e.l.l. My lips trail down her ear and neck as I pull her hands behind her, joining the cuffs with a metal clasp from my bodice. There's a set to her shoulders that tells me she won't resist physically, but she's wary, not at all ready to surrender, not yet. I have something to prove. For now, though, I just keep kissing her, biting at her neck gently, rolling her nipples between my fingers. Her breathing changes; she's leaning against me now, her head against my shoulder, her eyes drifting shut. I can feel her hips longing to thrust forward, but there's nothing there to touch. Still too early for that, yes.

And I am behind her, so she can't see when I reach to free the knife that's sheathed at my back and bring it to her exposed throat. But she twitches when she feels the edge, and her eyes open, her breathing a little faster. "That's my athame, sweet," I purr in her ear. '"Traditionally, they're blunt, but mine is sharp. Feel?" She nods almost imperceptibly in acknowledgement, and I turn the knife, let her feel the cold flat against the artery in her neck, then drag the point slowly down her body. My left hand comes up to grasp her jaw, holding her arched against me as I reverse the knife and touch her exposed c.l.i.t with its metal pommel. She shivers; her hips shift forward again, and when I bite her earlobe, she moans. In her ear, I whisper, "I would so love to make you bleed. It would be so beautiful, all that red on these white sheets," and I rub the ridged hilt of the knife against her c.l.i.t for emphasis. She makes a strangled sound, her bound hands move restlessly against me. "But there are so many other pleasures we can subject this soft white body of yours to. Why should we rush?" I ask her, and with a slow pressure I allow the hilt of the knife to slide into her c.u.n.t. Her pelvis moves to accept it, but I don't let her have much; I keep my grip on the hilt near the blade and stroke her c.l.i.t with my thumb as I carefully f.u.c.k her with the knife. Her eyes roll, but she says nothing. It's too quiet, but I don't really want to hear myself talk. I'd rather hear her scream.

I pull the knife from her with a final caress and she moans a little, a disappointed sound. The knife goes back in its sheath, anointed with her juices, and I lick my fingers, then give them to her to suck, turning her to the side a bit, cradling her. She lets me do it, but her eyes are guarded again as she looks at me, daring me to try harder. I love her resistance; looking at her. I have to fight the urge to rub up against her hip to satisfy my tingling c.u.n.t. How unseemly it would be, when really we're just getting started. Instead, I lunge forward suddenly and close my mouth on her exposed throat, p.r.i.c.king her with my teeth. She stiffens for a moment, then relaxes again, feeling the vulnerability of the pose, and I reward her with an open-handed caress on her mound. Her body is deliciously responsive, her c.u.n.t already dripping; my excitement is growing with every shiver of her skin, I release her, then turn her and push her down on her stomach, freeing her arms only long enough to attach them instead to the bedposts, along with her ankles. Having her thus comfortably spread- eagled, I caress her body, then leave her alone again to gather my tools and to let her nervousness rise. On another day I might take her up gently with feathers and horsehair brushes to peak with a painless flogging, but today I think that would disappoint her. She doesn't like pain, but she wants a little fear. Returning, I rub her back, b.u.t.tocks, and thighs vigorously, bringing the blood to the surface, then slap her lightly, three times. She doesn't flinch. I feel my smile stretching my face, my teeth beginning to show. I know it's not a pleasant expression, but she can't see. I am so hungry. I can barely wait.

Still, I start with light blows, dragging the soft tails of the flogger across her skin between lashes. As first I'm not causing her any pain, but after a few minutes I begin to increase the speed and intensity, and I see her wincing now as I hit the same spot on her thigh over and over, the skin turning a rosy pink. I move back to her b.u.t.tocks, strike her harder, and she gives a short, painful bark. Again. She's pulling at the restraints now, thrashing a little as I beat her. Harder. "f.u.c.k!" she says, involuntarily. Again. "Ow, G.o.ddammit, f.u.c.k!" I hit her again, pushing her, and with each blow a little more profanity escapes her with a little more force, until she's screaming the words at me, cursing me, pulling hard against the cuffs. "G.o.dd.a.m.n you, you f.u.c.king- ah! b.i.t.c.h! You f.u.c.king wh.o.r.e! You-s.h.i.t! Ow, ah G.o.d. f.u.c.k!"

"You're full of flattery, my dear," I purr in between breaths, moving my hips with the rhythm of my blows. She's out of words now, just screaming, growling, biting at the sheets beneath her, incoherent with rage. "You want me to stop?" I ask her sweetly, but the only answer I get is a strangled roar as she again struggles with the bonds. "Then beg," I tell her, and she screams again, curses me. "Beg," I say again, "Beg, beg, beg," timing the word with the blows, and after a few more enraged screams she chokes, "Please stop hitting me, please please ow f.u.c.k please lady I'll do whatever you want please oh f.u.c.k oh G.o.d please-" and suddenly I do stop and there is silence except for our breathing, hers ragged, mine deep with exertion but steady. For a moment I struggle with the urge to turn the flogger in my hand and ram the handle into her, but I hold back; this is more for her than for me, and I don't want to hurt her in ways she doesn't want to be hurt. Instead, I kneel beside her, stroking back her short brown hair, and she heaves a sob, tearlessly. When I touch her face, she turns her head to kiss my fingers, and I know this was what she wanted. I lean down, murmur nonsense endearments in her ear.

There's a bottle of aloe vera by the bed, and I take it down and stroke the gel into her skin, cooling the angry heat of the beating. I rub tension from her shoulders and knots from her thighs, telling her how lovely she is, how gorgeous, how desirable. I reach between her legs and gently touch her outer l.a.b.i.a, feeling the heat that lingers there. A little more aloe and I'm rubbing her c.l.i.t, she's moaning softly, unresisting.

And as much as I loved the fierceness of beating her, I want to do this much more. Slowly, I unhook the corset, baring my torso, and toss it to the side; I pull off my panties to let the short, thick c.o.c.k I'm wearing swing free. Wiping the aloe from my hands, I replace it with a generous dab of lube, slicking her up and then my equipment, already warm with my body heat. I put my weight on her, my nipples tightening at the chill of the aloe evaporating from her back, and slip inside.

She groans and moves against me as I grind her pelvis into the bed, pushing her c.l.i.t against the mattress, and my own c.u.n.t throbs with the pressure as my c.o.c.k pulses into her, just enough length to push firmly against her cervix at the end of each thrust. Her moans are half sobs, and it's the sound of her more than the pressure that gets me close. I slide a hand under her to stimulate her c.l.i.t more directly and she's screaming again, in pleasure instead of pain this time, but she sounds just the same, only with a bit less profanity-and then she's thrashing, coming, and I let her finish before jamming my fingers under the harness and into my own throbbing wetness. It only takes a few desperate thrusts before my o.r.g.a.s.m explodes through me and I catch myself, remember not to collapse on her, so much more exhausted than I am.

I take my time unbuckling the harness, detaching her from the bedposts one limb at a time, and then I gather her up into my arms, both of us naked now. For the first time this evening I give her a real kiss, my mouth tender on hers. As I pull back, she looks up at me, her eyes finally vague, no longer hard. But there's still a flicker of mischief in them, and after a moment she whispers, "b.i.t.c.h."

I smile, playing the game with her. "s.l.u.t."

"Wh.o.r.e."

"Floozy."

''Tramp.''

"Jezebel."

"Harlot."

...until we run out of insults, and one of us starts to giggle, and then we're both laughing, voices raised in identical cackles, equally shameless, equally spent.

THE DECISION COIN.

NYRDGYRL.

ll roads lead to therapy." After making this p.r.o.nouncement, the patient settled back and folded his hands in his lap to A await his therapist's return volley.

Oh G.o.d, I need some relief. Losing the battle of keeping her posture erect and her demeanor interested, Dr. Odessa Martin slumped back into the shadow that crossed her desk. Pressing her fingertips together, she pretended to evaluate the declaration, then said, "I believe that's all roads lead to Rome, not therapy."

"Rome...therapy, what's the difference? I'm here, aren't I?"

The pencil Odessa habitually twirled suddenly snapped, scattering wood slivers across her desk and eliciting a self-satisfied smirk from her patient. She quirked an eyebrow at her least favorite client, then selected another pencil from her stockpile. He'd bested her again. Odessa's profession required patience and neutrality, two qualities that she grappled with constantly. Over time, she'd realized that most people were reluctant, at best, to deal with reality. Without volition, her hand rose and rubbed a crescent-shaped scar that creased her hairline. It was a parting gift from a former patient who'd found another use for her summer heels.

When she was a child, her grandmother had filled her head with stories about Sojourner Truth and Martin Luther King. G.o.d knew she'd never heard his call, but making her people proud had been woven into the very fiber of her being. Every day of her youth, she'd endured lectures about the importance of service until she bristled with purpose and grabbed the shield, eager to take her turn on the field of battle.

Before her conversion, the pictures of Martin Luther King that graced every wall in her gram's house seemed benign. Afterward, she always felt like the man himself was beaming down on her with approval. Most people contented themselves with one formal portrait, but her gram collected his picture like other people did thimbles.

Service had been her calling; unfortunately, lately she'd grown tired. Nothing she said or did seemed to provide anyone any relief.

Especially herself. Her normally cocoa brown skin was drawn and her soft "good hair" had dried out and become as brittle as the tumbleweeds that skittered across the highways of this G.o.dforsaken part of the country. Misguided love had lured her away from Georgia and landed her deep in the Sonoran Desert.

Killing time, she doodled in her notebook, knowing that the session was very near its end. Within seconds, her patience was rewarded when the clock struck five.

"Well, Mr. Clement, looks like our time's up. Same time next week?" As much as she hated dealing with this man, Odessa had bills to pay and he was one of her few self-paying, private clients. All he really needed was someone to hara.s.s, and she'd filled that role nicely. No one else would have put up with his nonsense.

Heaving a huge sigh of relief, she ushered him out the door. He was her last patient of the day. Now all she had left to do was finish her notes and close up the office before heading home for another solo dinner. Afterward she'd drive to the clinic to facilitate her codependency group.

The next morning she overslept, then broke her favorite coffee mug while hurrying to keep her appointment with her friend and department head, Dr. Leslie Craven. She'd called in desperation, needing to talk to someone, so Leslie had cleared an hour out of her busy day just for her. Despite her best intentions, Odessa was late and her hastily applied makeup failed to camouflage her state of mind. Leslie met her at the door to the suite, then ushered her directly into her office.

"What's wrong, Odessa? What's upsetting you?" Leslie settled her onto the cushioned sofa, then drew a chair up close enough to touch Odessa's twitching leg. "Is it Carmen?"

Odessa dropped her head into her hands and scrubbed her face, trying to dam the tears that trickled down her cheeks. She wept silently for a few moments, then gathered her composure and faced her friend.

''No,'' Odessa said "Not Carmen. We're through. I've told you that."

"Then what is it?"

"It's everything, Leslie. I can't take it anymore." She looked around for a pencil, then ran her fingers through her carefully styled hair, a sure sign that things were not right in her world. She said, "I can't face another patient or student. They're sucking me dry." Raising her tear-stained face, she whispered, "I'm going crazy. I'm distracted and disorganized and I want to..."

Leslie pursed her lips, then motioned for Odessa to continue.

"It's everywhere. I see the tops of people's skulls popping open like washing machine lids and I'm pouring detergent into the open hole. It's crazy. You've got to help me, Leslie. I can't stand it."

Leslie's eyes widened. "I have an opening for Tuesday and Thursday mornings at say...7:30? I also think you should clear your schedule and-"

" No. Not more therapy! I tell you, I can't stand it." Odessa's bottom lip quivered as tears once again coursed down her cheeks. "I want...I mean I need...time. That's all. I just need some time."

Wrapping her arms around Odessa's body to buffer her ultimatum, Leslie said, "Time! Girl, all you've had is time. You've been skipping your session regularly and look what's happened. Absolutely not, Odessa. Those sessions are mandatory. I won't settle for anything less.

Not if you want to keep working, that is."

"That's...that's just it, Leslie. I'm not sure I want to...that I can keep working."

"You can't mean that, Odessa. You're too good and do too much for people in this community to turn your back now."