Keeping her arms out of the way so they wouldn't obstruct his view.

From where Owen sat near the edge of the mattress, she was almost close enough to touch. Her breasts swelled out at him, looking as if they might burst through the frail material holding them in.

The gown drifted in front of her groin, caressed her thighs, concealed nothing.

As Owen gazed at her, she glided her right foot forward and sideways. Then she lifted her right knee. Bare toes pressing against the carpet, she swayed her leg lazily from side to side. The motion drew Owen's eyes to where she obviously wanted them.

"What're you looking at, Owie?" she asked, her voice a teasy sing-song.

Blushing again, he quickly raised his eyes. "Nothing," he said.

"Nothing, huh?" Monica lowered her glass. It was empty now except for some small clumps of ice. Reaching behind her, she set it next to the soda can. Then she eased backward against the edge of the dresser. She sat on it, put her arms down straight by her sides to hold on, and stretched out her legs. Then she smiled languidly at Owen.

"I bet I know what you want," she said.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said. She spread her knees, opening herself wide to his view, then swung them back together.

Owen smiled. "What's going on?" he asked.

"Nothing." She opened and shut her legs again. "What makes you think something's going own?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "You don't usually ... act this way."

"Don't I?" Instead of spreading her legs, she swiveled her shoulders. Her breasts, confined only by her flimsy nightgown, lurched heavily from side to side.

"What're you doing?" Owen asked.

"Nothing," she said.

Her shoulders stopped, but her breasts didn't. The rough lurching came to an end, but they continued to swing from side to side, gradually slowing to a gentle sway before Monica stopped them with her hands. Holding them, she looked into Owen's eyes.

"How's that?" she asked.

"Fine."

"And how's this?" she asked. Fingers hooked, she clawed the wispy fabric down, ripping it from her breasts, breaking both shoulder straps.

"Jesus!" Owen blurted.

As Monica's hands returned to the edge of the dresser, the gown drifted into a pile below her waist.

Owen gaped at her.

She's lost her mind!

"You gonna just sit there?" she asked.

Owen shook his head. He felt a little breathless. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding, his penis hard and achy. "Are you okay?" he asked.

She smirked at him. "Do I look okay?"

"You look great," he said.

"Do I?"

"Yes." And she did look great. Except for her eyes and smile. Something wrong there. Something mocking and haughty and a little frantic.

"Am I the fairest of them all?" she asked.

The question made something squirm in Owen's bowels.

"Sure you are," he said.

Monica pushed at the edge of the dresser, lifting herself. No longer trapped under her buttocks, the nightie slid all the way down her legs and pooled around her feet.

"Are you sure about that?" she asked, sitting down again.

"Huh?"

"Who's the fairest?"

"You are."

Her smiled died. "Fairer than Dana?" she asked.

The name slammed through Owen.

"Who?" he asked. He knew he must look shocked. He felt sick.

"Dana," Monica said. "Your precious Beast House guide."

"Huh? I don't even..."

"Oh yes you do."

"The guide on the bus?"

"Dana!"

"Huh? Do you mean the big one? The blonde?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Owie. I know you way too well. I see right through you."

"I don't even know her."

"But you lust for her, don't you?"

Shaking his head, he tried to smile. "I lust only for you."

"Sure. Like I believe that. I saw how you were looking at her."

"This is ridiculous. She was just there. So what if I looked at her? If I hadn't looked at her, I might've bumped into her."

"Ha ha. Not very funny."

"You're making a big deal out of nothing. I don't know her. I don't care about her. I'll probably never even see her again."

"Probably?"

"There's a pretty slim chance of it, don't you think?"

"Do you want to see her again?"

"No. Why should I?"

Monica smirked and made a snorting sound. Then she pushed herself away from the dresser. Standing straight, she reached up with both hands and unwrapped the towel from around her head.

Eyes on Owen, she rubbed her hair with the towel. "Why would you want to see Dana again?"she asked. Her breasts jiggled and hopped with the motions of her arms.

"I wouldn't," Owen said. "Can we stop talking about her now?"

Monica lowered the towel. Her hair was a dark, wild tangle. Tossing aside the towel, she stepped toward Owen. She bumped against his knees, so he moved them farther apart. She halted between his knees and started to unfasten the buttons of his shirt.

He reached up for her breasts.

She clutched his wrists. "Not so fast, Owie."

"hug?"

"You can't touch me till I say you can."

"Huh?"

"Huh?" she mimicked him. "It's your punishment, dearie."

"Punishment for what?"

"We don't want to talk about her anymore, remember?"

"For God's sake, Monica."

"It's my way or the highway, sweetheart."

The highway, he thought. Screw this. She's turned into some sort of raving, jealous lunatic. Over nothing. Nothing!

I've gotta get away from her.

But not now, not now.

He didn't know why, it made no sense at all, but he wanted Monica more right now than he'd ever wanted her before. He acbed for her.

"Your way," he gasped.

"Okay," she said, and released her grip on his wrists. Owen lowered his hands. He rested them on his thighs and gazed at Monica's naked body. He wanted to lick the sweat off her skin. He wanted to suck on her breasts. But he forced himself to sit still while she finished unbuttoning his shirt.

She pulled the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms.

As Owen freed his hands from the sleeves, she clutched his shoulders and pushed him backward. The mattress felt good under him.

Standing between his knees, Monica bent over him and unfastened his belt. She opened the waist button of his jeans, then slid the zipper down.

Owen sighed.

"You like?" Monica asked.

"It was feeling awfully tight in there."

"Baby needs his freedom."

"Yeah."

The fingers of both her hands slipped beneath the elastic waistband of his underwear. They lifted, and he felt all the confinement go away.

"Ooo," Monica said. "Look at you."

He couldn't look without lifting his head. And he didn't care to look. Not at himself. His gaze was latched on Monica as she struggled to tug his jeans and underwear out from under him. Rolling slightly from one side to the other, he helped her.

No longer trapped under his buttocks, the pants raced down his legs as Monica scurried backward, pulling.

Then she lifted his feet, one at a time, and peeled off his socks.

Standing between his knees again, she bent over and glided her hands slowly up his thighs. Her thumbs rubbed against the sides of his groin.

Face looming over his penis, she said, "Ooo, you are so big and hard."

Owen felt her fingers encircle him.

They squeezed gently, and he groaned.

"Hard as a rock. Oh, Owie, I've never felt it so hard."

Her fingers glided slowly upward.

"You must be awfully turned on."

Her fingers went away.