Our Hotwives

J:
J:
J:
J:

"Mister Stark?"

David looked up from his phone, shook his head to clear it of intrusive thoughts, and focused his eyes on the polite, well dressed middle aged dock foreman with the hard hat.

He had not checked his phone in hours, and clearly missed some…developments at home.

"Yes?"

"Are you ready to begin?"

"I am, thank you…and I didn't catch your name."

"It's David…" The foreman flashed a brilliant smile.

"Really? That's my first name too!"

"Yes, we are twins, no?"

David laughed and adjusted his glasses as the Nigerian man slapped him playfully on the back. David (the smaller one with glasses) donned his own hard hat and they walked out of the office building and out toward the docks.

"As you read in our report, our southernmost crane is not operational at the moment, but otherwise we are running at normal capacity."

"Why is the crane down?"

"Some issues were identified during routine maintenance, and we had to cease operations in order to repair some components."

"Is that underway?"

"Currently we're awaiting the arrival of parts. However, as you are aware, much of our port activity involves tankers that do not require cranes in the way crated commodities do. We have simply consolidated crate moving activity to the dock with the working cranes."

"That's certainly sensible. But I noticed in your recent records that the other three cranes had the exact same maintenance schedule and similar issues as the one that went down. Is there any reason to believe these cranes will fail before the southern one goes back up?"

"No reason that I can think of."

"You may lack imagination, David," David smiled. "It's my job to think of the million ways things can go wrong. Would I be stepping on your toes if I had a quick meeting with the maintenance and repair crews?"

"Not at all…" The host gestured toward an outbuilding on the southern side of the port complex. After discussing maintenance procedures with the crew, they returned to the main port offices, chatting as they walked.

"So, you are married? I noticed your ring."

"Yes, actually." David responded amiably.

"Children?"

"Not yet. We've not been married for long."

"And you travel."

"I do. And she studies. Finishing her Ph.D, actually."

"Ah. A power couple, then?"

David smiled. "Something like that."

His phone buzzed again. Opening the display, he found

J:

"A traveling executive and a highly educated wife…" the foreman continued. "I am sure you are admired by your peers…"

David looked up at the smiling dock foreman, a slight flush on his face.

"No need to flatter, friend. So we covered cranes, but what can you tell me about the oil pumps? Are they operating at full efficiency?"

The other David gave the so-so gesture with his hand. "They are regularly maintained, but they still have problems with jamming, and occasional power outages."

David kept half an eye on the notifications populating his phone on the desk. One notification popped up as he listened.

J: I was naughty today, baby…

David coughed slightly, subtly darkening the screen of his phone so his coworker wouldn't see it.

"The power outages–are they limited to individual pumps or do the docks go down all together?"

"Individual. Mostly."

"Regular power outages…I'd like to understand more. Do you have the layout or schematic of your power setup? I'd like to take a look, see if there's a structural flaw in the power flow. We can't have pumps going out at random when tankers are stacking up…"

"Yes…I think we have them here…"

J: I'm with Ricardo, baby.

He quickly darkened the screen as soon as the notification popped up. The other man named David had mercifully turned to pull files out of a drawer.

It seemed like the foreman might be another moment. David quickly opened his messages and typed a quick response.

D: You're with Ricardo baby? Good for you…is he taking good care of you?

"The power layout is in two different schematics. I have one of them here…" The foreman turned around and laid out the blueprint on the table just as David sent the message and blanked the screen.

"Two different schematics? Do you know why?"

"The port expanded several years ago, and the power system was expanded with it. This is the old scheme. Another station was added when they expanded the port. The two are tied together."

"Do you have the new one?"

The other David nodded. "We do, but not just here. I can fetch it if you'd like."

J: Hey baby! So glad you texted me back…and yeah…Ricardo's taking good care of me. So good…oh my gosh…

David grunted again, nodding as he hastily blanked the phone screen. "Could you? I can review these while you get them."

"Of course. Half a moment, please." The foreman stood up and turned to walk out of the room as David leaned over the schematic. As soon as the other man left the room, he quickly opened his phone screen.

D: I'm so glad to hear that, Jo. I love it when you're taken care of. Is he making you feel good?

David heard his helper padding around in the next room, looking for the plans.

He looked back down at the phone and scrolled up and down the text chain, looking at the saucy symbols and texts, waiting for

J: So good, honey. I had a good day today, and I came home kinda excited, so Ricardo took care of me. Then I woke up and I needed Ricardo again. Is that okay? I mean, as long as I tell you about it? Am I being greedy?

David sucked in a breath, hearing a file cabinet drawer close in the next room. He typed quickly.

D: You're not greedy, baby. You get anything you need, anything you want. And I'll love it.

David heard his coworker making his way down the hall when the phone buzzed again.

J: I want Ricardo to make me cum, baby. Is that okay?

"I found the schematic here,Mr. Stark. And it seems very different from the other plans…though I am no expert. What do you think?"

He began pointing out discrepancies between the two plans, as David carefully followed his observations. His phone buzzed again.

Not wanting to be rude, he only glanced sideways to see the notification:

J: Baby? Please?

Without moving from his position leaning over the plans, David subtly opened the text chain without drawing attention to himself and quickly sent a response.

D:

The phone went silent and dark as David and the foreman–the other David–began to speculate as to problems that may have been overlooked integrating the expanded power panels in the dock as David nodded along.

David struggled to focus, keenly aware that his wife was an ocean away, and the space between her legs was filled with an anatomically plausible prosthetic named RICARDO. He imagined her on her back–flushed cheeks and legs wide, her hand carefully guiding the member in and out of her. Her hips would buck gently as the excitement grew. Her breath would hold silent in deep tension as her pelvic floor began to convulse.

By some miracle, he still followed the power schematic discussion sufficiently well to ask a follow-up question, which was interrupted by a gentle buzz on the desk, just below the schematic.

He glanced at the notification.

J:

David's hands began to tremble and he set them down on the schematics to steady them as the voice of his coworker seemed to fade into the distance.

The phone buzzed once more.

J: 🫠

"David…" the flustered young husband said, barely controlling the pitch in his voice. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I need to excuse myself to the restroom for a moment…"

* * *

"So do you get Friday off since you have overnight duty on Thursday?"

Megan's voice was hopeful, She dreaded every time it was Jared's turn for overnight guard duty. And now that he was an acting platoon sergeant, such duties were more common.

He shook his head. "Not this time. Gunny Davis has a stick up his ass. I might get a nap in the morning or something, but it looks like I'm working straight through."

The young couple had adjusted to a new routine getting ready for bed. They had had to adjust to their new roommate.

Before Mark had taken up an extended residence on the couch in the living room of their one bedroom apartment, they roamed the place freely in various states of undress.

Usually shortly after dinner, pajamas would go on, and Megan's bra invariably found its way into the hamper. This paved the way for casual groping for Jared, which he loved and mildly resented losing access to.

Now that Mark was always in the next room, they stayed dressed until bed for the most part, changing into bed clothes behind the closed door of their bedroom after they said goodnight to Mark.

It was just one of those unintentional constraints on the casual intimacy of a young couple that houseguests never intend, but always impose.

Megan sighed with a mix of relief and exasperation as she unhooked her bra, flinging it toward the hamper, but missing it by more than a foot.

"Nice…" Jared laughed, bending down to pick it up. Megan pulled a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt out of the dresser and pulled it on. As her head popped through the neck of the shirt, she saw Jared's eyes fixed on her, the languid gaze of the smitten man so familiar to bedtime for a couple in their twenties. She smiled at her husband and pulled her hair through with a wave of both hands until it tumbled down around her shoulders.

Jared had on pajama pants and a gray undershirt covering his lean, muscular frame. Gathering the remaining clothes to herd into the hamper, he reached for the light as Megan moved toward the bed.

"Can you keep it on for a sec, honey?" she requested.

"Okay…" he responded, unsure of the reason for the request.

She sat down on the bed and patted the space next to her.

"Come here for a minute."

Jared cocked his head for a moment, then moved to the bed and sat down. Megan's eyes stayed looking down toward the blankets, and the fingers closest to her husband's legs playfully began to spider walk delicately from his knee to his thigh and back.

"So…something happened earlier today."

Jared's eyes widened. "What?"

Megan wouldn't look up, but her eyes moved from the blanket in front of her to her husband's lower half, his legs stretched out on the bed in front of him.

"With Mark…we were, uh…watching some TV."

"Yeah?"

"It was a Star Trek episode, and you know he likes Sci Fi stuff. Nerdy stuff. And we were talking about some sci fi books and stuff…"

Her fingers began to walk closer to his crotch, but she didn't look up. A visible movement in the crotch of Jared's pants made her crack a small smile to herself.

"Okay?" he whispered.

"So we were on the couch, and basically I felt like I should…like…take care of him, you know? Like we talked about?"

"Uh huh…"

Jared's eyes widened. The tension was much more visible now, rising from his pants.

"Wow, honey," Megan joked. "I didn't know Star Trek got you going…"

Jared laughed nervously, with more breath than laughter as her hand slipped under his waistband.

"So do you want to know what happened on the show?"

Jared shook his head.

"You want to know what happened with Mark, then?"

Jared nodded.

"Okay. So I'm sitting there with Mark and I'm kind of just touching his arm and stuff, and then I just kind of give him a little kiss on the cheek, right?"

"Uh huh…" Jared was shocked at how quickly his excitement pushed him toward incoherence.

"So he kind of tries to stop me…" Megan continued, the flat of her hand exploring Jared's furry pubic bone, ebbing and probing toward, but not quite touching his penis.

"He kind of tries to stop me, and I have to tell him that you're cool with it, and we were fine after the last time we fucked. You remember, the last time Mark and I fucked, right honey? That night after Shoneys? Before you deployed?"

Jared's head trembled as he nodded. He remembered perfectly well, and she knew it. She was pushing his buttons, and he loved it.

"So I just kept touching him, kind of like a really light massage, and then I just…went for it, you know?"

Megan's hand slid down and her fingers wrapped around her husband's stiff cock.

"Like this…you know?"

"Uh huh…"

"So…are you mad at me?"

"Uh uh…"

"Okay."

Megan tucked the waistband of his pajama pants down, fully exposing him, and began stroking her husband. For the first time, she looked up into his eyes.

"Are you sure you're not mad?"

Jared shook his head, his eyelids drooping.

"Okay." Megan nodded, then began to stroke faster.

"Are you going to be mad after you finish…this?"

Jared shook his head silently.

"Okay."

Megan stroked him quietly for a moment, then added another thought.

"I took my top off for him, honey. He wanted to see my tits, so I showed him. You want me to take my top off for you too?"

Jared's eyes widened. Megan smiled, let go of him, and pulled her shirt off over her head–the shirt she had put on barely two minutes before. Her plump breasts fell out, followed by her dark hair cascading in jet-black drapery over her front, blanketing her chest. She pulled her hair behind her shoulders to fully expose herself, and looked at her husband again.

His eyes looked different. Excited, but with a sense of novelty. Almost like it was his first time seeing her naked.

She couldn't quite understand it, but his excitement was obvious, and so she allowed herself a little smile while she resumed stroking him.

Quietly, in the full light of their bedroom and over the covers of their shared bed, Megan continued to pleasure her stunned husband with her hand as he drank in the sight of her bare breasts. Amused by his fixation against the backdrop of hasty, gentle fapping sounds, she posed a simple question which was followed by a voluminous spurt.

"Mark touched them. Do you want to?"

* * *

The dildo named Ricardo laid languidly on the nightstand, unwashed and tilting awkwardly at around a 30 degree left roll of its axis.

Right where it had been sleepily flopped just a few hours ago.

Jordan, now awake in a panic, was racing about, having overslept her alarm with only thirty minutes to shower, dress, and run to her Friday morning class.

In the haste to pick out an outfit and dash into the shower, she could only note in passing the absence of the girl in the mirror, relegated in her haste to the back of her mind.

Usually the girl in the mirror would gently mock her for giving in to two non-consecutive rounds of furious masturbation in one night. But she seemed to be otherwise preoccupied by the haste to get ready.

That was the reason.

Probably.

She puffed through the door of her morning class only thirty seconds late, silently congratulating herself on the efficiency that got her in front of the class–almost exactly on time.

"Sorry! Sorry if you were all waiting…" she quickly set her satchel on the podium and hooked up her laptop to the display panel. While it booted up, she unboxed a stick of chalk and walked to the board and wrote BEWARE THE POWER OF THE DARK SIDE in all capital letters, hearing a mild but general chuckle from the class behind her. Noting that the projector was now on, she arranged a powerpoint presentation and opened the spiral notebook with her lecture notes.

"Okay, here we go. Over the last few weeks, we've been exploring the legacy of Freud, especially his contributions to our understanding of how we view or construct identity or personality. As you are no doubt sick of hearing by now, we have to keep in mind that Freud's notions about personality arise from a division of its components–or we might say a balance of power between three components, or we might even say three operations. Whatever they are, there are three of them: the id, or impulses, the ego, or the broad sense of self, and the superego, which we can call the moral identity. Today, we are going to talk a bit about another one of Freud's inheritors, Carl Jung."

Jordan looked up from the podium for the first time, noticing a new presence in the back row.

An older man, thin, with gray, messy hair and matching eyebrows.

Schenk.

He was leaning back in his desk with an open notebook in front of him, a half smile forming at being noticed by the teacher.

Jordan blinked in surprise, then realized that she was standing in a frozen posture. Unwilling to make a fool of herself, she continued speaking as if he weren't there, reverting to her routine of pacing back and forth in front of the class.

"Mr. Jung has since fallen out of favor, at least with practitioners. As has Freud. Such is the way of progress–big thinkers break theoretical barriers and give us interesting insights, then they fall out of favor. Although, if you look, you will still find orthodox Freudian and Jungian psychologists out there, practicing their methods in the old style. But for most of the world of professional psychology, they are certainly not the thought leaders they were for a time.

"Anyway, back to Jung. Jung took Freud's idea of the ego and its satellite functions and changed the tripartite division of id, ego, and superego into just two components of identity."

She turned toward the class, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the visitor in the back.

"On the one hand, we have the ego. It's a nice, familiar term, and its meaning is close enough to Freud's to port over to Jung for our purposes in this…introductory conversation. The ego is exactly what the latin word means. It's the 'I am.' It's the thing that you recognize as yourself. When you look in the mirror, there's you! As a result, it includes the things you see, feel, think, and consciously desire. For the most part, it sees itself as good, or at least trying to be good."

She approached the podium and stepped behind it, nervously looking out again.

Schenk had an eyebrow raised in anticipation.

Jordan found herself annoyed, and slipped in allowing a slight exasperated exhalation to come out before starting again, looking away from the opponent she challenged yesterday.

"The other part of the identity he refers to as the shadow,"

Jordan's eyes bulged dramatically and she wiggled her hands playfully to give a sense of mock mystique to the concept. The class was a mixture of slight smiles and polite laughs.

"The shadow, of course, is something akin to what I wrote on the board here. We might call it the dark side of the self. The deep impulses, the fears, the trauma, really any of the unresolved garbage of life experience that cannot be assimilated into the ego.

"So how do the ego and shadow relate? That's a pretty tricky question, and we could easily spend a whole semester on it. Since we can't do that, we'll have to rely on my interpretation of Jung, more than what he says himself…and since it's my class, we're going to go with it for now. So here's my read on Jung, simplified for a sophomore class: The ego does everything it can to subsume the shadow in a healthy way. You guys know what subsume means?"

A couple hands shot up. Jordan pointed to a young woman in the second row. "Regina. Subsume. Definition. Go."

"It means, like, to integrate, or include something from outside into the primary thing. Like a blob eating a smaller blob."

"Yes!" Jordan snapped her fingers approvingly. "Thank you, Regina. Like a big blob eating a smaller blob. And when that happens, the smaller blob doesn't really exist anymore, it doesn't have a separate existence or identity. So when something from the shadow is subsumed into the ego, it merges with the ego integrating as much as it can out of our life experience and internal desires. Whatever it can't subsume, stays in the shadow."

"So like a good and evil kind of thing?" asked a student with a backward baseball cap in the front row.

"Not so much good and evil, Todd, but you're running parallel to the idea here. What is contained in the shadow could be characterized by the ego in terms of evil. Or whatever way you classify anything that is morally unacceptable. But also whatever is so threatening or confusing that you just sort of reject it out of your personality. But evil is certainly part of it. Or what your ego decides is evil."

He looked confused.

"Let's try an example. Let's say, Todd, that on my way to class, you took my parking spot and made me late."

"Okay," he replied.

"Now, I walk in, late, knowing that your car was in my spot. I see you sitting here in the front row, happy as a clam with your hat on backwards. What do I do?"

"Maybe tell me not to park in your spot?"

"That's certainly what I hope I would do, Todd, or something similarly productive. But part of me, I have to admit, makes me want to pull your hat off and shove it down your throat."

The class laughed as Jordan smiled disarmingly.

"But you shouldn't do that, right? That would be wrong?" Todd observed as the laughter died down.

"Exactly, Todd. My ego wouldn't let me do that, even if my shadow wants to. The desire is there, but the ego refuses to assimilate it as morally acceptable. So it stays in the shadow. Where it belongs, quite frankly."

"And what if it doesn't?" A voice came from the back.

Schenk.

Jordan smiled, tight lipped.

"I'm sure you all noticed we have a guest here today. Class, this is Professor Thomas Schenk, visiting for a conference. And apparently brushing up on sophomore level Jung classes."

The class laughed again. He smiled warmly from his seat in the back.

"So?" he said again when the laughter died down.

"I'm unclear on your question, professor. What if what doesn't?"

"What if that desire doesn't belong in the shadow?"

Jordan's eyebrows raised, and she nodded thoughtfully as she strategized how to field the question.

"Well, I'll admit to putting my thumb on the scale a little there in saying that my impulse to feed Tom–sorry, Todd–his own hat belongs in the shadow. Jung's model doesn't go to great lengths saying what should and shouldn't be assimilated out of the shadow and into the ego. That's the work of moral philosophy, or religion, or survival instinct, or circumstance, or some combination of all of these things. And Jung is more interested in the "what" part of the question than the "should" part of the question.

"The fact of the matter is, there is no reason my ego can't assimilate the destructive, violent, selfish, or antisocial desires that live in my shadow. And people routinely do. To take a particularly egregious example, grandiose narcissistic psychopaths readily and without shame will just murder or otherwise destroy people who get in their way. This is clear evidence that the ego is capable of assimilating much of the worst impulses that live in the shadow."

So whether or not the ego should or should not assimilate this or that shadow impulse is a much more practical question, with a great deal of nuance for each of us. However, I would argue that indulging morally reckless and harmful desires is…untenable. Doing things that either you or your social community views as morally unacceptable simply because you want to do it may lead to an identity crisis–having the effect of pulling your ego in two directions. Maybe even splitting it, leading to what many might call a 'double life.'"

"If it's only in your head, what's the harm?" asked a young woman in the fourth row.

"Well, Tracy," Jordan replied, "the problem is, it so rarely is all in your head. Things we do affect other people. You might think an opioid habit only hurts you, but it doesn't. It has ripple effects that harms the people you love. You might think having sex with someone who isn't your partner doesn't cause physical harm to your partner, so what's the big deal?"

Tracy nodded, understanding and taking notes.

"And I'm not just talking about right and wrong. People who struggle with addiction, who give in too much to what we might identify as shadow desires, if we observe these people, we can actually see the opposite pulls on their sense of self. They have the expectations of their community, their family, their job, all of these on the one hand telling them to be this way and live that way, and on the other end they have the addiction: the things they're ashamed of wanting. If they indulge those desires, they end up having to live two lives–one of them shrouded in shame and secrecy, which is very unhealthy–and they essentially become two people."

She looked back to Schenk, who was smiling and nodding, also taking notes. She took a gamble.

"In some of my own recent work, I explored the problem of what we might call forced moral subsumption. Imagine if you did something that you wanted, but something you knew was wrong. You could never really admit–even to yourself–that you wanted this thing. Not just because it's embarrassing, but because it's just too deep in the shadow. Like actually shooting the neighbor's dog when it barks too much late at night. Sure, the dog is annoying. Sure you fantasize about someone shutting that annoying dog up once and for all.

"But then imagine actually doing it. You might convince yourself that you did something good, but deep down you know it's not good. You essentially force something that belongs in the shadow into the ego. This has the effect of a forced subsumption of a bad impulse that you justify to yourself as good while knowing that you're lying to yourself. That runs roughshod over your sense of moral goodness. No matter how you justify it, you're a dog killer. And if you spend all your time convincing yourself that it was okay, one of two things happens. Either you just become someone who kills dogs and doesn't feel bad, which is hopefully not something anyone wants to be, or you find some way to compartmentalize the thing you did and still call yourself a good person.

"We have a term for that second category of person. We call them hypocrites. Someone who does bad but insists–even truly believes–that they are good. And hypocrites are simply not mentally healthy. Living with cognitive dissonance–especially cognitive dissonance about who you really are as a person–inevitably catches up with you. One way or the other."

The class was silent, digesting her observation, when the voice popped up from the back of the room once again.

"Unless you repent…"

Jordan smirked back as more than half of the students turned to look back at Schenk.

"Well, maybe. Professor Schenk raises one of the functional responses to a moral identity crisis that has been used in various ways by humans throughout history. The religious impulse to confess, express contrition, perhaps work to effect reparation or reconciliation. It's one way to shove the bad thing out of the ego and back into the shadow. Or that's one way we could look at it. But Jung really doesn't use terms like that."

"Do you?"

Again, Schenk from the back of the room.

He was directly challenging her now.

In front of her students.

It was starting to get annoying.

Jordan set her jaw and pursed her lips for a moment. Looking up and away thoughtfully, she parsed the question. Finally, she looked back down at him.

"Yes. But not exclusively. And I'm not a Jungian, of course. We're simply operating hypothetically in the frame of identity he articulated for the purposes of today's class. And getting into my views would be a little far afield of where the course syllabus locates us today."

Schenk nodded amiably, writing more notes. "Fair enough. Thank you."

"Your welcome, Tom."

He smiled, still writing.

Jordan's voice shifted out of controversy mode and back into teaching mode. "Any other questions about ego and shadow?"

No one's hand went up.

"Great. So, moving on…

"Now, if you thought the shadow was a weird concept, we're about to get weirder and talk about the collective unconscious. I'd like to look at a passage on page 14 of your reading packet for today, so if everyone could grab that…"

* * *

"Are these your shoes?"

An anxious looking new marine looked up wide eyed at the tall, thin corporal in the guard belt walking toward his newly assigned barracks room.

"Yeah…I mean…yes corporal. Those are my shoes."

"What are they doing on the deck?" The corporal had weirdly intense eyes. Light blue, but intimidating. Like…icy.

"Dry…uh, drying out, corporal. I'm drying out my shoes. We ran in the swamps this morning, and…"

"I know where we ran, dumbass. I was leading the damn PT."

He picked up the shoes and slapped them into the befuddled hands of the new arrival. "Look. I know this is your first day in the fleet, but holy shit. The balls you gotta have to leave shit on the deck of my barracks building…this is not your mom's back porch. Move them out of sight before I jam them down your throat."

The new private gulped.

How did he not remember who was running at the front of the formation this morning?

This corporal seemed to be in charge, everyone was kind of quiet and nervous around him. But he didn't know who he was…he had met so many new people…

He glanced nervously at the name tape on the corporal's uniform.

Poisson.

Shit. He'd heard the name.

"Sorry, corporal…" he hastily gathered his sneakers and thrust them through the half-open barracks door.

"Don't do it again," he growled, stalking around the corner of the building.

The new private watched him go, then turned to his roommate.

"That's our platoon sergeant?"

"Yep."

"But he's not a sergeant…"

"No shit."

"How does that work?"

The roommate sighed. "He's a replacement. Our old platoon sergeant…he had a rough landing coming back from deployment. He's out of the corps now. Poison's a good dude though. Stay on his good side, he'll get your back. Just don't cross him. Never cross someone who's billeted above their rank like he is."

"His name's really Poison?"

"Nah, it's a French name, but nobody can pronounce it. Pretty much everyone calls him Poison."

"Kind of a hardass, isn't he?"

"Actually if you think that's being hard, just wait until someone really pisses him off. He can be a fucking savage. That right there? With the shoes? He was barely annoyed. You got off easy. Trust me. Never, ever fuck with that guy. He will eat your lunch."

"Okay, okay…"

One floor up, Corporal Jared Poisson inspected each barracks room, snapping out orders at marines who were pushing the limits of their liberty pass.

He met no resistance, and no attitude. His reputation from deployment was well known: His Bronze Star, Purple Heart, glowing commendations, and his selection for Presidential Guard was now known as well. After Sergeant Rein, he was the most respected marine in the company. And since Sergeant Rein had…well…

It was a good warning to everyone. About what a rough deployment can do to even the strongest man. While nobody talked about it, everyone had taken note.

Corporal Poisson made it to the duty room on the third floor, checked in with the guards, and sent them back out to their stations before sitting down at the desk.

Now for the mind-numbing reality of a 24 hour guard duty. Staring at the blank walls of a room while nothing happened. Stopping every hour to walk around the barracks and yell at people.

Jared leaned back in the chair and pulled out his phone.

Megan had texted.

M: You okay?

Jared's eyebrow cocked up.

J: Yeah, I'm good. Why?

M: Just checking in.

Jared smiled down at the phone.

He had married a woman who was intensely solicitous of his well being. And of the well being of everyone she loved. Family, friends, really anyone nearby. She had an outgoing personality that compulsively took care of people.

Unless, of course, you crossed her. Or crossed her people. Then she would rip your throat out with her teeth.

She had a natural inclination toward passion that swung in both directions. Just one of the joys–and terrors–of marrying a gorgeous, brilliant Latina.

The force of her personality was what drew Jared to her in the first place. She just had an intensity that she couldn't conceal, no matter what she was doing.

They met in college. Well, when she was in college. She had been attending the University of Vermont while he was bumming around Burlington, aimlessly working dead-end jobs after high school, hopelessly indulged by his upper-middle class, professional parents. The crunchy lifestyle surrounding the college was fertile ground for the young Jared to cruise for girls looking for a Vermont bad-boy.

A Vermont bad-boy. If such a thing existed, Jared was it. And he loved picking up girls, spending time with them, taking some of them to bed, then moving on.

Until Megan walked into the sandwich shop where he worked. There was a confidence about her–just how she carried herself. It was magnetic.

He took her order like he would any customer, but as she sat down at a small table by herself and opened a book, he found himself compulsively looking back over at her. Again and again.

She stood out in Vermont. Darker skin than the average rural New England girl to which he was accustomed. Dark hair. Deep brown eyes. She wore glasses that day–those black rimmed ones that hot girls wore for a while back in the mid 2000's.

She didn't look at him at all. Just ate her lunch, read her book, then headed for the door. when Jared caught her looking back at him.

It was only a fraction of a second. But he caught her sneaking a look out of the corner of her eye. Her deep brown eyes darted to the side, her head held forward, looking back at him.

Normally he played it cool.

But not this time.

He almost had to catch up with himself as he vaulted over the checkout counter, knocking the tip jar onto the floor. He hastily replaced it and bolted out the door to catch her before she crossed the street. Darting awkwardly to the corner where she stood, he stopped awkwardly next to her, then froze.

"Hey."

She had looked up at him, a look of amused curiosity on her face.

"Hi."

He had smiled like a jackass. She had smirked, and the crosswalk signal had turned.

As she stepped into the street, Jared had dithered like an even bigger jackass, until he swallowed his pride and shouted out after her.

"Are you coming back?"

She had looked over her shoulder briefly, then looked forward again, heading toward the opposite curb.

"Yep!"

It was high on the list of his top ten favorite memories.

Jared's phone buzzed again.

M: I got that shirt I talked about.

J: The Star Trek one?

M: Yeah. You think he'll like it?

J: Definitely. How's he doing tonight?

M: Cagey. Seems like he's scared of me now. You talked to him, right?

J: Yeah. He knows.

M: I don't know how I feel about this, J.

Jared leaned forward impatiently. He wasn't sure how to respond without being pushy. Thinking for another minute, he typed in a careful response:

J: What are you feeling about it?

M: I just don't know if I'm helping or hurting. I keep going back and forth.

J: What happened the other night? After the handjob?

M: I hate that word. Sounds like I need to file taxes after doing it or something.

J: Okay, sorry. But do you think that doing that hurt him?

M: I don't know. He seemed to like it, but then he's been weird.

J: Probably not sure where he stands. I did talk to him, but he's just kind of cagey lately. And not just about this. About everything.

M: I know. That's what makes me nervous.

Jared paused and leaned back in his chair again.

J: What about you?

M: What about me?

J: How are you feeling? Do you want to do this?

M: I mean…if it helps.

J: No, I mean you. He definitely doesn't want a pity fuck, I guarantee that. That will definitely backfire. If you're going to help him, you have to want it. Do you want it?

M: I want to help.

J: Really? That's all?

M: I mean, I think I'll like it too and everything. I liked it last time, anyway.
M: Are you sure you're okay with this?

J: Meg, no one is more freaked out than I am at the fact that I'm okay with this. But I am. I'm about to pop a seam in my pants.

M: Okay.

J: Okay what?

M: Okay…I…want this. I want to take Mark to bed.

Jared sucked in his breath, his eyes widening.

J: Okay, I'm gonna jizz my pants here, Meg. I love you. Oh my god, you have no idea.

M: He's still really nervous around me. I'm really scared I'm gonna mess this up.

J: Meg, listen to me. You are the hottest woman in the world. There is no man…well, no straight man…that would say no to you if he was sure you wanted to fuck him. None. You make it clear to Mark, and he will go for it.

M: Okay.

J: Okay?

M: Okay.

J: Are you doing this?

M: Yeah. I'm on my way home now. Mark should be home already. We'll have dinner and hang out and…I'll see what happens. Maybe I'll try on the new shirt for him, see what he thinks.

Jared's heart skipped a beat at the thought of his wife planning to dress in a way that would attract his best friend. He felt his jaw tighten and his breath catch as his free hand instinctively reached down to press against his rising cock.

J: Great idea, baby. I know you'll look great. Just…keep me in the loop? Like when you're about to get started or something? I want to know when it happens.

M: Okay, J. Are you sure you're okay with this?

J: More than okay. I'm so hard right now, Meg, it's almost criminal.

M: Okay. I'm in the car now, heading home.

J: I love you, Meg

M: I love you baby!

Jared scrolled up and down the text chain, savoring the words and digesting their meaning.

He suddenly began to look forward to staying up all night.

Shifting his erection to the side to be less noticeable, Jared stood up for his next hourly patrol, efficiently touring each barracks building, checking each guard post, and returning for his next patrol.

Then, an hour later, his next.

Then, an hour after that, his next.

Then, shortly after returning, his heart began to pound as he felt the phone buzz in his pocket.

His hands shook as he opened the phone to read the message.

M: Just tried on the shirt. Fits pretty well with no bra. It's cute. Gonna go show Mark and then fuck him.

* * *

"Ms. Simms!"

Jordan sighed and turned around in the crowded hall, seeing Professor Schenk walking hastily up to catch her.

"What can I do for you, Tom?"

He smiled broadly. "Thanks for letting me sit in today. You did great in there. Again."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks, I guess. Do you randomly show up in sophomore classes after a pre-dissertation Ph.D student slaps you around on stage?"

"No, not really. I don't know, actually, it's never happened before. And I remember the exchange differently."

"You would." Jordan smiled and began walking away. He hastened and walked next to her.

"Jordan, I know this is a little strange, but you are rapidly moving out of the student bracket and into the potential colleague bracket. Try to remember that."

Jordan nodded, a little chastened. "Fair enough, Tom. But to that end, I'd like a little notice if a colleague is going to show up in my class."

"Understood," he replied. "Apologies. But now that I've seen your research and the level of debate and presentation skills you have, I wanted to see how you teach before I recommend to every hiring committee that I talk with that they hire you."

Jordan stopped walking, a little taken aback. "You don't have to do that, Tom."

The swirl of students moved past them in both directions as they stood in the middle of the busy hall between classes.

"I know I don't," he half grinned. "You're one of Lukacz' mentees. You can get a tenure track position or a post doctoral position pretty much anywhere. And he's nuts about your work, that much is obvious. Yale, UCLA, hell, even a lectureship at Cambridge if you want. You don't need me."

"No, I don't…I mean, I guess..thank you for thinking of me." Jordan's eyes were genuinely grateful, happy to hear that she'd impressed a senior colleague.

"Well, I'm happy to see what you can do. You're brilliant, you're fearless, and I just found out you know how to teach sophomores."

Jordan laughed shyly.

Dammit. He was charming.

"Well, listen," he said, shifting tone. "I had thought we might chat about career prospects over lunch or something, but I've been asked by Dr. Wu to guest teach his graduate seminar today. So I have to run along."

"Of course. And again, thanks." Jordan shifted the weight of her shoulderbag as they turned to walk away from each other.

Then she thought of one more thing.

"Tom?" She turned around.

"Yeah?"

"This is weird…but I asked you at dinner about a dress code? For the Saturday night thing?"

"Right."

"Well, everyone just kind of laughed it off. But I genuinely don't know what's expected."

"Nothing's expected," he answered easily. "You can come dressed as you are now. People know I'll be there, and I've informed the organizers that I'm bringing a colleague. Nobody will expect you to do anything but observe, and you can dress in whatever way makes you comfortable."

"I won't…ruin the vibe or anything if I just show up in regular clothes?"

"No, the vibe has less to do with clothes than…expectations…and nobody has any expectations for you. You can just observe, talk to whoever you want. Ironically, informed consent is taken care of pretty thoroughly at these events. Any above-board BDSM soiree makes triple sure that all participants are fully informed, fully consenting, and have ample and easy opportunity to opt out at any time with their safe words. So they're ready and easy research subjects if you know how to navigate that world. Just arrive when you want, I'll meet you there, and do whatever questioning or observation you want. We can compare notes after we leave, of course."

Jordan snickered, trying to stifle a laugh.

Schenk cocked his head slightly, curious as to her reaction. "Something funny?"

She shook her head, a little embarrassed.

"No, I'm just chewing on the phrase 'above board BDSM soiree.' It's a funny combination of words. I'm sorry. This is new to me. It's…just a lot to take in."

"Just a lot to take in…You might hear that phrase again on Saturday. In a very different context, of course. Fair warning."

Jordan guffawed and shook her head, smiling. "Okay, Tom. Send me the details, and I'll see you Saturday."

* * *

Mark sat on the couch with a blank stare, another episode of Family Guy running on the TV but barely registering in the background of his mind. The basic cartoon colors, the shape of the characters, they all made it past his eyes but not all the way into his conscious mind.

He was tired.

Physically tired, of course. That was a big part of it, anyway. While the new job was occupying his time and helping him relieve some pent-up frustration through brute force labor. And while he actually did enjoy helping to create structures and walkways out of cut stone, it was quite taxing physically. More so, in some ways, than the rigorous training schedule of the marine corps. Although less rigorous in others, of course.

But there was another fatigue that dulled his senses and held him down. He couldn't quite identify it, and wasn't quite sure how to address it. It was just a sense of…unease. A kind of edginess that was only relieved when he was closed in the four walls of his best friend's apartment.

Being out and about, dealing with coworkers and strangers on the street…It was harder than he remembered it being. He found himself starting each day reasonably pleasant, but struggled to maintain a pleasant or chipper attitude as the day went on. And by the end of each day, he didn't want to talk to anyone.

He would occasionally be invited to get a drink with a coworker, or even invited out for a night on the town at the end of the week. And while he had never been an overly extroverted person, preferring the company of close friends and his reading habit, he would usually go along and have a good time with people.

But now he was just…tired all the time.

The routine was becoming stable, although he knew that was changing soon. He would wake up, Jared having already left for early morning physical training with the platoon he now had full charge of. Megan would get up around the time Mark did, and they often enjoyed a friendly breakfast together. Usually talking through her upcoming day or comparing notes on whatever book they were reading together. Then he would finish breakfast and leave for work with a smile.

Then work all day, finally coming home dusty and tired. Jared would often be there when he returned, and they would chat and hang out, sometimes watching something on TV together. On weekends, the three of them might go out to dinner, rapping along with Beastie Boys on the car stereo as they drove through the military town on the way to a restaurant. Or they would watch movies, or play board or card games. Mark usually drank, and occasionally Megan and Jared would join him, getting obnoxiously drunk and giggling before they tumbled off to bed and left Mark alone on the couch.

Mark's earlier routine–well established by now–of drunkenly looking through the boudoir photos of Molly on his laptop and rubbing one out…that was still a regular way to end his day.

It usually tied up the evening with a nice, comfortable bow. Of sorts. A little period to end the sentence of the day before he went to sleep.

There was always a moment, somewhere during the perusal of images depicting Molly's naked body, that he would be tempted to reach out to her. To answer her texts.

Thankfully, he was never drunk enough to go through with it. He wanted to talk to her. But it was a bad idea. She had dumped him. For perfectly good reasons. He even agreed with her reasoning and her decision. At least in most of his more sober moments.

Still, it cut deep. And the wound ached. And it wasn't the only wound aching.

And then was the baffling development of Megan's sudden handjob on the couch. Sometime last week (Mark had trouble differentiating the days, as a bottle of Jack Daniels each day made the complex recollection of time difficult) Megan had sat down to watch an episode of Star Trek with him and just…pulled his dick out.

Obviously it was awesome. She took her top off, he fondled her, and just…took care of him.

He skipped the Molly-grief jackoff session that night. He'd even fallen asleep smiling.

But he woke up more confused than ever. Megan didn't even mention it during breakfast, and when Jared came home, he'd awkwardly confessed the whole thing to his best friend.

Jared's eyes had gotten wide, but he'd tried to play it cool.

Mark had seen eyes like that before–on Chris Cohen when he was fingering Molly on the picnic table.

Cuck eyes.

Mark couldn't imagine Jared having any single character trait in common with Chris. And Jared hadn't come out and confessed any such leaning. On the contrary, he had attempted an easy sounding explanation that he and Megan had a kind of fluid or physically open relationship, that as long as they told each other stuff, they were cool getting physical with other people…

Mark had been wary, but accepted the explanation at face value. After all, he had fucked Megan that one time. And Jared definitely was into showing her off, he knew that…

And then Jared had quickly disappeared into his bedroom to change before Megan got home. Which was a little unusual. Probably jacking off in there or something, Mark speculated.

Whatever.

Nevertheless, Mark was acutely aware that this little apartment was the last small island of people he could trust, and Jared and Megan were the only two people left in the world who he felt genuinely comfortable–safe, even–interacting with. He didn't want to fuck that up. He couldn't. Molly had left him, the marines had rejected him…

These were the only people left. And shit could go sideways unexpectedly, and fast, as he had learned in Afghanistan.

He was terrified that he'd overstep, that he'd go too far with Meg, and then they'd hate him too. They'd throw him out onto the street, just like his landlord did when his mom died. Just like the marines did when he came back from Afghanistan. Just like everyone in the world did when you stopped being useful…

So he politely made sure that a little physical distance was between him and Megan when they were together. And he made sure to sit on the opposite side of Jared on the couch just to make sure there would be no misunderstandings.

Tonight, however, he had been a little worried. Jared was going to be gone overnight–he was sergeant of the guard again and couldn't leave the base for 24 hours. When Megan had come home after Mark's shower (this time he made sure to get fully dressed again), they had eaten some dinner–Mark cooked this time–and then watched the second half of some artsy movie that Meg liked.

Mark made sure to sit on the opposite end of the couch. Megan seemed to understand, and didn't make a move. Clearly she was picking up on his hesitation, and played it cool, keeping the conversation firmly in the friend zone. After the movie, they chatted about the nerdier aspects of the film with some ice cream (Megan was always delighted by how sensitive Mark could be when they watched art flicks together, given his love of literature). Then she stood up, stretched, washed the bowls and bid him good night, closing her bedroom door behind her.

Mark couldn't help but admire her body when she was stretching. Just a little. Her arms high over her head, her black hair falling down behind her back, the slight exposure of her midriff as the hem of her shirt lifted.

She was hot. No question about it. Curves in all the right places.

Normally, he preferred a slender body type like Molly's, and Megan was ever so slightly thicker than Molly, but she was…incredibly attractive. Not chubby. Curvy, in a strong way. An obvious athlete from her competitive days on the women's soccer team in college.

And she had noticed him noticing her as her body relaxed from the full body stretch, and had briefly smiled, which made him nervous. But then she gathered the bowls and headed straight for the kitchen, continuing their conversation without missing a beat. As the conversation reached a natural pause, she ended it and left.

Which is where we found Mark earlier, and where he found himself, staring emptily at an episode of Family Guy he had already watched, waiting to get tired enough to go to sleep. He hadn't started drinking yet, as the lively conversation with Megan had distracted him from starting that routine early.

But he knew what came next. First the empty stare at the TV, the Jack Daniels dulling his senses steadily. Then something would make its way into his mind. The court martial, or Molly, or Jett, or one of the ambushes, or sometimes even his mom…

Then it was time to really lean in and drink.

He laid down on the couch and sighed.

Then he heard a click behind him and half sat up to look over the back of the couch.

Megan stood timidly in the doorway of her bedroom. Mark could only see her face, as he was only just looking over the back of the couch.

"Um…Mark?"

"Yeah? What's up, Meg?"

"I…got a new shirt. Thought you'd like it."

Mark chuckled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah…" Megan walked toward the couch, and he saw a two tone gray and black T-shirt that fit tightly around her body. The design was a silhouette of Captain Jean-Luc Picard with a stern expression on his face, hovering above the words "MAKE IT SO."

Mark laughed. "That's awesome, Meg…I love it. Where'd you get it?"

She smiled widely. "Off the internet. It came yesterday, and I forgot about it until just now."

Mark's smile lingered as he looked at it. "Well, it's pretty rad. Maybe I should get one."

"Yeah, that'd be cool."

Mark noticed that she had clearly removed her bra before changing into the shirt, as the dim outline of her nipples was apparent on either side of the face of the intrepid captain of the USS Enterprise-D.

"What are you watching?" Megan rested her hands on the back of the couch, leaning forward slightly.

"Oh, just a Family Guy rerun. No big deal. I wasn't even really watching…"

Mark's eyes caught the bottom hem of the shirt and realized there was nothing underneath. Not just the shirt–as he had already established, but looking down he saw her soft copper skin exposed…all the way down.

Reality struck when he noted the thin vertical strip of pubic hair, centered in the slightly paler brown V-shaped tan line where her panties usually were, extending upward from the top of her soft cleft. The remainder of her pubic hair was neatly shaved off, making the line clean and stark.

Catching himself, Mark looked back up to Megan's face, which was now smiling down at him.

"Still scared of me?"

Mark laughed nervously. "Not scared…just, you know, respectful. Of Jared."

Megan nodded, her smile fading. "I appreciate that. I know he appreciates that too. But I'm guessing you'd appreciate a good night's sleep off the couch. Any thoughts on that?"

Mark coughed. "I mean…I really appreciate…"

Megan laughed, rolling her eyes. "For Christ's sake, Mark, come to bed. I don't have a husband tonight, and I want you to take me to bed. Do you want a written invitation or something? I think I've got stationery around here somewhere…"

Mark laughed nervously again. "You…you're sure Jared's okay…"

Before he finished the sentence, Megan held up her phone to an open chain of text messages. Mark read them quickly.

M: Just tried on the shirt. Fits pretty well with no bra. It's cute. Gonna go show Mark and then fuck him.

J: Really? Like, for real?

M: For real. Speak now if you don't want this to happen.

J: I ain't sayin' shit. Go get it, girl. God, Meg…you're so hot…I love you so much…

M: Love you too, JJ. Gotta go, gotta fuck Mark. TTYL.

J: Kisses! Tell me when you're done!

Mark gulped.

"So I'll ask again. Still scared of me?" Megan's eyes were smiling, but her face still showed genuine, indulgent concern for Mark's emotional state.

Mark shook his head. Megan's features softened more, and she extended her hand over the couch.

"Good. Come to bed."

Mark took her hand wordlessly, looking down at her bare, plump buttocks as she led him into his best friend's bedroom.

* * *

Jordan's phone buzzed again, rumbling against the wood of her nightstand as she rummaged in her closet.

It was definitely David. Her heart skipped a beat, unsure of how to talk to him.

The buzzing stopped, followed by a short pause, then one more buzz.

He left a voicemail.

Jordan lifted a dark blue floral print dress in front of her, leaning back slightly in the mirror.

Who was she kidding? A church dress?

She sighed in exasperation, throwing the hook over the dowel in her closet again.

Grimacing, she looked back and forth in her closet as her phone began to buzz again.

She held her eyes closed, grimacing, then walked to the nightstand and picked up the phone.

"Hi baby."

"Hey Jo! Everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. Sorry I missed your call earlier."

She walked back to the closet, the light metallic screech of hangers sliding over the dowel could be heard through the phone as she shifted clothes back and forth.

"What's up, honey? Doing laundry or something?" David asked, curious.

Jordan stopped shuffling in the closet, closing her eyes again.

"Jo? You there?"

"Yeah, I'm here…" she pinched her nose. "I'm trying to get ready for something, but I'm kind of scared to tell you about it."

"Scared…why? What's the matter?"

"I'm trying to figure out what to wear for a thing I said I'd go to tonight."

"Okay…" David's voice seemed to be bracing for the worst. "What's the thing…you're going to?"

Jordan's cheeks puffed out as she exhaled nervously.

"A bondage sex party."

Jordan's eyes scrunched shut.

The line went silent.

"But don't worry baby, it's just for work," she burst out.

The line stayed silent.

"A bondage sex party…for work?" David's voice was flat. Just seeking clarification.

"Yeah. I mean, kinda. But yeah."

The line was silent again.

Jordan's eyes scrunched shut again. "Okay, I know how that sounds, so let me explain…"

The line stayed silent. David said nothing.

"Just let me explain, honey…" she insisted.

"I'm listening, Jo…"

"Okay…so you know I had to give that rebuttal to Schenk, and then I did the dinner thingy afterwards with the faculty and visitors…"

"Yeah, I remember."

"Okay…so we kind of continued the conversation at the dinner, and we were going back and forth, and he asked me about my research methods."

"Okay."

"So I told him that I read his stuff, and then some other researchers in the field, and some stuff online, and then some interviews online."

"Interviews?"

"Yeah, you know what I mean. The videos where they interview the girl, and then she does the…because we…well, you know how I…kind of like them…"

David's voice got husky. "Yeah…"

"So he was like…'hey, porn isn't research'…and I was like 'it's not really porn the way other stuff is porn,' and he was like 'you should talk to real people who do this stuff,' and I was like, 'I don't really know where to find people who do that, and this isn't really my field, so that's not actually an option for me' and he was like, 'hey, I do observations at BDSM sex parties when I travel for academic conferences, cause that's not, like, weird at all,' and I was like, 'okay, good for you Professor Perv,' and he was like, 'well, if you want to talk to real people who are into this stuff you should come to a BDSM sex party with me and observe and interview real people,' and I was like…I mean…I couldn't back down, right? I had just done all this stuff to take down his conclusions, and all the senior faculty and other people from other universities were there. And so I was like, 'okay, fine, I'll go to your stupid weird sex dungeon or whatever and talk to people,' and then he was like, 'cool, I'll see you there,' and I was like, 'only in an academic capacity, obviously, just to observe and talk to people,' and he was like, 'obviously that's fine,' and so now I'm going and I don't know what to wear to bondage sex parties when you're not going to do bondage sex and I should have told you earlier but I was all excited from having a really good day and you were working and didn't answer the phone and so I played with Ricardo and went to sleep and then I played with Ricardo again and you were like…super into it and so I didn't bring it up, and oh my gosh do you hate me right now?"

Jordan's now trembling voice finally ended her run-on sentence. Wiping her eyes, she waited desperately for her husband to respond.

The line stayed silent for more than ten agonizing seconds.

"David?" Jordan's voice trembled.

"Huh. Okay. Well, my day was good. Busy at the dock. We looked at electrical grids and I tried something called Egusi soup. It was…pretty good."

Jordan laugh-sobbed at his deft sidestep. A trademark David Stark way of calming her down. Shift the conversation.

"Okay…" she wiped her eyes and sniffled. "What does eggy soup taste like?"

"Egusi," David said with mock gravity, like a teacher correcting a student. "It's a little creamy, a little kick of spice. You'd probably like it."

"Probably…" Jordan wiped her eyes again.

David paused for another moment, then took a deep breath.

"Just one question, Jo, before I weigh in on this?"

Jordan sniffed again, her shoulders tensing. "Okay…"

"Is that exactly how the conversation went at that dinner? Or are you paraphrasing? In particular the 'whatever, Professor Perv,' part. I…just need to know if academics talk to each other like fourteen year old girls when they interact socially."

Jordan laughed out loud, pushing past her nervous crying.

It felt good, like breaking a deep emotional tension that had been building up in her…

She felt a sudden flood of love for her husband. David was good at this stuff. Really good.

"No…" Jordan answered between giggles. "No, we used bigger words. Although wine was involved."

"I see." David's tone was mock serious. "Well, thank you for clearing that up."

"Of course, Mr. Stark. Anything to help." She sniffled again, still clearing the tension.

"Well…" David pivoted, "that's an interesting development for sure. But I'm not sure what you want me to say. What is it you're worried about?"

Jordan was taken aback at his casual tone. "Worried about? It's a bondage sex party, David!"

"Well, there's that…" David chuckled. "But you're just there to observe, right?"

"Yeah…but I'm observing strangers having weird choke sex and stuff. Probably paddle beatings. Maybe nipple clamps or something."

"That's true. And I'll cop to it, I wasn't expecting this. But it actually sounds above board, even if it's a little weird on its face. I'll ask this, though: Would you feel this way observing other out-of-mainstream behavior and interviewing the people who participate in it?"

Jordan thought for a moment. "Like what?"

"I don't know…what about those people who have strange addictions? Remember that reality show that was on a while back? People who were addicted to coffee enemas, or who are obsessed with cleaning all day, or who have a rock collection they talk to and have tea parties with or something?"

"No…" Jordan replied honestly.

"Well…how is this different?"

"I guess…" Jordan thought for a moment. "I guess it's because I spent the last few days publicly attacking the immorality of BDSM practice, and now I'm going to a sex party. I…I feel like a hypocrite."

"Oh, okay. I see."

David paused again.

"Is that the only reason you feel like a hypocrite?"

"Okay, now you're playing therapist…" Jordan laughed.

"Isn't that what you pay me for?" David laughed back.

"I mean…" Jordan's voice pitched down and quieted awkwardly. "I mean…you know I kind of…like watching that stuff. It's exciting. Sometimes. So I feel bad coming out against it, you know?"

"Yeah, I see that." Now David's voice pitched upward slightly.

Jordan continued quietly. "So it's different this time."

"Yeah, I guess it is. But again, you just accepted the invitation to observe. In like, a professional capacity. Right?"

"Yeah."

"So, don't sweat it. Observe, take notes, revisit your positions, keep the conversation going. That's the job, right?"

"I guess."

The line went silent again, as David waited for Jordan to speak again. Finally, she did.

"What if I like it?"

David cleared his throat.

"Okay, I'm getting my dick out now."

Jordan laughed again. "I knew it!"

"Yeah," he admitted sheepishly. "Let's get that out in the open now, I'm biased. The thought of you at a sex party, even as an observer–I'm…I'm into it. I'm gonna have a pretty intense night."

"Yeah…" Jordan smiled into the phone.

"But if you like it, you like it. Don't worry about it. We can keep it between us, you come home, tell me about it, and we'll have fun with it. Together. No judgments. You indulge my weird fantasies, I can support yours. Think of it like leveling the playing field."

Jordan squinted, sitting with the idea. "Okay…"

"Not that it was an uneven playing field or whatever…just that we both have…unconventional things that we like, and that we love each other enough to be happy supporting each other's desires. Whatever they are. I like that about us, you know?"

Jordan liked that idea better. "Okay…I'm still nervous, baby. And I don't know what to wear."

David cleared his throat. "Ah, a practical question. I'm better at those. What did Schenk tell you?"

"He said wear whatever, since I'm only observing. Which really isn't helpful."

"Okay…how do you want to be seen?"

Jordan squinted. "I guess…professional but not like…a buzzkill."

"Okay…" David paused. "I'm going to say…your tan slacks and either your navy blue or mist gray blouse. Both are straight cut and button up. They're cute, but professional. Disarming but still pretty serious. And…I'm gonna say no ball gags."

Jordan laughed again, reaching for the two blouses in her closet. "Okay, that's helpful. Hair up or down?"

"Down. Don't want to come off as too playful."

"Right. Makeup?"

"Whatever you wore to dinner."

"Okay…"

The line went silent again. Then David:

"You feeling a little better?"

Jordan sighed deeply. "Yeah, I am actually. I'm still nervous, but I'm glad we talked."

"You gonna tell me all about it? Like, when it's done?"

"Of course. You're my husband."

David's voice became husky. "Awesome."

Jordan blushed into the phone. "Okay. I have to get ready. Try not to pull your weiner off thinking about my night."

"No promises."

She giggled again. "Okay, baby. Get some sleep. I love you."

"I love you, Jo. And relax, this will be fine. We'll laugh about it after."

"Okay, baby. Good night."

"Good night."

Jordan ended the call and tossed her phone gently onto her nightstand. She looked down at the clothes she had pulled off their hangers at David's direction.

He was right. They would definitely work. He had a real fashion sense. Somehow. Something about his predilection for how things fit and work together.

She gathered the clothes in her arms and crossed the room to her dresser, opening her underwear drawer to extract a clean bra and a new pair of panties.

She only had one pair left. Usually Saturday was laundry day, but the anxiety of the evening's events had thrown off her routine. She could catch up on laundry tomorrow, she thought as she lifted the last clean pair up to see a tangled mass of black and blue lace nestled under it.

Jordan paused, and reached back into the drawer to pull out the forgotten underthings.

Lacy lingerie. See through patterns with arabesque straps and floral prints.

One black, one navy blue.

They had been bought for Mark.

Well, for her, but to wear for Mark.

It had never happened. She'd never really worn them since that weird and somehow distant experience had ended rather abruptly.

Out of pure curiosity, she untangled the black from the blue and let the black lingerie unfold.

A see-through bra, with arabesques of lace and delicate mesh descending below the cups, a skin tight fit, attached by thin straps to matching see-through panties.

Ridiculous. And impractical.

Still, she lifted the garment in front of her, looking in the full-length mirror out of curiosity.

No words came. But the girl in the mirror narrowed her eyes into a tight smile.

* * *

While she couldn't remember the specific moment, she did remember what spurred her first feelings for him. It had been something about his eyes.

Her time in Vermont had made Megan Rodriguez feel like a fish out of water. Surrounded mostly by the children of crunchy and/or wealthy white New Englanders, she hadn't made a ton of friends outside the soccer team where she played as a starting defender. Especially since all her roommates were also teammates.

And the gangly townie at the sandwich shop was just like everyone else in Burlington. And make no mistake–she had been acutely aware that he was looking at her while she was eating. He was greasy haired, maybe six feet tall, thin set face and a three-day shave. And he looked at her funny while she ordered, which she didn't like. But that was the first time she noticed his eyes.

His creepy stare threatened to ruin her weekly trip to the sandwich shop. It was her once-a-week splurge away from the university meal plan. Her favorite aunt and uncle had given her a hundred dollar bill each semester when she left home to go back to school so she could treat herself once in a while at college. She spread that hundred dollars out over ten sandwiches in ten weeks, which almost amounted to the whole semester if you factored in the time away from Burlington for road games.

So she usually didn't like to be bothered when she got her sandwich. It was Megan time. Special time. And frankly, this skinny white guy looked like every other Phish-following burnout that worked in a Burlington cafe washing dishes or cutting deli meats. He probably just wanted a taste of latina spice, she had thought to herself. Something different than he was used to.

But there was something about his eyes. Bright blue eyes. Icy, even. And just something about the way he looked at things. A casual intensity. And it didn't seem to quite matter what it was he was looking at. Could be the cash register. The sandwich he was making. The door as it opened.

And of course, the way he looked at her. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. What was it?

Maybe he was anxious?

No… that wasn't it. More like…restless.

An intense restlessness.

Like there was a ball of energy inside him that couldn't stop moving–couldn't stop driving forward.

But to what end? What destination? He seemed like a near-perpetual motion machine stuck in a town a thousand miles from anywhere or anything that could match its energy.

Hence the restlessness, she had speculated from her relative position of safety at the table near the window.

So she had been intrigued, but only momentarily. And she had left the sandwich shop on her way back to the library without talking to him.

But then she had felt genuinely scared when he vaulted over the counter and kicked the tip jar onto the floor as he moved toward her. She had hastened out the door and hit the walk signal, trying to avoid eye contact as the signal clicked and buzzed, not yet changing so she could cross the busy street.

When he entered her field of vision–still with his work apron on–she had expected…

Well, she had expected more than just the word, "Hey."

But at least he didn't attack her.

No, he wasn't dangerous, she decided. Just…intense. And now she got a good look at his icy blue eyes. They had jerked up and down her body.

Not lecherously, just curiously. Like he wanted to really figure her out.

He was turning the burning, icy intensity of his eyes toward her. To take her in.

She was surprised at how that made her feel. She liked it.

But the crosswalk signal had turned, and she had felt obliged to walk away, still unsure of what all this meant. Then, halfway across the street, he had called out after her, asking if she would come back to the sandwich shop.

Back in her dorm room, the next crisp ten dollar bill was tucked in her political science textbook.

Her next ticket to meeting him. Maybe learning his name this time.

That next ten dollar bill was earmarked for next week.

It lasted two days. And his eyes lit up when she walked in. And then she talked to him.

His name was Poisson.

A French name. It just meant "fish," he had said, laughing. She learned that many of the old New England families were of French origin, and his family still used the original pronunciation.

Jared was his first name. He was a year older than her, and didn't go to college. His high school grades weren't great. And he didn't really like school.

But he wasn't dumb. He was intensely curious, and the first night they went out, she absolutely drank in the fixed attention of his icy blue eyes as he asked her everything. Absolutely everything he could think of. About soccer, how she got good at it, about her studies, about what hairstyles she liked, about her favorite cartoons as a child…

And he was sweet. And generous. And even funny sometimes.

The date had ended with butterflies as he walked her to her dorm room.

And the next date had ended with passion as the restless intensity poorly concealed by Jared's icy blue eyes continued to find its object in her body.

She had been genuinely shocked at the intensity of their first physical intimacy. He was ravenous. Slam-her-against-the-wall-and-devour-her ravenous. She was so surprised that she felt stupid at her reactions, with flashes of self-consciousness as she showed involuntary facial expressions. Mainly a locked, gape-jaw look she kept defaulting to as Jared made furious, passionate love to her.

Stuck in the shock of unprecedented passion for her body, she had fixed on his icy eyes when they looked down at her, her mouth hanging open awkwardly everytime she forgot to close it.

And then the butterflies in her stomach had met the heat between her legs.

She came with intensity. An Intensity that naturally resonated with her new lover's own natural restlessness.

And it wasn't just the intensity of a first time. She had had a few of those, and new the difference. She wasn't terribly experienced as an admittedly bookish sophomore at the liberal arts school. She had gone on dates, some had ended with sex.

Nothing like this. Nothing close to this. Jared Poisson was a machine. His erection, tightly wrapped in an unremarkable drug store condom, was so hard for her…

It was incredibly exciting. And while the pace was fast, the duration was not brief. He continued without slowing after her first orgasm–her first ever while being penetrated–and brought her, sputtering, to a second just before he grunted and released his own into the condom.

He had then pulled her into a tight embrace, her own arms instinctively closing tightly around his neck in response.

They had a few more dates, but it wasn't much longer after that that she had admitted it to herself.

She was in love with a townie named Jared Poisson. She made him cut his hair though.

It was a sweet memory. It was, however, a strange memory to have as she locked intimate eyes with another man.

Not icy blue eyes of restless intensity. Deep, brown, sad eyes.

Laying on her back wearing a Star Trek T-shirt and no pants or panties, she had played with Mark's scruffy, unkempt hair as he feasted between her legs. Now, with his larger body kneeling between her open legs, with his larger cock filling a larger condom, her husband's best friend prepared to enter her.

Megan, still in a haze, was shocked to find that love and memories of her husband filled her mind at this moment.

There was no accounting for it.

But that coherent train of thought faded in a haze as Mark began to enter her.

Mark stopped as she suddenly squeaked in either pain or protest, putting a hasty hand against his shoulder.

"Everything okay, Meg? You want me to stop?"

She shook her head. "No…just…slow. I forgot what a big boy you were."

"You sure this is okay?"

She could hear a nervous edge in his voice. He wasn't leaning forward anymore, and the pressure of his penetration subsided.

Her grimace turned to an uncertain smile as she looked up at him, unsure of how to respond. Then, remembering her conversation with Jared earlier, she sat up slightly, the tip of Mark's cock slipping out of her.

Mark looked awkwardly down at the silly Star Trek shirt she bought–and wore–for him, and then he felt her soft kisses sensually dotting his cheek. Her fingertips closed around his chin, pulling his face and eyes into alignment with hers. She looked into his eyes and leaned up to kiss his lips slowly and gently.

"Mark…please? I want you. For real. Okay?"

Clearly encouraged, he nodded, reaching with one hand behind her shoulder blades and letting her down onto her back gently. Her legs fell open again, and he set his thick cock to meet her welcome, finding its way bit by bit into her body until…

"Oh…god. Hhhhhyes…" Megan whispered.

Mark looked down at his best friend's wife, her eyes closed and her chin tilting up in the tension of pleasure.

Slowly, he withdrew halfway, then back in, noting that her second sigh matched the traction of his gentle thrust.

"Okay, Meg…you want more?"

She nodded urgently, her eyes still closed.

"Yes…please…"

* * *

The GPS screen in Jordan's still-shiny new Rav-4 indicated that she had arrived at her destination. A nice house with a long driveway about 15 miles from the nearest town. Other than the stack of cars lining the long driveway–more than a dozen from the look of it–there was nothing particularly remarkable about it.

It wasn't a gothic mansion with towers, or a fancy chalet with multiple outbuildings. It was nice, it had an attractive facade and a well landscaped yard–more than a hundred yards back from the road. A light blue exterior with new-ish square windows and what appeared to be a solid oak door behind a full glass storm door.

Not the property of a baron or duke, befitting the mystique of a sex dungeon. Probably the regular home of an upper-middle class local. Maybe a doctor, or a successful businessman.

Jordan took a deep breath and let it out slowly after she turned her car off. Adjusting the mirror to check her makeup, she took off her glasses, made some quick adjustments, replaced her glasses and then unbuckled her seatbelt and exited the car with a spiral notebook and pen in hand.

The night air was cool, but not cold. Pleasant, even.

Walking toward the front door, she became suddenly aware of the clothes nearest her skin.

She had expected the lingerie ensemble to feel scratchy and unpleasant with regular clothes over it. She had regretted the uncanny sensation of wearing lingerie under normal clothes as soon as she walked out her apartment door, having used the undergarment to make a bargain with the girl in the mirror to stay out of her way for the evening.

The deal between them was simple. The real Jordan would conceal a saucy secret throughout the evening, one that only the two of them knew about. Nobody at the party, not Dr. Schenk, not even David would know. Just Jordan and the girl in the mirror. That seemed to satisfy the girl in the mirror enough to extract the promise that she would stay out of the way tonight.

But the garment was surprisingly comfortable. Which was a pleasant surprise. The lace and mesh were soft, delicately manufactured despite looking–otherwise. She made a mental note that David would probably like it if she came to bed wearing this. Maybe keep it on overnight now and then. She could fall asleep in this. And her husband would love it.

Her distracted reverie found her prematurely at the storm door. Noting the camera above the doorbell, she briefly began to practice her explanation before pressing it.

"Hi…my name is Jordan Stark-Simms, and I'm here with Dr. Schenk, as I believe he informed the organizers. I'm only here to observe and not participate. If you could tell me the best way I can be unobtrusive throughout the event, I'm sure that…"

Her whisper to herself was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door. Panic seized her as she felt unready to greet a giant man in a gimp suit with a zipper mouth holding some kind of truncheon while he…

But it was just a nice looking middle aged man in a polo shirt and slacks. He opened the storm door, smiling, and waved her in.

"Hi…Hello, my name is Jordan Stark-Simms, and I'm here with…"

"With Tom. Or Professor Schenk, I suppose you call him that, right? We're expecting you, come in."

"Oh. Okay, thank you." She stepped nervously through the door into a well-kept entryway, a long but not overly grand staircase leading upward on the right, and a modest hallway on the left. Halfway through the hallway, an open door was emanating the polite, even tempered sounds of an upper-middle class party.

"Just down the hall to the left there. Grab a drink if you'd like, there are snacks on the table you can help yourself to."

"Thank you…I didn't catch your name?"

"I'm Jeff, I'm the homeowner. Go ahead, don't be shy, we're just getting started. We're expecting a few more folks before things really get going. Just relax and enjoy yourself."

"Okay…thank you…" Jordan walked uncertainly down the hall and turned into a fairly modest living room filled with around a dozen people, slightly more women than men, staggered throughout the room, chatting. Most had drinks in their hands, some had hors d'oeuvres, and all had casual clothing on.

"Jordan! So glad you could make it." Schenk appeared from the back of the room and moved toward her. "Were my directions okay?"

"Not sure, actually, but I have a GPS display in my car now, so I just typed in the address. Super handy."

"Excellent. Well, you're right on time, some participants are still arriving. How are you feeling?"

"A little nervous, actually." Jordan grimaced apologetically.

"That's natural. And even handy, if you're a participant. Part of the neurochemical cocktail of the experience. But I assure you, everything here is safe and consensual. We won't start the beatings, as it were, until everyone arrives and gets comfortable. For now, relax and work the crowd. Also…"

Schenk gently pulled her spiral notebook away from her nervous hands. "This kind of kills the vibe. I'm going to just set it under the couch here and…"

Jordan began to protest, but Schenk stood up holding a small, pocket sized notebook with the spiral on the top.

"Here. I brought an extra for you. Just tuck it in a pocket, chat with people or observe, then slip away for a moment and write down what you want to remember. If people see you with a notebook…they don't get mad, but it…kind of throws off the vibe. And without the vibe, there's really nothing to observe at events like this."

Jordan nodded gratefully at the tip, taking the notebook and tucking it in the back pocket of her slacks.

"Thank you! Any other tips?"

Schenk smiled. "These are normal people. Treat them as such. They'll show and tell you whatever you want to know. Honestly, one of the pleasant surprises of my research was just how open the people into BDSM actually are. They're open books when you get them in the right place. Just don't make them feel weird or judged, and this will be an eye-opening night for you. I promise. Now, go work the crowd, get to know everyone before they head downstairs."

"Downstairs?"

"Oh, right…" Schenk's eyes scrunched in brief frustration at having missed a major point of his introduction. "The main event, so to speak, is downstairs. You'll see people start to move down in a while, probably, because that's where the equipment is and such. When you get down there, we actually have a place to kind of be and observe out of the way. The organizer was kind enough to set up a small table on two of the walls so you and I can sit and take notes, see things from multiple angles, that kind of thing. I've already been down there to check it out, and it looks like a good setup."

"Downstairs…that's where it happens."

"Yeah, downstairs. It's part symbolic, part practical. Jeff's a perfectly normal everyday citizen most of the time. Keeping your sex dungeon downstairs…it's an easy way to keep your hobbies away from judgmental eyes, you know?"

"Got it. Downstairs." Jordan nodded.

"Good. Oh, and one other thing…there's a mirror wall down there. They don't always have those at events like this, but this one does. It can throw you off a little if you're not ready for it."

"A mirror wall?" Jordan tried to play it cool, but her eyes bugged slightly.

"Yeah, but don't worry about it. You'll get used to it. And hey, enjoy the party. Tap my shoulder if you need anything."

Jordan nodded as he stepped away to join a conversation. She identified another small cluster of people and began walking toward them.

"Mirror wall…We have a deal…" she whispered sternly to herself as she crossed the room.

I know, honey. I remember.

Jordan politely made her way around and introduced herself to a loose group of surprisingly normal people. Mostly middle aged, some younger. Different professions, as she found out–a plumber, two doctors, an elementary school teacher, and a handful of others. All of them were polite and easygoing, answering her basic demographic and background questions, but all used fake names.

Jordan had just slipped into the hall to quickly write down all she could remember and record her initial impressions when the doorbell rang. Jeff, the host, slipped past her and opened the door to let in a tall, well built black man who appeared to be in his mid forties. He nodded at Jordan as he walked past her in the hall, when she heard the low hum of conversation coming out of the room suddenly lull to silence.

Taking brief note of the development, Jordan quickly finished her notes about each person she spoke with–basic demographics, professions, education levels, other notable attributes that came up in casual conversation, then slipped back into the room.

She was shocked to find all but one of the women and several of the men in the room quietly kneeling with their heads down. The large man who had entered was slowly and wordlessly making his way around, seeming to inspect those who were kneeling.

Jordan looked over to Professor Schenk, who stood off to one side, quietly observing, but who didn't look back at her.

She stepped out of the doorway and against the wall, quickly trying to deduce who was kneeling and who was standing…and more importantly…why.

Before she could fully form the question as to what distinguished the two groups, the large man had gently taken the hand of a petite, middle aged woman–Jordan checked her notes and quickly identified her as "Betty," who worked as a retail manager in town. The woman stood, but kept her head tilted down as the man unbuttoned her blouse and pulled the front halves of it apart, exposing her breasts.

"Betty" neither objected nor resisted, keeping her head silently turned down.

The man silently examined her nakedness for a moment, then casually slipped his hands down the front of Betty's pants and groped her.

Again, Betty neither objected nor resisted.

Jordan was fixed on the interaction, dumbfounded at the casual nature of the man in what was so clearly a formal, almost liturgical ritual. He moved easily from body to body, gently slapping a face here or exposing flesh there for another moment before walking past Jordan to the door.

"Strip."

His first word. His voice was low and loud, almost an effortless bellow that caused an immediate effect as he walked out the door.

Those who had been kneeling quickly and quietly stood and began shucking their clothing, folding each item carefully and setting it in a neat pile in front of their now bare feet. Those who had not been kneeling remained clothed but silent.

Jordan was fixed on the scene. The surreal sight of silent, collective obedience. Most of the now nude participants were women, with one man standing off slightly to the side. She noted a small plastic device clamped around his penis.

A chastity cage. She had encountered the device–along with the practice of male chastity–in her earliest research. When she had initially begun trying to understand her husband's prodding to push her friendship with Mark into sexual territory.

She made a silent note to herself to ask Schenk about the scope and extent of the practice of cuckolding within the umbrella of BDSM.

For now, she didn't have time to think, as the silent room reacted to a door opening somewhere in the house. All attendants–nude and otherwise–began to quietly file out of the room. Schenk held back in a corner, and Jordan tried to press against the wall, invisible, as the participants wordlessly moved past her.

When they were all out, she moved quickly over to Schenk and began rapidly whispering questions. Schenk smiled and put his hands up in defense, whispering back:

"One at a time, please…"

"Okay…" Jordan's mouth moved silently as she tried to form the question, then whispered: "do these events usually start with rituals like that? And do you know what the ritual is?"

"Sometimes and kind of…" Schenk grinned, delighted to have so thoroughly piqued Jordan's curiosity. "Some groups like to signal the beginning of the shared imaginary space with some kind of ritual practice. Others just have a kind of come-when-you-want dungeon scene. But it's not uncommon at all to have some kind of ritual practice, some kind of symbolic social norm that gets people in the mindset and the mood."

"So that man that came in…is he the leader of the group?"

"In a way. This group plays with dominance hierarchy. The men who stayed clothed–and one woman–are the dominants. The ones who took off their clothes are submissives. The man who came in is playing the role of the lead dominant. He'll organize the participants and direct the play. The submissives will defer to him and their individual doms sexually, and the lower dominants will defer to him for direction."

"Fascinating. And the man…the submissive man with the device on his penis. Is he a cuckold?"

"He might be. Not necessarily. Some men–and women, too–engage in chastity play as a way of expressing submission."

"How does it work? How can he get any pleasure like that?"

"Again, classic power exchange. It may be psychological play exclusively. They'll deny him, maybe punish him with pain or humiliation. Some submissive men enjoy having their penises mocked, so they may remove the cage and do that. If he is here with a partner, they may cuckold him, or they may penetrate him. There are all sorts of ways to do it."

"Fascinating…" Jordan scribbled furiously in her little notepad, trying to keep up. "I talked to that guy. He's apparently a pretty successful lawyer…"

"Not uncommon that submissives come from the social ranks of high power and prestige. The stress and success can be alleviated by a total reversal of persona in the play space. He might be penetrated by a woman with a prosthetic penis tonight, and then arguing a multimillion dollar suit in court on Monday. You'd be surprised."

"Fascinating…" Jordan scribbled on, not looking up as she furiously wrote.

"But we need to get downstairs. There's likely some more to this opening ritual before the play starts…I'm sure you want to see that."

"I do, definitely…" Jordan finished up her note and followed Schenk out of the room. He walked down the hall away from the front door, finding the entrance to the kitchen, and then, turning around, an open door with stairs leading down to the basement.

The open door belched out a thick wall of blood red light, betraying the cultivated ambience of the space below. Jordan briefly slipped out of her academic mindset and experienced a flash of real fear.

This is exactly the kind of door she was warned about in Sunday School growing up. This was no Halloween fake-out. While she was satisfied that the activities taking place down those stairs was consensual, she also wasn't kidding herself about the immorality of the activities she would find at the bottom of the stairs.

The naughty videos that had constituted her "research" thus far had been partly fictionalized. True, the participants did seem to be willing, and definitely seemed to enjoy it. Nevertheless, it was a staged production, the participants were paid, and the whole thing had the quality of a commodity to any who looked at it objectively. A prepackaged experience to be enjoyed vicariously.

But effective. She had lost control of herself watching them. The wrenched groans of the dominated women in the videos still invaded her dreams…

But through this door was no commodity. Through this door–this tall, open rectangle of blood-red light–real people were really sinning. She would walk into the middle of a space of unashamed transgressive pleasure, where consenting adults would really use each other for rank sexual pleasure in the most outrageous ways.

Jordan froze. On the one hand, she felt an obligation to honor her academic duty, and her (albeit hasty) answer to Schenk's challenge that she go deeper in her research.

But the room scared her.

Partly because she didn't quite know what she was going to see.

But mostly because she had been told that at the bottom of those stairs, in addition to the accoutrement and activity of wild bondage sex, she would find a mirror that she couldn't escape.

A floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall mirror that would give her nowhere to run from the unflinching truths that the mirror revealed.

She suddenly became aware of the soft silk of her hidden lingerie. A strange tactile complement to the eerie silence emanating from the red light of the door downstairs.

She could leave. Schenk might be disappointed, but he'd understand.

She could leave. Her father would never, ever countenance her walking through a door like that. And she hated the idea of keeping any more secrets from him.

She could leave. This research wasn't even central to her thesis–it was ancillary–an add on adequately addressed by the work she had already done. Professor Lukacz had already signed off on the draft of that chapter.

She could leave. She could go home, facetime her husband, and talk this out. Walking away from this weird and terrifying sexual predilection, and working toward a healthier sexuality with her husband, the way God intended.

She could leave.

Professor Schenk, halfway down the stairs, noted that Jordan was still standing in the doorway looking down. He looked up inquisitively, noting her hesitation. In quick recognition, his questioning eyes gave her permission.

It's okay. It's really okay. You can leave.

Jordan took a deep breath and stepped down into the red light.

nnjcpl2002 wrote: ↑

Wed Jan 01, 2025 6:39 am

Have you ever read any of the Patrick O'Brien novels? His prose is complex and slow even to read, but he develops his characters in a way that brings them to life. I see this in your work. High quality, with some food for the intellect. Again, thanks for your hard work and for delivering an excellent product.

I do know Patrick O’Brien’s work, and that’s a high compliment, thanks!

I’m sure that the extreme slow-burn pace can be a bit irritating for some readers, but I’m just really drawn to the psychological complexity of this whole little world. I created Jordan as a character with the intellectual and emotional capacity to really probe that complexity while still experiencing the deep feelings that go with that complexity. That, and to develop a male counterpart to her that’s fully human and sympathetic. Too many “bull” characters are really flat and wooden, I think.

Anyway, I know that many readers prefer the quick-hit approach to the “good stuff,” but I find that a little boring and repetitive after a while. Thanks for the feedback, and I hope you enjoy the new installment!

-C

Anyway, I know that many readers prefer the quick-hit approach to the “good stuff,” but I find that a little boring and repetitive after a while.

I concur.

Crushing wrote: ↑

Fri Jan 10, 2025 6:48 pm

"Well, I'll admit to putting my thumb on the scale a little there in saying that my impulse to feed Tom–sorry, Todd–his own hat belongs in the shadow.

This sentence!!! Your skill and creativity with the smallest details in your characters, and narrative, is astounding.

"And the 2025 Nobel Prize in literature is awarded to....Crushing."

Crushing wrote: ↑

Sat Jan 11, 2025 7:50 am

nnjcpl2002 wrote: ↑

Wed Jan 01, 2025 6:39 am

Have you ever read any of the Patrick O'Brien novels? His prose is complex and slow even to read, but he develops his characters in a way that brings them to life. I see this in your work. High quality, with some food for the intellect. Again, thanks for your hard work and for delivering an excellent product.

I do know Patrick O’Brien’s work, and that’s a high compliment, thanks!

I’m sure that the extreme slow-burn pace can be a bit irritating for some readers, but I’m just really drawn to the psychological complexity of this whole little world. I created Jordan as a character with the intellectual and emotional capacity to really probe that complexity while still experiencing the deep feelings that go with that complexity. That, and to develop a male counterpart to her that’s fully human and sympathetic. Too many “bull” characters are really flat and wooden, I think.

Anyway, I know that many readers prefer the quick-hit approach to the “good stuff,” but I find that a little boring and repetitive after a while. Thanks for the feedback, and I hope you enjoy the new installment!

-C

Can't wait to meet the bull or is the lead dom the bull ??
Whoever he is, Megn and David are in for a wild ride.

I love your story, easily the best here on ohw.

Great chapter Crushing, loving the mind games.

"That, and to develop a male counterpart to her that’s fully human and sympathetic."
Your objective of developing real characters for whom we have empathy and understanding is likely the best feature of your work, C.
And, of course, their credibility adds heat to their love making.

Not a criticism, but it's tough waiting for the next wonderful chapter.

Thanks again!

Another great chapter, Crushing. I'm eagerly awaiting the next chapter.

MBD