Jordan

[Guhunkadorn]

Finally caught up here and still utterly enjoy this magnificent story.

I'm not sure I can continue the chapter by chapter consumption of this as I feel like I'm always left on knifes edge; might just step back from this for the time being and check back in a couple months. Think I'd enjoy the rest of the story during a lazy day reading binge.

[Crushing]

Dear Jordan (or should I say Mrs. Jordan Stark-Simms, Ph.D ABD?),

Please…dispense with the academic formalities. I hope I don't have to keep reiterating that we are colleagues now. You took my whole life's work apart limb from limb on a stage in front of hundreds of the top scholars in our discipline. So call me Tom.

I was glad to have you along on my little Saturday field excursion. I, of course, have attended dozens–or is it hundreds by now?-- of these types of events, and while they are never boring, some new friends to accompany me can help keep the experience interesting. A fresh set of eyes, especially attached to someone who is as genuinely intelligent and curious as yourself can have the effect of renewing the experience for me. One does get stuck in the well-worn ruts of one's own research and theoretical assumptions after a while, and your spirited skewering of my latest research accompanied with your real-time observations and questions have me revisiting old ground in quite a productive way. And for that, I thank you.

To that end, I'm glad you reached out. I've thought over your observations and questions–both from the conference, and from our conversations during the field research, as well as your most recent correspondence–and I'm not sure I have ready answers. However, I also need to be quite candid here in observing that your questions (however valid they might be) may have more to do with how your experience on Saturday night ended than it has to do with any theoretical clarity on the philosophical nature of choice or voluntary fantasy in a BDSM context.

I hope you don't feel attacked by that observation. I certainly don't mean it that way. But I have observed that one of the flaws with your approach to my work comes more from more of a place of moral horror or pique than empirical fact. I'm not of the professional stripe to discount the utility of moral horror in research, necessarily, but I do think one must try to keep one's biases out in the open and properly identified when one begins theorizing about the causes and meanings of things.

This is especially apparent to me in your last email–you jumped straight to the examples of suicide cults and Don Quixote for your objections. While I acknowledge the parallels, you're jumping to extremes to emphasize danger–which skews the picture a good deal. Think about it: the first example is an absolute worst-case scenario in mass social manipulation, while the second is, well, just pure literary fiction. As one is so extreme and the other is not real, I get the sense that you might be more preoccupied with the fact that you're still a little uncertain how you should feel after Saturday. You've spent some time on the inside (or at least with one foot inside) the BDSM bubble of this "voluntary delusion," and you're trying to account for how you felt.

I'd be happy to address the extreme hypotheticals you raised, Jordan. But if we're really going to do this, I'm going to step into the role of mentor (and someone who has a lot of experience with this specific psychological phenomenon) and say that you need to come to terms with your own personal experience of dom/sub space from the inside before you can moralize in good faith from the outside.

I say this in the friendliest, most non-threatening way possible. Not an accusation, but a warning. You now know too much about the inside–the lived experience of BDSM–to pretend that you don't understand it. At least on an instinctive level. So now you need to find words for the feelings that work to explain it to yourself before you re-engage the academic questions from a more objective standpoint. Whether you're willing to do that or not is of course up to you. I know this is not a primary focus of your own research, only ancillary. I also know that your upbringing and your current moral/philosophical commitments render this kind of process of self-exploration quite threatening to your identity. But once you step inside a dom or sub experience, and you then begin to explain it objectively as if you hadn't, as if you were only an observer…well that is just to theorize in bad faith. And I know you don't want to do that.

If you want to process it together, I'm happy to be a partner in your deliberations. If you want to go that route, let me know. I can promise you the complete confidence of academic colleagues if you want to ask me questions about it. But before you jump to Don Quixote or Jonestown to explain other peoples' sexual proclivities, you need to decide what happened to Jordan last Saturday.

Write back when you're ready to do that.

All the best,
-Tom

P.S. When "the incident happened," I feel like I should explain–the whole room didn't stop what they were doing because you crossed some line of propriety. They stopped what they were doing because you're a natural domme. They were delighted. Impressed, even. They just wanted to see you shine in that role. I'm not sure if that helps or further complicates your dilemma, but, if you're wondering, that's what that sudden silence around you actually was.

-T

* * *

"My mom used to tell me if I left my mouth open I'd catch flies…"

Patrick Lin grinned over his shoulder down the row of desks, waiting for his friend to jab him back.

But Jordan didn't hear him. She was still in shock after reading the email.

"Jordan?"

Her head snapped back, surprised and still offended at the email. "Sorry?"

"I was making a joke."

"Oh."

"Guess it wasn't that funny."

Jordan blinked heavily, then seemed to snap back into the conversation, looking over.

"What was the joke?"

"I just said my mom said I'd catch flies if I left my mouth open. You kinda had your mouth hanging open. Looks like you've got something a little newsworthy over there. Is it something good or something bad?"

Jordan's face reddened slightly. "Ummm…kinda mixed, I guess."

"Mixed? Like how?" Patrick stood up to walk over to her desk.

Jordan instinctively leaned forward to cover her laptop screen. Patrick stopped in his tracks, taken aback.

"Ummm, everything okay?" he asked tentatively.

"Yeah…everything's…I just got a weird email. And some good ones, too. It's just a lot all at once. Trying to figure out how to react to all of it."

"Oh, okay." Patrick retreated back to his chair and flopped back into it. "Like a good-news-bad-news kind of thing?"

Jordan nervously tucked her hair behind her ear. "Kind of. Not bad news, really. Just like…good news, weird news."

She seemed distant. Patrick weighed for a moment whether or not to push her on it.

She didn't return to work, still halfway facing him but looking off in the distance.

Her body language ambiguous, Patrick erred on the side of incaution.

"Want to, maybe, share the good news?"

"Huh?" Jordan focused back in on him. "What's the good news?"

Patrick cocked a half grin. "Girl, you are out of it today. You said you had good news, weird news. What's the good news?"

"Oh. I got invitations to interview at a few places."

"What? Already? You don't even have a full dissertation draft yet!"

Jordan nodded, shrugging to mirror his confusion. "I know! What am I supposed to talk about in the interviews!"

Patrick laughed out loud. "You think it matters?"

Jordan's mouth dropped open again, her eyes widening in shock. "Of course it matters!"

"No, no, that's not what I meant…" Patrick waved his arms in playful defense. "Of course it matters in like…a way. But what actually matters is you got interviews before everyone else. It means departments are competing over you. It means that even if a couple search committees decide you're not a fit, you're probably going to be fine. You'll get at least three serious offers. That's my guess."

"But why?" Jordan insisted. "I haven't done…anything? I co-published that one paper with Dr. Lukacz, and then I did a couple other papers in my first two years. I'm working on my dissertation, but only my committee…"

"It was the conference, Jordan!" Patrick interrupted her. "You spanked a tenured professor in front of like two hundred of his peers! It was awesome! How can you not see that?"

Jordan's mouth hung open again. "Was it that bad?"

"It wasn't bad!" Patrick laughed in spite of himself. "Everyone loved it! Didn't you hear Lukacz laugh?"

"No…I definitely heard that. I just thought it was, you know. Just a boring paper and response."

Patrick shook his head in disbelief. "It's so weird how you can't seem to see yourself sometimes."

Jordan leaned back, confused and offended. "What does that mean?"

"Just that you got an opportunity everyone in this room would kill for," Patrick shrugged back. "And you crushed it. And yet you're still confused why you're ahead of the rest of us."

Patrick's tone took on a bitter edge. The jab hit Jordan in the stomach, and she didn't know how to respond.

Patrick didn't continue, but turned back his laptop and went back to work. Jordan, now embarrassed and unsure of herself, did the same. She reread Schenk's letter, suddenly feeling very attacked.

All these men around her…telling her she doesn't know herself. That she can't see herself. Who were they to tell her anything? Who were any of them to insinuate a lack of self-awareness on her part?

She closed out the email, suppressing an audible huff of indignation as she opened her latest dissertation draft and reached for the next book in the pile on her desk.

* * *

David walked slowly through the rows of neatly parked school buses.

In a way, they were just dollar signs to him. His first big contract that started the ball rolling downhill. The first little burst of momentum. But he was surprised at how good he felt at being a little part of making sure all the kids in his county could get to school. He liked to feel…useful.

Two of the newer mechanics were off to the side, wrestling with a major repair.

It looked like a bent axle–the front half of the yellow monster was jacked more than two feet off the ground, propped up like a giant rearing yellow horse. Two young men in matching light blue jumpsuits were crouching on either side of the stripped wheels, arms deep into the wheel wells as they stripped down components.

Seeing David walk up, they both stopped and stood to meet him.

"Heya boss…what brings you by?"

David still wasn't accustomed to being called "boss," but he shrugged it off.

"Nothing in particular. Just finished a potential sales call with Clint, finished a little early. I had some time. Thought I'd swing by the bus yard, see if you guys needed a hand.

The two mechanics looked at each other, confused. "Like…pulling the axle?"

David grinned. "Sure. Or whatever."

"I mean…no offense boss, but…you know anything about…this part of the job?"

David laughed. "No offense taken. You guys are new, and I've been on the road. Some of the guys we brought on earlier know me a little better. But it's a fair question. I grew up working on clunkers on my dad's used car lot. I'm not certified or anything, but I know my way around stuff. Enough to be an extra set of hands, anyway."

One of the mechanics pursed his lips and nodded, impressed. "I didn't know. I figured you was just the business guy. You and Clint. I know Hamad's certified, but he's like the foreman, so…"

"Yeah, we all know our way around the business," David explained. "All sides of it. But you're not wrong, I mainly do books, and sales, and number stuff now."

He caught himself looking wistfully at the open toolbox sitting on the gravel between the two of them.

He was definitely making more money now, and his two jobs were a great fit for his skillset, not to mention they were surprisingly lucrative. But nothing beat the feeling of really fixing something that needed fixing. Just taking a broken thing and making it run.

"That's cool boss, but I think we actually got this one. We pretty much got it loose, and the replacement's up on the truck, but it's gonna take both of us to carry it."

David nodded, understanding. "Fair enough. Just looking to keep busy, I guess."

"Isn't this like…your week off?" the other mechanic asked. "That's what Hamad was tryna explain to me after the meeting."

"Yeah, it is." David agreed. "I'm on with my other gig for three weeks, traveling out of town. Then I get a week off. That's when I hang out with you guys. Try not to get in the way, still make us all some money, that kind of stuff."

"Why don't you like…go relax? Go fuck around and play fifty holes of golf or whatever the numbers guys do all day."

David laughed with them. "Not really a golfer. Maybe I oughta learn, I don't know."

The two mechanics stood respectfully, waiting for him to leave. David finally got the hint, made excuses and walked away, unsure of how to spend his day.

Walking back to his beat up old Camry, he glanced at his watch. It was nearly noon. Maybe he could take his wife out to lunch. Surprise her.

Yeah. There's an idea…

David got in the car and started it, driving toward the campus.

He looked forward to a good talk with her. Face to face. He could tell her what was really on his mind. What he couldn't tell those guys back there, since it wasn't a done deal. That he and Clint had just finished arranging a trial run for their paint product for the Florida department of transportation. It wasn't the first deal they had landed–they were almost all the way to a multi-year contract with South Dakota, which was definitely going to make them some money. But Florida was one of the "whale" states. If they liked the product and made the decision to switch–the company would drown in money relative to their size. Clint was already talking about starting up smaller franchises of their business in the states that bought their product. The growth potential was solid, as long as they could get a good foothold in the new areas.

It looked good. Clint was ambitious. Hamad was more cautious, but he deferred to David when they all looked at the plans together. Sure, not all of them might work out, but moving at a steady pace…

Yes, things looked good. Really good. Millionaire good.

David pulled into the campus parking lot nearest Jordan's office building. He turned off the car and hopped out, hip checking the door shut.

He was excited to tell Jordan that things were going well. She would be excited for him, but she would not entirely understand the nuts and bolts of it. Much like he felt when she got into talking about her academics. But she would be excited for him. And she had had some exciting news last night as well, getting several promising emails for jobs after she graduated.

Yes, a lunch date would hit the spot. He skipped up the stairs into the building, then went up to the second floor, trying to remember which door among the rows of identical doors opened up to the little cluster of half-desks where she worked.

He got the first one wrong, apologizing to a young professor in a small single-desk room who insisted he knock first. But the second door he opened seemed familiar. He glanced around the space, and just off to the center on the far side of the room, he saw an auburn ponytail flopped over a hunched shoulder shading a thick book of some kind.

Jordan.

He walked quietly behind her and gently tapped her on the non-ponytail shoulder.

Jordan turned and looked up.

"Oh my gosh! David!"

She dropped her book on a stack of other books and stood up, a look of delighted surprise covering her face. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay at work?"

"Everything's fine, Jo." He breathed in the fruity smell of her shampoo, luxuriating in the softness of her body pressed against him. "Had a pitch this morning, it wrapped early, and I had some time. Just thought you might want to get some lunch. When's your next class?"

Jordan pulled back from him and looked down at her watch. "It's not until 2…the cafeteria's really crowded now, though. And I only brought my lunch…"

"We can go somewhere, right? That deli…across from the south side of campus? You like that place, right?"

Jordan smiled in surprise. "Yeah…I do. You're so sweet! Are you sure we can..?" She stopped herself. She still wasn't used to the fact that they had enough money for things like this now. She didn't know how to finish that sentence, so she just smiled.

"Yeah, we'll be okay," David grinned. "Come on, let me treat you. Grab your coat…"

"Okay…oh, and David…you remember Patrick, right?"

Patrick, who David didn't remember all that well, stood awkwardly and walked over to shake his hand. He was taller by a couple inches, with dark hair and high cheekbones, and smiled genially.

"Patrick." David said, gripping his hand back. "Nice to see you again. You guys are set to defend your dissertations together, right?"

"Well, in the same timeframe. Probably not actually together. Your wife's kind of leapfrogging ahead of the rest of us."

David grinned, sensing some unanticipated tension. "Yeah, she has a way of doing that."

Jordan blushed between them, unsure of how to answer.

"Well, you ready to go, Jo? I think I remember you liked the chicken caesar wrap there, right?"

"Yeah, I did…I'll see you later, Patrick."

Patrick jutted his chin once, giving a half nod as the couple turned to walk out of the room.

* * *

Later that evening, the young couple cuddled on the couch, watching an old movie.

Jordan loved classic films. Growing up, her family only watched the videos they could borrow from the public library–and the ones that weren't too violent or salacious of course. That limited the selection, but it endeared a certain era of film to Jordan, and she tried to share that love of the golden age of cinema with her husband. With varying degrees of success.

They had had a lovely day. The surprise lunch at the deli, then returning Jordan back to her office to find that Patrick had left. David found an empty desk nearby and began combing through his own spreadsheets on his laptop.

It was as if he was allergic to time off.

Jordan kissed him on the cheek as she left to teach her class, then came back to find him just where she left him.

Then, a few more emails answered, the couple headed back home where David made her a nice dinner as she typed away on her dissertation. With the dinner dishes washed and put away, David made indignant, if somewhat passive noises from the couch.

"That may have been catalogued as the nerdiest mating call ever," Jordan observed, smiling to herself as she closed her laptop and flopped down next to him.

He began to search the channels. Jordan watched passively until David sailed right past a black-and-white screen containing Humphrey Bogart wearing a half open shirt, denoting damp heat.

"Go back!" Jordan cried, reaching for the remote. "It's Key Largo!"

David switched back, a little put out at not finding a good science fiction movie first. But cuddling on the couch and watching an old movie almost always put his wife in an affectionate mood. And he was definitely open to that possibility.

He yielded the remote. Jordan snatched it and turned the volume up, grinning and kissing her husband's cheek before settling down next to him.

"I love this one…" she said.

"Have I seen this one before?" David squinted at the screen.

Jordan shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Bogie and Bacall…they did a bunch of movies together. They're a powerhouse duo. Married couple, too, actually."

"Really?" David lifted his eyes, interested.

"Yeah, for most of the movies. Of course Humphrey Bogart was married when they did their first movie together, and they totally had an affair on the set, before they actually got married. So that taints the picture a little bit."

"I don't know…it's still romantic, right?"

Jordan shrugged. "Yeah, for sure. I just…remember around that part sometimes." She grinned over at David, who laughed in response.

"I don't get it…" he observed. "Bogart doesn't look like the kind of guy that women would fall all over themselves for. He's got kind of a droopy face. Like Droopy Dog eyes, you know?"

"Are you kidding?" Jordan insisted, shocked. "Humphrey Bogart is like…on the list of top ten most handsome humans in…the whole history of humans!"

"Seriously?" David snorted. "Look at him!" He pointed at the screen, dubious. "I mean…some of the other old movie actors we've seen, I get. Like Clark Gable, or Cary Grant. Maybe Henry Fonda. But not this guy."

David put his arm around Jordan's shoulders and pulled her close. She didn't answer for a moment, resting her cheek on his shoulder.

"I mean, seriously, David prodded. "What makes him so handsome? I kinda want to know how that works for you."

He felt her shrug again, thinking through an answer. "I mean, I agree he's not like…portrait handsome like Cary Grant. It's more about how he presents himself. Bogart is so…cool. He's like…tough without having to act tough. And he can be vulnerable in a way that is still kinda manly. I don't know…I can't really put my finger on it exactly. But it's not just his face. It's more than that. It's the whole Humphrey Bogart vibe. That's what's so handsome."

David thought for a moment. "Am I handsome like that?"

Jordan sat up, looking over at him. "I mean…you're handsome in a different way, baby. There's a lot of ways for a man to be attractive to women. We're not all about looks the way guys are."

David found himself more than just intellectually piqued by the topic of conversation, but he felt obliged to keep the tone casual.

"I think I know what you mean. But men have that too. Even if it doesn't seem like it sometimes."

"Oh yeah?" Jordan settled in to snuggle him again. "Prove it. Tell me what you'd love about me if you came home one day and my face fell off."

"Well, in the interest of transparency," David replied, "I am against your face falling off. But if it did, the answer is quite simple. I'd love your boobs."

Jordan slapped his chest playfully, giggling. "You know what I mean…"

"I do," David smiled. "It would be…I was going to say it would be your mind, but I think I'm going to go with your personality. Just how you look at things and people. It's incredibly attractive to me just how curious you are, how helpful and kind you are. If you had no face–but still the boobs, let's be clear–and you kept your personality, I'd still find you incredibly attractive."

Jordan was quiet, then looked up at him again. "Really?"

"Really."

She nuzzled his shoulder affectionately and kissed his cheek again. "That's good to know, Mister Stark."

They watched the movie for another moment, then David asked.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" she asked.

"If my face fell off, what would you still love?"

"Your goodness," she answered immediately.

"My goodness?" David asked, perplexed.

"Yeah. You're just…good. A good man, always doing the right thing, looking out for the right thing. That's incredibly attractive to me. Probably because my dad modeled it when I was little. Nice little Electra complex I've got going on over here."

"Hmmm." David hummed to himself. "Interesting. So do you think I'm like…physically handsome? Like am I portrait hot?"

"Obviously I think you're handsome, baby." Jordan grabbed his hand and squeezed.

David felt himself get a little more excited as he worked up the courage to ask the next question. "Would you be attracted to me if it was just my looks? Like you only had a picture?"

Jordan sat up again and looked at him for a minute. She could see the spark of excitement in his eyes, and she was on the spot, unsure of what to do with that spark.

It was a dilemma. He obviously wanted her to tell him that she found other men more attractive.

"Baby," she said. "I know where you're going here, and I know what gets you excited. But I just want to spend time…with just the two of us, okay? I can turn off the Humphrey Bogart movie if you want…"

"No,no…" David insisted. "I know you like these. I'm sorry baby, I just get…excited thinking about what gets you excited. I'll stop."

Jordan held her husband's gaze and hand for a moment, then let go and leaned back, kicking her legs over his lap and laying on her side down the length of the couch with her legs stretched out across his.

She didn't say anything else.

David wasn't sure if she was mad, so he just kept watching the movie.

It wasn't bad. But Jordan's body was still more interesting.

Eventually, his hands found their way to her legs, which were still wrapped in her jeans. He began running his fingertips up and down, from ankle to thigh and back down to ankle.

She didn't stop him, but just quietly watched the movie.

Finally, he found the courage to venture further up, gently resting his fingertips on the denim fold of her zipper. She didn't stop him. But she didn't respond, either.

A commercial break in the movie broke in, and David looked over at his wife's face, hoping she'd say something. She seemed lost in thought. Not her "dissertation face," where she was sorting a complex problem, but rather a kind of sad contemplation. Like she was just trying to sit with a bad feeling until it didn't hurt anymore.

Then, wordlessly, Jordan got up from the couch and walked back to the bedroom.

David quietly cursed himself for ruining the evening, unsure whether to turn the TV off and follow her, or just to try to find something else to watch by himself.

While he was still deciding, Jordan reappeared just as the movie came back on. She was now wearing a short silk robe, tied firmly closed around her waist, which left her pale, toned runners' legs and feet bare. She took her place on the couch again, her naked legs stretched across David's lap, and honed in on Humphrey Bogart on the big screen TV David had bought for them only a few months before.

David hesitated, then rested his hands on her now bare skin and resumed the light stroking. He stopped at mid thigh each time he went up one leg, then crossed over to the other leg and went back down on the other.

"Your legs are like…super sexy, Jo. You know that?"

He saw her crack a smile, not looking away from the TV. "Thought you were a boob man," she quipped flatly.

"Nah, not really," he replied. "I'm more of a Jordan man. Everything you are, I'm super into."

Jordan smirked again, resting the back of her hand against her mouth, trying not to let on that she was charmed by the line.

David began gently opening and closing his hands as he caressed her legs, creating the tingly "spider effect" that she loved. She hummed, but quietly.

"Seriously baby," David insisted, "your legs…I mean all those years of distance running. They're amazing. And you always wear pants or long church dresses. When you wear shorts or a swimming suit…God, it drives me wild. And you shaved 'em for me too! You shaved 'em before I came back from Africa. So I could touch them. Just like this. I'm a lucky man."

He actually saw a slight blush creep up her neck this time.

Waiting another few minutes as her husband caressed her bare legs, Jordan shifted her weight to lay on her back. David saw a quick glimpse up the bottom of her short robe–a soft tangle of auburn hair at the vertex of her smooth runners' legs.

David played it cool and kept watching Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall struggle to confront Edward G. Robinson on the screen as he felt Jordan's body begin to relax a little bit.

His hands ventured further up, his fingertips slipping under the hem of her silk robe, feeling the gradual depress of her quadricep muscles as his fingers inched closer toward her pelvis.

He didn't dare go farther up, wanting to tease her.

Her face held the slight flush he had elicited earlier.

"I like to make you happy, Jo. It's what makes me happy."

She didn't answer. Just wiggled her hips slightly at his touch.

"I don't need anything except you feeling good and being happy, Jo. That's all I want."

Again, she didn't answer, her head still lolled to the side on the couch pillow, focused on the old movie.

Another moment passed, and David saw her hips buck upward slightly as his fingertips slipped under the hem of her robe again. This time, he took the invitation, and allowed his fingertips to graze against the soft hair between her legs. Then down her inner thigh. Then up the other thigh, grazing her pubic hair again.

Jordan gently bit the knuckle on her right hand. The shade of a whimper seemed to poke into the air each time he came close to touching the soft skin between her legs.

David felt it difficult to restrain himself, but made sure to tease slowly, building loving anticipation. Finally, as she bucked her hips more overtly to meet his fingers, David finally found the soft, warm skin of her cleft and lips. Gently caressing for several moments, Jordan began whimpering in earnest. Yet neither looked at each other, still watching the movie.

Jordan seemed content to let her husband tease her until at least the part where Humphrey Bogard outsmarted the villain out on the boat–the scariest part of the movie. David became more bold but never less gentle, gradually finding the moisture that invited his teasing fingers further inward.

"I want to make you happy too, David."

He looked over, seeing Jordan's head now resting flat on a pillow, her eyes holding his.

David cleared his throat. "You do make me happy, Jo. Always."

Her face was still red. "I'm scared, baby," she whined. "I'm scared of what it means."

David's heart leapt. "What what means?" he asked, knowing the answer.

Her eyes were vacant, conduits to the physical pleasure between her legs. Yet her look was still apprehensive. Uncertain.

"What it means when…you're happy…like that."

David's breath caught momentarily. "It doesn't have to mean anything, Jo. We can just leave it. Forget it, if you don't like it."

Her face began to turn helpless. David began to hear the wet smacks of sexual friction as he probed his wife with his fingers.

"I want to want the right things, baby. And I get scared of myself when I want the wrong things…"

David picked up the pace, the wet smacking noise becoming more apparent as Jordan let out a quiet, helpless moan before catching herself.

"Jo…baby. Don't worry about it. I like it when you feel safe with me. Just tell me what you feel, whatever you think, what your fantasies are. I want to know. It makes me feel close to you…"

Jordan's face turned redder, and her thighs began to drift open. "Are you sure?"

David nodded earnestly, using his thumb to begin gently pinching her clitoris.

Jordan moaned. Her lips fell open as if she wanted to say something. David stayed focused on her face, waiting for her to speak.

"David…" she whispered.

"Mmmhmm…" He nodded again, encouraging her.

She looked down to where his hands were concealed under the hem of her robe, then back up at his face.

"Mark used to touch me there."

David immediately felt the blood rushing to his penis.

"Yeah? Did you like that? When he touched you there?"

Now it was Jordan's turn to nod earnestly.

"Yeah…baby...his hands…they were bigger than yours."

[Crushing]

Holyeeeee Shit Crushing! You turned the boost all the way up on that one. Megan putting a mind fuck on Jared while Mark put a bun in his wife's oven was molten hot.

Again, great writing! Loving every minute of it and looking forward to more.

Back to who we visualize, I agree with Maria Thayer as Molly, did not know who she was. I went with my choices for Jordan based on blue eyes and gorgeous, in Jennifer's case maybe even angelic. Kendrick is just not my cup of tea... Just my humble opinion.

Yeah, it's pretty hard to turn down Jennifer Connelly for anything--especially in her younger years. I feel ya there.

Why I picked my picks...I guess the thing that in my mind really seems to consistently attract Mark (now that I've thought about it for a bit) is women who are attractive, but not necessarily "hot" until they get something awakened in them. Confidence, self-worth, acceptance of their own desires, some combination of that. Maybe some deeper self discovery in the process--they all have emotional as well as sexual journeys when they get with Mark. Megan (when Mark meets her initially) seems kind of bookish and shy, a little stand off-ish. Molly in the beginning is kind of a mess carrying her family on her shoulders by herself. And Jordan is really intellectual and career focused, and she takes a long time to figure herself out (2/3 of the novel, haha).

So I tend to see these hotwife characters as not so much ugly ducklings, but as flowers that haven't bloomed yet. I feel if I start out of the gate with a supermodel type, I don't really get the most potent version of that process. They're like 7's who grow into 10's or 11's. But that move up on the scale is where all the fun happens.

Anyway, that's my rationale for how I personally visualize these characters. But I love your choices/rationale too. Anyone else have any thoughts on visuals for the characters?

Also, enjoy the next chapter I just posted.

-C

[Flipflop200]

Brooooooooooooooooo...

Don't fucking stop like that

[nnjcpl2002]

Wow, David clearly has the cuckold gene, and Jordan gets it. Her understanding of his nature is gradually growing and is likely to become the dominant theme in their sexual relationship.

So, how far will it go? Will it eventually take over their entire relationship? Fortunately, a strong mutual love forms the basis of their marriage, so perhaps this can work for them in a positive way.
Hope so!

[nnjcpl2002]

Crushing, I think that your shorter but more frequent segments work well. Easier for your readers to stay engaged, and maybe easier for our esteemed author too.

[Crushing]

"No…way. No…friggin way!!! Are you serious???"

Megan giggled as Mark's eyes bugged out, looking down at the photo album in his lap.

"When was this?" he asked, looking up at her.

"National quarterfinals. This was…junior year."

Mark lifted the album up to see the photo more closely. It was set in a newspaper–a headline from the sports section of the Burlington, Vermont Herald. A half-page color photo showed Megan in a shiny soccer jersey, her shorts riding up slightly showing tight, elongated, muscular thighs tensed in the air frozen in the middle of a powerful leap. She was mid-air, sweat gleaming on her forehead and cheeks, teeth bared, with matching jet-black pigtails that flailed in disparate angles. An out-of-focus soccer ball levitated a foot over her head. To her right in the photo, another girl–blonde with a loose ponytail and wearing a different colored jersey–was contorted awkwardly behind and beneath Megan as her palm shoved the other girl's face toward the ground.

"This is so hot, Meg…seriously."

Megan giggled again, leaning into Mark on the couch and resting her head on his broad shoulder.

The living room was mainly boxes and packing materials now. They were leaving in five days. It was Tuesday afternoon. Jared's last day at the duty station was Friday, Megan's teaching contract had already expired, and Mark had given notice at the stoneyard, although he had agreed to stay on throwing bricks until Friday.

The de facto throuple were all but out the door, nervously anticipating the change of scenery to the big city–Washington DC. None of them had ever lived in a big city before. It was a big move.

"You really think that's hot?" Megan asked incredulously. "I look like…some kind of rage monster."

"That's what's so hot. And your hair…" Mark grunted in approval.

Megan's head jerked back in surprise, her face scrunched with curiosity. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. It's like…I don't know. Those pigtails…it's kinda like war paint. You fix your hair to go kick ass. It shows a new side of you. I really like it."

Megan's brow furrowed, processing Mark's observation. Then, as he turned the page in the photo album, she stood up and walked back to the bathroom. She walked in and turned on the light, but didn't shut the door.

"Were you and Jared bangin' back then?" Mark called out over his shoulder.

"Ummmm…yeah. It was junior year, we started dating when I was a sophomore. So we were definitely together then."

"Was he at that game?"

"Probably…" her voice drifted out of the bathroom door. "He came to a bunch of my home games. That was during the playoffs that year too, so yeah. He probably would have been there."

"So…" Mark continued playfully. "You played this game, looks like you won it, and then you went home and fucked him?"

Megan laughed. "Yeah, probably. I don't remember."

"So hot…" Mark muttered to himself. "Lucky bastard…" he said more loudly so she could hear.

Megan chuckled again, then turned the light off and walked back out of the bathroom. As she moved around the couch, Mark looked up to see her wearing only a tank top and panties, her jet black hair braided in tight double pigtails that started at the back of her head and the crown, hanging straight down and resting on her collarbone.

Almost exactly like in the picture.

"No way…" Mark stammered. Megan broke into a wide grin, then pulled the photo album out of his hand, tossing it in the open top of a nearby box.

"Hey…I was looking at that…" Mark protested as Megan straddled his lap.

"Look at this…" she retorted playfully as she took his jaw in her hands and began kissing him deeply.

Mark's eyes widened in surprise, then closed as he began kissing her back. She let go of his jaw and draped her forearms over his shoulders as he sat up to meet her.

Sighing between kisses, she began to rock her hips gently forward and backward, feeling Mark's arousal stirring beneath her. A slow grin broke on her face.

"Looks like Someone likes the pigtails?"

Mark laughed breathily in spite of himself. "Shit. Yeah, who'd of thought? They're…yeah, they're kinda doin' it for me."

Megan began kissing down his face and neck, purring as she felt him get harder underneath her. Her own excitement growing, she began nuzzling his neck as he reached between them to unzip his pants.

"Shit Meg…what are you doing to me?"

"I don't know…" Meg answered breathily. "Let's just do it."

Mark grunted in agreement as he lifted his cock out of the open fly of his pants.

Megan grinned into a kiss as she felt the warmth of his hardening cock touch her inner thigh. "You like the pigtails? Or do you just like that I almost knocked that bitch's teeth out in that picture?"

"Shit…both, I guess," Mark grumbled.

Megan laughed, leaning back to look into his eyes. She drank in the look of surprise and delight in his eyes, which likely mirrored her own.

Her excitement was obvious in her thumping heart. She even felt the rhythm of her heart down where her legs spread over him–edging steadily up from a dull pulse toward a throb. Having just discovered a new way to stir her lover's arousal, she wondered how she could go about stirring him further.

"I used to blow Jared kisses when I got yellow cards…," she taunted Mark. "you know, excessive force slide tackles…unsportsmanlike conduct penalties…stuff like that. He loved that. Ate that shit right up…"

"Yeah?" Mark's hips began to buck in sync with her own hip thrusts. His hand moved under her tank top, finding her naked breast, cupping and then tweaking her nipple as she squeaked.

"Yeah…then we'd go back to his place…I'd shower and we'd fuck…he loved it when I rode him after a game. Especially if I'd been bad."

"I can see why…"

Mark's hand slipped from his own cock to the bottom strip of her panties, pulling them to one side. She kneeled up to assist as he lined himself up with her, then she sat slowly back down as he moved into her warmth, sighing loudly.

"Fuck…you feel so good." Megan tucked her head down as she began to bounce and buck on him.

"Shit girl…what are you doing to me…" Mark murmured back into her ear, causing her breath to catch again.

Megan was totally lost in the moment. A kind of intimate nirvana that was an unexpected feature of this part of her marriage. When she wasn't caught up in moments like this, she had been unsettled to note that she was developing new feelings for Mark that were increasingly difficult to control. She had been surprised at how open Jared was to her sexual relationship with Mark when they first experimented before the deployment. Hell, he had initiated that whole thing. And then after Mark's unexpected discharge from the Corps, his status as an informal roommate made their liaisons less–unnatural than they might have otherwise felt.

And there was no way around it. Mark was an incredible lover. A kind of stoic foil to her more angsty and aggressive husband–Mark's sexual style was to maintain calm, powerful control, just holding her down as the vibrations of her body radiated and resonated in her deep places. Having both men together felt like achieving sexual nirvana–a perfect balance between the masculine Yin and Yang. And of course Jared had remained supportive and involved, stirred to new heights of arousal himself as he had been either party to or observer of her couplings with Mark.

But it had gone further than she thought it would. Yes, Megan's desire had taken root in a deeper, unexpectedly rich soil somewhere in her being. She loved Jared, she was still very much in love with him, and very much attracted to him. She made love to him often–more now than before, surprisingly, since she was now having daily sex with Mark.

But for some reason, the sex she had with Mark…she didn't even know how to describe it to herself. Her appetite for this man was something she had never felt before. It was distracting, calling her to amorous reveries at all hours of the day and night. She had been driven to new heights of irrational desire.

Cornering Mark for sex at least once a day, sometimes more, Megan's libido was thrown into overdrive. Then, she had missed her period. And rather than panic (although there was a bit of that in sober moments), Megan had responded by embracing the danger, and following a midnight impulse after one of Mark's nightmares, she had openly cucked her husband a few nights ago.

Since then, her overdrive libido seemed to start burning rocket fuel.

And her constant arousal certainly didn't change the incredibly inconvenient fact taking hold in her body at that moment. She was late. Really late by now. Like…it was time to get one of those emergency pregnancy tests from the drug store. In her sober moments, her heart nearly stopped in fear of how she would handle the possible fallout of her carelessness. It was emotionally paralyzing. But only in her sober moments.

For the rest of the time, she couldn't stop thinking about Mark, and almost exclusively Mark. Her affections were lavished without restraint or decorum on her husband's best friend, holding him, kissing him, sitting on his lap, inviting him to bed nearly every night. She discovered within herself a very real appetite. Something analogous to real hunger–but not for food. For her lover's touch. His body. His cock.

In particular, she craved the shudder and warmth of the powerful ejaculations that consummated each coupling.

Megan moaned, then her torso began to shudder.

Yes…she thought to herself…powerful ejaculations like that one…

She felt his long, thick cock stiffen inside of her, the tip nuzzling into her cervix before coating her insides with a wet warmth of his own. He grabbed instinctively onto one of her pigtails and jerked her head down as his gutteral groans signaled his full release.

Megan waited for his hand to drop off of her pigtail before gripping his jaw in both hands again, holding him in a deep kiss as they both heaved out their exhausted breathing into a steady rest.

The two sat upright, connected as their bodies settled into rest. Megan's elbows crooked behind Mark's neck, pulling him close so the front of their torsos were in full contact.

What is this? Megan thought to herself as the last twitches of Mark's manhood spent themselves in her body. Is it love?

* * *

"Where's the forklift?"

Mark raised his voice over the dust and clamor saturating the loading yard. Directly in front of him sat a 52 foot flatbed truck and trailer with six pallets of landscaping stone arranged in a neat row. Three smaller trucks were backing up perpendicular to the delivery, one at a time, waiting to be loaded.

Mark hopped around the back of one of the pickup beds, darting over toward the foreman's office when he saw the forklift coming around a corner. He waved it toward the truck, then ducked into the office to check the order.

A moment later he emerged. Paperwork in hand, Mark began directing the forklift. Two pallets on truck one. Two and a half on truck two, and one and a half on truck three. Easy day.

Naturally taking charge of the work going on around him, in keeping with his personality, Mark guided the forklift in lifting one, then two pallets before dropping them evenly on the first truck. He repeated with the second truck: one, two, three…then put the last pallet on the third truck.

"Move this shit out! We got jobs we want started before the traffic goes nuts!" The foreman yelled, leaning lazily out the door of the shack. Mark vaulted up into the last truck, then pointed to two guys to get into the second pickup bed and begin handing him stones to stack, breaking the third pallet in half. As they began passing them over, the flatbed drove away, leaving the lot quiet.

"How many stones you need over there?"

Mark counted quietly in his head. 20…40…

"60. We got…12 now. So keep 'em coming."

The two young men quickly slipped into a rhythm, handing over stone after stone to Mark as he stood waiting in the third truck.

"You see the game yesterday?"

Mark shook his head. "Nah. Busy yesterday."

"Oh yeah? Your old lady keep you busy?"

Mark smirked. "Something like that."

Sensing the connotation, one of the young men grinned, holding the stone limp between his hands at waist level. "No shit? You get lucky last night?"

Mark shrugged. "What do you care? Hand me that shit man, we gotta get this thing loaded."

The man grinned. "That wasn't a no, dawg. She hot?"

"Hand me some fuckin' stones and I'll tell you."

The stone quickly landed in Mark's hands. He shook his head, smiling in disbelief.

"Yeah, she's hot."

"No shit?"

"No shit. Now come on. I want to get on the job and lay this shit down."

"Wait, aren't you quitting? Friday's your last day, right?"

"Yeah."

Another half dozen stones came across in steady rhythm as Mark stacked them carefully, the dust accumulating in a thick, dry outer layer on his palms and fingers.

"Where you goin'?"

"DC."

"Cool. Your girl going with you?"

"Yeah. Kinda."

"Kinda? What's that mean?"

"She's not really my girl."

The men in the other truck looked at each other, puzzled, but didn't press the issue. The stack grew higher, and Mark signaled for them to hand stones over faster. The pace adjusted, the stack grew still higher.

"She white?"

Mark shook his head. "Latina."

"Niiiiice…" came the reply, followed by a jauntily thrown stone that Mark didn't expect. He fumbled it, flinging it up and then stumbling as he tried to catch it. In the process of flailing, his hip nudged an uneven part of his stack of stones, and as he grabbed the edge to steady himself, three stones tumbled down onto his bare hand.

"Fuck…" Mark grunted, pulling his hand out and shaking out the pain.

"Oh shit man…sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Mark grumbled, blinking fast to obscure the pain. He quickly fixed the stack, then reached his hand out again to get more stones. After a half dozen more, noticeable drops of blood began dripping off of Mark's hand each time he reached out to grab a stone.

"Hey man, you're bleeding."

"I know," Mark growled, irritated. "Just…eight more. Let's finish the stack, and I'll go get a fucking bandaid or whatever."

They finished the work in silence before Mark jumped off the truck and began hunting for bandages. Not finding any, he improvised with a mostly clean shop rag that was stuffed into his jeans pocket, tying it around his knuckles and feeling the dull pinch of pain when the cloth rubbed against his bared subcutaneous tissue.

Satisfied that the wrap would stop the bleeding eventually, Mark flexed all of his fingers to make sure nothing was broken, then pointed to the cab of the truck.

"Alright guys, we're loaded." He slapped the side of the truck for effect. "Let's go. Let's get this shit done…"

* * *

"Poisson."

"Sir!" Jared shot upright, hearing his new platoon commander's voice. The young lieutenant came around a corner to find Jared and one of the squads in his platoon hunkered over their disassembled rifles, carefully cleaning them.

"How's it coming, Poisson?"

"Fine sir…"

Jared was unsure what was happening. Why did the platoon commander want to talk to him? Although he was still officially listed as the acting platoon sergeant, still holding the rank of corporal, he had all but handed off platoon sergeant duties to the new full sergeant who had arrived from fifth battalion weeks ago. They had been leaving him alone.

"Is something up?"

"Report to battalion headquarters. The commander wants to see you."

"Sorry sir, did you mean company headquarters? Captain Wolfe, right?"

"No, corporal, I said battalion. I know the difference. Battalion wants to see you."

"Aye sir. Admin office, or supply, or…"

"Just fucking move, Poisson. They'll tell you when you get there."

"Aye sir…" Jared grabbed his blouse and threw it on, buttoning it up hastily before putting his hat back on and smartly saluting the officer who dismissed him. Walking quickly toward the battalion headquarters, he found himself grateful that he was being transferred. Lieutenant Macintosh was a feckless, useless, and ultimately dangerous excuse for an officer, but his new guy was…just an asshole. And he seemed like a particularly dumb asshole. Macintosh's idiocy was manageable–just shove him out of the way and pretend he's in charge. But this guy…Hard to know which was worse, having to work with one or the other on a day-to-day basis. He didn't know how to handle him–wishing that Mark was back in charge. He would know what to do. But those days were over. All he could do now was hope that his new command up in DC would be easier to work with.

Nodding to the entry point guard on duty, Jared pushed the front door open and began poking his head in doors, asking who sent for him. After the fourth door, he finally got an answer–-he had gotten a summons from the battalion commander's office.

It probably wasn't the colonel himself, Jared thought. Probably just some administrative bullshit, maybe they changed some details on his change of station orders or something…

He made his way back to the office, and slipped nervously into the waiting area. He was told to sit in one of the chairs across from the secretary's desk until they figured out what he was there for.

He waited nervously for about ten minutes. Then, when it became obvious that he was not a high priority, his mind began to drift.

There was a lot going on in Jared's life, and he wasn't sure he was handling it all very well. It was a stressful time. His first permanent move since getting married. Add to that the stress of moving to a high-rent big city area like Washington, DC. He had gotten on the list for subsidized housing, and Megan had been cruising rental sites on the internet, looking for a good spot, but they didn't have anything yet.

And Megan.

So many changes going on there, too. A career change in the works for her–their income would drop by more than half as she focused on law school. But she seemed genuinely excited by the prospect, and, whenever she wasn't expressing fears that she wouldn't make the cut academically at Georgetown, she was expressing gratitude that her husband was so supportive of this big change.

And then, of course, there was the other change in his marriage. That change came in the form of a six foot, four inch meat monster that lived on their couch.

Jared had been surprised at the emotional roller coaster that accompanied Mark's increasing presence in his life and marriage. There was no obvious or toxic tension between them, at least not yet. They had been best friends from boot camp, of course, and lived in close quarters on and off for years now. But things had evolved. The gradual introduction of Mark into Megan's intimacies, from shared photos to early liaisons, and now to a fully developed sexual relationship between his wife and his best friend…

It had been unbelievably exciting for him. And confusing. And threatening. And terrifying. And even a little annoying at times.

Especially lately.

It was a strange kind of jealousy. An emotion he didn't really have a word for, but he knew it when it hit him like a sledgehammer. Jared loved to see Megan go wild in bed, and in the last few weeks she had been insatiable, enthusiastically satisfying the sexual needs of both of the men in her life.

And that change…that visual display of her sexual power…it drove Jared wild. Every time she got those eyes, he would get hard. He'd be good to go in seconds, attacking her body with his own rabid-dog style of erotic passion.

And every time she turned those same eyes toward his best friend, he would positively vibrate in excitement as he approached her differently: calmly taking her into his embrace, seducing her until she turned to putty, then powerfully pleasing her in whatever place or position suited him.

It was a strange dynamic that Jared felt strangely comfortable in. Like Mark was just…in charge of both of them. Which was weirdly hot for him. Not in a gay way…just…

In a way, what made him uncomfortable sometimes was the fact that he was comfortable other times. It was just…a different dynamic than he imagined possible when he and Megan started dating. But Megan was happy. He couldn't deny that. Far removed from the nervousness of the first time, it was like she glowed in the dark whenever she had sex with both of them. She slept like a baby, and was usually all smiles the next day, even with the stresses of moving and law school.

That fact alone was weirdly comforting…sometimes.

But there were moments. Little moments of jealousy. Of annoyance. Of a deep and sometimes paralyzing fear of being replaced.

Like how he came home from work last Friday. He opened the door to see Megan on her knees in front of the couch, hunched over Mark's lap, giving him head.

Of course it was hot. But she didn't even look at him when he came in. Not even once. Not even a greeting. It was like she was in a trance. Just totally, unbreakably focused on him, her head bobbing slowly, her eyes closed. Just occasionally looking up toward Mark's heavy eyelids, seeking sexual approval. Checking in with him. Just him. To make sure he liked what she was doing for him.

He had felt annoyed–and a little jealous–in that moment. Later that night, remembering walking in on that scene, he had felt enormously turned on. And that powerful feeling was the feeling that seemed to be most readily re-creatable in his memory. Certainly the most potent, anyway. He rarely remembered the jealousy, even though it could be intense in the moment. But he would remember the excitement, to the point of replicating it in his memory.

Just the thought of her on her knees, so eager to please her lover. Both of them ignoring him, her attention fixed on the large cock in her mouth, his attention fixed on her warm mouth tightly snuggling his cock. Just Mark lost in Jared's wife's efforts, Megan lost in Jared's best friend's phallic pleasure…

Jared shook his head clear of the thought as the battalion commander's door flew open. Lieutenant Colonel Chen strode out of his office, another officer following confidently behind.

Shit.

Jared shot up, standing at attention, noting two silver stars on the collars of the second officer.

A general. What was he doing here?

Jared stood stock still as Colonel Chen saw him, then made a vague gesture to his secretary before leading the general out of the office, talking as if no one else was in the room.

When the door shut behind them, Jared relaxed, looking at Colonel Chen's secretary quizzically.

"I'm so sorry, corporal…" the young marine sympathized. "Colonel Chen wanted to see you, but then General Pyre dropped in by surprise. Colonel Chen will reconnect with you when he has time. But it probably won't be today. He told me to dismiss you back to your platoon."

"Oh, okay. That's alright." Jared nodded in understanding as he stood up and picked up his hat.

Man…Jared thought to himself walking out of the office. Always a bigger fish out there, isn't there?

* * *

"Shit! We already packed all the cups!"

Megan giggled as she looked at the empty cupboard over her head.

"Oh yeah…" Mark's voice drifted in from the living room, slightly slurred. "I forgot. 'Sall right though, we can order pizza or somethin'...Get some drinks…"

"Yeah…" Megan turned around, looking at the small row of boxes sitting on the stove opposite the cupboards in the narrow galley kitchen. She picked at the tape on one of the boxes, fairly sure she could extract some dishes without too much trouble.

She was naked.

Her light bronze skin–complete with tan lines showing recent time in a bikini (she had taken to sunbathing on the porch while her men were at work)–showed signs of exertion with a dull, dry film of dried sweat all over her body.

She stood upright, looking around for a pair of scissors, showing her front. Striated under her naked breasts were thick lines of dried semen–evidence of earlier activities. Those striations were duplicated elsewhere on her body, but still wet and dripping down the upper-inner part of her right thigh.

She had been finishing up packing while Mark and Jared were at work. They were nearly done–mainly odds and ends now.

In the middle of the day she had taken some time to relax, and, as had been the case lately, found herself quietly masturbating at the thought of Mark's homecoming.

The thought of his body in hers had brought some measure of release, but not enough to sate the hunger.

And when Mark's homecoming actually happened, she didn't allow him to shower first, as he usually did. No, she just climbed onto him, lavishing affection all over his dusty face and body until he fucked her.

When he had been brought to climax by her chams, Mark had pulled out of her body, releasing onto her stomach. She didn't protest, but absently topped the striations with the pad of her finger, licking her fingertips clean while leaving the rest of the semen on her body as a proud mark of her lover's handiwork.

It was after their first round of love that she realized his hand was wrapped up in a shop towel. Squeaking with indignation, she inspected the wound, then disappeared into the bathroom to find a first aid kit. It, too, was packed, but she managed to find peroxide and some cotton balls, and played nurse to clean the wound before snuggling naked with him on the couch.

They fucked again a few minutes later, but this time Megan once again held him in place to receive his seed in her body, her heavy eyelids locked in dull ecstasy as she shuddered in climax along with him.

Afterwards, he admitted that his hand hurt, but she couldn't find the Tylenol. While she was poking around looking for it, Mark had produced a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels to "take the edge off," and Megan had rolled her eyes.

But she shrugged it off. It was an old bottle. He hadn't drunk a bottle to get to sleep in weeks now, so she wasn't going to press it.

But she did want him to use a glass. Like an adult. Unfortunately–they were all packed.

"I have no idea which box it's in…" she called out to him again.

"S'okay Meg. I'm good. I've had enough. Feelin' good now."

She heard the bottle tap down on the coffee table. Sounds like there was still a good amount in there. So he didn't empty it. With the amount of stress they were all under, she counted it as a win.

Yet Megan still rolled her eyes again, turning around and forgetting that she hadn't closed the empty cupboard's doors in the narrow galley kitchen. The corner of the old-wood furniture jammed directly into her left eye, and she stumbled back, blinded by pain.

"Fuck!" She clutched her eye, which was squeezed shut, still reeling from pain.

Mark, also naked, quickly appeared at the galley kitchen entrance. "What happened?"

Megan slapped the cupboard door angrily. "I turned around too fast and hit this…"

"Oh shit Meg, sorry…let me see?" He walked gently up to her and removed her hand.

No cuts, it just looked like the beginning of a bruise…maybe a black eye.

"Oh shit…yeah, let's get you some ice…" Mark probed around in the empty freezer. Thankfully there was still some ice in the tray, but no dishtowels or bags to wrap it in. Thinking quickly, he ran back out to the living room and grabbed his shop rag with the dried blood on it and dropped the ice into it, holding it gently up to Megan's face.

She was moving past the acute pain, and looked up at him sheepishly. "Shit. I'm a klutz, I guess."

He put gentle pressure on the ice pack. "It's okay, just an accident. Shit happens."

She wiped a tear of pain away from her uninjured eye. Then, feeling suddenly close to him as he took care of her injury, Megan clasped her hands together in front of her chin and leaned against Mark, inviting his embrace. He wrapped his free arm around her back, feeling the vertical parallels of crusted semen on her stomach as it touched his.

She rested her forehead on his chest and sighed. "I'm so stupid."

"Not stupid. Accident." Mark rubbed her back affectionately as he held the icepack firmly against her eye.

* * *

"Dude…you're my best friend. But you've gone too far. What. The Fuck. Is This."

Jared pointed accusingly across the living room.

Mark and Megan stared back, dumbfounded.

"Seriously man. This is over the line." He walked menacingly over to the coffee table and pointed at the open pizza box.

"Pineapple on pizza? No, man. Fuck no. I don't care how they do it in El Paso. In New England, you put pineapple on pizza, you get your ass whooped."

Mark cracked a smile as Megan rolled her eyes.

"We got two pizzas, baby. The other one's pepperoni and mushroom. Your favorite!" Megan retorted brightly.

"Yeah, but we got two pizzas and I can only eat one of them? Fuck that noise…" Jared objected sarcastically reaching in for a slice.

Jared had had a late day, and Mark had sprung for dinner, buying some solo cups and soda from the store on the way home from picking up the pizza.

Prior to that, of course, Mark and Megan had showered and dressed. They were now dressed in sleeping clothes. Megan in her sweatpants and an old camisole, Mark in basketball shorts and a T-shirt. It was gearing up to be a relaxing night after a chaotic day.

Mark and Megan sat on the couch with Jared on the chair, all of them munching pizza and talking about their days. Jared's orders had been finalized, the new platoon sergeant was official, and he could spend the last two days on base "fucking all the way off," as he sarcastically observed.

They laughed at the notion, and then the conversation turned to the future. Jared had bought a second dress blue uniform, as he would be wearing his a lot more now. Megan liked that idea, loving her husband's look in the shiny, sharp dress blues. Mark said he'd help him set it up and square it away with the proper rank, ribbons, buttons, and accessories when he brought it home.

Everyone wondered what kind of stuff Jared would see while doing guard duty at the White House. Even if it was going to be mostly boring (as they all conceded it probably would be), the prestige was exciting. And Jared was really excited about training at the Martial Arts Center for Excellence. He always wanted to get into ground fighting techniques more.

Megan expressed her fear of starting law school. The name Georgetown, all on its own, scared her. She felt like she didn't really deserve to get in. Like there was some kind of mistake, and she would be found out. And it would last 3 years. 3 whole years before she could take the bar exam!

Then the other two turned to look at Mark, who suddenly became very quiet.

"What about you, man?" Jared asked. "What's on the horizon? You find anything up there? Job? A college you like?"

Mark shrugged, looking down. "I'll find something."

Jared shrugged back. "Yeah, for sure."

Megan was less convinced. "Mark, its time to actually think about this. What do you want to do? Whatever it is, We can help you find a track to make it happen."

Mark shrugged again.

"You can always come back in the Corps, man," Jared suggested. "I know you got fucked over, but you got an honorable discharge, you've got a fuckin' silver star, for shit's sake. You can reenlist. You know, when you're ready."

"Fuck 'em." Mark said under his breath.

Jared and Megan looked at each other uncomfortably. The bruise under Megan's eye had turned a deep purple, but the swelling had gone down.

"You don't have to join up again, though. If you don't want to. You can go to college too. You've got the GI Bill…" Megan offered.

"Yeah. Maybe."

Megan scooted closer to him on the couch, resting her hand on his back. He avoided eye contact. "Come on, Mark. We just want you to be happy. What do you want out of life?"

"I don't know," he mumbled. Rubbing his eyes, he sighed out loud. "I really, seriously don't know."

"Nothing? No impulses or dreams?" Megan asked.

"What I want is to not feel like I do all the time."

She rubbed his back. "What do you mean?"

"I just feel…I don't know…I feel like, threatened all the time. Like I can't trust anybody. And it makes me mad…and then I can't think through shit…I can't concentrate. I can't read to calm down like I used to. I can't sleep sometimes…"

Megan and Jared looked at each other again.

"That sucks man," Jared said. "But you'll get through it."

"It doesn't feel like I will…" Mark snapped back.

Megan waited for a moment, then asked a gentle question.

"Mark…do you feel safe when you're with us?"

He dropped his head, looking away, but nodded slightly. "Mostly."

"Mostly?" Jared shot back. "What…why mostly?"

"I don't know, man. I can't control how I feel. Most of the time it's great here, but it's kind of a bigger feeling. I feel like I just…don't have a place in the world anymore. And like, stupid little shit gets to me. Like all these boxes around…it feels like I'm in a mud hut in Afghanistan sometimes. And it's nobody's fault, I know they're just boxes, I know I can trust you guys, I know all that. But it's just…there's like this little voice in the back of my head saying…I can't trust anyone. That everyone's gonna turn on me."

"We can get you help, Mark. We can find someone to talk to." Megan pleaded.

"I don't want to talk to anyone."

Megan tried to make eye contact with him, but he kept avoiding her. "Mark, Molly said she could find someone discreet…"

"Molly? You've been fucking talking to Molly?"

His eyes got wild, and he scooted away from Megan on the couch.

Megan's eyes widened. "Not recently, Mark, no…" she lied. "Just…when you were together, she said that. Remember?"

The suspicion in Mark's eyes faded, but not all the way. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess. And Molly's moving up there…to Baltimore."

He said the last part warily.

"Don't worry about that, Mark."

"She fucking…she just cut me off, Meg. Like…dead weight."

"I know, Mark. I know." Megan scooted closer, touching his arm.

They ate more pizza in silence. Then Jared, trying to change the tone, broke the ice.

"After I spend some time at the MACE…I'm gonna be a fuckin' ninja, dude. Imma get like…a second degree black belt, and then I can kick your ass."

Mark's mouth broke into a smirk. "Bullshit. I've got like four, maybe six full inches of reach on you, man. You've gotta get close enough to me to hit me."

Megan smiled, grateful that the tension was dissipating. "Boys, boys…"

Jared popped out of his chair and playfully reached toward Mark to slap him. "See? Reach ain't shit…"

Mark dropped his pizza back into the box. "Bullshit. Watch this." He stood up and lunged forward, tapping the side of Jared's head.

"See?"

"Oh, it's on now…" Jared ducked and lunged back, Mark parrying his whole body with a shove to the side. Jared tumbled into a stack of boxes, which nearly tipped over.

"Careful!" Megan giggled at the horseplay, standing up and moving out of the way as they began to wrestle.

Jared couldn't get close enough to slap Mark, lumbering awkwardly under and around him as Mark kept tapping Jared's face and hair. At one point the coffee table tipped over, spilling the pizza and (thankfully) empty solo cups onto the bare floor.

Red faced, Jared loudly laughed. "Oh, shit is gonna change in three years, man. Your size ain't gonna count for shit. You can't push me around forever! I'm gonna KICK. YOUR. ASS!"

"TRY IT!" Mark shouted back.

A knock at the door surprised all three of them. They all looked at each other, unsure of what was happening. Maybe they were disturbing the neighbor again…

Jared got his apology face ready as he walked to the door.

The door swung open, revealing the tall, menacing, and stone-faced battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Chen.

Jared froze. So did Mark. Unsure of what it meant, Megan just kept silent as her two lovers stood stock-still and quiet in the visitor's presence.

Chen stepped into the messy front room and looked around. "What's going on here?"

No answer.

Chen's eyes darted around the room, locking onto four objects almost instantaneously. The first was a red faced and messy haired Corporal Jared Poisson. The second was a long haired, unshaven, and sloppy former Sergeant/Corporal Rein with noticeable abrasions on his right hand knuckles. The third was a ¾ empty bottle of Jack Daniels. And the fourth was a young woman with a black eye.

Chen lunged at Mark like a panther.

Mark winced initially, but then responded out of deep training and instinct. The two men of almost equal over-size began to fight, upgrading what was a playful slap-fight between Mark and Jared into full on combat to death or submission between Mark and Chen.

Mark, still flailing and dumbfounded, stumbled backwards before instinctively regaining his footing and catching Chen's swinging fist. Mark tucked his arm and pivoted his body, throwing his opponent into a cascading stack of boxes, spilling Jared and Megan's home goods all over the floor. Chen recovered quickly, standing up and throwing three quick punches at Mark, landing two of them, and finally stepping in with an uppercut to the gut. Mark doubled over, and Chen dropped a furious elbow onto the back of Mark's head.

Megan screamed.

"Get her out of the way…" Chen growled at Jared, who had no idea what to say or react. He jumped over the pile of broken home goods and the coffee table and stood in front of Megan, beginning to find the words to protest.

"Sir, I don't know…"

Chen ignored him, grabbing Mark around the neck in a headlock and throwing him over his back. Mark's 235 pound body, feet over head, slammed into the open outer door of the apartment and threw it off its hinges.

As both Mark and Chen tumbled to the ground, Mark slammed his fist into Chen's kidney, wiggling out of the headlock and standing up, blood streaming down the right side of his face.

Megan never forgot the look in his eyes.

Terror. Confusion.

And utter betrayal.

He turned around and bolted out of the door.

Megan's hand shot up over her mouth as the tears began to flow.

Colonel Chen stood up, wiping blood out of the corner of his mouth and walking toward Megan.

"Ma'am, are you okay?"

Megan didn't answer, choking back the sobs that rose in her throat. Chen looked around at the chaos.

"I'm very sorry about the mess. Please allow me to reimburse you for whatever got broken…I hope nothing too..sentimental. Are you hurt?"

Megan shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut as tears began rolling down her cheeks.

"He hit you, didn't he?"

Megan shook her head again.

"Sir…" Jared started. "I think I know what you think, and…uh…it's not what you think.

Chen pointed to Megan's face. "How'd she get that black eye."

"It was an accident! I hit my face on an open cupboard door." Megan wailed.

Chen looked suspicious. "Why…why were you and Rein shouting at each other. You're all sweaty and shit…"

"Rein and I were just fake fighting, sir…it's not what you think."

"Rein's hand was all fucked up. How'd that happen?"

"He got a day job at a masonry company. He hurt his hand earlier today stacking paving stones."

Jared's voice struggled to stay professional and not to shout at Chen, who was, after all, his boss's boss's boss.

Chen's eyes narrowed, honing in on Megan, who opened her eyes again to see the look of embarrassed concern on his face.

"Mrs. Poisson…is this true?"

"Yes…" she stammered out.

"Corporal, go fetch Rein before he takes off, bring him back here."

"Aye sir…" Jared jumped over the pile of broken home goods again and darted out through the shattered doorway after Mark.

Megan pinched her face over her mouth in distress, her whole body shaking as she cried.

"Again…I'm so sorry." His voice was low and calm. He reached his hand out and grasped her shoulder gently. "I acted rashly. I sincerely apologize."

Jared, breathless, appeared in the doorway, shooting a helpless look at his wife before reporting to his battalion commander.

"Sir…he's gone."

[subtoall]

Holy fuck. That is a surprise development.

[MustBeDenied2]

I’m glad I know something about what the future holds or this cliffhanger would be too much!

Thanks again, Crushing!

MBD

[nnjcpl2002]

C'mon man, you really left us hanging this time!!
More please?

[Crushing]

The empty towel rack still had two barely-visible semicircles of grime under the mounts that held it to the wall.

The mirror was spic and span, the medicine cabinet wiped out, the shower cleaned and the tile grout sparkled.

The rickety electric fan overhead didn't do much to mask her anxious pacing, but it did distract her a little bit. It drew attention–those little clicks that seemed to suggest it was catching on something.

click…click…click…

Strange that she was only noticing it now.

Megan was emotionally barricaded in the bathroom, having stepped away from loading boxes into the U-haul just to collect her thoughts.

And…to find out.

It had gone too long by now to pretend nothing was happening. She could pretend not to know, but either way, she was not going to tell Jared yet.

He had enough on his mind. With Mark now gone for three straight days, and with their orders to relocate finalized, things were already in motion.

And Mark's mental state was…well, it was anyone's guess.

Megan's memory fixed back on the look in Mark's eyes when he wrenched himself loose from Lieutenant Colonel Chen's grip. It still kept her up at night.

After he had vanished, everything seemed surreal.

Although still annoyingly stoic, Colonel Chen quickly realized his mistake and went out of his way to make it right. He even helped the young couple look for Mark for the first night, and gathered volunteers to help look on the second night.

It had turned up nothing. No one could reach him. Mark had left his cellphone behind. He had literally just…run away. And the only trace of him were tire tracks both in and just behind his parking spot in the apartment complex.

It would seem that he had just…jumped in his 4Runner, peeled out, and vanished.

Megan had cried through the night. And not the petite, cinematic, genteel kind of crying. This was wall-punching snot-dripping ugly crying. The only emotional release that made sense as she processed the suddenness, the guilt, the fear, and the sheer loss of him.

They had held out hope that he would pop back in, so they could talk to him. Colonel Chen left his personal phone number so they could reach out if he came back. He had hoped that he could talk to Mark and apologize. And explain things.

But he didn't come back. By Saturday they were putting up posters on telephone poles.

Megan stood silently, her palms down on the porcelain around the recessed sink as the feeling of fear and sadness welled up in her chest, then receded again. Finally, she took a deep breath and reached around and picked it up.

A single EPT, face down on the flat of the faucet. She had bought the generic pregnancy test device and smuggled it out of a drug store and into the bathroom as her husband and some squad mates loaded the U-haul for the drive to Washington. While she heard them fumbling with boxes and furniture outside the door, she shakily took it out of the box, then shoved the box into her pocket so it couldn't be found by anyone. Then, following the instructions, she had waited a few minutes for the result before she finally found the courage to find out.

She took another deep breath and turned the EPT around.

Two lines.

Shit.

She shoved the little plastic device into her hoodie pouch, cursing.

* * *

The moondust kicked up by the squad was thicker than usual as Mark worked his way aggressively to the front of the long line of infantry.

He didn't like the look of this. Trapped in a narrow space with unusually high compound walls, Mark didn't like the feeling of being boxed in. Not one bit.

And all of the gateways into the houses behind the walls were open for some reason.

So many hiding spots for an ambush.

And the goddamn moondust. It was blinding.

He hastily wiped his sunglasses with the back of his gloved hand, then double checked his rifle to make sure a round was chambered. Unclipping the holster for his pistol, he looked behind him.

Why was the squad line so long? It was like the whole platoon was there. Maybe even the company. Why did they need this many guys?

He turned around again to see the front of the line coming to a stop.

From the front of the line, he saw Jared hopping up on a half-wall to see around a corner.

Mark moved quickly.

But not quickly enough. The close-cropped hair on the back of Jared's neck exploded in a pink and red puff and spray, his body crumpling to the ground.

Blood and brain matter splattered all over, a river of red forming on the ground next to his best friend.

Mark tried to scream, but he couldn't get a sound out.

Then, reaching for his radio handset, he frantically keyed the talk button, but couldn't form any words.

Megan's voice came over the radio.

"Mark! What did you do to him? What did you do?"

The door to the old 4Runner squeaked as it was yanked open.

A thick hand reached in to grab the front of Mark's shirt and haul him, stumbling, out of his vehicle. He tumbled a bit, but then stood unsteadily on two legs, the fog of horror still shrouding his mind.

"You drive like this?"

Mark shook his head again, trying to shake the fog loose and make out the voice that was demanding answers of him.

"What? What the fuck…"

"I said, were you driving like this?"

He looked up, then up a little more, seeing something not terribly usual–a man standing at his own eye level.

Chen.

The two men stood facing each other in the back parking lot of an abandoned weigh station. Both dressed in civilian clothes, Chen still looked every bit the marine officer, while Mark's close-cropped hair had since grown out, a three day shave on his face, and the front of his shirt still speckled with blood from the last time they met.

Mark didn't answer him, waiting for his former commander to speak first.

"You smell like shit, Rein."

"Yeah…well..fuck you too, man," Mark snapped.

Chen didn't answer, merely glared.

"Yeah…" Mark sneered. "What are you gonna do? Come at me again? You want to fight again? Fuck it. Do it. I don't give a shit…"

Chen paused for another moment.

"I misjudged you Rein. I apologize. But you…haven't been yourself lately."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Mark's eyes were blood-red, his head low. Hung over.

Chen's head cocked slightly to one side, but he didn't respond.

Mark shrugged, turning to walk back to the 4Runner.

"Nope," Chen said flatly, grabbing Mark's arm. Mark tried to jerk his arm away, but Chen held him firmly this time, twisting it until Mark grunted in submission. Chen gestured toward his car, a newer model silver Range Rover.

"Get in."

"Fuck you, man…I don't have to do what you say anymore."

Chen wrenched his arm again, and Mark groaned in consternation.

"Get in. I'm gonna get you cleaned up and fed, at least. I owe you that. Then you can go fuck up your life however you want."

Mark sneered, but didn't fight back.

"Never thought I'd see Sergeant Rein crumble like a little bitch," Chen observed flatly. "But I've been wrong before."

Now it was Mark's turn to glare. He reluctantly opened the passenger door and half-stumbled in, still fighting the residue of nightmares and heavy inebriation. Chen shut the door behind him, then walked across the front to get in the driver's seat. He turned the car on, then turned the music system down–some kind of classical music–before turning to Mark as he shifted into reverse.

"Buckle up, Rein."

* * *

The left side of Megan's head leaned on the passenger window as the U-haul roared down the freeway. Her eyes hung slack in a blank stare pointed through the windshield at the passing rural landscape.

The cab of the truck was completely silent except for the roar of the engine.

This was unusual for Jared. He always had music on–usually something that straddled the line between fun and obnoxious. Depending on Megan's mood.

But in his townie-trash days, Jared had spent enough time around the slackers that populated Burlington to get into the rebel music of past generations: Zeppelin, AC/DC, Beastie Boys, Sex Pistols, later heavy metal bands…pretty much anything where the band tested the limits of their amplifiers in the weed-fogged amphitheaters of yesteryear.

But not today. He, too, stared straight forward, his eyes and attention on the task of driving, but still bitterly distracted.

It had been a harrowing few days.

Mark still hadn't shown up.

Megan carried Mark's phone–the one he left behind–in the pocket of her hoodie, hoping he'd call it. Or her phone. Or Jared's.

Anything.

Jared's mind raced in the silent cab of the truck as well.

So much to think about, over and above Mark's disappearance.

There was the move itself, of course.

They'd definitely lost their security deposit, the outer door of their apartment having been ripped off its hinges and broken by Mark's flying body. Colonel Chen had arranged for the landlord to collect damages from him personally when they were ready to repair, so it wasn't a disaster. But it was an awkward conversation when the move-out inspection had been conducted.

Chen had gone further than that in his attempts to make things right, however. He'd called in some favors from people he knew in DC, and now Jared and Megan had a line on a lease–an apartment only a few blocks from Megan's law school. So at least that was nominally handled.

But they were both tied in emotional knots. Jared tried to conceal it, but Megan's distress was not subtle. Mark's disappearance was tearing at her, and she was more upset than he'd ever seen her before.

Maybe it was because he felt less fear than her. At least about Mark's safety. He felt confident that Mark could handle himself, that he had a tendency to mask deep emotions underneath his stoic facade, but he acted out sometimes. Especially when he was surprised like he was.

Mark just needed some time on his own to sort it out, Jared was confident of that. Someday soon they would laugh at the misunderstanding that drove him to run away. He was sure of it.

Megan was less sure. She kept saying he had a scary look on his face before he ran. Jared hadn't seen that, but he was less convinced that it meant anything dangerous or final.

So while they were both concerned, they seemed at odds about it.

"How you doin', brown eyed girl?" Jared asked gently in the silence.

Megan didn't answer, staring silently out the window.

"He's gonna be okay, Meg." Jared said confidently. "You don't know him like I do. The shit I've seen him bounce back from…he's invulnerable."

Still no answer. Just an innocent sniff and a whimper as she looked further away.

"I've seen him," Jared reiterated. "He gets hurt, he gets nervous, overwhelmed. Any of that shit. He bounces back. It happened probably five times in Afghanistan. I give him space for a few days, he figures it out, and he comes back stronger. And everything's cool. He doesn't hold grudges, none of that."

Another sniffle as Jared looked at her smooth black hair falling down the back of her head, pooling in a messy tangle on top of the crumpled hood of her sweatshirt, nestled between her shoulders.

"Trust me, baby. You don't know him like I do." Jared tried to sound confident.

Megan sniffed again, finally turning to look at her husband. Tracks of tears ran down both cheeks. A small, salty tear droplet hung like a budding stalactite from the curve of her jaw. Her brown eyes looked helpless. Almost despairing.

"You don't know him like I do either," she said quietly before turning back to look out the window.

Now Jared was even more unsettled. He had not seen that look on her face before. A combination of fear and mourning. Like she was entirely unmoored from the safety she expected him to provide for her.

"He'll reach out, baby. We'll get him back."

He sounded slightly less sure.

She sighed with a stutter, trying to hold back a sob as her fingers clutched the small plastic secret concealed in the pouch of her hoodie.

* * *

The interior of Colonel Chen's Range Rover was smooth, quiet, and luxurious. Easily the nicest car Mark had ever ridden in. As the rolling marbles of his hangover sloshed around in his brain, he kept subtly wiggling in the passenger's seat, feeling the smooth, cool leather, and shocked by just how quiet the interior of the vehicle was. The dashboard was stacked with electronic displays and touch screens, and there seemed to be extra buttons on the steering wheel. Everything was shiny, carefully cultivated to appear pristine. The air was carefully manicured with climate controls and rich, orchestral sounds coming from unseen speakers.

Mark turned to look at the colonel. "How much this thing set you back?"

Chen smirked. "Don't worry about it."

Mark nodded, rebuffed. "So, I know the pay scale for officers. And I've got an idea how much these things go for. So what, are you rich or something?"

Chen smirked again, letting out half of a noiseless chuckle. "Don't worry about it."

Mark nodded, running his hand through his greasy hair. "So…do you ever answer questions?"

Chen smirked for a third time. "Yeah. Just not stupid ones."

"Okay then…" Mark intoned sarcastically, getting bolder. "So, I guess…what's the meaning of life?"

Chen's eyes shot over at him without turning his head, then back forward onto the road.

"Don't worry about it."

Mark's head followed his rolling eyes as he looked away in exasperation.

With no conversation in the carefully controlled air of the Range Rover's cab, he found his attention drawn to the music. It was rich orchestral music, but it wasn't soft. In fact, it seemed a little wild and unpredictable: varying wildly in volume and tone. It seemed complicated. Tragic, even. He looked over at Chen again.

"You like classical music?"

"This isn't classical music."

"Sounds classical to me."

"Not all orchestral music is classical. This is post-romantic. Mahler."

"Post romantic wallpaper?" Mark's brow furrowed in confusion.

Chen smirked again, breaking a half-smile. "Mahler. That's the name of the composer. It was written more than a century after the classical era."

"Oh." Mark replied. "Didn't know there was a difference."

"There is."

Mark sat, listening quietly for a few more moments. Finally, he admitted:

"I like it."

Chen half-nodded. "Thought you might. You're a big reader, aren't you?"

Now it was Mark's turn to smirk. "Yeah. Kinda."

Chen didn't respond.

Another few minutes found them rolling down a tree-shaded street past several dozen fashionable but older style homes before pulling into the driveway of a large, two-story light-gray home with an open garage.

Chen pulled in, turned the vehicle off, and pressed a button attached to the sun visor over his head to close the garage door behind him.

They both stepped out of the Range Rover, and Chen walked toward open a door, motioning for Mark to follow.

Once inside, Mark found himself in a beautiful open kitchen with brand new appliances, shiny granite countertops, and spotless stainless steel appliances. Everything was brand-new-hotel-room clean. It was more than just barracks clean–no, everything here was nice. New. Well kept.

"Bathroom's down the hall, last door on the left," Chen said flatly, hanging his keys on a hook on the wall. "Just use a towel off the rack. I'll get you some clean clothes so your dirty ass doesn't stink up my house."

Mark nodded awkwardly. "Thanks…I mean, thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it. Once you get cleaned up and we get some chow down your gullet, we're gonna have a talk. Jury's still out on whether you can handle that talk."

Chen began rummaging in the refrigerator for food to prepare for his guest.

Mark gulped. "Aye, sir."

Mark wasn't an active duty marine in Chen's unit anymore, and he knew it. But somehow, being in this place, it just felt like…natural to be extra respectful. It felt right. Like he knew his place.

Turning away and making his way down the hall, Mark peeked through a couple open doors as he passed.

A spare bedroom, tastefully decorated with a queen bed and clean linens.

A small spare room used as an office–a shiny antique oak desk with a polished, uncluttered surface set perpendicular to the entrance.

And finally, across from the bathroom, what appeared to be a modest private library.

Mark couldn't help himself. He briefly stepped in to admire the mahogany paneling and bookshelves that lined opposite walls, floor to ceiling.

They were crammed, albeit neatly, with books–no room to spare.

But his admiration of the colonel's collection was interrupted as he stepped one foot into the room.

On the far side of the room, wedged perpendicular between the walls of shelves, sat a clean, light brown leather couch and matching armchair. An intuitive enough choice for furnishings–but that wasn't what caught his attention. No, on either side of the couch–one next to one of the bookshelves, and the other between the couch and the armchair, were two life sized female statues.

The statues were remarkable, and very similar to each other. Both were mostly nude, set in a kneeling posture with eyes down, shoulders back, the back of their hands resting on the top of their kneeling thighs with palms up. Their mouths were slightly open, and their knees just barely apart. Under their breasts were those–he wasn't sure what they were called–the half-bras that Molly had worn in that boudoir photo shoot–they had fabric curve under their breasts but they left the nipples exposed. If they wore panties, or something approximating them, they weren't visible from where Mark stood.

But most striking of all–they were incredibly lifelike. Mark couldn't tell if they were wax, or some kind of exquisite wood carving, carefully painted to photorealistic quality. The two statues were even slightly different from each other. Slightly different skin tones, different faces. One was maybe an inch taller than the other. They even had different hairstyles–one had a neat brown bob cut that just reached her shoulders, the other had a smooth blond ponytail draped over her left clavicle. Mark even noticed a small mole above the left nipple, almost concealed by the drooping ponytail.

Incredible detail, at least from what he could see across the room.

They must have cost a pretty penny–judging from the rest of his home and decor, he probably bought them special from a sculptor.

High-end shit.

Still, it was weird.

He ducked out of the room and stepped into the bathroom.

Again, it was exquisite. A step-in stone shower, shiny fixtures. Thick, luxurious bath towels. Like one of those fancy spas Molly used to talk about when they were together.

The warm water felt good. He hosed himself off, then heard the door open and Chen walk in.

"On the sink when you're ready," Chen's voice was characteristically gruff, but friendly. Before he walked back out and shut the door behind him. Mark peeked around the edge of the fogged shower, seeing some fresh clothes folded on the counter near the sink.

Mark switched the warm water to cold to try to knock away the rest of his hangover.

Now that it was fading, he was starting to feel stupid. And a little vulnerable.

He had fucked up big time. He wasn't sure what this "talk" was going to be, but he couldn't imagine it would be good. Chen didn't mince words, and Mark had been making an ass of himself over the past few months.

Still, it was good to have someone to smack him around a little bit, help him shake all this bullshit off.

Jared and Megan had been great, but–he was starting to admit to himself–he was hiding from the world when he was with them. He couldn't do that forever.

He just didn't know what to do now.

Turning the water off, he felt surprisingly refreshed as he pulled a fluffy towel off the rack and dried himself off. Then, wiping the floor and the shower wall, he tried to get the bathroom back to pristine condition before dressing, gathering his dirty clothes, and stepping out of the bathroom.

With his curiosity piqued, Mark twisted his head as he passed the door to the library again. The statues were still here, both nearly nude, one with the bob cut, the other with the ponytail draped over her right clavicle, the mole still visible just above her left nipple.

So weird.

He began walking toward the kitchen, where the sound of chopping vegetables was drifting down the hall.

Then, suddenly stopping, Mark squinted to himself.

Wait. What was…?

He turned around and walked back toward the library, peeking in again, suddenly shocked to see one of the statues standing up.

Mark's eyes widened.

They weren't statues.

The young woman with the bob cut, still holding her eyes down, walked smoothly and quietly toward the door, then walked out of the library, across the hall, and into the bathroom that Mark had just vacated. The other…not-statue young woman remained quietly motionless in her kneeling position.

The one who was now moving was of medium height when standing, maybe five feet, five inches tall, thin, but with a graceful if prominent curve to her hips. Mark could now see a kind of underwear attached around her waist, but which only included soft, delicate straps and no concealing fabric, so that her pubic region was fully revealed. Her vagina was smooth and clean-shaven, just the way Molly used to be, her delicate cleft peeking just above the curve between her legs. As she disappeared into the bathroom, Mark caught a full glimpse of an uncovered (except for the thin strap of a thong), well-turned rump.

He was frozen in place for a moment, not knowing how to react.

Finally, he gathered himself enough to turn around, walking into the kitchen where the rhythmic percussion of a knife on a cutting board continued, chopping vegetables.

Coming into the kitchen, he froze again, unsure of what to say.

Chen didn't look up, seemingly focused on his task.

"Sir…uh…I couldn't help but notice in your library…"

Chen's eyes shot up, one eyebrow slightly cocked. His look cut off Mark mid-sentence.

He smirked again.

"Don't worry about it."

[nnjcpl2002]

Holy Mackerel, Crushing! You've done it again. We are totally captured by you and your amazing characters, and we want to believe every word. A very complex set of relationships, now including LTC Chen. I'm certain that the resolution(s) will be intriguing.

[Tire_Kicker]

I'm still catching my breath after the scene where Jared has to watch his wife get post-inseminated. David may not be far from that if he keeps asking for what he's fixin' to get.

You never fail to keep us guessing and eager for more, great writing C!

Back to the casting couch, Teresa Ruiz as Isabella in Narcos Mexico for Megan's character. Just something about those eyes...

[hairyhead]

Waiting with baited breath.........

[nnjcpl2002]

Dear C,
We are desperate for next installment. Else we start to lose the plot. After all, it is a bit complicated.

[Crushing]

Hey all,

I know this is a particularly annoying time in the narrative for a delay in the posting schedule. I sincerely apologize for that. I do have some chapters in the hopper, and I'm going to try to get one (or hopefully two) up in the next few days. However, it's just been a little tricky lately--my day job situation has some new developments, and so I might be in the position of needing to find something new, which may also involve moving locations. So I've got a lot of irons in the fire right now, and I'm a little hard up for free time lately. It's just how the ball bounces sometimes.

I absolutely do intend to keep going with this story, which involves a much more intense exploration of cuckold psychology in part 3. I've enjoyed developing the characters, and I'm happy that people are invested, but life just gets in the way sometimes. I appreciate your patience.

Regards,
-C

[Jacko]

Crushing, thanks for the update on your situation. It's a great story and you're doing a fine job of putting it into words. Please take your time and take care of yourself.

[user322]

Hi,
Thanks for keeping us posted!
See you later when you have time!

[Crushing]

The clean cotton sheets draped elegantly in the shape of a lopsided S on the bed as Jordan slept peacefully on her side. The affectionate, naughty foreplay of the night before had quickly migrated into the bedroom, where the passion found quick resolution for David.

…all too quick a resolution for Jordan. She felt emotionally validated, but physically…on edge.

David remembered the shift in her eyes–cloaked initially in cloudy pale of desire–pure wanting, then shifting on instinct to a look of indulgent, nurturing reassurance as his hasty orgasm signaled the abrupt end of their sex.

It was similar, but not exactly like the look in her eyes on their wedding night, which displayed a combination of delight and amusement with the…sudden surprise on Jordan's face as the small member in her hand leapt unexpectedly soon after touching him for the first time.

Since then, David had become a connoisseur of her indulgent looks. There was a wide variety of them, all silently sounding the same chord in slightly different keys. Different shades or variations of…affectionate disappointment.

All such looks stood in stark contrast to the contented glow that lent her whole appearance an air of dewy, shimmering satisfaction each time she glided through the door after the half-dozen or so times she had returned home from her intimate time with Mark.

David shook the thought off, but not before he felt his penis begin to stiffen under the blankets. He ran his hands gently over the sheets that draped his wife's body, following the curve of her form. Waking, she rolled onto her back and blinked open her eyes.

"Morning, Jo."

"Morning baby…" Jordan's wide smile was far less ambiguous than her eyes the night before. As much as he worried about disappointing her at night, he admitted to himself, she always seemed genuinely joyful to see him in the morning. A joy that found its reflection in his own wide smile.

"You sleep okay?"

She nodded and stretched, her arms sticking out straight as the sheet slipped off of her naked breasts. David's eyes drifted down to her pink nipples briefly, then back up to her face.

"We're gonna be late for church."

"Oh..shoot!" Jordan shot up in recognition. Shooting a glance over at the nightstand clock, she clambered out of bed, and stumbled toward the closet.

David enjoyed the windy slinking away of the sheet as it dropped away, freeing the balance of her nakedness, her tight buttocks now pointed right at him.

Reaching the closet, she threw the door open. David stood up from his side of the bed, but more deliberately than his wife. He moved smoothly to stand close behind her, gently extending his hands around her waist from behind, his fingers interlacing over her soft navel as she quickly whisked church dresses back and forth in the closet, the metal scratching of hangers on the dowel screeching in contrast to David's gentle kisses across the back of her shoulders.

Jordan giggled, looking nervously over her shoulder. "Baby…we don't have time. I have to sing this morning…"

"I know, I just want to kiss you."

She playfully patted his hands on her stomach. "Well, hop in the shower with me then. You can kiss my back all you want while I wash my hair. You know how I like that…"

* * *

"David?"

"Yes?"

"Oh, it is you! We haven't seen you in a while, it's so good to have you back!"

Mrs. Dolly, the plump and effusive church music leader sat down next to David in his pew near the back of the sanctuary.

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I've been out of town…with my job…" David answered.

"Oh, Jordan's told me all about it. Sounds like you've been all over God's green earth, fixing problems and saving the world!"

David chuckled, disarmed. "Yeah, maybe."

"Well, I'm sure it's very exciting. But we miss seeing you! But then again…if you can't be here, we're sure grateful that you lend us your beautiful wife's talents. Jordan has come so far! When was the last time you heard her sing in church?"

"It's been a while…" David admitted. "Usually my flights out to my next assignment are on Sunday mornings, or even Saturday nights. I'm just lucky this time, I don't fly out until this evening."

"Well, brace yourself. She's really come into her voice in the last month or so."

"Really?" David asked, looking up toward the choir seats. Jordan, dressed in a full-length white cotton dress with a robin's-egg-blue floral pattern with her hair curled, was chatting happily with the women around her in the choir seats, radiating an easy confidence.

Something that she didn't used to have on the days she sang solo.

"Oh, very much so…" Mrs. Dolly continued. "You know, I've seen it a hundred times before. A talented singer, given enough opportunity to sing in public, will always go one of two directions. On the one hand, a talented voice never can get past the fear of a crowd, and they never fully flower. But sometimes…" She pointed meaningfully up toward where Jordan was seated, "sometimes they finally realize they have the gift. The crowd melts away, or even gives them strength to feed on. Then they just…glow."

David couldn't help but smile in admiration. "You think she's there?"

"Oh, she's there. You'll see it today."

David beamed with pride.

Mrs. Dolly paused for another moment. "The only downside…is that we know she won't be with us much longer."

David nodded. "Yeah, her dissertation is coming along pretty well, and there are already some universities interested in hiring her. I'm just…about to pop with pride here."

"I'm not surprised at all," Mrs. Dolly nodded back. "So you think you'll be moving away from us…when?"

"Probably the end of summer," David guessed. "If she gets a position, she'll want to be there when school starts, of course."

Mrs. Dolly nodded again. "Well, all beautiful things have an end, don't they?" She patted David's narrow shoulder. "Enjoy the service, dear. And enjoy Jordan's glow–it's really something when an artist really finds her voice the way she has."

"I look forward to it," David said. "And I'm…we're both so grateful to you, Mrs. Dolly. Jordan's so happy that you saw something in her. She loves to sing, and she's really had fun working with you."

"Oh, phuh…" Mrs. Dolly swatted the air. "I've had far more fun than she has. It's so rare to work with actual talent. It's been a joy."

The organ began to play.

"But…there's the processional, I need to go now. Lovely to see you, David. Whenever you can make it in…"

"Yes, lovely to see…"

But she had already hustled out of the pew and was waddling hastily to the front of the sanctuary.

The sanctuary lights dimmed, while a single, focused light rose to meet Jordan as she stepped smoothly to her place in front of the choir. A look of almost uncanny serenity defined her face, her auburn curls framing a confident smile. David saw her shoulders rise as she took her first breath to sing.

Mrs. Dolly was right. She was glowing…

* * *

They lay, panting, in bed. A subtle sheen of sweat reflected off of David's narrow, bare chest in the midafternoon light. Jordan's fingers traced lovingly through sparse patches of dark brown hair below and between his collarbones, her face resting in the crook of his shoulder.

It was a quiet moment. An "after" moment. After church. After a nice lunch at the deli, where David couldn't stop noticing his wife's consummate beauty. After stumbling passionately through the front door of their apartment, pawing each other and kissing hungrily. After an enthusiastic but gentle handful of minutes spent making affectionate love in their bed.

David couldn't get over it. That glow. It still hung about her, beaming all the more brightly as her dress had slipped off to the ground. As her bra had unclipped and fallen, shooed away from her body as his hands felt up and down her back.

He had kissed her hungrily…the quiet smacking of their lips were reminiscent of a last meal. The last mingling of their mouths and bodies before David's next departure.

This time, the assignment was the west coast of India.

A night-and-day time zone difference from his wife, minimizing the available time to talk.

Enough rotations of corporate globetrotting had already passed for the young couple to know the routine. And it was routine now–folded it into the normal rhythm of their lives.

And part of that rhythm was the last few hours, either Saturday or Sunday. One last coupling in intimacy…seasoned with equal parts affection and desperation–the space of imminently parting lovers.

Now they lay quietly, their bodies touching as much as possible. Jordan's leg draped over both of David's, his arm fixed around her back as she lay at ¾ angle across his body, the auburn crown of her curled hair nuzzling into the small of his neck.

David just took in the rhythm of her breath.

"You sung like a literal angel today, Jo. Mrs. Dolly was bragging on ya…"

Jordan smiled to herself. "I'm so glad you were there…I wanted you to be there."

David sighed. "I wish I could be there more when you sing."

Jordan sighed back. "Me too."

A few moments passed, both lovers casting wary looks at the bedside clock, trying to push back the time of his departure.

"Well…" David sighed. "Thirty minutes before I've got to get up and get going."

Jordan moaned in protest, clutching him more tightly.

"Anything you want to talk about before I take off?"

Jordan looked up, half puzzled at the question, half afraid she knew the answer.

"I don't know, honey. Is there…anything you want to talk about?"

"Nothing in particular," he answered, stroking her hair. "How's the new car working out?"

"Great! It's so comfy. I really, really like it, baby. Thank you again."

"I'm trying to figure out whether we should sell the Camry or not. I'm just not here very much, and I don't know if we need two cars."

"Oh…" Jordan nodded. "Yeah, that makes sense. I…I can maybe get it detailed and maybe put up an ad to sell it?"

"No rush," David kissed the top of her head. "Just thinking out loud. We can wait until I come home again, I can handle it."

"Okay…but I can do it too, if you want. Just let me know?"

"I think I'd have to sign the bill of sale anyway. So forget it…just let it sit and I can take care of it when I get back."

"Okay."

Another silence. Jordan soaked in the steady rise and fall of her husband's chest under her cheek.

"Baby…"

"Yeah?" David's voice seemed suddenly hopeful.

"I was just going to say…I can do things. While you're gone. Like the car. I mean, I don't have to do the car, I'm just saying…you don't have to feel like you need to do everything on your one week a month home. If something needs done, I can do it. Just tell me."

"Okay," David nodded, his voice changing tone as if her observation was not what he hoped she would talk about. "Okay. I don't mean to cut you out of stuff, or anything. But I like to do things for you. I just like knowing you're taken care of. I don't like the idea of leaving you with a big pile of stuff to do."

"I know. I like that you want to take care of me. But I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself…and you, too."

David chuckled. "That you can, honey."

The next pause seemed increasingly pregnant, as the subject of last night's foreplay hung in between them. Jordan glanced at the clock again.

"Baby…should we talk about…?"

She felt his chest rise quickly.

"Yeah…I think maybe we should. Unless you're uncomfortable."

Jordan sat up, clutching the bedsheet around her naked torso. A look of genuine concern clouded her eyes as she looked down at her husband on his back.

"Well…what do you want…how should we approach this?"

"Any way you want, honey." David sat up, leaning back against their headboard.

Jordan's head dropped modestly. "I know you, um, like doing…umm…some dirty talk and stuff, and I know about how you…liked what we did last year. With him."

David nodded gravely, his hands gravitating to his crotch, blood rushing in arousal at the mere mention of a third person masculine pronoun.

Him.

"I know we had that whole experiment, honey," Jordan continued in a measured tone. "And I know you don't blame me for what happened. And I know things turned out well for us afterwards, with the business and your job and stuff. I know all that."

"Okay…" David nodded, waiting for the "but" that he knew was coming.

"But…" Jordan looked back up into his eyes, "But you did get hurt, baby. And the thing…the thing that we were doing…it was a kind of catalyst. And afterward it got me thinking about just how wrong it is, you know?"

David nodded again. "I understand where you're coming from, Jo."

"I'm glad you do. I just don't want to hurt you again. But I want you to know something. It's not just that…there's something else, too."

David cocked his head quizzically. "Something else?"

"My hesitation about all of this…It's not just about some kind of reverse engineered consequentialist ethic based on a single undesirable outcome extrapolated both from and into some kind of moral misprision around a transgressive yet consensual sexual dynamic within our marriage."

David broke into a wide grin. "Baby. English. I'm an accountant, not a…whoever can understand the thing you just said."

Jordan laughed again. "Sorry, baby. I don't mean to bog this down with dissertation speak…I do that sometimes when I want to be sure about what I'm saying. I just mean…I'm not saying it's wrong because something bad happened. I worry that it's wrong because…"

She stopped suddenly, seeming to balk at her own words.

"What is it?" David grasped her hand gently. "It's okay, Jo. You can tell me."

"It's just that…I'm really, really scared that a part of me…actually wants it."

David smiled. "I don't think that's a big surprise, Jo. You really enjoyed your time with Mar…"

"No, it's more than that," Jordan interrupted. "I've brought this up before a little bit, but I don't know if you get…how much…it's really starting to get to me, baby. There's like…a part of me that wants this. But I don't mean that I kind of want it…I mean that there's like…this whole other person that's a part of me. And she wants it. I don't. And when I say she wants it, she wants it in…well, in a scary way, David. She wants it in a way that actually scares me when I shake her off and get back in my right mind."

"Oh…" David's eyes half squinted in sympathy and concern. "That's heavy, baby."

Jordan squeezed his hand, looking earnestly back at him. "It is, David. And I don't really know what to do about it. I can't be two people and be a good wife. Or even a coherent, functioning human being."

David took a moment, carefully analyzing the fear in his wife's gunbarrel blue eyes.

"You're scared," he observed finally.

"Yeah…like I said, it's like she's this other person…and sometimes…"

"You're not scared of her. Not really." David surprised her by interrupting. Her mouth hung open, mid-sentence, waiting for him to finish.

"You're not scared of the other girl. You're scared that if I see her, I won't love you because of her. That I won't love either of you. Both of you."

Jordan's hand shot up to cover her mouth, shocked. Tears began to form in the inside corners of her eyes. Wordlessly, she shut her eyes and nodded.

David leaned forward and kissed her gently. "Jo. Listen to me."

The first tear began to run down her cheek.

"Honey…Jordan…listen to me," David repeated.

She nodded, unable to speak.

"I love you. Every part of you. Do you understand?"

She squeezed his hand again, nodding as a second tear flooded down her cheek.

"But there's something else, too, Jo. Are you ready to hear this?"

She opened her eyes, glistening and vulnerable. She nodded again.

"Jo. Baby. You have a girl in the mirror who scares you. I know that. But I have a boy in the mirror that scares me too. And you shouldn't be scared or ashamed of your girl in the mirror. You know why?"

"Because we're both degenerate freaks?" She stammered out, a desperate laugh punctuating the observation.

He wiped away the second tear, then kissed her cheek. "I was going to word it differently."

"Okay…" she laughed defensively again. "Then how would you characterize this weird…sexy schizophrenic deviance pattern?"

David smiled at the quip. "I was going to say…" he paused, stroking her hair until she looked into his eyes again.

"I was going to say…my boy in the mirror…I think he needs your girl in the mirror. Maybe as much as the regular me needs the regular you. Did you ever think of that?"

Jordan's eyes widened.

* * *

A sad but pregnant silence hung in the air between them on the way to the airport. But the quiet, unspoken air was accented visually by the crisp, clean lines of an as-yet brand new car.

David looked around the interior from his spot in the passenger's seat. She had had this car for about two months now. And she was keeping the car absolutely spic-and-span.

It wasn't like her.

David's own fastidious habits made their shared living spaces quite tidy. But left to her own devices, Jordan's intense focus on the world of ideas tended to result in messy, disorganized spaces. Her desk at work resembled the smartest junkyard imaginable: a layered pile of books and papers noticeably taller than her when she sat behind them. And although she always tried to tidy up before he came home, David would always find little traces of disorganization around their shared apartment too. Here and there.

They never fought about it. David had come to accept it as a cute quirk, not much extra work for him, as he was a compulsive cleaner anyway. And when he would occasionally do a deep-clean of their shared space and she would always help. But he was the organizer. The one that kept neat, clean lines apparent in the house.

"You sure are keeping the new car nice and clean."

Jordan glanced over from the driver's seat. "Yeah, I guess I kinda am."

David nodded. "I thought for sure I'd see at least one mechanical pencil or random makeup item rolling out from under my seat or something." He grinned over at her. She returned a nervous smile.

"Nope. I know you like stuff to be clean."

"I do. And I appreciate it."

"No problem." She smiled again, nervously.

They rode in silence for another moment before he spoke up again.

"I just kind of get the sense that you feel like this isn't your car. Like you're borrowing it from me, so you feel like you have to keep it how I like it."

"Would you rather I trashed it?" She grinned sarcastically.

David chuckled. "No. I just want you to really…believe me, I guess."

"What do you mean? Believe what?"

He shrugged. "Just believe that I actually gave this to you. That it's really yours. I'm not going to take it back. Or get mad that you don't keep it the way I like."

Jordan stared forward for a moment, unsure how to respond. She pulled to a stop at a red light, and looked up at the mirror, distracted, as David sat uncomfortably. Finally she answered.

"I do believe you. But I grew up poor, honey. Accepting something like this was…harder than I expected. But try to understand where I'm coming from. I only stopped wearing thrift store clothes like…a year ago. My grandma used to make my church dresses from the curtains people left in the donation box. This car…this level of generosity, this level of comfort is just…I'm just not used to it."

David took a deep breath. "Should I not have done that? I think your dad tried to warn me…"

"No, baby…I love it. I absolutely love it. It's just kind of a process for me. You're doing very well…way better than we thought. And I'm so proud of you. But when we got married, I had kind of calibrated my expectations for a life slightly better than the way I grew up. I figured I'd get a teaching or research job at a university, and you'd be a CPA. Maybe…maybe we'd have a savings account. Or we'd own our own home free and clear instead of living in a parish house. Or we could get our kids' school clothes from the mall instead of Goodwill. Stuff like that. But now, we're actually getting…like…rich. I wasn't raised with it. And I was kind of raised to be suspicious of stuff like this. It's hard for me to trust it."

"Do you not want it?" David's squinted in confusion.

"It's not that. It's just that it feels…alien to me. Like I don't deserve it. It's hard to trust, because I feel like it might blow up in my face."

David nodded. "Like the thing with Vinny. And my teeth."

"Exactly!" Jordan admitted, relieved. She looked over at him just before the light turned green. "It was like…we did this thing, we both wanted it. And it was fun and it felt good, and it was really exciting. But then I almost lost you. I almost lost everything! Too much of a good thing…it just seems really dangerous."

"I see that now." David leaned back in his seat as the vehicle moved smoothly forward. "I think I understand a little better."

"I don't mean that I don't like or don't want the car, baby. It's so nice, and so generous. And I really do love it, and I know giving me things is how you show love. But I guess…it's a process. I need to just trust you. I need to just take the leap and trust that you'll always take care of me. I believe that intellectually…but it's still hard for me to make the leap."

David nodded. "That makes sense. I'm glad you're trying." His thoughtful look broke into a grin: "And you can totally trash the Rav-4 if you want to. It's yours."

Jordan laughed. "No…I need to get better at keeping my space clean. It's a vice."

"Seriously though, Jo. Thank you for trying to trust me. For trying to trust all these changes. I really do just want you to have everything you want. It is how I show love."

"I love that about you, honey. And I am trying. I really am. I hope…I hope you realize that. When you get on the plane, I just want you to think about how I want to trust all the changes. Trust you. Trust us."

"I will." David reached across the center, grabbed her petite hand and squeezed it gently. "I will."

15 minutes and a hasty tear-off of the emotional band-aid later, David looked back past the security checkpoint in the airport to see Jordan waving…holding back tears before she turned to walk back to the parking garage.

A now-familiar feeling of affection and emptiness hit David in the stomach.

Three more weeks in a series of strange, empty beds. All in the service of building a career. A life. For her. For them.

He made his way to the gate, still an hour before boarding time, and sat down in a remote corner of the terminal within sight of his gate. Taking a moment to gather himself, he decided to switch into work mode. Best to get ahead of schedule and read up on India's ports and internal rail system…

He opened the top of his backpack, reaching in for his laptop but feeling a new texture against his fingertips…

He pulled out a small, sealed envelope. Jordan's handwriting across the back.

Personal and Confidential.

David squinted, intrigued, looking down into his bag and noticing another irregular shape sticking out awkwardly on the side of his bag, perpendicular to his laptop and folders.

Holding the envelope in his left hand, he reached into his bag with his right, pulling out a shiny, crisp, pink lady apple.

[nnjcpl2002]

Beautiful! Thanks, Crushing. And more please, sir?!

[Jacko]

Thanks for the latest, Crushing. Great as usual!

I had just logged in to ask how you are doing, I hope your work and personal situation is a little more settled in these turbulent times.

[Oneillfranko]

Thanks for the chapter, Crushing. Such good writing!

[Tire_Kicker]

Good to hear from you C, take care of yourself.

[Fred_Garvin]

I usually have a Granny Smith apple with my lunch. I'm switching to Pink Lady because of this incredible story.

[BBthree57]

Sitting here anxiously awaiting the next chapter, I decided to sit down at the piano and play a couple of tunes to pass the time. God, waiting is so difficult. Played a couple Stones tunes and a couple Carol King. Then set some Billy Joel music on the piano and played several, ending on The Stranger. Then it hit me. Joel's concept that we hide our true self from others and Crushing's description of Jordan's alter-ego coming to her privately through her mirror interactions were her stranger! Got to love the similar constructs of Joel's music to Crushing prose in this sordid exquisite tale.

Just as in Joel's lyrics, I can hardly wait for her to take her stranger out and show herself again.