Jordan

[Fred_Garvin]

I am dying to know what knowledge of good and evil will be imparted by the fruit Jordan shared with David this time. The letters she wrote before were amazing revelations, and I am sure her analytical mind and conflicting passions will produce another masterful opus.

[Shauncuckold]

Thank you for sharing your stories with us. I love your writing and appreciate the hard work that you put into your art.

Mr. Swan

[Luis]

I’d like to read the rest of this story too!

[Flipflop200]

Bumping this back to the top!

[Tire_Kicker]

This story will always be at the top as far as I'm concerned.

Hoping Crushing comes back soon...

[nnjcpl2002]

We miss you, Crushing. Hope everything is OK.
Best, NNJCPL.

[john jasson]

Crushing by name, crushing by nature. I don't have a lot of time at the moment either, so I understand your situation, but I wanted to echo what other posters have said about this majestic piece of work. I'm only on page 3, but goodness me, your story is incredible. It's weighty in the word count, and needs to be slowly absorbed to be properly appreciated, but it certainly repays the effort and time necessary for the reading and the savouring. I haven't encountered anything quite like this before for extremely deep and well crafted character development coupled with such erotic intensity, so thank you so much for sharing. Personally, I have quite a way to go to have read all you have posted to date, but I do hope you continue. Thank you again. Thank you SO much.

[Guhunkadorn]

Dear Mr. Crushing,

I hope your having a good summer, mines okay though my summer reading list would be substantially improved if you'd drop some more chapters.

All my best,

Guhunkadorn

[Fred_Garvin]

This story is my favorite on this site right now. I hate that work and life has taken you away from your writing, and I hope you have time to get back to finishing this.

[CTim]

This is incredibly well written. The individual character development is off the charts. For context on my compliment, I'm a happily long term married monogamous guy and I can't identify with David, Chris, or Jared at all! Can't really identify with Mark either, although that would be the closest. In spite of those facts, I still couldn't put it down. Well done!

[Oneillfranko]

Really hoping you continue with this epic tale…

[Crushing]

Tink…tink

Mark stabbed at the grilled carrots on his plate, sitting silently across a sparse oak table from Lieutenant Colonel Chen, who wordlessly but thoughtfully chewed the first bites off his own plate.

The silence was deafening. The remnants of an alcoholic fog still hung about Mark, even after a warm shower and the first few bites of a healthy meal.

"So…"

Chen's eyebrow lifted as the silence broke.

"So what?"

"I don't usually like carrots," Mark muttered. "But these are good."

"If you grill 'em just right, you get the texture perfect. Still firm, but not rigid. Little salt and pepper, some olive oil. That's the trick. Melts in your mouth."

More silence, with tapered, closed-mouth chewing across the silent table.

"I…uh…thanks for getting me out of the car. I'm…having some trouble lately. With stuff."

"No shit." Chen looked up, a steely eye locking onto the younger man's sheepish face. "What're you gonna do about it?"

"I'll figure it out."

"Figure it out, huh? Looks like that's going well."

"I didn't say I figured it out. I said I will."

"And your plan is…another crate of Jack with a pallet of vodka as a chaser? That gonna do it?"

"Fuck you, man. I'm trying to sound grateful." Mark snapped back.

"Fuck your gratitude, Rein," Chen snapped back. "This ain't charity."

"Yeah?" Mark's lower jaw jutted out defiantly as he dropped his fork noisily onto his plate. "What is it then?"

"Responsibility." Chen replied evenly.

"You're not my dad…" Mark growled.

"No. No I'm not. Nothing so sentimental. It's much deeper than that, Rein. Much, much deeper."

"Oh yeah?" Mark snarled, a sarcastic edge to his voice. "What is it? Enlighten me."

Chen paused, then took another bite, this time of steak, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing.

"This…" He gestured up and down at Mark's body with his fork. "I did this to you. It's my fault. I gotta fix it."

"What?" Mark leaned back in his chair, incredulous. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I made a command decision. I put my best man, from my best company at the tip of the spear. And it fucked him up. Fucked him up good. This is on me."

Mark shook his head in disbelief. "It's not…fuck that, man. It's not like that. It's fucking…until Macintosh and his bullshit…I was fine"

"The hell you were, Rein. You think I'm blind?"

Mark scowled, picking up his fork again and eating silently.

More silence passed.

Chen waited a few moments for the air to clear.

"That scar on your chin…you can barely see it." Chen offered. "Surgeon did a good job."

"Yeah. Lucky me."

"Yeah, lucky you. Your forearm's all fucked up though. Definitely ripped up some muscle tissue. Kinda gnarly."

Mark didn't answer again, tucking into the medium rare steak.

It was delicious. He held back a smile, still wary of his host.

Chen spoke up again. "I promoted your boy on Friday. Poisson. Right before he checked out of Battalion. He's a full sergeant now."

"He's not my boy…" Mark mumbled.

Chen didn't answer. Mark, suddenly spoiling for a fight, took another bite and responded, unprompted.

"Guess it fits that he'd outrank me now, huh?"

Chen glowered silently. Mark took a sip of water and leaned back in his chair, eyebrow raised.

Chen glared at him, but kept his tone level, not wanting to escalate. "You think I didn't have your back, Rein?" he remarked quietly. "I couldn't stop the court martial. But you really think I wouldn't have gotten your third chevron back the absolute nanosecond I legally could?"

"You didn't say anything…"

"No shit, genius. Of course I didn't say anything. Not that you'd hear. I can't conspire with a subordinate like that. But you really think I'd leave you out in the cold after you got railroaded by my dumbest officer?"

Mark didn't answer. Now it was Chen's turn to lean back in his chair.

"Of course you'd think that. You've lost all perspective, Rein. Too shitfaced to see the big picture. Too busy screaming in your sleep to hear anything."

Mark's eyes widened. "You know about that?"

"Of course I know about it."

"Who told you?" Mark's eyes narrowed angrily.

"Poisson, Wolfe, Even fucking Macintosh told me. It started while you were still in-country. For Christ's sake, Rein, you were rooming with fucking Macintosh. He heard you howling two days after the op. Two days! Sent up a report to medical. Medical wanted to pull you off the line, but I blocked it, because after you fucking hijacked a general's helicopter to get back to it, I figured it would do more harm than good to pull you off the line before finishing out the rotation."

Mark was stunned. "Yeah. Thanks, I guess…"

Chen's eyes narrowed. "You thought you could hide it. But you weren't fooling anybody. You think you'd just slide through it? That it would go away on its own?"

Mark's eyes widened. "No…"

"Yeah, no shit. Also, for the record, after the court martial I checked in with every one of your door guards when you were on restriction. They said they heard it…the howling. Every night. Every single one…except the night when that little redhead was in there with you."

Mark's eyes widened more. "You knew…"

"Give me some fucking credit, Rein. I saw that one myself. You and Poisson…you guys are decent in a front line fight, but you guys suck at covert shit. I watched her walk in. And when I didn't see her come out the next morning, I ordered battalion formations on the far side of the barracks so nobody would see her leave. To cover your ass."

Mark scowled, unsure how to react, and took another bite of meat. Chen, too, returned to focus on his plate.

They ate in silence for a moment.

Until Chen spoke again.

"She looked like a snack, though. The little redhead."

Mark broke into an involuntary smile. "Yeah…she was."

"She dump you?"

Mark nodded silently.

"Cause of the nightmares?"

Mark shook his head. "Nah. She got into med school. Johns Hopkins."

"No shit?"

Mark nodded.

Chen nodded back in quiet understanding. "And your orders were out west."

Mark ate his last bite of food, and leaned sullenly back in his chair, chewing and swallowing.

"So…" Chen intoned, dropping his fork onto his own empty plate, "What now?"

[Crushing]

PART 3

MOM

Three letters flashing on a phone screen.

Amy hesitated, her stomach reverting to knots the way it always did when mom called. Somehow, in some Pavlovian way, even three letters could conjure a certain tone of her mother's voice. She couldn't escape it; although she was half a continent away, the knots in her stomach could be jolted into a painful twist from a hint of a rhythmic buzz coming from her purse.

It wasn't a good time to talk. She was in line at Walmart, picking up some necessaries for her big day: Oat milk, some produce and boxed pasta, and a welcome mat. The first time she would own her own welcome mat. It seemed like an occasion…something her mother was bound to try to ruin if she let her talk for too long.

With an indignant snort, she raised the phone to her ear, wincing.

"Hi mommy…"

"Where are you?" the voice on the other end demanded.

"I'm in El Paso, where I've been for the past two and a half years, mommy."

"Don't get smart with me, Amy Jepps. You know what I meant. Are you at…are you there yet?"

"No. I'm picking up some things at the store."

"You're not at Walmart again, are you?"

"No."

"Well, that's good. It's bad enough you're in that town…So you haven't gone to the new place yet, so it's not too late to back out?"

Her voice was hopeful. In a transparently passive aggressive way.

Amy snorted impatiently, then calmly counted to five before answering.

"Mom, I told you, I love Gil. I trust him, and people–boyfriends and girlfriends–move in together all the time. It's the twenty-first century. And I'm an adult."

"I just don't think he's right for you, princess. It's bad enough you're stuck in that awful, desert place. I don't know how you stand it. Are you using enough moisturizer?"

Amy rolled her eyes. "I'm perfectly happy here, mom. Newsflash: I didn't get into Julliard. I've accepted it, and I've moved on. You should try it sometime. And I actually like it here. It's a good program. I love the troupe here, and I met Gil here. This was a good move for me."

"Honey…it wasn't. And you could have waited a year and done a second audition…"

"Mommy, we've been through this…"

"That place is wrong for you, Amy."

Amy winced again. "Mom…why don't you want me to be happy?"

"I do, princess, I just think, you know…that place is not your place. You belong…you deserve better."

Amy looked up and down the line, surrounded by other customers. On some level, her mother had a point. Even in her store brand hoodie and yoga pants, Amy couldn't fully conceal her Upper East Side Manhattan origins. She stood out.

Amy was the oldest of two children. Her mother was an Olympic gymnast who married, and subsequently divorced, an extremely well-to-do investment banker. The kind of golden cage that gets built around such children certainly surrounded her childhood, and managed to linger around her psyche, arresting her development and budding sense of self. So the move to El Paso had been cathartic. She had enjoyed her first two years in the extreme west of Texas, excelling in the dance program at UTEP and being around the kind of people that simply didn't find their way into the swanky apartments, coastal mansions, and private boarding schools she grew up in.

Unless, of course, they were cleaning something. Or fixing something. Or babysitting. You know…working class jobs.

She liked these people. She tried genuinely to fit in, and most of the time she felt like she could pass as a working class girl. The designer clothes and handbags her mother sent her stayed in her closet, and she bought clothes from the cheap stores in the mall–and Walmart. If her mom found out, she'd probably have a stroke. And she made sure she had a roommate in the dorms–even though she could easily afford a solo room.

She couldn't hide everything, of course. Obviously, the other freshmen in her girls' dorm quickly figured out she was a rich girl–a dance major from New York, with long, shiny blonde hair and Swedish skin care bottles on her side of the sink in the dorms.

But she didn't try to stand out or project superiority. True, she was petite and beautiful, just over 5 feet tall weighing in on the underside of a hundred pounds. But she wasn't stuck up, and she wasn't mean. She got along with the other girls, and didn't seem interested in pledging to a sorority. She loved the museum and volunteered there on weekends. And she always did her homework.

She also never committed the cardinal sin of trying to steal anyone's boyfriend. Mainly because she found herself a steady boy early on–she met Gilbert Achs in her freshman year. A music performance major–classical piano–Gilbert earned a little extra money playing for the ballet classes and rehearsals. He was cute, and he was a very good musician. She loved it when he played for rehearsals–he kept a solid tempo and his accompaniment style was easy to follow. Plus, he still seemed to make every piece his own–a true artist. Having been raised around the world-class musicians at Julliard, Amy knew how to recognize real artistry, and he had it. He could probably have gotten into a better program than UTEP, but he didn't know how. His family were all teachers and librarians from Oklahoma, UTEP was the closest school with a real music program.

Plus, he was sweet. Skinny, lanky even, with floppy hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and just a few inches taller than her.

He was horribly shy the first time she approached him after rehearsal and told him he played well.

Of course, having spent most of her life on stage in tights from the time she could walk, Amy was used to pretending she wasn't scared. But she was terrified to talk to him, too. Almost as much as he was terrified to be talked to by a pretty ballerina. She'd never gone on a date with a boy before. All-girls' boarding school and clinics, classes, rehearsals, and even her junior touring company–all conspired to keep her away from boys. Not to mention her mother…

But a full semester after that horrifically awkward first exchange, they went on a real, grown-up date just before Christmas break.

Then they couldn't stop texting each other when they went home–her from Manhattan, where she once again danced lead in The Nutcracker for her mother's charity club, and him from his family's modest home in Oklahoma.

Then, they couldn't stand to be apart. At the beginning of their shared junior year, they decided to get their own place. Gilbert won a regional piano competition, winning just enough for the deposit on a run-down one bedroom near the arts school.

"Mom, I'm just here for college. I'm not going to live in El Paso forever. Plus…I kinda like it. At least some of the people…I don't know. I just like it."

"It's not too late to back out, honey…" her mother interjected. "If you really want to get into an apartment, we can get one for you. A nice one! We'll arrange…"

"Mom, Gil and I have been dating for two years…and I don't want to sound like I'm a broken record. But I'm an adult."

An anxious silence. Then:

"Okay, honey. Just…be careful. And it's not Gil that makes me nervous. You know I like Gil. I do. It's just…"

"I'm coming up to the checkout counter mom, mom…I have to get off the phone now."

"Okay, sweetie. You didn't get any candy or cake, did you? No sugar and no fat, remember?"

How could I possibly forget? Amy wondered to herself as she hung up. She put her small collection of items on the conveyer belt, where they made their way slowly toward a plump, surly middle aged woman who stared blankly downward. unenthused at the prospect of running the items over the scanner.

Suddenly Amy felt a heavy tap on her shoulder. She whirled around and looked up, startled. A strange man towered over her–well over six feet tall with brown skin, greasy, shoulder length black hair, and a full, scraggly beard. His dark brown eyes squinted down at her.

Amy was paralyzed. She didn't know what level of fear to conjure. But she didn't know what he wanted. He didn't look homeless. But he didn't look not homeless either. He was definitely latino…did he jump the border? This was El Paso, after all…Did he speak English? What did he want?

Her eyes widened as the man's long arm raised up in front of her. Pinched between his thumb and two fingers was a single case of costume lipstick, dark red.

She had dropped it on the floor when fumbling for her phone. He was returning it.

Amy exhaled and smiled nervously, taking it from him.

"Th-thank you."

The man nodded once, then casually reached for the plastic divider, quietly setting it at the end of her purchases before adding his own items onto the conveyor belt.

Amy made her way to the cashier, never fully turning her back on the man. After swiping her credit card, she took the bag, and looked once more over her shoulder before heading for the door.

He was tall. Really tall. Maybe 6' 3, 6' 4? But definitely at least a foot taller than she was…

[subtoall]

Thank god you're back.

[Smithwicksguy]

Great you are back writing. We have missed getting our fix. Thank you.

[Luis]

I cannot wait to see this story play out! Thanks for starting back up Crushing!!

[Guhunkadorn]

You said you'd be back and here you are; I'm happy. And eager to continue enjoying this great story. Hope that the adjustments you've made throughout the year have worked in your favor.

[Johng1953]

I've missed this so much. Welcome back!

[MustBeDenied2]

Welcome back, Crushing. Can't wait to find out how Amy and ... hmm, Mark???? ... get along.

MBD

[Crushing]

"Captain Rein? Sir?"

Mark looked up from the stack of fitness reports on his desk to see the company clerk standing in his door.

"Yes?"

"The battalion commander wants to see you."

Mark stood up briskly. "Where?"

"In his office. HQ."

"Now?"

"Yes sir. His secretary just called."

Mark nodded and grabbed his cap off the hook. "Thank you, Corporal."

He made his way to the front door of Charlie Company headquarters: the well-kept Victorian house won by his company for the second quarter in a row now. A gaggle of enlisted men paused their landscaping duties to snap to attention and render a smart salute, which Mark absently returned.

What did Wolfe want?

Fitness reports weren't due until next week. All the training paperwork was in, work orders, supply orders were in.

Maybe one of his platoon commanders got mouthy. Or one of the juniors got in a barfight and it came over the blotter.

No, it couldn't be that. Usually Jared was way out in front on stuff like that. He knew everything that happened in the company. Eagle eyes.

Mark pulled open the door to battalion HQ, returning the salute from the sentry.

"Good morning Captain Rein."

"Good morning," he rumbled, distracted.

Making his way to the back of the building, he opened the door to the more amply outfitted, nicely decorated command suite. The battalion sergeant major's door was closed–he was away at some senior enlisted conference. The commander's door was ajar.

"Good morning," he nodded politely to the secretary. "Captain Rein reporting as ordered. Is he in?"

The secretary, a stoic but friendly woman in her forties nodded. "Go right in, Captain. He's waiting for you."

Mark pushed the door open, stepped inside and stood at attention.

"At ease, Rein," Wolfe said, standing up and shaking his hand. "Shut the door. Take a seat."

"Thank you sir." Mark closed the door and sat across the oak desk from Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe.

Mark squinted. The commander wore an ambiguous look on his face. Enigmatic, but clearly concerned.

Wolfe took a deep breath. "Rein. I don't relish this, and I'm a little torn on how to react here. But you've got a problem."

"Sir?" Mark cocked an eyebrow.

Wolfe's jaw set. "You've done well since taking command of Charlie Company. Exemplary. No one would doubt that. And your obvious chemistry with your hand picked senior enlisted was a major contributor to your success. You would agree?"

"No question, sir." Mark's eyes narrowed. Where is this going?

"Captain Rein…" Wolfe's fingers tapped impatiently on the desk. "Gunny Poisson's wife…what's her name?"

"Megan, sir. Meg."

"You call her Meg."

"Yes sir. I…she…they are my oldest friends, sir. I mean I call Gunny Poisson "Frenchie."

"So do I. So does everybody who has enough rank to not be afraid of a boot in their ass."

Mark cracked a grin. "True that, sir."

Wolfe's smile faded. "Captain Rein, Megan…Mrs. Poisson was spotted at your home recently. Alone. And for what appeared to be longer than a pop-in. Do you get where I'm going with this?"

Mark's gut clenched, but he held his face stoically still. "I think I do sir. But I assure you…"

"Now, what you get up to off-duty is your business and not mine," Wolfe interrupted, raising a finger. "To a point. But you're a company commander now, Rein, and you're on your way up. You should expect people to be watching you. All the time. And some of those people will talk to other people. And eventually, what gets around, gets around, understand?"

"Yes sir." Mark's jaw clenched, matching the tension in his gut.

"I'm not launching an investigation into this. I'm not accusing you of fraternizing, or adultery, or...anything. This isn't out of control...yet. If it's managed right, this little revelation ends right here, right now. But this is the kind of small thing that could very quickly turn into a big thing."

"I understand, sir. I'll be more judicious about appearances, of course."

Wolfe nodded. "Good. And to be clear–this is not big enough to be my problem…yet. But it is definitely a problem. Do you understand?"

"I do, sir."

"Good. Handle it."

"Aye sir," Mark nodded and stood up, snapping to attention.

"Dismissed. And keep up the good work."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

Seated in his first class seat, preparing for an overnight flight, both of David's hands shook. His eyes darted between the pink lady apple in one hand, and the envelope in the other. He wasn't sure which hand held the bigger revelation.

On the one hand–literally–was a symbol. Ancient. Biblical.

"You won't die…you'll be like God…you'll know good and evil…"

So said the snake to the first woman in the Garden of Eden. And after that first bite passed her delicate lips, what did the woman say to the first man as she handed the fruit to him?

The role of tempter had shifted from serpent to wife…she had become like God.

Or the devil.

Or both?

David wasn't given to such symbolic thinking, but being married to a woman of deep reading and powerful creativity had him cogitating on such things instinctively. And the thoughts were usually colored with her voice when they passed through.

"You won't die…you'll be like God…you'll know good and evil…"

He couldn't deny it. Holding the physical symbol was almost like being in her presence. Just holding it was surprisingly erotic–this unremarkable, modestly priced piece of fruit had been cradled in her soft hand, then loaded with intention well beyond his physical nourishment as she smiled slyly and slid it into his bag.

As much as he liked to think in terms of numbers and direct cause-and-effect systems, the mere fact of his holding this apple seemed–mystical. Magical. Definitely powerful.

In his other hand sat a letter.

Personal and Confidential.

The promise of real knowledge. Words conveying meaning in concrete terms. Sentiments and perhaps instructions from the woman he loved. Almost certainly addressing the strange, yawning chasm of desire he had specifically for her pleasure–not his. At least not directly. His pleasure derived from hers, his deepest fulfillments lay in her fulfillment. The words in this letter surely shed light on her thoughts, her desires. Perhaps little hints to unblock new avenues to her pleasure and fulfillment. Perhaps she would name some tasks, projects, or impediments that he could set his mind to resolving, clearing the way for her to lovingly cuckold him again.

He wanted to bite the apple, but he would have to set down the letter. He wanted to open the letter, but he would have to set down the apple.

It was a strange conundrum.

"Good afternoon, sir. Can I get you to stow your items for takeoff? We've just closed the cabin doors."

"Uh, yeah. Yes. Of course." Red-faced, David tried to casually stow the working symbol and text of both his marital humiliation and its fulfillment without tipping his hand to the flight attendant. After zipping both fruit and letter into his bag and tucking it under the seat in front of him, he caught sight of the insistent nub pressing up against the zipper of his slacks. Pretending to adjust his seat belt, he laid his hands in his lap to cover.

Luckily, the flight attendant had already moved on. But the nub seemed likely to persist…

* * *

Mark walked back to his company office in a daze. Blowing through the door, he waved past the clerk and slipped into his office, shutting the door quietly behind him. Gritting his teeth, he took a deep breath, clenched his fist, and slammed it down hard on one of the chairs facing his desk.

"Fuck. Fuck…"

Pacing back and forth, he gradually calmed himself, taking a deep breath and eventually sitting down in his own chair behind the desk, tucking his head in his hands.

Okay, he thought to himself. What now?

He looked around his office, centering himself before switching to strategic mode.

Okay. First…who knows?

I know. Meg and Jared know. Nobody else knows, but they're talking.

Mark grimaced to himself.

Talking. Just talking. People talk...all the time.

"Joner." Mark raised his voice. The company clerk opened the door and stuck his head in.

"Sir?"

"Get the word out. I want a full company formation after training evolutions are done for the day. What time is the last evolution today?"

The young marine grabbed a notebook off his desk. "Second platoon is back from the rifle range at 1530 hours, sir."

"Get everyone boxed up by 1600. No exceptions other than sick call."

"Aye sir." He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Mark clasped his hands together and squeezed.

Shit.

He took another deep breath, then reached for his phone.

* * *

The apartment always felt extra empty after dropping off David at the airport.

The routine was well established by then, of course. They were several months into David's "world tour," as they had come to call it–-tongue in cheek.

But the felt absence of a life partner is a gut check, no matter how regular the routine may be. She quietly pulled a pot out from the stove drawer and grabbed the spaghetti box from the pantry.

As the water boiled, she mused at the intense arc of the last 24 hours–-this time last night, she was making love with her husband. While brief and physically disappointing (which she could only admit to herself when she was alone in a room), the emotional connection that came from their coupling was something that she craved, and something that she missed terribly when David was gone.

Part of the satisfaction was the sense of being with a man she adored and felt safe with. But the other part was the sheer density of validation that came with it. David was so overwhelmingly, swooningly, droolingly attracted to her. When her clothes came off, she could tie him in knots if she wanted to. His arousal was so totalizing, it made her feel like a superhero. Or a goddess.

It felt good to be desired so ardently. To know you have that effect on the man you love.

Jordan smiled at the pot as she stirred.

After making love, they had held each other tightly for a long time, until David's breathing leveled off and he fell asleep. Jordan had smiled to herself then, too, only that smile was in the dark, and it served two functions: masking her physical frustration while letting her emotional satisfaction win the moment.

She had rolled gently on to her back and masturbated quietly for a few moments, but couldn't get in the right mindset to finish. She, too, had fallen asleep, flushed, somewhat tense, but happy.

Then waking up late the next morning, showering while David kissed up and down her naked back. Fast forward to singing in church with her husband in the audience. Then dinner, and the conversation…

Jordan's heart leaped slightly. The pot began to boil, and she slipped a gripped fist of spaghetti into the water to be cooked.

She and David had reached something approaching an understanding about his unconventional desires…and how she had, in the past, found pleasure in fulfilling those desires. She had admitted to David about the girl in the mirror, about her fear of her own hunger. She hadn't told him everything–the night in the red basement with Professor Schenck, where the girl in the mirror took on a dark power, for instance, she kept to herself.

The spaghetti, stiffly standing out of the water at an angle, slowly lost its tensile strength and slid languidly below the surface.

David had insisted, in his own matter-of-fact, humble way, that his own dual nature, his own split desires were actually a complement to hers.

She had attempted to explain to him with (perhaps excessive) academic clarity the wall she was hitting every time she tried to make moral sense of the situation. But David had introduced a new wrinkle–the idea of a divergent but complementary need shared between them. That her girl in the mirror–terrifying though she was–had a counterpart somewhere in David's deep psyche that needed her to come out.

Catharsis.

The greek word has connotations of vomiting. Of experiencing emotions so powerful that you reject the dark parts of yourself in a messy explosion. A humiliation that brings a shock of relief and a release of tension.

David's need to expel an anxious demon was obvious; any post-Freudian psychologist worth their hourly rate could pick up the twisted shards of childhood trauma David hid under the thin facade of his fastidious, hyper-logical need to control. If that trauma manifested in a different way, if he had coupled that tendency with a narcissistic or grandiose personality, he would have been absolutely insufferable.

Like his father was.

But his meek, careful, and endlessly solicitous desire to see everyone happy and to make everything better made his obvious psychological issues endearing. Sweet, even.

Jordan wasn't naive about the basic mechanisms of David's desires. Especially now that she had read up on it and had time to formulate her own theories about it. On its face, his desire to be cuckolded was a clear path to catharsis. But what would happen if she cuckolded him again? Would that catharsis turn from an occasional purging of negative emotions into some kind of bulemic disorder? Would it develop into a need to vomit his brokenness over and over compulsively...an unending appetite for humiliation and self harm?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Under the surface, danger lurked, but she wasn't sure what form that danger would take. But David's "boy in the mirror" problem was an easy psychological puzzle to solve–at least at this stage.

Noting the further-softening spaghetti, Jordan reached for the jar of marinara sauce in the refrigerator, pouring a bit into a small saucepan before heating it.

No, it wasn't David's mirror-darkness that had her scared. It was her own. In its source and composition, Jordan's girl in the mirror was not a 1 to 1 match with David's. Her childhood was, simply put, astonishingly untraumatic. She was beloved and cared for. She excelled from her earliest memories, and advanced and developed with very little real impediment. Her family had known poverty, true. But abuse, hunger, danger, excessive anxiety, homelessness, a broken family–all well-known consequences or corollaries of an impoverished childhood–none of those applied to her.

Where did the girl in the mirror come from? Was she just a projection of libido? Her own maladaptive view of her own sexuality? An actual demon trying to lead her down the path to Hell?

She had many theories, but she still didn't know. She felt sure she could diagnose the situation from the outside. But she was too close to the phenomenon to account for it completely. And she was extremely wary–to say the least–of letting the girl in the mirror loose on the broken little boy living on the other side of the mirror from her husband.

Yet, after their conversation, Jordan knew that David would be hopeful. Hopeful that she would warm to the idea, maybe hoping she would drift toward being open to cuckolding him again. And she didn't know how she felt about that.

But she wanted to do something nice for him. She slipped down to the corner market while he was packing to leave and bought a Pink Lady apple. She came home, slipped quietly back into the apartment, wrote him a quick note, and slipped it in his bag. She had smiled to herself as she did it, unsure which side of the mirror that smile came from.

What was this impulse? Was it a game? A playful gesture toward humoring her husband without crossing any of the moral lines drawn by her own superego, her father and God?

Or was she yielding to the serpent once again? For real this time?

Take…eat it. You won't die…You will be like God…knowing good and evil…

[MustBeDenied2]

I don't ever want this to end.

Thank you, Crushing, for another great installment.

MBD