Jordan

[loyaltoher]

the best chapter yet! Thank you.

[Luis]

The absolute best chapter!!

[john jasson]

Thanks again, Crushing, for another captivating account and further character development. It's a great me I readily confess to my personal fascination with the cuckolding element. Your grasp of the intricacies of such relationships is impressive. We may observe that the needs of the couple are well served, including the husbands. To some it may seem that the third player, the bull, to be crude, is the greater beneficiary of the love triangle. But it ain't necessarily so, as the song goes. In this instance, Rein, may be the one who in reality is shortchanged in the relationships. He is sooner or later left somewhat empty handed , with the host couple gaining more fulfillment in the long run than our hero!

So I wonder whether our esteemed author will find a way to deal with this dilemma. One thing is clear. The cuckolding is fulfilling a definite need shared by all the participants. And I get it, since I am one myself!

Very perceptive about Rein being shortchanged in his relationships - up to now. But let us wait to experience the full arc of this universe. To me, an exquisite symmetry is building here, and Rein is going to win full value and more - when he reconnects with Jordan.

I am struck by Jordan's description of herself as two people. It resonates strongly with me because of my own wife's similar concept of having a "love brain" for me, but also a "sex brain" which generally focuses on me too, but when she feels a strong attraction to another man, it focuses on him, and sometimes to the extreme that it can shut me out as far as her desires are concerned as their chemistry grows.

Drawing on my own experiences when Sherrie became fully addicted to her Master (her personal trainer) in her early 30s, she increasingly deprived me sexually over several years as he drew her deeper into total submission to him. She knew that I supported her in this, of course, and it was hot for both of us. She sometimes teased me mercilessly about it. There came a stage, however, where her "sex brain" was taking her over entirely, and she warned me that we were playing with fire. Playing with fire is, by definition, hot, but beside the excitement, things went much further into negative emotions than we ever believed they could, given our strong bond.

Although I am not David by any means, physically or mentally, I can empathise with his position. He is going to push a very receptive Jordan towards the acquisitive Marc Rein, and both of them are going to take full advantage. She will be blown away by the depth of her own capacity and need to submit to the alpha male. I have no doubt that Marc will become Jordan's prime man. David will encourage his own emasculation and will get off on it big time. Where it leads in the end, who knows? Maybe even Crushing doesn't know at this point. Perhaps long term polyamory. Perhaps Jordan, considering her upbringing, will feel she has to choose between her men that fulfill her in such tangentially different ways. But one way or another, at least for an extended period, I do believe Rein is going to get full value from his woman, and this will be at David's expense. Of course, superficially, David enjoys his cuckolding. Whether he has the capacity to enjoy it to the extremes that Rein and Jordan are clearly equipped to subject him to, only time (and Crushing) will tell.

Once again, bravo, Crushing! Phenomenal oeuvre.

[nnjcpl2002]

For John Jasson, Thanks for your feedback and for sharing your own history. I suspect that
your prediction for Rein and Jordan will prove to be in the right ballpark. But as we sometimes say,
it's complicated! And very interesting!

[Jacko]

David will encourage his own emasculation and will get off on it big time.

There have been a couple "brief" mentions of David using or wearing panties - I'm interested to know how that started, whether it was David's own impulse or suggested/encouraged by Jordan, and where it might go deeper.

[Crushing]

David will encourage his own emasculation and will get off on it big time.

a couple "brief" mentions of David using or wearing panties

I see what you did there...

[Crushing]

Jordan,

I'm passing along the articles you requested. Strange that you can't access them through your library, must be some kind of permissions glitch. I know grad students sometimes get the short end of the stick with research access. Happy to help with a workaround whenever needed.

The initial draft you sent is intriguing. Your hypothesis on symbolic substance theory grounds some of your thoughts on fluid exchange quite effectively. I remain less than convinced, but I think you're on your way. Here are a few light criticisms/suggestions to beef up your approach.

1) Your lit review of symbolic theory is good, but you sort of leave the reader to infer your own place in that field. Explicate your position AS your position early on, not as the leftovers following a buffet of other positions. Walk us through why you see meaning created through symbolic exchange, and then try and locate that meaning in the lives and experiences of actual people. The way this is currently written comes off as tentative. Almost like you’re afraid of your own argument.

2) Following from 1. What is the horizon of "meaning effect" here? You locate the power/fluid exchange as a kind of center of experiential gravity, but fail to explicate the actual effect of the effect. It leaves us hanging whether the meaning defines or redefines the identity of the individual participants, or does it extend to define their relationship? Or is it limited to negotiated definition within the power exchange itself? Or something else entirely? In other words, once we leave the dungeon and take off the leather, so to speak, what have we achieved through this symbolic exchange? Flesh that all out a bit more. Maybe take another look at my book Giving Up, Giving Over, might be useful as a model in explicating subjective experience from the submissive's point of view.

3) Following from 1 and 2. I understand your paper is theoretical and hypothetical, but I think you would benefit from interviewing real people who may find your framing insightful. Since you come from an academic religious background (which is clearly a major influence on your writing style, by the way), I'm attaching the contact info of a few people who you might benefit from chatting with. In particular, I think you should reach out to Debbie S. She seems to hit the trifecta you're interested in. She's symbolically triggered (she's also a practicing Christian, a pastor's wife), she's high functioning both socially and professionally, and she uses BDSM practices to balance her identity. Of particular note, she self-identifies as having a strong "cum fetish," with a predilection for overt displays of submission via fluid reception–mainly semen. Her contact info, as well as that of a few others you might benefit from talking to, is attached below.

Overall, my peer review notes fall into the categories they have before. Your tendency to conflate systemic analysis of perception in context with interior/subjective criteria of experienced phenomena betrays a blind spot. One can account for experience as one who lives it, or as one who studies it. Not both. One is known through the lens of the other. One either analyzes life and lives it secondhand, or one lives it and analyzes it secondhand. Constructs such as sexual identity and desire are opaque enough without muddying the methodology by trying to do everything at once. Excessive deference to objectivity generates a big blind spot.

I'll put it this way: Remember what it was like in the red light basement? How the lines between observation and participation were almost impossible to define? Don't forget that. Be as objective as you can, but realize that too much objectivity leads to blind spots that obscure crucial aspects of identity formation. And don't be scared if it challenges you in surprising ways: If you feel like you're fighting yourself while you work through this stuff, you're probably doing it right.

Keep at it. You're definitely onto something.

Best,
-Tom

P.S. Sounds like you submitted your dissertation revisions. One of my colleagues told me that Lukacz is starting to call a few departments and search committees on your behalf to soften the ground for interviews for you. You're on your way!

* * *

The light was fuzzy.

Ill defined.

Obscured.

More of a feeling than a thing seen.

For that reason Amy squinted instinctively as she rolled onto her back, blinking slowly awake in unfamiliar surroundings.

It took her a few moments to register that she was in a different bed.

She shifted slightly, suddenly assaulted by a deep, similarly ill defined tenderness.

She was sore. Very sore. In a few different places.

She reached over to the nightstand and picked up her phone. 5:13 AM.

Still early…she set it back down on the surface with a mild thunk.

Mark's larger frame stirred in the bed next to her.

Somehow still imposing even while sleeping.

Ever attentive, Amy sat up halfway, propping herself on her elbows as she looked over at him. He seemed on the tipping point between sleep and consciousness, his eyes fluttering.

Amy wasn't sure if he wanted to be touched or to be left alone. Especially after last night.

She tested the waters with two light fingers on his collar bone, whisping slightly back and forth.

His bleary eyes opened wider, seeing her face turned toward him, her own petite frame making much less of an impression under the sheets than his.

Gradually, she came into focus. Her golden hair was messy. A slight pout of fatigue showed on her lips.

But her ice blue eyes were bright. As always.

Mark reached over to the arm on her opposite side and grabbed her wrist-pulling it, and therefore her body, over to rest halfway on top of him.

She giggled compliantly. Her right arm crooked across his chest, her own small chest tucked against the side of his ribs as he wrapped his own right arm around the soft skin of her back.

Amy giggled softly as she was gently manhandled by stages into position. He clearly had an exact snuggle position in mind.

Mark completed the maneuver by gently grasping the back of her right knee and pulling it up so it draped over his thigh, her smooth, naked womanhood resting against his bare leg.

Just how he liked.

Just like Molly used to do for him.

"Morning…"

Her flutey voice pushed him just over the tipping point…away from sleep, into the conscious day.

"Morning…"

They simply lay still together for a few moments.

Amy briefly flashed a concern about Gil–lying alone mere feet away through the wall.

He had seemed supportive when he responded to her text, but they hadn't talked about this beforehand. She sprang it on him. Or rather, Mark sprang it on her, and she then kicked it to Gil.

It was definitely a big step–or at least it felt like a big step. And it came out of nowhere.

It felt right at the moment, but now she felt like she might be crossing a line.

The night itself–there was no question. A blur of passion in fits and starts.

Mark had seemed distracted, and Amy found herself pulled to his need like a magnet–looking to every cue of his face and body to guide her own.

The initial coupling was natural. Beautiful. She had attempted to salve the clear pain in his eyes with the gentle affections of her body. They made slow love for more than an hour before he finally dropped off to sleep and she collapsed on top of him, exhausted.

Then…some hours later in the pitch dark, Mark made strange noises in his sleep.

Painful noises…even scared.

She had woken him, asking him if he was okay. He didn't respond. At least not with words. His eyes were dark. Unfocused. But he seemed aware of her.

Wordlessly, he began to fondle her.

She had never been touched like that. It was shocking. Primal.

That was when her hair got so messy–as that particular roll in the hay involved a lot of actual, physical rolling. He seemed only half in his right mind as he penetrated her, moved her, bent her to the shape of his preference, then penetrated her again…missionary, from behind, from the side. He usually held her wrists together. Sometimes in front of her, sometimes behind her back–her muscular legs looped, bent, contorted, or draped in whatever angles he saw fit, his long, thick cock simply sliding between them each time, disappearing into her body with a shiver.

She, too, was only half present mentally through all of that.

It was a kind of trance. Exhausted ecstasy.

She had never been desired in such a primal way. His drive was animal. His need for her body visceral. She was grateful that she had become accustomed to his size already. It helped mitigate the roughness of his blind, furious vigor.

It also didn't occur to her at the time that Gil would be on the receiving end of a violently thumping headboard that sounded like it was in danger of busting through the drywall at some point.

Punctuated with her own desperate, wailing cries.

But the change was not unwelcome.

Mark's energy–or perhaps more accurately, his enthusiasm–flipped a switch in her. Her fatigue kept her docile. And the combination of her arousal and her strange, instinctive docility made for an even stranger kind of sexual ecstasy–she felt like she was outside of her own body for much of it.

Yes. In retrospect, she attributed part of her own memory to a kind of detached observation of herself–she heard herself moaning like a whore into the dark, thick whisps of hair sucked into her mouth and blown out desperately as the man behind her, on top of her, all around her, pummeled her into jelly.

She didn't quite remember when they stopped.

Now, languidly draped over him, she was acutely sore in all sorts of places–one in particular.

And now that he was awake, Mark seemed more pensive than desperately aroused.

A welcome reprieve.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked gently.

Mark softly pinched her shoulder playfully.

"Can't complain. You?"

"Like the dead…" She cooed instinctively.

She rubbed his chest affectionately, peppering her touches with kisses before she braved the real question.

"So…are you okay?"

Mark sighed.

Amy's eyes dropped, waiting for an answer that didn't come.

"So…who was she?"

Again, no answer.

"The woman on the TV? You knew her?"

Mark sighed again.

"You can tell me. I'm not going to get upset. I just want to know…I mean, you acted way different. I just…I want to understand."

Mark paused again.

"She's…they're old friends. But it's complicated."

Amy drew on his chest with her finger.

"How complicated?"

Another pause.

"I…I kinda didn't tell you guys some stuff about my past."

He paused. She waited silently for him to continue.

"I wasn't a stone mason. Well, actually, I was, but only for like…a month and a bit."

"Okay…" Amy didn't lift her head from his chest, but her eyes squinted, waiting.

"I was…in the military. Marines. Jared was in my platoon. A friend."

"You were in the Marines?"

"Yeah. Four years. Right out of high school."

"Oh. Why didn't you say anything before?"

"It's complicated."

Amy propped herself up on her elbow, pulling her hair away from her face as she looked down at him.

"Did she hurt you?"

Mark shook his head vigorously.

"No. No…it's not like that. It was different. It was like…a perfect storm of stuff. I was kinda trying to process some stuff from Afghanistan, and I got in trouble, and I broke up with my ex at a really bad time. Jared and Meg…"

"Her name's Meg?"

"Yeah. Megan. She's a good friend, and she was friends with my ex when it all kinda collapsed. Like I said, it's complicated."

Amy paused, looking steadily at him.

"What stuff?"

"Huh?"

"You said you were processing some stuff from Afghanistan. Do you have PTSD?"

Mark shrugged.

"I don't really buy into any of that bullshit."

Amy's lips pursed.

"Okay."

She laid her head back down onto his chest, unsure of what else to say.

His arms felt snug and safe. She struggled to process the new information. It was hard to imagine him in the military–his long, greasy hair, his thick beard, his esoteric tastes in literature…she couldn't quite picture him clean shaven. Much less wearing boots and a uniform. And with that short haircut they all have?

Did he carry a bunch of books around with him in his backpack? Did he shoot guns, and wrestle? Did he do that thing where they run in a rectangular box shape and sing dirty songs together?

She just couldn't picture it.

"I'm sorry."

Mark spoke out of nowhere. His voice surprised her. She looked up quizzically.

"I'm sorry, I'm just…I don't like talking about that stuff."

Sensing a new level of pain that he was clearly adept at masking, Amy just softly rested her cheek on his chest again.

"You don't have to talk about it. But you can if you want."

They lay silent for several minutes before Mark spoke again.

"None of it makes sense. And I don't feel like anyone I talk to can make it make sense. So…I just want to leave it in the past."

Amy nodded, still looking down his torso, feeling the rise and fall of his breath under her cheek.

"Does that mean you want to leave them in the past?"

She felt Mark startle under her.

"What…I mean…no."

She propped herself up again, looking down at him.

"I don't know…" she traced his jawline with her fingers, tugging gently at his beard. "It kinda seems like they meant a lot to you. And I think you can either bury your past and lose them in it, or…deal with your past, and get them back. But they seem like they're important to you. And that little boy, too."

Mark looked away, but didn't disagree with her.

She was surprised to feel something irregular under the tangle of his beard.

A scar, maybe?

Amy looked back at the wall, on the other side of which her boyfriend slept peacefully. She looked down at Mark, whose head was turned away, his body language visibly closing.

She had done her best. She stayed the night with him. Took the brunt of his raw emotion in the form of ventilated sexual frustration. Gave him a warm, soft, compassionate body to share his bed with. Tried to coax some of the hurt out of him. First with her body…then her heart.

She couldn't go any further right now.

He needed some time alone.

Amy quietly sat up in Mark's bed, swinging her legs over the side and standing up.

Mark looked over, seeing her lithe, nude body moving toward the bedroom door. Exposing her smooth, pale bum, she bent over to pick up, then slip into her fuzzy pajama bottoms. Then finding her tank top, she pulled it over her head, shaking her tangled hair out after pulling the hem line down. She looked over her shoulder, making steady eye contact with Mark and pointing at the wall behind him.

"I'll be right there. When you're ready."

* * *

“Debbie S?”

“Yes.”

“Debbie, I’m Jordan Stark-Simms, I believe we were brought together by Tom Schenk…”

“Yes. Dr. Schenk was very helpful to us.”

“Do you mind if I ask who you mean by ‘us?”

"My husband and I."

The video call had crisp, clear resolution. Debbie–definitely a pseudonym–appeared to be early middle aged with shoulder length brown hair, dark blue eyes, thin, wearing a modestly cut dress with a polka dot pattern. A small silver crucifix hung around her neck–not unlike the one Jordan wore.

"Well, I can't tell you how much I appreciate you taking the time to chat. I can promise full confidentiality, this conversation is only for purposes of my own research, and anything you share will only be republished as an anonymous account."

"I appreciate that."

Debbie's voice was warm and confident.

Not the reticent, defensive, or even low-key hostile tone Jordan was expecting from a pastor's wife.

Many overtly religious women in middle age would carry themselves rigidly–often masking the psychological effects of harsh, conditioned self-scrutiny, anxieties about their own purity or worthiness, or just garden variety patriarchal oppression in what were so often male-dominated institutions.

Jordan well knew that her own father was an exception to many rules, and her own empowering upbringing was in itself exceptional, the product of a sensitive father who instinctively doted on the obvious gifts and talents of his oldest daughter.

Yet even she was locked in a death battle with herself over the religious problematic inherent in embracing her own (apparently voracious) sexuality.

This woman's ease and confidence intrigued at a level far beyond the academic. Even beyond the clinical.

"Can you tell me a little about yourself, Debbie?" Jordan asked, clicking open her pen and reaching for her notebook.

"Of course. What would you like to know?"

"Dr. Schenk gave me a basic overview, you live in the midwest, you're…52? Oh my goodness…you look great!"

Debbie laughed at Jordan's sudden break in professionalism. "Thanks."

"Seriously!" Jordan gushed. "I might put you at 40. Maybe like 42. What's your secret?"

Debbie shrugged. "I couldn't tell you anything specific. Although I did have a kind of…revival when my husband and I began exploring this lifestyle. A little more confidence, maybe. And I try to watch what I eat, and exercise."

Jordan nodded. "Well, it's working."

Debbie laughed again. "Thank you."

"So you work in the church office where your husband pastors?"

Debbie shook her head. "No, I did for years when the kids were in school, and I believe I was still doing that last time Dr. Schenk and I spoke. Now that we're empty nesters, I got my real estate license. That keeps me busy. And pays better…sometimes."

Jordan smiled, taking notes. "And your husband has been officiating at your church for…"

"25 years."

Jordan nodded. "That's quite a stretch of time. Not easy. I don't know if Dr. Schenk told you, but I grew up in a church too. My father has been at the same church for the past 18 years."

"Oh, so you know how it is."

Jordan nodded again. "I do, actually. So I think my questions may probe into that side of your life a little more, if that's okay."

Debbie shrugged. "Sure."

Jordan finished her note, then looked up at the screen again. "So…you said you began exploring the lifestyle…what lifestyle is that?"

"Ethical nonmonogamy," Debbie answered quickly. "Which evolved into submissive play, and of course cuckolding."

"When did you begin exploring the lifestyle?"

Debbie thought for a moment. "Ray brought it up…I think I was 37 or 38? We didn't actually try anything for years after. I was 43 when I first had sex with another man."

"So there was a lengthy process…negotiating?"

"If you want to call it that," Debbie said, smiling. "I was mainly horrified. You know…I couldn't really look at him the same way for a while. How could any Christian man want his wife to do those things…especially my husband…those kind of thoughts. It really strained our marriage for a while."

"Do you feel like it threatened your marriage?"

"Of course I did at the time. It was a long process for me to get comfortable with even talking about it, much less acting on it."

"And you did…ten years ago?"

"Not quite 10. But yes."

Jordan nodded. "And did you start in the lifestyle with the dynamic you have now, or did that evolve as well?"

"Oh, that definitely evolved," Debbie explained. "I had to get past the initial taboo of sex with another man. I'd never been with anyone but Ray, of course. We married young. And it took the better part of a year for me to really let loose and start to explore what I wanted for myself."

"Why do you think that was?"

"Because in my mind, the lifestyle was still mainly about pleasing Ray. I enjoyed the experience…mostly. I mean, I had fun, but it was really about finding a key that brought back Ray's passion for me. That was my main motivation. But as our communication got better, I began to realize that Ray wanted me to make it more about what I wanted. He liked it when I was…selfish."

"Did that mean excluding him?"

Debbie nodded. "Yes and no. He liked to be teased, and denied. We did chastity on and off, but I began to realize that even excluding him that way was still putting him at the center of the dynamic. We talked about it, and decided that I should just explore what I wanted for a while. And ironically, it turned out that he really liked that."

"And you found BDSM?"

"Not so much found as…discovered. I don't know what the difference is between those words, but for some reason I feel like 'discovered' is the better word. I knew about it, and Ray and I did light kink earlier in our marriage. Fluffy handcuffs and stuff. But when I started trying it out with other men, I really discovered subspace. And I discovered a part of myself I didn't know existed."

Jordan blinked at the word. She'd heard it before, but now that Debbie mentioned it in this context, she remembered how she felt when Mark used to tell her what to do.

"How would you describe subspace?"

Debbie looked away thoughtfully. "I don't know that I can describe it. It's like…changing how I think, and feel, and even exist. It's like…right now I'm just me. But when I'm in subspace, I'm a different woman, and that woman has…an intangible connection with my partner. Like my heart beats for another body, and it feels like that other body makes it keep beating. I exist entirely for someone else…but at the same time it unlocks depths of satisfaction in my own body that I didn't know existed. It's like the pleasure I feel is too big for just my body. It's…incredible."

"How did you discover it?"

"Trey. A man I met at the gym after we'd been in the lifestyle a few years. I began seeing him, and…well, I didn't know sex could be like that. Ray and I had a rule about not seeing the same man too often, but after being with Trey, I couldn't help but go back to him."

"Trey was a dom?"

Debbie nodded. "Not was. Is. He still owns me."

Jordan scribbled a new note. "How long has he owned you?"

"Five years next month."

Debbie clearly kept track.

"And can you describe what ownership entails?" Jordan's head cocked slightly to the side.

"Ownership entails an understanding that my pleasure is tied to Trey's desire. My body must be available to Trey at all times, and Trey makes all decisions regarding how it is used."

"Do you still have sex with your husband?"

Debbie shrugged. "Occasionally. Not often. And we ask Trey before."

"Does that put a strain on your marriage?"

Debbie shook her head. "No. It feels really natural, actually. My body belongs to the man who I'm most physically attracted to, and who I'm most sexually compatible with. It's a deep connection, but it's not a marriage. It exists within it, but you know…in a different way. Obviously it's weird to people who aren't in the lifestyle, but from the inside, it just feels…right?"

"So you feel like you and Trey have exceptional physical chemistry?"

Debbie nodded readily. "Very much so. He makes sure I get what I need."

"That's an interesting phrase. I would expect you would describe your owner as giving you what you need. But you say he makes sure you get it. What do you mean by that?"

"Well, Trey travels alot. So when he's out of town, He lends me to friends. So he makes sure I'm taken care of, even when he doesn't take care of me. He also lets me get my fill when I need it."

"Get your fill?"

Debbie actually hesitated to answer for the first time since the meeting started. She blushed slightly, looking down.

"Is this a reference to the semen fetish Dr. Schenk noted?"

She nodded, answering quietly.

"Yes."

Now it was Jordan's turn to hide a blush.

"Would you mind telling me what that entails? How does Trey ensure you get your fill?"

Debbie cleared her throat, her blush deepening. "Trey knows I like cum. And he gives it to me after I beg him for it. But sometimes I get this craving…I want more. So I tell Trey and he arranges something. Sometimes we go to a glory hole, or a public park. A couple times he just called some friends over to a hotel room he rented."

"And you have sex with all of these men?"

Debbie shook her head. "No…just…I get their cum. However Trey tells me to. Mostly oral, but sometimes they just…take care of themselves. Sometimes I lick it off, or…you know…it goes in my mouth. Just, whatever."

Debbie seemed shy all of the sudden.

"Does Trey…um…contribute?"

She nodded. "Trey always goes last. I like it that way."

"And you have sex with him?"

Sometimes. But most of the time he just ties me up and finishes in my mouth."

"And you say you prefer it?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

She shrugged.

"Do you experience orgasm?"

She shook her head. "It's not about that. I mean…sometimes. But I don't have to. Like I said, it's not about that."

Jordan tried to hide her confusion. "It seems like it's hard to identify what it is about semen that you crave. Is it the taste or texture? Or something intangible, like…the sense of finishing? Of finality? Or something else? Something about how it makes you feel?"

Debbie thought. "I really don't know. I get really deep in subspace when I'm like that. I just…need it. And I can't get enough."

Jordan hesitated. "Please tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable…but…is it the semen itself that you crave, or the feeling or knowledge that men are ejaculating for you?"

Debbie shrugged. "It's…all of it. It's all part of it."

"Do you think about it a lot?"

Debbie nodded. "More than I want to sometimes. It's like…when it starts, it's hard to stop. But Trey takes care of me."

"Does it stop when you act on it? When Trey…provides it for you?"

She nodded again. "It's hard to describe. It's like…I exist outside my own body or something for a while. Sometimes I don't even remember it all. But after, I feel…lighter. It's almost a spiritual experience. Especially if he punishes me while…"

Jordan nodded in understanding. "Do you think it would be the same if Trey wasn't involved? If, say, Ray arranged it?"

She shook her head. "No. It wouldn't be the same."

"Do you think Ray could provide for you?"

Debbie cocked an eyebrow. "Ray? Um…no."

"Do you swallow Ray's semen?"

Debbie shuddered. "Ew. No."

Jordan nodded. "You seem to have a visceral reaction to that thought. Can you tell me more about that?"

Debbie sat thoughtfully for a moment. "It's just…we decided that Ray…it's only once in a while that I help him finish. And he's in his cage. And it's just…different. It's like it's not actually coming from a man, you know?"

Jordan nodded again, noting her observation. "So you find the tie between the semen and the masculine to be important?"

Debbie nodded. "I hadn't thought about it. But yes. It has to be…from a man. A real man. Trey, ideally, or a man he trusts."

"Is there a certain number of men that help you get your fill…?"

Debbie shook her head. "It's just whoever Trey decides."

"No…average? No regular number of partners?"

"Not really. One night on our anniversary he had me take care of 14 men. At least that's what Trey told me. I lost count. That's the most I've ever done. Usually it's less. Like 5 or 6."

"That was on your anniversary?"

"Mine and Ray's."

Jordan nodded, her cheeks flushed as she jotted down new notes.

"Do you think there was symbolic value to that? To celebrating your wedding anniversary that way?"

Debbie nodded readily. "Definitely. I loved the idea of celebrating my marriage with…men."

"Debbie, this is very insightful, and I thank you for your candor. Can we move on for a bit to talk about your religious life?"

* * *

He picked up the phone on the first ring.

"Hey…are you done for the night?"

Megan's voice had an edge of trepidation, which Jared quickly sensed through the phone.

"Yeah, I'm just packing up. I got cleaned up pretty quick but then they had a bunch of…legal shit for me to sign I guess. TV rights or whatever. But I'm done now. What's up?"

"Mark called."

Jared's eyes shot open.

"What?"

"He saw you on TV. He…he called, Jay. He heard Marky. He's in Texas…baby…Mark called…"

"I heard you, honey. Is he okay?"

He heard her start to sniffle, the emotion catching up with her.

"I think so…I…he didn't talk for long. Just said he saw you on TV, and that they pronounced your name wrong."

Jared cracked a smile.

Typical Mark, burying the lead under some mundane detail. Always trying to play it cool. Overplaying it, in this case.

"How did he sound?" Jared zipped up his gym bag, hoisting it over his shoulder as he prepared to walk out of the venue.

Megan paused. "Weird. Like he didn't know what to say."

"Did you?"

Megan chuffed in exasperation. "No."

"What'd you say?"

"I basically said fuck you for leaving at the beginning of the conversation, and at the end I said we loved him and that he should come home."

Jared pushed open the stage door, walking out onto the empty street. "That sounds…right."

"That's not right, Jay," Megan protested. "It's dumb. I didn't know what I was saying…"

Jared walked down the quiet street, making his way toward the metro station from the venue back to Georgetown, his clamshell phone still up to his ear.

"Are you on your way home?" Megan changed the subject.

"Yeah. Just left the venue, heading to the station."

"Okay. You did great tonight. Everyone was talking about it."

Jared shrugged in spite of himself. "Okay."

He walked another block before Megan spoke again. "I'm sorry baby. I'm scared I screwed it up. It just…it came out of nowhere. I didn't know he would call."

"Huh…" Jared acknowledged, slipping his metro card out of his wallet before stepping through the automatic gate.

"Jay?" Megan was suspicious of Jared's vague answer.

"Yeah…so…I kinda thought he might call."

"What?" Megan's shock was palpable. "Why?"

Jared stutter stepped down to the train platform.

Next train to Georgetown–12 minutes

Megan repeated herself. "Jay…why did you think he might call?"

Jared cleared his throat. "I've been looking for him."

Megan's response was confused. "Looking…how? Like…facebook stalking or something?"

"No, that would be pointless. Mark hates social media. He wouldn't be caught dead on that shit. No…looking. Calling people he knew. Checking police blotters, hospitals. Stuff like that. Finally I made contact with someone who I didn't think I could actually connect with. But I thought he might know where he is, so I tried. And I got through. And it turns out he did know exactly where Mark is."

"Who'd you talk to?"

"Chen."

A stunned silence.

"Colonel Chen? Really? You mean…the guy that drove him crazy and never called us back?"

Megan's voice was colored with greater shock–approaching rage.

Jared closed his eyes, waiting for Megan to calm herself.

"He was the best lead, Meg. Everyone else I talked to…everyone in the platoon, the company, I even found one of his high school girlfriends…nobody had heard a word. I even called Molly, for God's sake."

"You called Molly?"

Jared shrugged, sitting down on a bench facing the tracks. "Yeah. She had no idea. She was worried too. She said she hasn't talked to him since he left the house. Since they broke up."

Megan decided to let that lie.

"So…you found Chen?"

"Yep. He's got a Pentagon job now. I couldn't get a call through, so I just showed up in his office about a month ago. I thought he was going to tell me to fuck off. But he was actually pretty cool about it."

"Did he have a forwarding address for Mark or something?"

Jared hesitated.

"He had a lot more than that."

Now it was Megan's turn to hesitate. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know, Meg. I think…I think he's been watching Mark this whole time. And I kinda think he might be watching us too."

Stunned silence.

"Watching us?"

Jared took a deep breath. "Yeah. He…kinda set all this up. He set up this fight, the TV appearance…he knew where Mark was, what he was doing, how he got there. Apparently Mark grew his hair and beard out, all hippie-style."

"Really?" Megan was incredulous.

The idea distracted her momentarily. Mark, with long hair and a beard? Wearing ratty clothes and sloughing around a college campus?

She couldn't picture it.

"Yeah, really. And it was all like, kinda planned. Chen was pretty sure Mark would reach out to one of us if he saw me fight on TV. Oh, and Chen knew I got a red tab at the MACE and he knew that you had a baby."

"Jay…I don't like this."

Jared took a deep breath. "Honestly…I don't either. But it worked."

Megan didn't know how to respond. It was too weird. Creepy, even.

"Does Mark know he's being watched?"

"I doubt it." Jared chewed the inside of his cheek- nursing a small cut from the fight earlier that evening.

Jared heard Marky begin to cry through the phone.

"Everything okay?"

The crying got louder as Megan pulled the baby out of his crib.

"Yeah. Just fussy…"

Jared took a deep breath.

"Okay. You want me to grab anything on my way home?"

"With what money?" Megan sounded exasperated.

"They gave me some per diem for the fight. I got like $100. I can…get some food or formula or something."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Oh my God…that would be amazing. Get some formula, yeah, and then maybe…I don't know…maybe some…I don't know…can we afford some carne asada? I can make burritos…"

"That's the sexiest thing I've ever heard out of your mouth…" Jared quipped. "Yeah. I can get all that…and probably still have like fifty bucks left over…"

Megan allowed herself a small smile. "Wow…Jay, that's…great. Thank you."

Jared smiled into the phone. "Okay baby. Train's coming, I gotta hang up. You sure Mark didn't say anything else?"

* * *

Jordan wasn't quite sure how she could articulate her reaction to her conversation with Debbie S.

Clearly an intelligent, articulate, stable woman. No visible disturbances or disorders. No physiological tells, no tremors, no twitching. Good eye contact. Alert and oriented. Logical, coherent speech. Affect clearly within the range appropriate to the admittedly awkward subject matter.

But more compelling than her apparent stability was the lack of conscious cognitive dissonance she displayed while living what was–without question–a double life. Debbie was well aware of the extraordinarily transgressive nature of her lifestyle in the context of her faith. Her only anxiety about it was being outed.

They had discussed it all at some length.

She just didn't seem particularly bothered by the contradictions.

Jordan had remained professional throughout the conversation, of course, but she was stunned. Debbie had ceded both the control and definition of her sexuality almost entirely to a man outside her marriage. With several other men to supplement, by the sound of it.

Yet her statements of faith were simple–even childlike. She was committed to her church, confident that Jesus would in fact save her in heaven, and that her marriage was valid in God's eyes.

In regards to the odd configuration of her marriage, Debbie's assertion was simply that her husband had fully consented to, and had in fact initiated the arrangement, not unlike Abraham giving his wife to a foreign king in Genesis. Or any other number of scriptural examples where women were simply cattled about like property into one or another man's bed.

A fair point, Jordan had conceded.

But Jordan had pressed the matter–not so much into the realm of theological coherence, but in identity coherence. She wanted to probe this seeming dissociation between Debbie in her self-identified "sub space" and the more routine Debbie, who sold real estate and baked goodies for church potlucks.

Debbie had calmly asserted that her split identity was only nominally split. That transgressive Debbie was simply subsumed into the other. That the love and support of her cuckold husband provided her the superstructure wherein she remained one woman, and one devoted, if physically unfaithful, wife.

Setting her notes aside, Jordan finished typing up her own observations before closing the browser window and leaning back in her dining table chair. She lifted her glasses up to rest on her hair, exhaling deeply as she knew what thoughts were coming.

Debbie had flushed visibly when discussing her craving for semen.

Jordan's core had warmed at the thought. The two women shared that craving, clearly. So talking about it had caused them to hum together–even over a virtual connection with thousands of miles of physical distance.

Like a structural resonance frequency. A feedback loop that remained humming. To the present.

Jordan had deliberately avoided asking for more graphic details, knowing full well that Debbie had a deep desire to disclose exactly those details.

Whoever her identified "owner" was, Debbie clearly relished the idea of being presented by him as a receptacle for other men.

14 in one night, she said.

What would that even be like?

Jordan tried to pretend she didn't notice her own left hand unbuttoning the top button of her jeans, then slowly lowering the zipper.

Intrusive thoughts. By definition involuntary.

She wondered what Debbie wore when she was told to kneel down in front of a man she didn't know. She wondered if she wore themed BDSM gear when she sucked off strangers, or if she kept that polka dot church dress on when they grunted and released into her mouth.

What would it be like to taste many men? In a row?

She had tasted David's, of course. Never more than a few drops. Salty. More enthusiasm than substance. And she didn't feel revolted at the prospect, as Debbie clearly did with her husband.

But it was definitely a different experience than when she had tasted Mark's. In the handful of times they had sex, Jordan had never sucked him to completion. She asked to try once, but he answered that no woman ever had. Maybe he just couldn't come that way.

But one time…when she used her hand on him in his 4Runner…when it got all over her hand…

He told her to lick it up.

She recalled his stern direction with a shiver as her hand slipped under the waistband of her panties.

Debbie had cravings. And those cravings took multiple men to satisfy.

It sounded perverse. Wicked. Unhealthy.

Jordan exhaled involuntarily as her middle finger found the button of her own warmth and began to tease it.

When another thought intruded.

She paused, reaching for her phone and sending a message to David:



Debbie had explained at some length the evolution of the dynamic with her husband. That she found her initial instinct to center her husband's pleasure or preferences to be problematic. It seemed that she identified stages of descent into the dynamic, with the more advanced stages relegating her husband to a permanent periphery.

Perhaps she overread it. Perhaps the language she used simply fit the narrative frame of her submission to her lover, and it was overstated.

Yet, as the warm pleasure began to coalesce around her probing fingers, Jordan admitted to instinctively shutting David out of the most recent phases of her exploration. He would bring it up, and she would shut him down.

Not to any erotic effect, either. Simply out of…convenience? Shame?

She wasn't sure.

There was something about Jordan's divided mind on her own sexuality that made opening up to David an uncomfortable, even unpleasant task. And although she had been open about having sex with Patrick each of the small handful of times she had done it, as well as the recent wild hair she had chased in pleasing Patrick's roommate–implicit in that openness was a symbolically firm hand held at arm's length. She would share on her terms. Not his.

Whatever erotic charge David got out of her unfaithfulness, he mainly accessed by himself.

Or so she assumed.

Jordan opened a new browser window on her laptop with her free hand.

Her eyes heavy lidded, she pushed David's needs to the back of her mind as she moved the cursor to the search bar and typed slowly with her free hand…one key at a time.

G.l.o.r.y.

H.o.l.e…

A menu of windows populated. She leaned forward, quickly scrolling until she found one with a girl that looked a little like her–thin with brownish hair and glasses–and opened it.

The video began with a brief interview. The girl identified herself as Chrissy, and she seemed eager. After a playful discussion about her sexual history, Chrissy was quietly led to a small booth closed on three sides. Each side was painted black, and the two lateral sides had small holes cut in them.

She was asked if she knew what she was about to do.

Jordan began masturbating again as the girl nodded her understanding.

Only the time lapse bar on the video measured the passage of time until Jordan choked out a guttering orgasm.

The girl–Chrissy, apparently–found what appeared to be an unbroken supply of stiff cocks in a variety of colors and sizes which she eagerly sucked to completion. Occasionally hands poked their way through the holes to grope her breasts, or, on one occasion, between her legs. She stripped by degrees on such occasions to accommodate the faceless hands. And every few minutes, she received another man's seed, eagerly opening her mouth afterward–to present the treasure to the camera man before swallowing it.

According to the time lapse bar, Jordan had watched 24 minutes and 13 seconds of the video when she came. Hard.

And according to the crude counter in the corner of the video, Chrissy had swallowed 8 times.

Jordan panted obscenely, withdrawing her hand from her panties, noting the drip of her arousal coating her middle and ring fingers.

She held up her hand, inspecting the aftermath with a degree of fascinated detachment.

She genuinely didn't remember putting them in that deep.

But she could feel little scrapes of pain–traces of her own frantic exploration in her own depths.

Time to cut and file her nails…

Jordan blinked, catching her breath.

It really was weird. Out of body. As if she lost time. As if she wasn't herself.

As if the girl in the mirror simply took over.

Jordan shook her head and stood up hastily, walking briskly into the bathroom and washing her hand, carefully avoiding the mirror.

It was bad enough that she was letting the other girl out. Telling David…bringing his other self out to be tortured by this wanton, cruel woman…it wasn't right.

Debbie was right…but for the wrong reason. Jordan had to keep David's knowledge of her depravity at arm's length. She would tell him when she was naughty. But let him imagine his own fantasy to fill out the details.

He couldn't see her like this. Pathetic. Flushed and nearly incapacitated with heavy eyelids and no pants.

Even if he wanted to see it. She didn't want him to see…

It was cruel. Just cruel.

But to whom?

* * *

Gil had just turned the shower on when he heard the front door close, signaling Amy’s return.
He stepped out into the hallway, seeing her totter and limp slightly, her blonde hair messier than he had ever seen it before.

It was comical. But it also complemented the now-familiar glow she always had after…

"Hey baby…how'd you sleep?"

Amy fell gently into him as he wrapped his arms behind her back.

"Good…not enough…"

"Yeah, I heard you…sounds like you were…up and down…"

Amy nodded, purring as she gently clutched his pajama top. Gil whispered sweetly, not wanting to break up the moment.

"I was gonna take a shower…you want to join?"

She nodded again, waiting for a moment after Gil released the clasp around her back before she stood straight on her own.

The young couple stepped into the bathroom and shut the door, the steam from the now heated shower already filling the tight space. Both took off their pajamas, and Gil watched hungrily as Amy's smooth skin and tight bottom slipped into the shower ahead of him.

Her messy hair was already damp and darker when he slipped behind the shower curtain. She kept running her hands back through her hair, seeming to try and set it before washing it.

"So…" Gil said, running his hands behind her naked waist, "How was it?"

Amy closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. "It was…a lot."

Gil's erection was already well on its way. "It sounded like it."

He began to move his hand gently around to her front, gliding down her iliac crest until drifting down between her legs.

Amy winced visibly. "Gil…baby…hang on…"

"Oh…sorry."

Gil wasn't ready for her reaction. He looked down, noting redness and swelling between her legs.

"Amy…are you okay?"

She nodded, tenderly feeling her own womanhood. "Yeah. I'll be alright. He was just…it was rough the second time."

"Honey…he shouldn't…"

She lifted her hand from her cleft to his lips.

"It's okay, baby. I liked it. Actually, I liked it alot. It's just…I'm not used to it."

Gil squatted down, looking carefully at her.

It was indeed swollen. Pink. Tender. He gingerly brushed his fingertips on the puffy lateral lips, avoiding the cleft of her strongest sensitivity. Still, she sucked in her breath as she put her hand on the top of his head to steady his approach.

"You sure you're okay?"

He sounded genuinely concerned.

"Yeah…I'm really sorry, baby. I don't think I can…"

"It's okay…" Gil leaned forward and gently, ever so gently, kissed the slit of her womanhood.

Amy cooed.

"Does that feel okay?" he asked.

"Mmmm…it still hurts a little, but just…"

Gil leaned forward, extending his tongue to ever so delicately graze the musky longitude of her opening.

Amy gasped, then cooed again.

"Mmmm…baby…"

He was intoxicated with the feel, the taste, the intimacy that seemed to swirl underneath the gentle cascade of warm water dripping down her smooth, pale torso.

Carefully attentive to her comfort, he continued to ever so softly explore her with his tongue, punctuating his affection with barely perceptible kisses.

Amy giggled, her fingers tangling in his hair as he got incrementally bolder. Eventually, the tip of his tongue tentatively parted her lips. She started again.

"Gil…honey…I haven't…I mean…Mark…a couple times…"

The warning would have stopped Gil in his tracks two weeks ago.

Amy had always liked to clean up before they reconnected…

But Gil didn't stop.

Evidenced by the sudden incursion of a thick, salty texture on the tip of his tongue.

His heart racing, his erection stiffened out of the vertex of his lap as he adjusted his squat to a kneeling position. His tongue pressed further in, Amy's legs now instinctively turning outward to make room.

"Gil…baby…are you sure…"

His tongue slipped all the way past her defenses. Her powerful thighs buckled slightly, leaning against the shower wall, the water now shooting past her shoulder and directly onto Gil's head as she assumed a modified passe position to give her boyfriend greater access.

Then the cooing devolved into moaning.

Gil was simply lapping up semen now, ignoring the taboo of it as Amy began bucking her hips gently. He looked down, seeing one of her legs jutting out into the shower curtain, the other foot pointed and planted into the shower floor.

Even now, her posture was both artistic and solid.

His tongue–soft, wet, hungry–moved upward to find her clitoris.

Her hands gripped his long, wet hair tighter.

Her eyes scrunched shut.

The dazzling warmth ripping up her core, the gentle warmth of the water on her skin, the soft warmth of Gil's tongue as he cleaned her…

Amy felt a strange, deep, almost cosmic sense of connection with Gil as her orgasm rose, crashed, and then faded. Her mouth hung open and her eyes drifted down as Gil's lifted up to meet hers.

Her heart suddenly felt full.

So very full…

Amy gently tapped on Gil's head.

It was enough…

Gil gently kissed her cleft once more, then stood awkwardly in front of Amy, now looking down into her eyes.

There was a new look in them. She ran her palms up his chest and around his neck, leaning up to kiss him deeply. Then again. Then again…

She felt his breath even out, his stiff erection pressed against her bare stomach, giving way and pointing straight up, pressed between their bare stomachs.

Amy knew he needed release. But she didn't want to do it for him. She just wanted to hold him. She was still sore. Still vulnerable. But she just wanted to hold him forever.

Gil, for his part, seemed also tapped into the strange, deep, cosmic sense of intimacy.

He couldn't account for it. But it was a new emotion.

Something to study.

Perhaps to bottle.

And to drink every day…

* * *

"Hey baby…"

"Hey Jo."

"What time is it over there?"

David checked his watch. "Just about lunchtime."

Her voice was low. Languid, even. He registered that it was near midnight where she was, and he was fresh out of one meeting and twenty minutes away from another.

He had made a breakthrough.

Four intermodal points, a handful of staff reassignments, and a maintenance order on the secondary crane.

The hub had increased efficiency nearly fifty percent in the last 72 hours alone. And was likely going to keep spiking up in the short and medium turn.

Ca-ching.

"How's it going?" Jordan's soft voice interrupted the flow of his analytical mind.

"Better than usual, actually." David flipped over a page on a stapled sheaf of paper handed to him by an assistant. "Looking like we can make a real dent in this one."

"That's great, baby…"

David ticked down some of the bullets on the page, then leaned back in his chair.

"Yeah, can't complain. Too early to tell, but this could be really good for us."

"You're really good for us, honey."

"Awww…" David blushed into the phone. "Thanks, Jo. I love you."

"I love you too, honey. More than anything."

"Never get tired of hearing that…" David took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Sorry I haven't been super available this week."

"It's okay, baby. I've been busy too. They set my dissertation defense date, then moved it up. To next Wednesday."

"Really?" David sat up. "That's unexpected. Is that good or bad?"

"I think it's good. All my revisions have been pretty minor, I think the committee likes my work. They just said there was one issue they wanted to bring up at my defense presentation."

"You think you're ready?"

"Yeah…I think so. I'm a little nervous, but I also want to get it done. Last thing before finishing up, you know? I'm ready to be done with it."

"Yeah. You sound tired, Jo. You okay?"

"Yeah, it's late here. I'm in bed. I just wanted to talk to you before I went to sleep."

"That's sweet, honey. I hope you sleep tight."

"Thanks, baby."

"Okay. Well, I gotta get ready for this next meeting."

"Okay. I'll let you go."

"Okay, honey. I love you."

"I love you too, honey. Oh, and David?"

"Yeah?" He leaned forward, reaching for a folder.

"I'm not alone."

David froze. "Really?"

"Yeah. I love you."

He paused.

"I love you too."

"Good night, baby."

"Good night, Jo."

The call ended.

Jordan smiled, a haze of relaxation settling around the corners of her vision. She looked to one side, seeing Patrick's long, lean muscularity half covered by crumpled sheets, laying on his side facing away from her. He slept quietly.

She looked down, seeing her own naked body, sheets tucked under her armpits, but feeling the moisture of sweat under her buttocks and upper back.

She looked to the other side, setting her phone on the nightstand next to the rumpled, plump condom.

She hesitated, then picked it up, rubbing the semen reservoir gently between her thumb and forefinger.

It was squishy. Still a bit warm, although cooled from a few minutes ago.

She felt bad calling David as soon as Patrick collapsed into slumber. But she also felt bad not calling him. She wanted him to know what she had done. At least by implication.

She wasn't thrilled with herself, texting Patrick urgently while he was still on the plane ride home.

But she wanted it.

Now here he was. His suitcase set in the corner of her bedroom.

He had been enthusiastic. Pent up, even.

As evidenced by the contents of the condom.

Just what she had hoped. Scratched the itch. Now she felt a little like herself again.

Jordan looked over at Patrick again. Not seeing any movement, she gingerly tipped up the prophylactic, letting the thin, translucent stream of semen flow downward from the tip to the base–until it dribbled onto her tongue. A little bit splashed to one side, dripping out of the corner of her mouth, but most of it flowed back, back…

Her eyes closed.

The taste. The texture.

What was it? What made this so…consuming an experience for her? It wasn't a particularly pleasant sensory experience…

Was it the anticipation? She had been fending off intrusive thoughts–indeed, dreams–about this. The cravings were annoying. And persistent.

The wild taste she got from Patrick's roommate had much the same arc. Almost as if she didn't have a choice. The craving was just…too powerful.

Yet she couldn't identify what it was about the act. The reception. The quiet holding of seed in a little pool in her mouth in the near total darkness of her bedroom.

Whatever it was, it seemed to bypass the prodigious power of her analytical mind. At least in the moment.

Her hand found its way between her legs.

The residual moisture following her coupling with Patrick was being replenished.

Fast.

Jordan took a deep breath, set the empty prophylactic husk back onto the nightstand, and swallowed, a wide, involuntary smile breaking across her face.

* * *

The darkness was more familiar this time. As was the noise.

The stage door clanged shut, but the music didn't stop.

Mark was less hesitant as he walked through the dark toward the closed curtain this time. He pushed it open, the richer tones swelling to swim around him as he walked into the flood of stage lights.

The house seats were once again empty, and Gil sat alone at the piano, his eyes riveted to an open book of sheet music, his hands flying up and down the keyboard.

Mark cocked his head, carefully watching Gil's thin frame lean into the rich tapestry of music flying out of the wide cavity of the concert grand.

It went on for several minutes.

Mark quietly walked down the steps from the stage, then sat in one of a line of felt-covered seats in the front row.

The music wound its way to a somber conclusion, fading into dignified silence before Gil's posture straightened and his hands pulled back from the keyboard.

"Hey Mark."

He didn't look down into the audience. He was flipping back through pages, stopping to make small pencil marks here and there.

"Hey Gil…hope I'm not interrupting. I got your text."

"Yeah…thanks for dropping by. Sorry, I'm not ignoring you, but I was…caught up in a thing."

"Yeah, I think I got caught up in it too…" Mark laughed, impressed.

"Thanks…I hope that's a good thing…" Gil's voice was monotone, his focus unbroken as he continued his annotation.

Mark sat quietly, surprised at how natural it felt to defer to Gil's process. Finally, Gil looked through the music book with a squint one last time, then leaned back, turning toward the audience chairs where Mark sat.

"So, how's it going?"

Mark shrugged, stroking his beard distractedly. "Can't complain. You?"

"Busy. I got an audition for the national Chopin competition…it's a gateway to a pretty big prestige competition if I do well. Trying to get ready for it."

Mark nodded. "That's…awesome, man. Congratulations."

"Thanks," Gil pulled his hair back, smiling nervously. "So…how are you doing?"

"Okay…" Mark answered slowly. Gil had already asked, and he had already answered.

"Amy said you used to be in the Marines."

"Yeah," Mark said flatly. "Yeah. I was. Why?"

"You go overseas?"

"Yep," Mark nodded, his affect still flat.

Gil nodded back. "You don't like to talk about it?"

Mark shrugged. "Not much to talk about."

"Hmmmm…."

Mark squinted upward as Gil stood up and walked to the front of the piano, leaning down to look into the cavity.

"Come check this out."

Mark hesitated, then stood and hopped onto the stage, walking up next to Gil and looking down into the rich wood cavity with the overlap of metal strings stretched to their limits from end to end.

"What am I looking at?"

"88 keys. 230 strings. You know why the mismatch?"

Mark shook his head.

"The low end. Look over there. Bass notes, one string to start, then two strings per note. Wrapped in bronze, stretching eight feet. Then look up here. High end."

Mark's eyes followed Gil's finger as he pointed.

"Middle and high end pivots to three strings. Much shorter, especially these high notes. No bronze wrapping, just tempered carbon steel. Since they're shorter, they make less noise when they're struck. The hammers, the keys, the felt, they're even across the entire range of pitch, so the strings are doubled or tripled to make sure that the same level of attack on any given key is close to that of any other key. It's not perfect, but the complexity of design is important to balance out the sound. Without balance, the range of expression is limited. Screws up the whole system."

"Fascinating. I had no idea…" Mark murmured, looking down into the maze of shapes, stacked in a dizzying complexity that seemed to shift as he moved his head.

"When everything works…when the keys are actuated properly, weighted well, when the hammers are aligned, the strings are tuned, the cavity and soundboard are clean…it creates space for magic. And it takes a lot of work to make it happen. But it's there. It's like potential energy, waiting for the right action to release into something entirely new. Kinetic."

Mark cocked his head again as Gil reached over and pressed a key. The wooden hammer curved upward, striking a set of three gray strings, a little wooden pad rising to hover just above the vibrations. Then, as Gil released the key, the little wooden pad dropped, silencing the tone with a barely perceptible hum.

"I had no idea it was so complex…" Mark conceded.

Gil sat down at the bench again. "You know why I play classical music?"

Mark shrugged. "I don't know…you like it?"

Gil closed his eyes, setting his hands before playing a phrase from a Bach fugue.

"Hear that?"

Mark squinted. "Yes. No. I'm not sure."

"It's two melodies. Listen." Gil played one hand of the phrase. Then the other.

"Two separate melodies, they stand on their own, but they're written in a way that they create new harmonies together without sacrificing their own individual integrity."

"No shit?"

"Yeah. Check it out."

He played longer, Mark straining to hear one side of the melody apart from the other, then the harmonies.

"No shit…" Mark repeated after the piano fell silent again. "I didn't know that. That's really cool…but it's like…hard to hear."

"Yeah. It's work." Gil nodded in agreement. "It's called counterpoint. It's one of a whole bunch of ways to layer music in a way that takes something simple, and layers it in contrast to other layers, melodic, harmonic, whatever, until it becomes something complex. It can paint a picture, tell a story, or deconstruct your entire psyche. But you have to work to understand it. Kind of like how I have to work to understand it when I play it. It's…a collaboration."

"Is this like the flow state thing?" Mark asked.

"Kind of. It's related. But it's kind of its own thing too."

"So you play classical because it's complex?"

"Not quite," Gil answered, playing the Bach fugue phrase again.

"So why?"

"I don't play classical music because it's complex. I play complex music because life is complex. So complex music tells you more about life. But only if you put the work into it. The human mind, human emotions, human relationships…all extremely complex. Music should reflect and explore that complexity. It should help us face our fears when we look at ourselves and see a tangle of messy contradictions. It's true in other art forms, too. Kind of like why you read James Joyce and TS Eliot instead of Harlequin romance novels."

Mark cocked his head again. "Okay. Okay, I think I'm following."

Gil finished the fugue. Mark found himself standing straight as he looked down, watching as the hammers danced against the strings, the multiple melodies and surprising harmonies flying up into the air and drilling into him.

The piece ended, and Gil pulled his hands back again, silent. At length, he looked up to Mark.

"This thing we've got going…it's working because you, Amy, me, we're all giving each other something. It's got layers. Complexity. New harmonies, new ideas are coming out of it. But you…you got your own shit to work on, man. We'll help, but…you have to look inward and own your own complexity. Find your own balance. You can't mute out a melody inside you, even if it's ugly. Let it out, and see what kind of harmonies it makes. You'll be surprised."

Mark was stunned at the insight. He didn't know how to respond.

"It's work. But you can't be afraid, man. You've got to dig in when it scares you. You can't be afraid of what comes out. It's how you find depth in the music. And it's how you find meaning in life."

Mark blinked, still surprised. Still flummoxed.

"Trust me."

Gil ended the conversation.

Mark didn’t move a muscle as Gil stood up, folded his music book, and put it in his bag before patting Mark on the arm and walking off stage. The heavy metal door clanged shut behind him, leaving Mark alone under the lights, the open maw of the concert grand gaping and ready to swallow him.

* * *

Converse all-stars stepping out of the midsize SUV.

Serviceable, but slightly faded blue jeans.

Full, yet graceful hips, then a faded T-shirt gradually visible as she stepped away from the car door.

Georgetown Law.

Megan was grateful to have had the opportunity to change out of courtroom clothes–it was a trial day, after all. Marcos had started his new robotics club, and JJ had baseball. Zipper was at doggy daycare, and she had just enough time to stop for a quick visit on her way to gather all of the boys, one by one, before she got home.

She reached back in through the door to grab a paper bag, then a plastic one. She checked the door shut with her hips and began walking from the parking lot toward the makeshift shelter just outside the treeline. Voices began to filter out toward her as she approached, then looked into the open doorway of the shelter.

"Speed isn't going to do it this time."

The UFC sanctioned fight coach held a stern look. Standing over Gunny Poisson, who was seated shirtless, vascular, and sweating, his elbows on his knees, his back hunched, and his head hanging down.

Standing next to him was Captain Rein, arms folded over his green undershirt, still wearing camouflage pants with bloused boots.

He spotted her first.

"Meg! What a surprise!"

She smiled broadly as she stepped into the tent. Jared's chin shot up, a look of relief in his eyes as his wife walked in.

"Yeah…hope I'm not interrupting anything…"

The UFC coach cleared his throat. "Not at all. Just a breather between speed drills."

"Where's everyone else?" Megan asked.

"First platoon is in the pit, second's running to the beach, and don't ask about third. They're regretting some of their earlier decisions right now." Mark's answers were succinct. And just funny enough to keep the conversation moving.

"Oh…" Megan suppressed a smile. "I see. Everything okay here in the head shed?"

"That depends…" Jared asked wearily. "What's in the bag?"

"Steak burritos. And some sports drink. Electrolytes and whatnot."

"My god…you're beautiful…" Jared reached into the paper bag and pulled out a thick, foil wrapped treasure.

Mark laughed. "Thanks, Meg. How was your day?"

She shrugged, cocking a half grin. "Oh, you know. Kickin' ass."

"Atta girl…" Mark said, grinning, before catching himself.

Megan caught herself too, and turned serious.

"What's this I hear about speed?"

The coach looked at Mark, who nodded, before deciding to continue.

"Mrs. Poisson…your husband has a reputation for speed, no one anywhere in the league is disputing that."

"They shouldn't. He's the fastest MMA fighter in the world."

Mark grimaced. The coach pursed his lips, concerned.

"Ma'am…ten years ago, no question…But St. Croix…"

"Doesn't stand a goddamn chance against Mad Dog Poisson."

Megan finished his sentence for him, her eyes narrowing.

Mark cracked another smile. "I told you…"

Jared grinned too, straightening his posture before standing up. He took a big bite of the burrito, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Yep. There it is. That's the good shit…"

Mark reached into the bag too, pulling out the other burrito.

"Meg…I don't want you to get the wrong idea here. Phil here has every confidence your man here can dominate. But Phil's paid to be critical."

"So am I," she cocked her head.

"St. Croix is known for speed too, Ma'am," Phil continued. "And he's a full ten years younger. One of the reasons UFC booked this fight as a headline is to match two fighters known for speed. We just need to have something else in our pocket since we don't hold the obvious advantage there. And…in the off chance that the past decade has worn down some of his zip."

Mark paused mid swig, having lifted the sports drink bottle up to drink.

Jared cocked a half grin, messily chewing his food as he saw Megan's eyes narrow again.

"Go ahead, Phil…try and win an argument with her…"

Mark laughed out loud, spraying sports drink against the inside wall of the tent.

Now in on the joke, Megan dropped her hackles slightly.

"Okay…Phil, is it? So what's the other skill? What's the supplemental strategy here?"

Her delivery was calm. Conversational. But clearly a trap. Her brown eyes burned into him.

Phil looked back warily, unsure if he was actually being tested.

There was something about her, he could tell. He'd seen enough world class fighters to recognize a set of eyes not to be fucked with. In her way, this woman was a fighter–very much a peer to her husband.

He hesitated again. Enough time for Mark to speak up and fill the void.

"He needs to take hits, Meg. Strategically. He can't slip everything like he usually does."

"Excuse me?" Megan's eyes flared as, even though Mark answered, she looked back toward Phil.

"I know it sounds crazy…"

"No…it sounds idiotic. Crazy I understand. Crazy, I sympathize with. Crazy can't help itself. This is just…stupid."

"Meg…" Mark raised a hand and spoke softly. She slapped it down.

"Mark…Don't handle me. I'm not stupid."

"Meg…" Mark repeated himself. "It's not as bad as it sounds."

"It doesn't have to be. Half of it is dumb enough. You're really telling me that you're going to take his number one asset–speed–and tank it for the biggest fight of his career?"

"Not tank it," Phil interjected. "Shelve it for about two rounds. Then bring it back out after St. Croix is convinced Jared's too old to match him speed for speed."

Megan paused, looking at Mark.

His eyes showed the same concern as hers.

That fact calmed her slightly–she didn't want to feel like the hysterical woman in the room. She folded her arms meaningfully, holding Mark's gaze.

"Tell me what you think about this. Really."

Mark took a deep breath, looking at Jared, who still sat between him and Phil, grinning as he noisily chewed his burrito.

"This is going really well, huh?"

Mark stifled a laugh, knowing Megan was in no mood for it as he looked back at her.

"I don't love it, Meg. For a lot of reasons."

"Name them."

"I agree with your basic objection on strategic grounds. Ditching his primary advantage is dumb on its face. I don't love the idea of opening him up to blunt force hits. I worry about it backfiring, about slowing him down or dulling his edge before we get to the drop zone and take the leash off. And I worry about head trauma in general. Did I miss anything?"

Megan's glare softened. "No."

"Okay."

"So…why are we even considering this?"

Mark looked over at Phil.

"St Croix is fast," he explained. "Close enough to Jared's speed that if we just match it, then it's gonna be a long dance and a dangerous point-by-point game where everyone gets tired. The likelihood of stupid mistakes goes up exponentially every minute we drag it out. And…as we've said before, St. Croix is ten years younger. He has the advantage there."

Jared coughed comically between bites. "Hey guys…uh…I think one of my balls just fell out and rolled under the thing…" He pointed over toward the edge of the tent. "Could one of you…?"

Megan smirked and rolled her eyes, waiting for Phil to continue.

"Jared's path to victory has historically been based on speed, usually in the first or second round. His style is quick, and based on surprise. It'll be exactly what St Croix is training for. What he's most ready for. We have to create new conditions for surprise. Conserving energy, setting the trap before snapping it rather than coming out of the gate all amped up, slippery and savage."

Megan took a deep breath, considering his words.

"Also Meg," Mark added, "St Croix is fast, but he doesn't hit very hard. He's gonna try to get Frenchie on the mat, and he's a pretty strong grappler. Losing by submission is not what we want. This allows us to keep distance between them, decrease the odds of that happening."

She shook her head. "I don't like this."

"Also…"Mark went on. "I got a neurologist to be on site. A good one."

"A good one?" Megan asked sarcastically. "So you're an expert on evaluating neurologists now?"

"He is a good one, ma'am," Phil offered, drawing Megan's gaze. "We actually take it very seriously, and we vet…"

"He's highly recommended," Mark interrupted. "By someone we can trust. From Johns Hopkins."

Megan looked startled, looking back over at Mark.

"Johns Hopkins?"

Mark nodded gravely. "Yeah. I made a call."

The source stunned Megan for a moment. But quickly recovering, her brow furrowed again, staring down her longtime lover.

"I don't love this. And if it goes bad, you'll have to explain to the boys why their dad turned into a drooling idiot."

"He was gonna have to do that anyway…" Jared quipped, gulping down the last bite and chasing it with a swig from his sports drink.

"Shut up, you…" Megan smirked, swatting the air in his direction.

"Alright." Jared stood up, taking a deep breath and shrugging his shoulders.

Megan watched her husband stand. He looked leaner than usual. Tight.

The training was doing what it always did. Making him hungry. Savage. Unlocking his unique genius as he focused on a handful of minutes in a chainlink cage in the not-distant future.

The overcrowded mosaic of fight tattoos covering his torso boasted his undefeated history in single combat.

He slipped his mouthguard back in, turning to Phil and nodding. Phil nodded politely to Megan before following Jared out of the tent, back toward the pit where first platoon was circled up around the combatants of the moment.

Jared was going to take another group of five in a row, Mark explained to Megan as she watched him admiringly through the door.

She nodded in acknowledgment, then turned back to face the quiet, stern, but worried face of Charlie Company's commanding officer.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Johns Hopkins?"

[subtoall]

Crushing, your artistry is equal to Gil's.

[Luis]

this is my favorite chapter in a long line of fantastic chapters!!! incredible!!

[nnjcpl2002]

Geez, Crushing, I consider myself a fairly bright guy, but you are stepping it up to a new level of intellectual challenge!
All great stuff which actually enhances the eroticism. Outstanding work, for which we again thank you!

There is nothing else here that comes close to matching the quality and intensity of your story and character development.
So we all remain drooling for the next chapter.

[Tire_Kicker]

Good stuff Crush, Jordan's intellectual and spiritual rationalizations seem to be leading her in an interesting direction. David's world travel and genius must generate female admiration on some level in these many Ports of Call... Mess with his head.

Chen's darkness is intriguing on many levels. Then there's that cage Gil winds up in...

Stayin' tuned!

Thanks

[Tire_Kicker]

Duplicate

[Guhunkadorn]

btw Crushing...to confirm, my comment of May 23rd was absolutely intended to be a compliment. I can't fathom how it would even be possible to do anything but compliment this masterpiece. Thank you.

[Crushing]

btw Crushing...to confirm, my comment of May 23rd was absolutely intended to be a compliment. I can't fathom how it would even be possible to do anything but compliment this masterpiece. Thank you.

Oh, no worries! I was just giving you a little guff. I appreciate the compliment!

[Crushing]

Finally.

Some peace and quiet.

Megan heaved a sigh of relief as she slipped under the covers.

Another long day.

Wake up, run on the basement treadmill for half an hour, let Zipper outside, make breakfast for the boys, fight with JJ until he wears matching socks and tucks his shirt in, de-smudge his face while yelling over her shoulder to Marcos so he didn't forget the right books and his tool bag for robotics club, then dash around getting ready, drop JJ off at elementary school, Marcos at middle school, and then break several traffic laws on the way into the office.

From there it was briefs, meetings, two court appearances, a walking lunch, more meetings, then an interview at the jail with a particularly scummy potential witness. The kind of guy that makes you feel like you need a shower after talking to him.

After the jail, leave work with a stop by Camp LeJeune with some carbs and kisses for Jared, dashing away to arrive just in time at JJ's baseball practice before that bitch Laurie Finn starts talking shit about how working moms can't ever be on time, then over to the middle school shop to drag Marcos away from whatever gizmo he was fiddling with, then racing to the dog day care minutes before the close, and grabbing a takeout dinner and slapping it on the table when the three of them plus Zipper got home.

After scarfing down food that someone else cooked, she could turn Marcos loose on his homework, fight JJ to come in from outside, then convince Marcos to put away his fun book and read his school book, then fight JJ to do his homework instead of legos, then fight JJ to put on his pajamas, then ask Marcos to fight JJ into actually going to bed, because…holy shit…there's just…a limit.

So when the racket died down, when JJ finally stopped chattering and started the steady breathing of deep sleep, when Marcos finally turned off his reading light and crashed out with Zipper curled up at his feet, when she had finished arranging her morning briefs and set her briefcase in the ready position for tomorrow…when all bedroom doors were closed and lights off…her quiet, empty bedroom was a small slice of heaven.

She reached over, absently gripping the top sheet where Jared's body usually lay.

Wednesday.

Time: 10:31 PM.

Fight day…minus 3.

Jared would not be joining her in bed tonight. As was his routine, the weeks before a fight he slept apart from her. Usually on a concrete floor in a barracks somewhere.

It kept him uncomfortable. On edge. Sharp.

And their nighttime separation, of course, facilitated the other pre-fight routine.

No sex.

That kept him hungry.

And, as he explained, it had the strange and surprising effect of making him both distracted and focused at the same time. A kind of walking tension that made him hyper sensitive to his surroundings. And hyper reactive to his opponents.

But…and this was definitely unfair…the routine kept her hungry, too. She wasn't gearing up for a fight, after all. In fact, she was dreading his.

But Megan always obliged the routine, wanting to be supportive.

And that routine amounted to a kind of erotic torture for her. Not only because she had a healthy sex drive–very much feeling her sexual prime in her mid thirties–but because seeing Jared in fighting form–hungry and savage–lit her fire like almost nothing else.

She sighed again, remembering the sight of him on base earlier that day.

He had just finished his final set of sparring drills, the heat of the day draining his vigor such that she found him leaning against the wall, exhausted. He had been barefoot and shirtless, his tattooed torso obscuring the tight, almost surgical cut of his core. His musculature was toned–ripped, even–but all in a practical way.

His muscles weren't for show. They were fine tuned for bending, holding, twisting, throwing…for extracting teeth-grinding submission from opponents.

A position she always found herself envying–ironically.

Four days from now, it would feel worth it.

The first few nights after a fight were always passionate for her.

For them.

Passionate to the point of pseudo-catatonia on Megan's part. Late into the night, Jared would contort her body to the point of pain, pinching her into forms of erotic tension from which she could not escape without begging. Then he would fuck her with the vigor of an overcaffeinated jackrabbit.

So it was always worth the wait.

But…the wait was awful.

But this time it was much worse. The normal longing for her husband's body was complicated because during this go-around, whenever she saw–and lusted over–Jared's fighting form, there was Mark. With his commanding presence, his own bulky musculature and his velvety baritone.

She sighed again in frustration, leaning over to open her nightstand drawer and pulling out a small, silicone toy: a short, thin, vibrating bullet. She clicked it on and adjusted the speed, the barest semblance of a buzz rapidly fading from the air as she slid it under the covers.

Another truncated sigh as the toy found her stiffening button.

Megan's mind returned to the duty hut earlier that day–Jared and Mark, both in fighting form, both with hollow, tense cheeks and hungry eyes. Both with statuesque bodies–the products of intense, sustained training and repeated combat drills.

And–as both were wearing the short, silky workout shorts used during Marine Corps physical training–she caught a pretty good look at…well…you know.

A small whimper escaped her mouth as she the buzzing against her nub suddenly raised in intensity of feeling. Warmth moved up her core and slightly out toward her thighs. She paused briefly, wiggling and bucking as she pulled her pajama bottoms and panties down to her ankles, uncovering herself before letting her legs fall open again.

She traversed from memory to fantasy as the toy found the crest of her womanhood once more.

Megan imagined Mark's hungry eyes matching the intensity of Jared's in the duty hut. She imagined Jared reaching out and pulling her toward his sweaty body, kissing her deeply and demanding that she care for him, relieving his tension and easing his pain.

She would kiss him back, matching his hunger as she felt Mark's large hands slip up her front from behind her, gripping her breasts between her body and Jared's.

She whimpered slightly more, the hypothetical clutch of Mark's big hands finding purchase in her mind as she climbed closer toward climax.

Mark would rip her away from Jared, pulling her clothes off and tossing them off to the side of the room. Shirt. Pants. Socks. Then bra. Then panties. He would reach down and sweep off the contents of the duty desk, then bend her over it.

She would hear a rustle behind her as she smiled knowingly, waiting for Mark's long, thick cock to find its way to the place where it belonged most in the world–inside her body.

Jared would stroke her hair, bending down to look encouragingly at her, promising that he would fill her when it was his turn…but not until after the fight.

But it was okay. She didn't have to wait. Mark would take care of her…

She cooed at the thought.

Her climax began to peek over the horizon of her expectation as her fantasy took a turn. In her mind's eye, some of Mark and Jared's marines would walk by the duty hut, seeing the lewd scene playing out.

She looked helplessly up at the young marines, who would be shocked at Gunny P's wife naked and bent over the desk, their commanding officer confidently preparing to take her from behind as the indomitable cage fighter watched with approval.

Instead of stopping and assuming decorum, Mark would instead assume that cool, stoic tone of command…

"Gents…stand fast. I'm gonna show you how this is done…"

She would look helplessly at the young faces as she felt him enter her…his huge cock stretching her like it always did, her black hair falling helplessly over her face as she was observed in total submission by young, intrigued strangers in uniform…

"See? Just like that. That's how you move…that's how you fuck 'em properly…" Mark would explain, his voice drifting from behind…

Again, the velvety, authoritative baritone…accompanying the rough but somehow tender thrusting…

Megan's eyes scrunched shut as she stifled a moan.

Her climax hit hard. Her legs thrashed like a landing butterfly, her hips thrusting involuntarily.

Deep satisfaction. Well earned and deeply needed–it was also deeply felt.

The waves of pleasure receded.

Megan paused, catching her breath before turning off the little silicone bullet.

She took a deep breath and sighed again.

She wanted more. She wanted Jared. She wanted her husband.

But this took the edge off…

The horizon of her memory and fantasy began to dim slightly as fatigue caught up with her. She sleepily put the silicone bullet back in the drawer and closed it, the warm haze of relief clouding her vision as she began to drift off.

Three more days…

Three more…

* * *

"You've checked them all, you don't need to check them again."

Phil, the fight coach, snapped at the man with the clipboard.

"Look man, Standards and Practices needs to verify that there's nothing on his body that's going to get the network fined when we broadcast…"

"He hasn't gotten any new tattoos since you checked him this morning, dumbass. Leave him alone, he's gotta get into the right headspace."

He shooed the man with the clipboard out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Jared sat silent, his eyes locked in a thousand yard stare as a young corporal from the MACE–detailed to attend to this fight by Quantico–quietly and expertly taped the fighter's hands.

Jared's bare torso was tight and oiled. The messy mosaic of tattoos seemed to pop and blur in succession. Lines, curves, images, letters. Hints of faces, symbols, mythical creatures. An entire world of images, a rich tapestry of stories confusingly woven by a physical genius with massively debilitating ADHD.

Phil stood behind Jared, pinching and testing his trapezius, then deltoid muscles.

"Good. Loose. You feelin' good?"

Jared nodded without a word.

"I just got handed some film from St Croix's last week of training. Favor from a friend. You want to see it real quick?"

Jared shook his head, closing his eyes.

"Alright, I'll tell you what I saw. He's quick, he's cocky, and he's looking to counter you and go for the legs. Just like I predicted, just like we practiced for. Got it?"

Jared nodded, Phil's voice fading from his awareness.

His mind's eye did what it always did in the moments before a fight. They shot back through time. To as far back as he could remember.

Infancy, childhood, adolescence. His time as a newlywed, as a junior marine. Coming up through fight ranks. Getting his first leadership billet back in an infantry unit…

He heard Phil's voice distantly. Earnestly explaining something.

Jared didn't care. The time for preparation was over. The point where more words, more explanation, more analysis would be useful to him, had passed long ago.

With his eyes closed, Jared's mind drifted to the present.

JJ's face.

It was up to date. Ragged, messy brown hair, wide ears, missing front teeth, a wide, manic smile, and freckles.

Then Marky's.

Thin, solemn, deep. Copper skin, caramel eyes, broad nose and high cheekbones. Showing the first glimmers of manhood.

Megan appeared next. Beautiful beyond words. Her face symmetrical, her chocolate brown eyes concerned but compassionate–complementing a kind smile…the kind she always had when she was in mom mode. Like when taking care of the boys when they were sick.

The pictures in his mind moved faster. Colleagues he respected. Staff Sergeant Platz. Corporal Whisk. Lieutenant Baldiri.

Captain Rein.

Laura Poisson-his mom.

Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe.

Brigadier General Chen.

Sergeants Milley, Ralph, and Carlton…

Faces faded away to bodies.

Megan again. In a two piece swimsuit, laughing and waving at him from a deck chair by a warm pool.

JJ and Marky wrestling on the living room floor–JJ's wild, manic energy giving Marky's superior size a run for his money.

Mark–out of uniform in jeans and a t-shirt, playing with the boys and the dog in front of that shitty 4Runner he refused to part with.

Junior marines–his students in the pits back at battalion–pushing themselves to the limit under his careful but severe tutelage.

Dozens more faces. Maybe hundreds–always peppering back to his family before fading out to the periphery of less-close friends and acquaintances.

Every face in his mind had two eyes fixed on him–eyes that would figuratively be on him as he stepped into the ring to carry all of their honor on his shoulders.

He felt fingers tap his shoulder.

He broke from his reverie, looking up. Phil stood over him, a towel draped around his neck and holding open the silk robe–red and gold with a massive eagle, globe, and anchor symbol embroidered on the back under the block letter name:

POISSON

"You ready, Mad Dog?"

Jared nodded without a word.

He stood up, slipped on his fingerless fight gloves, and then slipped his lean, muscular arms through the loose arms of the robe.

He took a deep breath, slapped his palms together, and exhaled.

Go time.

* * *

Uncle Mark seemed nervous. So did Mom.

Marcos sat uneasily in the stadium seat.

Good seats. Front row.

He looked to his right.

Mom sat stiffly upright, light showing between her back and the back of her chair.

She was pretty tense.

She was kinda dressed up.

Not like she did for work, but almost like they were going to church. She had a dress on, and her hair pulled back. And she was wearing earrings. Nice ones.

Probably because of TV cameras. Dad said there were going to be a bunch of TV cameras.

Which is why Mom made him and JJ wear their new pants.

He looked to his left. Next to him sat JJ, wiggling and chattering as always.

Uncle Mark sat on the other side of JJ. He was being patient, trying to calmly answer all of his little brother’s rapid fire questions.

Uncle Mark didn't seem to get that JJ never waited for answers. He just talked, and talked, and talked, and talked.

It's why he always got in trouble at school. And why his grades were bad.

Uncle Mark was in his uniform. The one with the dark green suit coat, the two silver bars on top of his shoulders. And all the ribbons on his chest. He had a lot of them. Almost as many as Dad.

All the other guys from Dad's unit were wearing the dress up uniform, too. Not the blue one, though. Not the fancy one, the business one the dark green one.

Marcos looked behind him, seeing row after row of marines in their section, all chattering excitedly, laughing, joking, smacking each other playfully.

He wasn't sure how many there were.

He stopped to count.

One, two, three…yeah…fifteen to a row.

One, two, three…fifteen rows to a section.

Two hundred twenty five seats per section.

One, two, three, four sections.

Nine hundred seats total.

All filled with dark green uniforms. Except the front row of each section had families. Wife and kids for the officers…that messed with the numbers a little bit.

Seventh Battalion was there in its entirety. He knew, because he heard Uncle Mark and mom talking about it a couple days ago. And Colonel Wolfe–Dad and Uncle Mark's boss–was sitting on the other side of Uncle Mark, too, with that fat lady who fake-smiled all the time.

Charlie Company–Dad and Uncle Mark's company got the good seats in the front section because it was Dad's fight.

Marcos was excited, and not just because Dad was going to be on TV.

He was more excited because he had a surprise for Dad after the fight.

He had built a battle bot.

He was going to give it to Dad as a prize for winning his fight tonight. The battle bot ran on tracks, and it had a hammer that smashed the other robots if the angle was just right. He just had trouble getting it to retract when he wanted to. But it was good enough as a proof of concept. Dad would love it.

Marcos turned around. JJ was complaining again.

Gosh, he was annoying. Now he was pulling on Uncle Mark's arm.

"It's an undercard fight, JJ," Marcos interrupted his brother's question. "Dad explained it like…a million times. Just watch it. Dad's fight is coming up, just not now!"

Marcos looked back at Mom, who seemed distracted. She was looking around at nothing in particular all the time, then looking at Uncle Mark for a second, then looking away.

"Mom…JJ's being a spaz."

She laughed nervously. "Yeah. He's just excited for Dad to come out."

Marcos rolled his eyes. "We have a whole other fight before..."

"That's right, honey."

She knew. But she wasn't going to tell JJ to shut up. Marcos knew it. Mom was scared. She was using her "I'm trying to make sure everyone else is calm" voice.

"Mom…Dad's gonna be okay."

The boy's voice was grave. Steady.

She looked down at the floor, blinking slowly before looking back over.

"Yeah," she nodded at her oldest son. "Of course he is. Dad's tough."

"Yeah he is. The toughest…"

* * *

Charlie company all present or accounted for.

The report was given by Gunnery Sergeant James, next senior enlisted man under Jared.

All present or accounted for, Charlie company was now seated behind and mainly to the right of the CO–both that of the company and of the battalion.

To Mark’s immediate right squirmed JJ, dressed in a newly wrinkled polo shirt with new jeans and a belt. To his immediate left sat Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe, and his visibly nervous wife, Celia.

“What’s the guy’s name in the blue shorts?” JJ asked.

Mark looked down at the fight form. "Uh…looks like…Jack Kingsley."

"Is he good?"

"Not sure."

"Could you beat him?"

"No idea. I could probably get a couple good hits in."

"I bet you could beat him. You're really big."

"Well, there's more to it than that, buddy."

"I know. Dad's beat guys that were bigger than him."

"Including me."

"Yeah. Hey, what's that music?"

"The walkout music for the challenger," Mark looked down again. "I don't know. Some kinda rap song. But the fighter's name is Deonte Smith…"

"How do they pick the songs?"

"I'm not sure, really…I think…"

"I always know Dad's songs. He's got really famous songs."

"They're not famous for everybody, JJ," Marcos explained from the other side. "You just know them because Dad plays them all the time."

"Yeah, that's because they're famous…hey, look at that…"

Mark and Marcos exchanged a knowing smile as JJ was again distracted by some random stimulus for the umpteenth time that night.

Mark looked past Marcos to Megan, who seemed distracted in her own way. She caught him out of the corner of her eye, turning her head and smiling nervously.

"You okay?" he mouthed silently.

She nodded, her eyes telling a different story.

"The guy at the metal detector said dad was going to lose…" JJ offered, apropos of nothing. "He said Jeremy Saint Crux is really fast, and I told him that dad was faster, but he didn't believe me."

Megan's face looked covertly pained, but she masked it stoically.

"Yeah, nobody's ever ready for how fast your dad is, buddy," Mark said, more to the boy's mother than to the boy. "I'm not too worried about it."

"Submission…the blue shorts guy submitted the red shorts guy. He won…" JJ continued with his unbroken commentary as the referee raised the hand of the winner in the cage. The two emptied the ring, vacating the space for the next commercial break.

"This part's boring. They should have other things happening, when it gets boring," JJ offered.

"JJ, can you please be quiet? You're such a spaz…" Marcos sighed, frustrated.

JJ sat quietly for a few moments.

Until, suddenly, the camera lights went on again, and music started playing over the loudspeakers.

A guitar riff, the same chord over and over in brutal tension with snare drums on the first two half beats…

"No, you're a spaz, I'm not a spaz. What's a spaz, anyway? Oh wait…that's dad's music! That's dad's music!!!"

Mark recognized the song immediately too.

As did Megan.

Sabotage. The Beastie Boys.

JJ bolted upright out of his seat and, with the speed that could only be that of the son of "Mad Dog" Jared Poisson, he shot like a blur down the aisle past Mark and toward the entrance to the locker room.

"JJ!"

Mark stood up, shooting his long arm past Colonel Wolfe and catching the boy by the collar and pulling him back.

But it was too late.

Although he caught the boy, the whole section shuffled abruptly with movement. Seeing the company commander stand suddenly, and with the name "MAD DOG" JARED POISSON emblazoned on the jumbotron over the ring, the 150 marines of Charlie Company stood up at once and snapped to attention.

This was not the plan. But the cameras were rolling. And everyone was in uniform.

Mark sheepishly dragged JJ back toward his seat, then simply committed to the mistake, standing at attention.

Colonel Wolfe looked up at Mark, one eyebrow raised, but recognized the conundrum and adapted.

He quickly stood to attention as well.

The rest of the battalion immediately stood with him.

The deafening roar of the crowd drowned out the raucous music as a team of trainers, surrounding a single figure, robed and hooded in shiny red and gold, as he made his way toward the ring.

Mark watched Jared step into the octagon through the gate right after Phil took off his robe.

Mark clenched his teeth, his jaw flexing visibly. Megan stood too, as did the boys. Her hands covered her mouth involuntarily, her modest wedding ring showing for the cameras.

They closed the gate behind Jared as he turned around, seeing nearly a thousand marines standing at rigid attention facing him.

He started, then matched their posture, his fists clenched at his thighs, his stance ramrod straight. He nodded in official deference toward Colonel Wolfe, then toward Mark.

Saving the scene from the embarrassment of the cameras, Wolfe concluded the charade. He shouted out the command to sit at ease.

All at once, the sea of olive green uniforms took their seats.

Megan leaned over Marcos and quietly scolded JJ, who loudly insisted that he did nothing wrong before sitting down again next to his brother.

Mark turned toward the battalion commander.

"Uh, sorry about that, sir. And thanks for covering."

"No problem, Rein. I think it worked out fine. But I guess we'll see if I get an angry call from Division tomorrow."

Mark looked carefully, noting the half smile on Wolfe's otherwise stoic face. He braved a smile of his own.

"Only if our boy goes down."

"You think he will?"

Colonel Wolfe's eyebrow lifted in genuine curiosity.

Mark hesitated, unsure of how precisely to respond.

Finally, he shook his head gravely.

"Not a chance, sir."

"Good."

Mark leaned back in his seat, turning his head the other way again, seeing everyone's eyes–Megan's, Marcos', even JJ's–riveted to the cage as Jared's opponent began to make his way to the ring under raucous music and thunderous cheers of his own.

* * *

"Poisson is making his way out of the locker room, surrounded by his training team."

The first announcer delivered with a gravelly baritone–John Sasson: a retired MMA fighter himself.

"I hear there are interesting aspects to his training regimen this go around, and…wait…looks like the Marines from Poisson's unit are standing to acknowledge his entrance…"

The second announcer had a more strained, but smooth tenor. A career sports announcer: MMA, boxing, and other extreme supports.

Martin Cox.

"Wait…it's just two sections…wait, no, now all of the Marines are standing up together." Sasson seemed startled by the development as the camera panned out to the audience. "Nearly a thousand marines in attendance to support Poisson, with many other veterans in the crowd going wild as he enters. Many of Mad Dog's fans have been waiting for years for him to have a headline fight like this, with many wishing he would have left active duty service so he could pursue the career professionally."

"Mad Dog has consistently turned down every offer, John. Honestly, Poisson is a mystery. Ten years ago he would have been a strong contender for a top seed in the league, but he had to fight on the Marine Corps schedule. That limited his options, much to the frustration of his fans."

"He looks good tonight. Loose, but focused. He doesn't seem to show his age."

"That's right, John. Poisson is 36 years old. Retirement age. He doesn't look like he's in decline, though."

"No, he doesn't. Looks like the marines in the audience are sitting down now, Poisson is turning toward the gate, pacing the inside of the octagon…"

"And…here comes St. Croix." Martin paused, letting the music and crowd carry into the broadcast.

"Boy Lightning" Jemaine St Croix. Born in Haiti, raised in Baltimore. Looking smooth and confident, waving to acknowledge his own fans as he makes his way into the ring…"

"He is looking very confident. That's pretty par for the course for St. Croix…we all saw him try to clown Mad Dog at the weigh in, but, like most infantry Marines, Poisson is not easily rattled."

"That confidence may be misplaced, John. Poisson has a full ten years of experience on him, and remains undefeated…"

"The referee is going over rules; both fighters appear mainly focused on each other…Now what was that you were saying about Mad Dog's training regimen for this fight, Martin?"

"Yes, John. Poisson has an appointed league trainer as part of the terms of this bout. But he has hired no training staff. Apparently his commanding officer said the entire unit was training for the fight together. Not sure how that worked, and we weren't granted access to document it. But beyond his one contractually obligated trainer, he simply set his own routine, and apparently trained as a group. Highly unusual. His fight staff for the ring tonight was detailed from the MACE in Quantico. They are not regular staff members for the 36 year old Vermont native."

"It's highly stupid, if you ask me, Martin. Training for a main event like this is a highly individualized thing. I expect Poisson will pay for it in the ring."

"He may, John. Although his trainer, Phil Huntsman, a veteran of the league, swears he's ready to go. And for what it's worth, at 36, Mad Dog certainly looks ready to go."

"I'll give you that, Martin…Okay, the fighters have returned to their corners…"

"There's the bell. They're in and moving. St. Croix appears predictably nimble, Poisson seems to be matching the pace. Poisson–known for rarely throwing first–and St. Croix knows it. Look at him dance, John…it seems like Boy Lightning is baiting him."

"Poisson's not taking the bait, Martin."

"No, it doesn't look like he is, but…oh, St. Croix shoots the legs! Poisson counters…sprawls and pivots…He's avoided the takedown, and landed a hard hook on the way out before getting out of range again. Wow. Blink and you'll miss it in this fight! The crowd loves that, John…"

The roar of the crowd drifted in under the announcers' voices.

"Both fighters are back on their feet now. St. Croix's gamble has failed, Poisson is clearly still as wily as he was…"

"That's right, John, but not quite as nimble. As fast as that was, Mad Dog looks a little flat footed compared to some of his classic fights in the past…"

"I'd agree with that, Martin. For a normal fighter in this weight class, the pace he's moving at would be on the upper end of quick, but for Poisson, it's almost sluggish…"

"St. Croix hits a solid lead, and cross!" Martin interrupted. "Mad Dog Poisson moves back, and right, trying to get an angle..St. Croix gets him again. And again… And again!"

The crowd roared as Jared's head snapped back, throwing his body weight backward onto his rear foot. His opponent rushed in, almost looking like he was going for a football tackle, but Jared regained balance enough to land a powerful front kick to St. Croix's sternum.

"St. Croix backs off, wow. A powerful repelling move by Mad Dog Poisson. Mad Dog leaning forward on the offensive now as St. Croix recovers. Might've lost his wind, looks like Boy Lightning is panicking…"

"Not panicking…" John corrected him. "Regrouping. Look, he's coming right back. There. Two more jabs. Two more, and he throws a knee. Poisson slips…mostly. Looks like he caught an edge of that last one…and looks like that earlier cross hit cut him. He's definitely bleeding..."

"And there's the bell. Wow. First round, a series of what looked like game over moves…But both fighters are still standing. St. Croix is visibly winded, and Mad Dog Poisson is bleeding from his left eye."

"It's a brawl, John. Much less elegant that I think any of us anticipated. Normally both fighters are known for a much more polished style, but with no obvious advantage in speed or form between these two, it has turned into a street fight. No decisive quick counters, no counters at all unless you count Poisson's hook on the way out after avoiding that takedown."

"Poisson's eye is going to swell, Martin. That is a deep cut. He's going to have to deal with some limited visibility. Coach Phil Huntsman seems to be talking him through it as the cut is cleaned and taped…"

"St. Croix's coach appears agitated. It seems like this fight is not what he thought it would be. It's a scary thing to change strategies between rounds like this, but it looks like that might be on the table for Boy Lightning…"

* * *

Dad looked like he was bleeding. Like, a lot.

"Mom…do they have bandaids?"

JJ spoke impulsively, his curiosity innocent.

"They do, honey. I think they're going to try to put one on there…"

"Mom, Dad's bleeding."

"She knows, JJ," Marcos said roughly. "She can see it."

JJ pouted, looking down at his feet.

"Relax, buddy."

Uncle Mark's low voice was accompanied by a big-handed pat on the head.

"Your dad's just getting started. Trust me."

JJ looked up. "How do you know?."

"I know him. Just trust him. He's never fought someone like this before, so he's doing some new things. But he's got this."

"Okay. Mom…Uncle Mark says Dad's gonna win."

Mom looked over, smiling at Uncle Mark for a long time. JJ looked over to see Uncle Mark smiling back.

"If he loses, since you're his boss, are you gonna get him in trouble?" JJ asked.

Mark laughed. "Um…pretty much, yeah. Yeah, I will. But don't worry. That's not gonna happen. He won't lose."

JJ's face turned grave.

He didn't want Dad to get in trouble.

JJ watched Dad stand up straight again, shaking his shoulder out, and lightly touching his hurt eye as the bell rang again.

Dad walked calmly to the center of the ring, blocking a kick from the other guy before snapping back to his fighting stance.

Another kick. This one hit Dad on the side of the head. Almost like he didn't see it.

Dad was shaking his head, moving back and away.

Back foot first. Like always.

"Dad! Don't cross your feet!"

"He knows, JJ."

Marky was always mean when JJ wanted to talk.

"Don't be a jerk, Marky. Look. Dad's wobbling. I think he's hurt."

"No he's not, JJ. He's just moving fast like he always does."

"Nu-uh. No he's not. Look at his feet. One of them is shaking. See? See Uncle Mark?"

"I see it, buddy. He's just a little stunned from that last…"

A groan from the crowd as the guy landed a body blow on Dad's ribs, then a left hook to Dad's temple.

"Dad! Watch out! Mom, Dad's hurt!"

Uncle Mark grabbed JJ around the shoulders hastily.

"Easy buddy, let's just watch, okay? Let's not do commentary. Your dad's got this…"

JJ looked over at Mom, whose hands were covering her mouth again, her eyes wide. He looked over at Uncle Mark, whose eyes also seemed fixed on the cage in front of them.

Another groan from the crowd as the other guy grabbed Dad's arm and started to throw him, but Dad reversed it, throwing an elbow into the other guy's face.

A cheer erupted from the crowd.

JJ cheered, feeling Uncle Mark's hand squeezing his shoulder a little tighter.

The other guy backed off from Dad, dazed.

"Why isn't…"

JJ felt Uncle Mark's hand squeezing his shoulder again. He lowered his voice to a whisper, turning his head up as Uncle Mark leaned down to hear him.

"Why isn't Dad chasing him? Dad usually chases guys…"

"It's a strategy, buddy…"

"Uncle Mark…" JJ whispered again, urgently. "I don't think it's a strategy. I think Dad's hurt…"

* * *

This was hell.

Megan's fingers clenched around the bridge of her nose as she fought back tears, knowing that TV cameras were everywhere, and at least one of them would be trained on her.

Jared was getting pummeled. In front of ten thousand people and millions on TV.

The cut under his eye was bad, bleeding profusely. But it was the kicks to the head that seemed to throw him genuinely off balance.

Even JJ could see it. Mark was doing his best to mitigate, but everyone could see it.

Jared was getting pummeled.

The only one who genuinely couldn't seem to see that was Jared himself.

Of course.

"Dogged" wasn't a good descriptor of what Jared was. And "Tenacious" didn't take it far enough.

Maybe "singular." He seemed to exist only in that 750 square foot world, the moves of his opponent carefully charted in his mind by the nanosecond.

He moved with his usual grace–minus a fairly conspicuous wobble when he had to move his right foot.

And of course, the blood and the swelling. She wondered how much the altered depth perception of the swelling under his eye threw off his ability to throw and counter.

Another head shot. This time a jab toward the eye, which Jared partially blocked. Jared tried to catch, counter, and throw a knee–one of his signature moves, but St. Croix deftly sidestepped.

Phil was right. The kid was fast.

But Phil was wrong about one thing. Mark, too.

He hit hard. She could see Jared's head snap back with each blow.

If the fight dragged to the end, Jared would definitely lose on points. St. Croix was landing blow after blow, and Jared was only blocking or countering about half of them. But even she couldn't tell how much of that was strategy, and how much of it was the wobble.

But some of it was the wobble. She was sure of it.

She looked over at Mark, who met her eyes momentarily as he was leaning down to let JJ whisper in his ear. She could see the concern in his eyes as her own eyes flitted away toward the cage again.

Another head blow. Another groan of the crowd.

The bell. Second round over.

Both of Jared's legs were shaking now as he walked back to his corner.

The fight nurse was on her feet, walking toward Jared's corner. Megan watched her carefully as she stepped in to examine him.

An ambiguous look, but she didn't stop the fight. Instead, she walked back out of the octagon and to her place, turning her head as if she was talking to someone that Megan couldn't see.

A post was in the way…and the chain link on that side…

Over the hum of the crowd, she could hear Jared arguing with Phil, her husband's gravelly voice always cutting through background noise. She couldn't quite make out what they were saying…

"Mom?"

"Yeah, honey?" She answered Marcos without looking down.

"Would Dad be cool if I gave him the battle bot if he loses?"

Megan started, looking over.

Marcos was growing fast. He'd be taller than her in no time. They were almost at eye level.

"He's not going to lose, Marcos."

The boy hesitated, then nodded.

"Okay."

The bell rang, and Megan caught sight of something she'd never seen before.

Jared's palm was flat against the chain link of the octagon, bracing. His body seemed to tilt slightly left, his lips pulled back in defiance, showing his dark blue mouthguard.

The bleeding was mostly stopped. Not the swelling, though.

He pushed off the wall at the behest of the referee and raised his hands, taking a couple steps to one side, lifting his knees ostentatiously to prove his balance.

Megan felt the panic rise in her throat.

Something was wrong. Jared would never in a million years stop this fight. He'd die in the ring first. But something was wrong.

She looked over at the fight nurse's station again as Jared moved back into the center of the ring, hopping back and forth on the balls of his feet the way he used to…

But not fooling anyone.

The nurse was sitting this time, but seemed concerned. Again, she turned around to speak to someone behind her…

Megan craned her position to see who it was, and saw an unfamiliar face.

And then…a familiar one…

* * *

Fuck.

The clean, slightly padded floor of the octagon wouldn't stop tilting to one side.

Everything else was going perfectly to plan. The dumbass kid had clearly bought the "slow old man" routine, and Jared had definitely taken enough blows to set the trap.

The blurry vision in one eye was annoying. But not unprecedented. And he didn't have a hundred hits left to land. He wasn't going to end this kid with a KO. Just break him in half.

If he could just get the goddamn floor to stay still…

He hopped back and forth on the balls of his feet. Just like in the old days. But now, instead of for show or to disorient his opponent, he was actually trying to steady the ever tilting floor.

It just wouldn't straighten out. And it wobbled back and forth.

It almost made him seasick.

Third bell.

The kid came in hard this time.

Jared blocked and threw each hit, grabbing the kid's wrist and elbow on the last cross punch, before catching the kid's unexpected counter.

The crowd groaned again as Jared took the kid's free elbow directly to the face.

Double fuck.

The tilt of the ring now wobbled more, and he felt his hands begin to shake. He pushed the kid back hard, stepping back and reassessing.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Go time.

Now or never.

The kid, seeing him wobble, came in hard, ducking, weaving, then throwing a hard body blow in hopes of doubling Jared over.

Right into the trap.

With a quickness that rivaled the shutter speed of the cameras, Jared slipped the blow, shot the knee of his reckless, cocky opponent, grabbed it, and leaned back, rolling him hard, locking the leg tightly against his chest and stretching him out.

"Surprise, motherfucker…"

Jared's first words of the day.

He loved the look in the kid's eyes, matching the shocked roar of the crowd as everyone realized at the same moment that Mad Dog Poisson hadn't lost one bit of his edge. That he could still move like some combination of a spider monkey and a bullet train.

St. Croix's eyes bugged as he struggled to break the leg lock.

"Nope…" Jared's voice, gravelly and foreboding, was almost paternal as he calmly asserted dominance over the world's ninth ranked MMA fighter.

"Nope. Not this time, kid."

Jared twisted, feeling his chin shoot up involuntarily. Too focused on the clear path to victory, he ignored the sudden pressure on his neck and rolled his core back, pulling harder as an audible squeal came from his opponent.

Then…finally…the desperate tap.

Jared released the hold and shot to his feet, pumping his fist powerfully into the air as the crowd exploded.

Slapping his hand on his chest–the palm of his hand clutching the numbers 3-2 on his left pectoral, Jared bared his mouthguard viciously, signaling dominance toward the standing, cheering sections of his Marine battalion.

Megan was on her feet, cheering. So was Marcos. Mark was holding JJ back from climbing over the rail. Colonel Wolfe was standing and clapping, laughing visibly at the scene next to him.

Jared allowed himself a laugh of his own as the edges of his vision began to blur.

The octagon floor was still tilted to the left.

And there was a ringing in his ear.

It got louder as he slapped his chest one more time, looking toward Megan.

He moved his hand up to blow her a kiss–a post victory ritual–but found his hand shaking visibly as the haze around the periphery of his vision began to contract.

He felt the mat slap his face and chest as his vision went black.

* * *

A bright light. A really, really, fucking bright light.

"Uhhh…what the fuck…" Jared murmured involuntarily.

"Good," an unfamiliar man's voice poked through the slowly receding haze around Jared's vision. " That brought him out of it. Can you check the other eye, please? I'm going to stimulate his other extremities…"

Jared felt a poke and an uncomfortable scrape on the bottom of his foot, his leg curling involuntarily in protest as the light moved to his other eye.

"What's…what's up…"

"Is he going to be okay?"

Megan's voice. He knew that one, but he couldn't quite tell where it was coming from. Wherever it was, her voice was fighting back a tremolo of fear.

"Nothing so far tells me otherwise,"

A woman's voice, that time. Much closer to his head. She must be the one holding that fucking flashlight.

"We're going to do a full workup, but so far, I think it's okay…" the woman said to Megan.

Jared squinted as the light invaded his hurt left eye. He raised his hand to push it away.

He still had his fight gloves on.

They were still in the ring.

He could start to hear the crowd again, murmuring in trepidation.

He wasn't out for very long.

Good.

"I'm going to have to ask you to let go of me in a second here, Jared, okay?"

His eyes quickly regained focus as he felt the woman's voice was strangely familiar. Beneath the stretch of latex glove, above the instinctive grasp of his hand on her forearm, Jared observed a very fine red hair and a smattering of ginger freckles.

He looked up to see her kneeling next to him, a stethoscope dangling around her neck as she politely pried his fingers off her arm.

"Molly?"

Jared's voice was raspy and incredulous.

She looked down and smiled at him.

"Hey Jared. Long time no see."

"Yeah…what the fuck?"

"Dr. Cohen…" the male voice at Jared's feet interrupted. "Can you check his blood pressure again?"

"Of course, Dr. Manookian…"

Jared craned his neck to see down at his feet, but Molly pushed his forehead back.

"I need you to lie still, Jared. We think you're okay, but hang out for a minute. Do me that favor, okay?"

Jared grunted.

"Where's Meg…"

"I'm right here, baby."

Megan crouched down, her face now in his field of vision.

"Meg…where did Molly come from? Am I dead or something?"

"No," Molly replied, laughing. "Your boyfriend–sorry, your commanding officer–called me. Said they wanted to bring a neurologist in for your fight. Wanted to know if I knew a good one. I said I know the best. And Dr. Manookian here said I should come along when they gave us two ringside tickets. I didn't want to miss your big fight…"

"No shit…"

"Yeah…no shit."

Molly adjusted the cuff and began pumping the ball, placing the stethoscope on the inside of his elbow.

"143 over 90…" Molly called out over her shoulder. She turned toward Megan. "It's high, but that's normal after a fight. It's not dangerous. Just might explain the sudden syncope. Jared, it looked like you might have been experiencing some vertigo at the end there. How is that feeling?"

"Yeah, it was like…everything tilted a little bit. And my ear's ringing."

"Okay. Which one?"

Jared tapped his right ear.

Molly reached back into her bag, pulling out an otoscope and turning his head gently to the left.

"Yep. There it is," she said matter-of-factly as she leaned down to look into the otoscope.

"What? What is it?"

Megan's voice was panicked.

Molly looked up at her. "Ruptured ear drum. But those can heal. We'll follow up with an ENT doc for treatment. But that accounts for the vertigo."

She straightened up, still kneeling next to the patient as Dr. Manookian, a thin Armenian man with a light beard, moved up on his other side next to Megan.

He looked down at Jared.

"Mr. Poisson, I'm the neurologist Dr. Cohen alluded to. I just want you to know we're not seeing any obvious or overt signs that are concerning at this point. I do want to do a full MRI this evening, though. We have the facilities ready thirty minutes away."

"An MRI?" Megan asked. "Any specific reason?"

"Well, your husband just got punched and kicked in the face several times. So, I would call it a healthy abundance of caution."

Molly smiled at Megan, who took a minute to recognize the familiar, gentle sarcasm of her old friend. She managed a smile back.

"Again, Mrs. Poisson, I don't see anything that's scaring me here," the neurologist continued. "There's always a possibility of a mild concussion, but I think the sudden syncope experienced by your husband is more attributable to him standing up quickly after his opponent managed to compress his carotid artery for so long. The rapid shift in blood pressure to the brain just caused a little glitch."

"Happens all the time, Meg." Molly offered. "My patients pass out from standing up too fast, it's really common. Just weird to see it if you're not used to it."

"Compressed artery? He what?" Jared was confused.

"You didn't feel that, honey?" Megan asked. "St Croix actually had his free foot on your neck when you were locking his leg. It looked like he might actually get you to pass out first…you really didn't know?"

Jared shook his head on the mat. "No shit? I really didn't…well…I guess I didn't think about it. I gotta pay attention to that shit…"

"High stress situation," Molly offered, patting him on the shoulder with her latex-covered hands. "But if you're ready to get up, we're ready to help you. I think some guy has to lift your hand in the air for the cameras, or something like that. Gonna be king of the world for a second."

Jared grinned. "Yeah."

He saw the two doctors and Megan stand up. Offering their hands, Jared grasped them as they pulled him slowly to his feet, his wife bracing him as he leaned slightly to the left.

The crowd erupted in a roar as Jared made his way toward his opponent, shaking his hand with his other arm wrapped around Megan's shoulders. The referee stood between them, raising Jared's right arm to a newer, bigger crash of applause and general shout of triumph from the crowd, which didn't fade as he made his way carefully toward the exit from the octagon.

Molly opened the gate for him.

"Thanks Molly…for everything. And…you look good."

"Thanks, Jared," she smiled. "You look like hell."

He laughed as he stepped carefully down the steps, followed by Megan, then Molly, then Dr. Manookian.

At the bottom of the stairs waited two anxious boys, who immediately began jumping up on Jared, loudly telling him their favorite part about his fight. Megan placed her hand on Jared's bare back, steadying him as Phil managed to get his robe up, then around his shoulders and walk the little crowd toward the locker room.

And, of course, walking behind the chattering boys was a tall, silent figure in the US Marine Corps service alpha uniform, two silver bars on either shoulder and a stack of ribbons on the left side of his chest.

With the family well on their way toward the locker room, Mark ventured a look in the other direction.

"Hi Molly."

She smiled gently up at him.

"Hi Mark."

[Crushing]

So just a quick heads up: this chapter is a little different: it sticks in one timeline and shifts perspectives around a single event. I tried to chop it up into a couple chapters the way I usually do, but it just kept breaking up the tension, so this one is a standalone, with a return to split timelines next chapter. Hope you enjoy!

-C

[loyaltoher]

what a 4th of July rollercoaster ride of emotions, fear, doubts, maybe hope, more fear and doubts and the resounding victory….followed by some fear but then followed by love and reconnection. a beautiful story….

[loyaltoher]

oh and by the way….Hi Molly
'

[nnjcpl2002]

Wow! What a fight! I think I was there, for God's sake! Geez, C, you've done it again .

And then you set out the bait with wonderful Molly to the rescue. Pure genius .