Jordan

[Luis]

Simply incredible!

[loyaltoher]

an absolute Opus

[Cuckcop]

Wow Crushing what a phenomenal thing you've done here. I just finished reading your latest chapter having started a few weeks ago. I wish I could have commented much earlier as you were writing this, as many others have, to encourage you along the way. I was convinced early on that you must be a professional writer, but you eventually answered that question. I would love to know what you actually do for a living. I have no experience with expressing psychology/philosophy at the PHD level, or with logistics, or with musical theory; but I do have some familiarity with criminal law and MMA. Your ability to write on these subjects in such an in-depth way is truly impressive and has been an education. On a personal note, I hope you'll consider further delving in to Jordan's exploration into Dr. Shenck's subjects, perhaps even with the Dungeon Master and that group, Those were great chapters. And please don't put David in a chastity cage; he and Jared are CUCKOLD HEROS!

[Guhunkadorn]

Wow....didn't remotely see the backstab coming, but it would seem to me that a slightly more than cursory Q & A with the two dissertation candidates would reveal the true author vs. the plagiarizing POS. In any event it seems Jordan has traced the beginning of her current predicament to David's fetish. We can only guess to the degree which this will jolt her spiritual and moral foundation and her view of David, the fetish and maybe men in general.

[Voyeuronthewall]

Wow....didn't remotely see the backstab coming, but it would seem to me that a slightly more than cursory Q & A with the two dissertation candidates would reveal the true author vs. the plagiarizing POS. In any event it seems Jordan has traced the beginning of her current predicament to David's fetish. We can only guess to the degree which this will jolt her spiritual and moral foundation and her view of David, the fetish and maybe men in general.

Relax mate. I'm going to bet that Patrick is not a POS, simply because he doesn't have the brains for something like that. If anything, Jordan has sabotaged her own work by meddling with Patrick's dissertation. After all, she does have a tendency to do things involuntarily.

[Crushing]

"It's gonna be okay, Jojo…"

David pursed his lips and furrowed his brow painfully as his wife desperately clung to her father.

Reverend Jack Simms hadn't even gotten all the way through the door. He'd managed to drop his roller bag, but still had a shoulder bag hanging off one shoulder as Jordan threw her arms around his neck and began to sob.

He shushed her gently, patting her back.

"It's okay…let it out…It's okay…"

David was surprised at how relieved he felt when the Reverend Simms showed up. Not that they had anything approaching a tense relationship. Jack Simms had been nothing but kind and welcoming to David, hoping his son in law would eventually view him as the caring, supportive father that he never had.

But David couldn't help it. He was cagey around father figures.

But, the reinforcement was welcome. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to calm Jordan down on his own.

Sure, she was happy to see him. Thrilled, even. She was effusively grateful that he had cut his trip short to come home and support her.

While not fully realizing the mess he made by leaving in the middle of a full port revamp.

What a disaster that could have been. Thankfully, after he made the second call to Arne, Maersk's VP of logistics was surprisingly understanding. He flew in personally as David was flying out–to oversee what David was implementing. They'd been texting regularly, and he seemed amenable to the inconvenience. He seemed to have things in hand now. Said they'd work out the details when he was ready to come back.

So David wasn't as worried about work as he might otherwise have been.

But Jordan was…not herself. She clung to him like he was a sturdy branch jutting out of a thousand foot cliff.

She was weirdly solicitous–asking him several dozen times a day what she could do for him. Always busy with little self-imposed tasks.

Restless.

Anxious.

And each night, they had made desperate, almost panicked love. Jordan focused entirely on him, all but disregarding her own pleasure.

For David, that desperate coupling was actually a little uncanny. Akin to fighting some kind of amorphous mythical monster. An unnamed, unnameable horror managed to squeeze in the space between the two of them, and Jordan wordlessly clawed her way back toward her husband using the charms of her body.

So sex was more…symbolic than organic. The union of their bodies representing some desperate attempt to kill the beast between them…

Even though David saw neither reason nor need for any distance between them.

Sure, she was upset. Hurt, even. And why wouldn't she be? This little controversy threatened to stain her career before it even got started.

But this whole fiasco seemed massively overblown to David. Incredibly easy to disprove. He'd been online researching ways to do an objective forensic analysis of her work in progress. Even asked around some forums about an independent consultant they could hire to provide the service. It seemed like a straightforward fix, really. Hire a third party analyst, give them full access, hand over the report to the committee, show them hard proof of what anyone who knew Jordan already knew. She had done all of the work, and Patrick had done none of it.

Boom. Fix.

Although, it didn't fix the embarrassment. The hurt.

She’d been hurt before. That, David could handle. He had gotten good at soothing the little things. A mean comment from a parishioner after a less than perfect musical interlude, or a disappointing haul of student reviews at the end of a semester. Little things that bruised her ego, made her question herself. He’d reassure her, get her small gifts and considerations, make her feel seen and loved until the smile came back to her face.

It never took too long.

But this time, she had not been hurt.

She had been betrayed.

And that betrayal caused a rupture in Jordan that David hadn't seen before. A distortion in her way of seeing the world and her place in it–causing a funhouse mirror effect. Jordan now coped by fixating on very specific, hyper-moralistic assumptions about herself. About what happened and what had to happen now.

In particular, she acutely felt herself to be the perpetrator rather than the victim of the whole catastrophe.

In her mind, she was convinced that David was the victim, and she was the villain.

While in David's mind, he was far more an unaffected bystander than anything else.

But she could not be dissuaded from her self-accusatory villain story. The one where she had sabotaged her marriage and career at the same time out of sheer moral depravity. And so she was doing the only road to redemption was a total war with the only person she saw as capable of destroying her marriage: herself.

David knew her well enough to track her instincts, and had consistently attempted to untangle the whole mess for her, but he was met with shocking resistance. The love notes he left her were stuffed away out of sight. The chocolates and candies he got her were quietly foisted off on the church girls' group.

She had made up her mind. She was an awful person, and she didn't deserve anyone's love, much less anything good in the world.

After offering Reverend Simms coffee and watching him settle onto the couch, David breathed a sigh of relief and slipped into the kitchen to prepare it. He was even more relieved on his return to the living room to see his wife clutching her father’s elbow and resting her cheek on his shoulder.

She was at rest.

At least for now.

Her posture had relaxed noticeably. She was breathing deeply.

Finally.

"How was India?"

"Pardon?" David asked.

"You just got back from a trip to India, right?" Reverend Simms sipped his coffee as David sat on the chair perpendicular.

"The subcontinent, yes, but actually Bangladesh."

He nodded, setting his coffee on a coaster on the end table.

"I apologize. My mistake."

"No problem," David leaned back into his chair.

"So how was it?"

"Busy," David exhaled at the memory. "Ongoing, actually. My boss flew in from Denmark to oversee some changes we had to make."

"Big changes?"

"Yeah. We're adding another crane and track line. The infrastructure was in place, just had to clear out some junk and put the pieces together. But if it all works out, this could change…a lot of things for the port. Maybe the region."

"Wow," Reverend Simms was impressed. "You're a big deal now, David."

He smiled genuinely.

David shrugged. "Just doing a job."

"He is a big deal," Jordan interjected meekly, her cheek still resting on her father's shoulder. "David fixes big things wherever he goes. He's a hero."

Her voice was proud, but monotone.

"I wish I could fix this," David gestured vaguely at the room, indicating Jordan's conundrum.

"I think this is going to fix itself, honestly," Reverend Simms said confidently. "It seems like a little looking into both students' work and history will bring everything to light, and things will fall where they should."

David watched Jordan wince as she heard the words:

Bring everything to light…

"That's very much how I see it," David nodded. "Still, I get why it's so upsetting. It's beyond frustrating to have to endure something like this at this stage. She's worked herself to the bone for years. Our whole married life, and longer."

"You have no idea how much longer," Reverend Simms chuckled. "I used to overhear her passionately defending philosophical positions to an imaginary committee in the parish office. She was what…ten? Maybe eleven?"

He turned his head toward his daughter, but she didn't lift her head, just shrugged, the barest hint of a smile eking onto her face before vanishing.

"Anyway, she's been building toward this forever. We didn't know she'd be an athlete, or a musician. We of course hoped she'd meet a nice man and get married. Thank God all of those things happened, just blessings that fell out of the sky. But we never doubted she'd be a brilliant academic. That was in the cards when she started speaking in full sentences a full year before her cousins. That part was never in question."

He tilted his head to plant an affectionate kiss on the top of her head.

"And it still isn't, Jojo," he continued, his voice projecting confidence. "This is just a hiccup, then you're on to a great career."

David watched Jordan's arms clutch her father's elbow a little tighter.

She had done the same thing to David the morning after his late arrival from Bangladesh. She hadn't wanted to leave the house, and she had no appetite. She didn't answer any of his suggestions with any enthusiasm.

She just wanted to hold and be held. So that's what they did for the first day in its entirety.

It was definitely different. While she was affectionate, it really wasn't like Jordan to be…for lack of a better word…clingy.

And once again, a strange corollary to that clinginess was her proactivity–even eagerness–to have sex. Although it wasn't out of genuine desire or arousal.

Really, it felt like overcompensation.

Maybe even duty.

It was good, of course. It was with Jordan–how could it be otherwise? She was attentive, and deployed her affections and gestures in a way that she knew her husband loved.

But she seemed to view the goal of their intimacy as something beyond the intimacy itself. Reclaiming the marriage, maybe? Reassuring herself of her own desirability after being tarnished? Or maybe fixing the score..evening up or exceeding the number of couplings with those she had shared with Patrick over the last handful of weeks? Maybe before everything went haywire?

It was hard to tell.

And when she got the text message from her father that he was going to drive down that afternoon, she began overcompensating for him, too. She had busted out her Bible and began devouring it. In true Jordan fashion, she ripped through the tome at incredible speed–finishing more than half the Old Testament between her father's first text late in the morning and his arrival late in the afternoon.

Yes, Jordan was trying very, very hard to be a good Christian.

A good daughter, a good wife.

A good, godly woman.

And it wasn't an affectation, either. David had to concede this as he watched her frantic, overcompensating behavior unfolding. It was genuine. In its way.

It was more like…aggressively trying to reconcile with the virtuous half of her personality. The happy church wife that she had never really abandoned. Even in the midst of their most blatantly transgressive explorations–with Mark, and later, with Patrick–Jordan had vigorously attempted to reconcile her desire and behavior within her Christian identity, rather than rejecting and replacing it, or even cultivating a space outside of it.

She seemed to be making progress, too. The anxiety had been dissipating as she got more comfortable with both men. As the visits became more regular.

Even though she made passing references to David at times about the jarring effect that nagged her. She would occasionally remark that she felt like two people trapped in one body–each arguing with and judging the other.

Now it seemed like she was convinced that the only way to be the good church wife to David was to kill the other girl. Or at least shut down her voice. Permanently.

"How are you two doing?"

Reverend Simms' voice interrupted David's analysis.

"We're…good. Just looking at…you know…next steps." David responded awkwardly.

"I know it must be hard to be apart so much. Especially at your age."

David shrugged. "It's not ideal. But this stage or our careers…it's setting us up for some real stability…"

"I know all that," Reverend Simms put up a hand to signal he didn't need to hear David's defense of their choices. "You work hard, Jojo works hard. You two are a power couple, building out a foundation for the future. But it's hard. And it's okay to just…know that."

David nodded, unsure of how to respond.

"It is hard, sometimes." Jordan admitted quietly, her head still resting on her father's shoulder.

"Mom and I have never been apart for more than a week," he admitted. "And every time we've hated it. There's something about it…when you find your person. You just want to have your missing piece there with you. All the time. One flesh, and all that. Like Aristophanes' myth, right Jojo?"

"Or Genesis…" Jordan seemed eager to deflect.

"Aristophanes?" David asked.

Reverend Simms grinned playfully.

"Tell him, Jojo."

Jordan began to smile, then buried her face behind her father's shoulder.

"There it is…she's trying not to laugh…"

"Stop it…" Jordan suppressed a giggle.

"Tell him, Jojo. Tell him about the missing piece."

She sighed indignantly, finally allowing a small smile as she turned her head to face her husband again.

"Fine…"

"There she is…" Reverend Simms' voice was impish, encouraging Jordan to cut loose and be silly.

"So…Plato. The Greek philosopher, right?" Jordan asked, looking at David.

David nodded. "Yeah."

"So Plato wrote this thing called the Symposium. And it's basically like this banquet where Socrates and his friends are drinking wine and getting…pretty drunk. Right?"

"Okay," David said, starting to smile himself. "That's the great philosopher Socrates? Getting drunk?"

"Exactly," Jordan said, her smile widening. "So they decide they're going to have this contest, where they all give a speech praising the god of love. So they can decide what love actually is. Define it once and for all, you know? Classic Socrates stuff."

"Right," David said.

"So…one of the guys is Aristophanes. And he was a real historical guy, he wrote comedy plays at the time. So he gives this speech, and it's super funny, where he makes up this little creation myth about love. He says that when the gods made humans, they actually made them with like…two heads and four arms and four legs, and every original human was basically two humans glued together, and they would roll around like donuts with arms and legs and heads and stuff."

"Okay," David's smile grew, a chuckle accenting his response.

"So I read the Symposium when I was…six?"

Jordan wasn't exactly sure when she first read it.

"Five." Reverend Simms corrected her. "It was the day after Christmas, you were five…" he turned to David. "She finished all the books her grandparents got her on Christmas night, and she got bored, so she just dove into my office. I was…a little scandalized to see her pick up that particular one. Luckily, she was a little young to pick up on…all of it."

"Yeah…" Jordan giggled. "I mean…I just remember laughing really hard at this little myth. The visual, you know? People glued together and rolling around like donuts."

"Yeah, it's funny," David agreed.

"Don't stop there," Reverend Simms encouraged.

"So…anyway, the myth he tells is basically to explain love," Jordan explained. "That the humans were like…pulled apart. Into what we are now, with two hands and two feet and one head. But we actually belong together. So we feel anxiety because we need our missing piece to feel right. To feel whole."

"And that's physical togetherness," Reverend Simms added. "It's not just…the idea of a relationship. That people feel right when they're actually near, or with each other. It's about intimacy. Of all kinds. That it can only happen when we're…together."

He gestured by interlacing his fingers to emphasize his point.

"So…when we're apart, there comes that hurt again," he continued. "Especially after we've found our missing piece, and then we're separated from them. We just…don't have them. It's one thing to be looking. That's one kind of pain. But to know what they are, where they are, and just not be with them? That's torture. Monica and I are so grateful…Jordan looked all through her undergrad, and was lucky to find her missing piece in grad school. We weren't sure she'd ever find a guy good enough for her."

David blushed in spite of himself. Jordan smiled at him.

"Yeah. I did. I found my missing piece."

"That's a fun story," David conceded.

"It gets even weirder…" Jordan continued. "I mean, there are all these questions that follow reading Aristophanes' speech. It's like…whose missing piece is different than the others? Did everyone get ripped apart in the same way? Does this explain all types of love, or just one kind? Because, I mean…the whole context of the Symposium is actually more about like…homosexual love between men. With…I guess we should say…morally questionable age gaps…"

"That's the part I was glad you didn't pick up on when you were…geez…mid Kindergarten?" Reverend Simms turned to his oldest daughter. "Your mother was about to kill me when you started talking about it at the dinner table. We were prepared to keep knives and scissors out of reach of our kids. But with this one…"

He gestured toward Jordan playfully.

"With this one, I had to think hard about what books she could reach without moving my chair around to stand on. Which also soon became a problem…"

"I liked the story…" Jordan shrugged. "It was funny. And sweet, in a sad way."

"It is funny," David agreed. "I should read that."

"It's a wild ride, honey," Jordan giggled, sitting upright for the first time.

She seemed to feel a little better. David seized the opportunity of the slightly brighter look in his wife's face.

"I'm feeling like…Curry Cottage," David said suddenly. "You hungry, Jack?"

Reverend Simms turned to Jordan, who was giving David the 'not fair…' look at identifying her favorite takeout place to bribe her out of her slump.

"Yeah…that sounds good, actually," he said, squeezing his daughter's shoulder. "That sound good to you, Jojo? I'll drive…"

* * *

Slap.

The unmistakable sound of one hand clapping.

A specific hand–large, calloused, smacking a bare buttock in the next room.

A grateful whimper chased it.

Mark had grown accustomed to such sounds. His door was cracked, allowing a small amount of light to sliver into the room, joining the small, soft glow of the reading light from the guest room nightstand..

"Try again."

The low, menacing, slightly muffled voice of Colonel Chen.

Sounded like…he was in the kitchen this time. With whoever-it-was-tonight bent over the counter to be spanked.

He called it "training."

Having been on the receiving end of an entirely different genre of Colonel Chen's trainings, Mark could only guess what was endured by the women who found themselves naked and bent under his hand.

Not just endured, though.

Desired.

Sought out, even.

Mark couldn't wrap his head around it.

Slap.

This one was harder. The whimper that followed was louder, but still had the ring of grateful relief to it.

"Thank you, sir…"

The breathy rejoinder invited a third, hearty slap. And another hot whimper.

Mark shook his head to himself. He had managed to tune out his temporary roommate's activities thus far that evening by finishing up the book he was reading. But now, setting it down on the nightstand, he would need another. Either that or more alcohol, which would require walking past Chen in the kitchen while he was actively disciplining some woman he'd never met before.

He remembered seeing a copy of Norman Mailer's Naked and the Dead in Chen's study, which he hadn't gotten around to reading yet.

He wouldn't have to walk past Chen. But…there would be at least one naked woman in the study, too.

It was a weird house.

At least the ones in the study just knelt quietly. He could slip in and out. Minimize the awkwardness.

He grunted as he sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. Stepping quietly to the door, he eased it open before tiptoeing across the hall, seeing a pair of exposed, reddening woman's buttocks sticking up from the countertop at the end of the hall.

Mark sidestepped through the half-cracked door to Colonel Chen's study. He made his way to the bookcase, glancing briefly over toward the couch to see who else was in there.

Tonight it was an ivory skinned woman, who had tensed quickly into the proper kneeling posture when Mark had unexpectedly entered the room.

She was blushing–caught lapsing in her exercise.

Apparently they relaxed a bit when they thought Chen was busy.

No matter, Mark thought as he looked up at the shelf, trying to locate the novel. Finding it near the top shelf, he reached up to pull it down, looking over at the woman again.

Whoever she was, she was attractive.

Thin. Athletic–or at least it looked like she worked out. Toned arms, thin hands resting obediently between strong, lean thighs. Small, perky breasts. Strawberry blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Her eye color was inaccessible, her eyes holding steady, pointed to the ground in front of her. A barely perceptible dusting of freckles over her shoulders…

Mark would guess she was in her late twenties, but couldn't know for sure. A sudden curiosity struck him, the booze in his system greasing it.

"Hey. Do you talk?"

Mark had never ventured to speak directly to one of Chen's women before. It never occurred to him to do it. Or ask if it was allowed.

Chen did, of course. Always crisp, even toned orders or menacing correctives. But he had just awkwardly tried to avoid them.

The woman started, clearly shaken that she had been addressed directly. Her shoulders tensed, her head raising slightly without lifting her chin.

"Yes…Yes, sir."

"You don't have to do the 'sir' thing with me. I'm just Mark."

"Any man in the house is sir…"

Her voice shook.

"Oh," Mark answered. "So, that's like…a rule or something?"

The woman nodded, still looking down. "Any man in the house carries the will of the Master. Any of those here to serve the will of the Master will serve any man in the house."

Mark hesitated.

"Ummm, okay."

He turned to walk out, then stopped himself, curious.

"Do you have a name?"

The woman tensed again.

"Yes, sir. Just…not in the Master's house."

"What's your name? Out of the house, I mean?"

She hesitated.

"Kelsey."

Mark nodded, suddenly interested.

"What brings you here tonight, Kelsey?"

Her answers began to come more readily. She seemed to become more confident that she was passing whatever test this was.

"I came to serve the will of the Master."

"Do you come here often?"

She shook her head. "This is my second time."

"Have you served him before?"

"This is my second time," she repeated.

"And you do whatever he says?"

"Yes, sir."

Mark paused.

"Have you had sex with him?"

She hesitated.

"He took me…a few months ago. In my husband's bed."

"So he came to your house?"

"Yes, sir. I…we invited him. I chose to serve him after…that."

"So it was good?"

He saw a slight smile break on her meek face. She didn't answer, but her skin began to flush.

Mark changed the subject.

"You said you're married. What's your husband's name?"

"Ryan."

"Ryan, huh. Do you work?"

She nodded meekly. "I'm a teacher."

"Interesting. What do you teach?"

"Science. Middle school."

"Interesting."

Mark started to turn away again, but was struck by her ivory features. She definitely fit Chen's statue-esque preference. Her skin was smooth. Her breasts were soft, but perky. Her nipples were small and stiff. In a strikingly Chen-esque way, her body fit right in with the weird decor in the study.

So what…these women just kneeled here for sixteen hours and then went home?

"What do you do here?" Mark asked. "I mean, when you come here, what do you do?" He asked diplomatically.

"The Master's will."

"Do you just hang out in here? Or like, clean stuff?"

"If that is the Master's will."

"Do you fuck him?"

He saw the flush begin to deepen on her pale skin.

She didn't answer. Didn't move.

He stepped closer, squatting down to look into her face. She didn't raise her eyes to meet him, carefully holding them down to the floor.

"Kelsey. Do you fuck the Master?"

Her breath quickened. Finally:

"The Master owns my body. If he wishes to take me, I am his."

Mark paused, thinking about the answer. Out of curiosity, he reached out and lightly touched the edge of her shoulder.

It was noticeably warm. Almost feverish.

"Is that okay?" He asked, gently stroking the curve of her shoulder.

She nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."

"So you serve any man in the Master's house?

"Yes, sir."

"So…you'll do whatever I want?"

"Of course, sir."

The flush deepened further. The reddening made the light dusting of freckles on her shoulder pop slightly…and a few more appear at the top of her chest.

It was a familiar skin tone. And body type…

Mark cocked his head, looking down at the nude, kneeling female form in front of him. Clearly these women were here voluntarily. They behaved as they were told, and seemed to take pleasure in play-acting like slaves. The more real the pretend subjugation, the more eager they seemed to be.

Her flushed body began to tremble under his gaze, although her own eyes never left the floor.

Mark didn't actually know for sure, but he got the sense that this encounter was surprising her. That Kelsey had not anticipated any sexual contact when she reported to her post that night.

That this was a welcome–and exciting–surprise.

Mark also became aware of his own arousal.

Damned if this weird-ass situation didn't have some kind of effect on him.

He set the book down on the end table behind Kelsey, then stood in front of her.

"Can I touch your hair, Kelsey?"

Another meek nod.

He gently slipped his fingers into the smooth run of her hair.

"Kelsey."

"Yes, sir…" Now her voice trembled, the flush in her cheeks spreading to her neck.

The resemblance was even more clear now. Molly's cheeks used to flush like that. Especially if he had been teasing her for a while…

"Kelsey, you seem like you want this." He squeezed her ponytail lightly before flicking it playfully.

A small smile broke on her lips before returning to solemn attention.

His fingertips curled behind her ear, then traced a slow line down the side of her neck before traveling down, lightly grazing her slender collarbone.

"Tell me you want this, Kelsey."

More trembling.

"I want the will of the Master…"

Mark looked down her body.

Even more than before, her small nipples stood out erect from her perky breasts.

He let his hand fall gently down her front, tracing a lazy line over her chest, curling under the bulb of her left breast before lightly pinching her nipple.

"You're very pretty, Kelsey."

The flush of her skin seemed to pulse for a moment. Or maybe it was just a shift in the light from a sharp intake of breath. Mark couldn't tell, but her alabaster skin was now tinted pink from her forehead to the upper curve of her breasts.

He felt his own breath catching. Her skin was so smooth. And so warm.

And he hadn't…

Since Meg…

Since before that night…

Mark stood up, looking over his shoulder toward the open door.

The other woman was panting and moaning down the hall. Chen was clearly busy. And would be for a while.

He unzipped his pants.

"Open your mouth, Kelsey…"

* * *

"I can see it. Right there, under the bed by the window. Go get it."

JJ scrambled up on the unmade bed and tumbled over the other side before popping back up, holding the little lego man triumphantly over his head.

"Make sure he gets back in the box," Mark said, zipping up his own suitcase. "We're not leaving anything behind. Marcos, that bed looks good."

"Thanks…" The older boy was tucking the corners neatly as the adjoining door opened. Megan walked in, wearing mom jeans and a black Led Zeppelin T-shirt.

"Good morning, buddy. Ooooh, making the bed for the housekeeper?" Megan asked, patting Marcos on the shoulder.

"Uncle Mark says we make the bed anyway. For practice."

"For discipline," Mark corrected him. "Practice means we're trying to do it better. Discipline means we're trying to be better."

Marcos rolled his eyes, but didn't stop tucking it in neatly.

He clearly didn't mind. It was obvious he liked routines and nice, tidy spaces.

Contrast that with the other queen bed, where JJ was rolling around wildly in the disordered, rumpled bedding. That half of the hotel room looked like a foxhole that had been blown apart by an artillery shell.

"JJ. Make the bed," Mark's voice was stern. JJ pouted, extracting himself from the covers before complying.

Mark turned back toward Megan. "Jared okay?"

Megan nodded. "Slept like a baby. Gave him some Tylenol and sent him to grab breakfast. He'll meet us at the car."

"Good." Mark nodded. "We're about ready to go here." He paused, looking up at her face.

Fresh. Bright. A good night's sleep, a warm shower. She was a beautiful woman at any hour of the day.

"I like your earrings."

"Thanks…" Megan half-smiled, looking away at the compliment. "Okay, boys. Get your stuff. JJ, you rode up with Uncle Mark, so Marcos gets to ride back in the 4Runner."

"Can't we both ride with him?" JJ whined.

"No…" Marcos answered sharply. "It's my turn."

"That was the deal," Megan reminded him, pointing at his suitcase. "Now get your stuff loaded up. Scoot. Now."

The boys picked up their bags and began heading to the door. Mark stopped Marcos, handing him his keys.

"Hey bud. Make sure it's in neutral with the e-brake on like it should be, and you can start the 4Runner for me."

"Really?" His eyes lit up.

"Yep. Just gonna do a last pass, and I'm right behind you. Just make sure your brother doesn't get lost on the way. You're gonna be patrol leader for this one."

"Okay!" He took off out the door after his little brother.

The door closed behind the boys.

A moment passed, and Megan stepped in front of Mark.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Mark raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Just checking. After, you know. Seeing Molly. After all this time."

"Oh, that's fine," Mark said casually. "I mean…we talked on the phone before. And it was good to catch up. And…get a little closure, I guess."

Megan nodded in understanding, her milk chocolate eyes turning wistful. "Closure?"

"Yeah."

She pursed her lips and nodded again. Her arms lifted around his neck, her body leaning into his. He reflexively wrapped his arms around her back and squeezed her gently.

They held each other quietly.

"I don't like that you don't have anyone to come home to."

Megan's voice was muffled in his chest.

"I'm fine, Meg. Really."

He felt her shake her head gently, her nose rubbing against his pectoral.

"Nu-uh."

"Eloquent…" Mark quipped back. "They teach you that in law school?"

Megan giggled.

"Well, you know me."

She pulled back, looking up again.

"I just…you did so much to make this work. I hate that I can't make you feel better. I…I miss being your medicine."

Mark stared carefully down into her eyes before leaning in. She lifted her face to kiss him.

It was tender. Sincere.

Nourishing…

He broke the kiss gently, looking into her eyes again.

"I'm fine, Meg. I promise. Charlie Company's got all my attention. I'm busy. I'm happy. Well cared for."

Megan looked up and smiled sadly.

"Bullshit."

She patted his cheek before turning and grabbing her bag and looking over her shoulder and disappearing out the hotel room door.

"Jared's got breakfast for us. And Marcos is going to want to talk about Brian Jacques books for the whole drive home. So, you know…we should go. Don't want to keep him waiting…"

* * *

"Coffee."

Chen's singular directive to his former subordinate, pointing Mark toward a hot cup, freshly poured.

Seated in a bathrobe at the center island with his own steaming cup and a grapefruit, he was flipping through a slim file of gear lists and maps.

A mission profile. It hadn't been more than a couple months before Mark had been handed those himself.

"You sleep okay?"

"Yeah, actually."

"Sounds like you got a piece of the new girl."

Mark cringed.

He didn't know what he was thinking. He was a few beers in, bored. She had some slight resemblance to Molly…she was clearly game…it had been a while…

There was really no excuse.

But yeah. He got a piece of her.

"Um. Yeah. Sorry about that."

The colonel flipped a page, studying the back side.

"Don't apologize. I think you both needed it. And she was pretty warm. About ready to pop, actually. Tough to resist that."

"Is she still here?"

Chen shook his head. "Nope. Left an hour ago. But don't worry, kid. You did great. And she's the new girl. She got a treat–usually they don't get that for a month or so into their training. Depending on…well, a couple factors…"

"She said she was married."

"Yep." Chen's answer was flat and factual. Perfunctory.

Mark didn't know how to respond.

"Guilty conscience?" Chen asked.

Mark shrugged.

"Trust me, he's into it as much as she is." He flipped to the next page before taking another sip of coffee. "Nice young couple. She teaches middle school. He's a physical therapist." He clicked his tongue absent mindedly. "Just a nice young couple. Going on a little journey together."

"Oh." Mark didn't know how to respond.

"What, you worried about breaking up a marriage?"

"Not really. Honestly, I keep accidentally fucking married women whose husbands are into it. It's weird."

"Accidentally?"

Mark shrugged.

Chen laughed, letting the paper fall flat against the countertop briefly. He looked over at Mark, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Accidentaly…Shit, Rein…"

He shook his head again, looking back down at his work.

"You want to know why you keep fucking married women?"

Mark shrugged again. "Not really."

Chen chuckled again, fingering the small sheaf of papers before lifting the top one again.

"I do want to know…uh…what, um, why…"

Chen didn't look up. "Why they come here? And do all the shit they do?"

"Yeah. I mean, I guess." Mark admitted. "I mean…she was really into it. Last night, I mean. Like…super, super into it."

"Yep."

"Like…I don't think I've ever experienced it that…wet. At the beginning, I mean."

"Yep."

They sat in silence for a moment. Chen seemed distracted by his work, so Mark took a while to prod further.

"So…"

"People want a place, Rein," Chen began to explain. "They want a place in the world. Not just literally, physically, but socially. Even metaphorically. Metaphysically. Spiritually, if you take that term. A sense of where they belong. A place where they know they contribute and fulfill a need, and where their needs are met in turn. Everybody needs that. Everybody.

Mark was interested. And not yet drunk enough to belligerently steer the conversation off the rails. He reached across the counter to grab a bowl, a knife, and a grapefruit. He cut the grapefruit in half, then reached for a spoon after replacing the knife.

"A firm place is a key to identity," Chen continued after a moment without looking up. "Key to confidence. To success in pretty much anything. And a firm place is hard to find. It's a slippery world out there."

"So you give them a place?"

Chen took another sip of coffee, and turned another page. He turned this one sideways, carefully reviewing a small map. A map of an island somewhere, looked like.

"Prior to the Age of Enlightenment, everybody had a place," he explained.

Mark sat up. This conversation was more his speed. A side of Chen he actually liked. The well-read, thinking man who rarely said more than a few words. Suddenly he would become prolific and articulate. Mark preferred him this way.

"Everyone's place wasn't set in stone, necessarily but it was pretty close," he explained. "Society was rigidly structured into set classes, and it took a major event to create any mobility. Nobles were nobles by birth. So were kings, and so were peasants. That's the vast, vast majority of human history. And pre-history, too, probably. Giving everyone a place was the first and most basic step to create any kind of social order, any sense of shared safety. It's the most primitive social contract imaginable."

"Like, masters and slaves?"

"That's one arrangement. There are all sorts of variations of it, though. Lords and serfs, merchants with employees, magistrates with subjects, you name it. The upside of it is that it did have the effect of creating order. Order of a certain kind, anyway. The downside of it is, basically no one had any say in their place. To challenge your place was to put your life on the line."

"Like knights doing crazy shit to get land grants?"

"And eventually enter the nobility, yes. Exactly. Or women marrying into other tribes or families to maximize the advantage of their own. But even that was still playing on terms that weren't their own. They didn't have a choice. Or, in some cases, some families just straight up forging genealogies to fake their way into higher status. What it all amounts to is–there wasn't a whole lot of at-will social mobility. No way to carve out your own place in the world."

"So…"

"So, at some point society shifted. Placed a larger and larger emphasis on personal freedom. Individual rights. The state got reordered to structure society around those things. Over centuries, we figured out how to develop a new basis for social order. Around economics. And that economic order requires a maximum amount of mobility in order to allocate talent and skill where it works most efficiently within the system. Maximize mobility, maximize choice, and maximize efficiency to everyone's benefit. But…"

Chen pointed to Mark without looking up from the map, directing him to finish the thought.

"Maximize mobility, minimize the ability to have a firm place laid out for you. People are rootless."

"Bingo, kid." He snapped his fingers.

"So you what…give them a place?"

"Well, like I said, place is the basis for identity, for confidence, and for success. Some people really prefer to use whatever economic or social freedom they have to define their own place, but they still define that place in social terms. They exist within a social system–a company, a family, a town. They're husbands, wives, friends. They're fans of this team, manager of that company, lead architect on some project, doctor in this hospital, whatever. Name a place, and what you're actually doing is naming a series of relationships that form a system. But in many of those cases, it's a very tenuous place. Very uncertain. People can be replaced, made obsolete, or just forced out into something else. Or just abandoned entirely. And some people are totally helpless in the face of that."

Mark paused. "So some people don't want to define their own place?"

"Yes and no," Chen explained, flipping the page again before taking a spoon of grapefruit. "On the one hand, yes, some people have a deep drive to self-define, and carve out their own place in the world. But others won't accept it unless it's either carved out for them, or at the very least someone in authority leads them to it."

"So what, like, a mentor or a teacher?"

"In some cases. But that's…not really what's happening here in my house. What happens here is deeper. More symbolic. More primal, really. It's more like…some people want their place to be absolutely rock solid. It's a deep need. Again…think of place in a primal sense. Down to the marrow of the bones. The only way to know that kind of place is rock solid is to stress test the hell out of it. Burn away everything other than that relationship or identity. Then that relationship, the only thing that's left, comes back to form the foundation of who they are. Like a kind of…place for their place. For lack of a better term."

"That's pretty abstract."

Chen grunted. "Until it's not."

"So what," Mark's tone became flippant, defensive at the fact that he was beginning to understand Chen's rationale. "What…you fuck them and whip them and they become lawyers and doctors or something?"

Chen grunted in disappointment.

"Don't be obtuse, Rein. You're smarter than that."

He took another sip of coffee.

"No. Most of them already have some semblance of their place. Like Kelsey, the schoolteacher who you met last night. They're on their way, but they haven't arrived. And they haven't arrived because they don't have a firm spot in their ego to put their place. Too much extra shit–insecurities, fears, jealousies, social expectations, you name it. Once they find a way to burn all that out, it clears the way for the rest of who they are. Or who they are struggling to become."

"That sounds dumb as hell. And dangerous."

"It does, a little bit. And it is. Don't get me wrong, there. But think about everything I said, and tell me how Marine Corps Basic Training doesn't fit that definition to a T."

Mark's brow furrowed in surprise. Burning away everything in the ego to make room for a new identity. Doing so by fierce discipline. By aggressively destabilizing the personality so that a new, fully functioning identity can form in its place…

He thought quietly for a minute, sipping his own coffee as Chen continued to peruse the last pages of his morning file.

"You don't understand how much people crave a firm place until you've had yours slip away under your feet," Chen said gravely. "Something you learned before. When you joined up. But that was kids' stuff. You're about to learn it again, kid. Only it's big leagues now."

Mark squinted incredulously. "So what…the Corps is just…a place for everyone's place?"

"Not so simple. No, what the Corps is is a regimented superstructure to do two things simultaneously. First, we give everyone a sense of place by redefining their individual identities in the context of the group's needs. To do that, we haze the ever loving shit out of every recruit, burning away absolutely everything we can inside their ego, then clear out the leftover space and rebuild a new man. A team player. An amoral automaton–a cold-blooded killer when the context demands it.

"Then, second, we take the best and brightest of them, and we bring them along. Lift them up, build them up, have them define their own place where they clearly belong, within the context of the larger sense of place. Not as rock-solid members of a unit, but in command of it. A little bit at a time. Not all of them, of course. Just the ones who have been searching for their natural place as commanders."

Mark paused again.

What Chen said made some sense. It was coherent. A little oversimplified, but it kind of made sense. In a Chen sort of way.

"So burn away the ego, rebuild the robot-killer, then mentor them until they can conquer the world?"

"If that's their place."

Mark nodded, half-disgusted, half-intrigued.

"So how does this translate to…"

"Kelsey?"

"And the others. How many come through here, by the way? I've literally lost count."

"About two dozen total. Not all regulars. And they come and go."

"Jesus."

Now it was Chen's turn to shrug.

"Kelsey, like most of the women here, is on the way to finding her place. In that process, her body has discovered a powerful part of her mind. A deep, ancient, primal part of her identity that her upbringing tried its damndest to suppress. Once she unlocks it, she'll be a new woman."

"A part of her mind?"

Chen nodded. "Yep. The part of her mind that craves direction. Generally in the training we call it submission, but we can call it any number of things, it would all be the same. She finds fulfillment in being told what to do. It stimulates a very deep part of her, and it helps her define her place. It's not like she needs it to function. She's quite good at her day job. She's a good wife, she volunteers in her community. She has an important job. But teaching middle schoolers…is not easy. Not good for the ego, either. Her confidence in her place is challenged every day. She and her husband are happy, but she stresses constantly under the professional strain. Sex with her husband helps relax her, but he's…not able to give her direction."

"So she's insecure?"

"Incredibly. Many women are. Most are crippled by it, really, in one way or another. I mean, we expect them to be all things all the time. Wives, moms, bosses, subordinates, sex kittens, nuns, fun and responsible at the same time. How could they not go crazy with the contradictions? How could they not crumble under the insecurity of failing at some bullshit role we demand they play perfectly?"

Mark furrowed his brow again.

He'd have to think about that.

"So she feels like she has a place when…"

"When I make it absolutely clear that I don't need her to be all things all the time. I need her to be one thing while she's here. Obedient. That's all. It's simple, and it's totalizing. I strip away literally everything about her except that sense of place, and I make absolutely clear that she belongs in that place through extensive discipline and…well…reward. In the process, a lot of that excess shit in her ego starts to burn away. Look at it this way–when she's in this house, she's literally naked and has no will of her own. And that is profoundly comforting to her. When she's used, she feels powerfully validated. In addition to…getting some things physically she can't get from her husband."

"Why do they come to you, though? Specifically?" Mark asked.

His first earnest question of the day.

Chen set down the last page of his morning briefing.

"Because It's my place to command."

"And they like being bossed around?"

Chen shook his head sadly.

"Rein…you know better than that. You don't just command. Remember: Step one is burning away the ego-all the residual trash holding them back. But step two is bringing them along. You teach them their place. You affirm their place. Validate it. Protect it. Nurture it. And all along, as they gain comfort and mastery in that place, you build them up. You bring them along, get them ready for the next thing. The principle is the same in this house and out of it. We constantly prepare our people for the next step up. And when it's time, you create that place for them and put them there."

Mark didn't answer, his brow furrowed thoughtfully as Chen continued.

"It's as true for Kelsey here as it was for your boy Poisson. Granted, the context was different, but the principle was the same. When it was time, I made him a sergeant and made sure he had a seat to train at the MACE. He starts next week, by the way. And something tells me he'll be one to watch. That kid will definitely make his own place. As long as people clear the way for him. Which I did. And which you did, too, by the way."

Mark squinted again.

Thinking.

Teach them their place.

Affirm the place.

Nurture, bring them along.

Prepare them for the next stage. The next stage of what?

It was so confusing…

"So, what…it's like…sexual mentorship?"

"No." Chen replied flatly. "It's using sexual triggers to nurture personalities who respond positively to those triggers. It's not for everyone. But it is powerfully effective for some. And yes…there's a…mentorship aspect to it. I know all of these women outside of the context of this…domain. And the ones in relationships–I know their partners too. Every one of them is impressive. And almost all of them become more so as time goes by. This isn't just a diversion. This isn't pleasure for pleasure's sake. This is discipline, with the advantages that consistent discipline brings in its wake."

Mark shook his head again.

"I don't know, man. I don't see it. I think it's just kink. I think you just like whipping tight, toned asses."

Chen nodded, a slight smirk on his face.

"Think what you want, Rein."

* * *

"Hey!"

"Hey yourself…" Mark flashed a smile as he walked through the crowded lobby in the arts building.

Amy had changed outfits after her morning rehearsal and classes. She wasn't in the practice leotard anymore, but rather wore sporty yet cheap leggings and a loose T-shirt with the UTEP logo on it.

She usually went to the gym after her morning classes, Mark knew. She was probably going to head over there soon.

Mark had one more class in an hour, and, knowing that Amy studied in the lobby of the arts building sometimes, he decided to cut through there on the way back to the apartment to see if she was there.

He couldn't get the image of Amy's fire dance out of his mind. They way she moved. Somehow erratic, yet perfectly smooth. Like how a bird walks–frenetic, yet graceful. And also…powerfully erotic.

The other girls had instinctively parted for her as she danced, retreating to the sides of the stage as Amy had, quite literally, owned the open center of it.

And that move…the one where she pointed her toes and spread her legs, wiggling her hips…

Holy shit…

"Fancy meeting you here…" Amy broke his train of thought as he approached the table where she had her books open.

"Yeah, just cutting through on my way back…gonna grab some lunch and read at home before my 2:00 class."

"This is Mark Rein."

Amy was speaking to the two young women next to her. Both were brunettes, in clear contrast to Amy's golden hair, but both were similarly built, similarly attired, and similarly tightly wound ballerinas.

"Mark's our next door neighbor. Gil's getting him into the classics."

"Weren't you at rehearsal this morning?" one of them asked.

Mark nodded. "Yeah, for a minute."

"What did you think?" the other asked coyly.

"I didn't really see much, just sat for a minute while you guys warmed up."

"Oh," she responded, disappointed.

"But I'm planning on coming to your end of semester show…" Mark said, attempting to be conciliatory.

"That'd be great!" Amy said brightly.

"We might be doing The Firebird," the one with slightly darker hair explained. "Because someone was kissing up to Mrs. Lyon."

"She wasn't kissing up…" the other objected. "She just did her senior showcase piece, and Mrs. Lyon liked it."

"The Firebird?" Mark asked.

"It's a ballet by Igor Stravinsky," Amy explained. "It's about a prince who captures a magical firebird as he's on his way to rescue some princesses. He lets the firebird go, but then summons her to help him in the end."

"Interesting," Mark nodded.

"She's probably going to get the part of the Firebird," lighter-hair said snarkily.

Amy blushed.

"That's cool, right? Title role?" Mark asked.

Amy nodded. "I have to audition, and I have serious competition. So I don't think I'll get it, honestly."

"Probably not…" darker hair said. Lighter hair slapped her shoulder.

"That's mean…"

Amy blushed again.

"Still, I like the ballet. I've always wanted to do it, so it will be fun. As long as I have a place in it, I'll be happy. Doesn't matter which place."

Mark nodded. "Well, it was great seeing you."

"Don't forget movie night on Thursday…" Amy chirped as he walked toward the exit.

"I won't…" he called over his shoulder. "Actually…"

He paused, turning back toward the table. Amy looked back up.

"Actually, I walk through here all the time, and there's this weird painting I see in the hall over here. I'm trying to figure it out, and figured, if you're here, you're the artsy type, come take a look and tell me what you think."

Amy paused, shrugging. "Okay. I think I know which one you're talking about. It's the one with blue shapes that looks like a seascape, right?"

"I think so. But I see a river with trees…"

Amy held up a finger to signal a brief interlude to studying as the two others rolled their eyes. She walked quickly up to Mark and followed him to the hall leading to faculty offices.

"I actually really do like that painting," Amy said as they rounded the narrow corner in the now semi-private hallway. "The colors are really…"

Her breath was knocked out of her as she felt Mark's powerful left hand grip her shoulder and clavicle, pressing her firmly back against the wall. She just had enough time to register her shock when she felt his right hand slip assertively under the waistband of her leggings, his fingers sliding down over the baby smooth skin of her mons and cupping her vagina.

Her mouth fell open, looking up in shock and fear.

Mark's deep brown eyes had a new kind of fire in them. She hadn't seen that before…

He looked left, then right, seeing the small side hallway empty. He looked back down into her icy blue eyes again.

"You danced for me this morning."

His fingers were pulsing slightly against her heat as he held her firmly against the wall.

"Mark…Someone might see…"

He squeezed her shoulder, cocking his head before repeating himself.

"You danced for me, this morning, Amy. For me."

She thought briefly about denying it, but was still reeling from the shock of the sudden, aggressive embrace. Her face was growing hot. Along with the rest of her body.

She nodded helplessly.

"Say it, Amy."

She whimpered as she felt the heat between her thighs grow.

"I danced for you…"

"Again."

"I danced for you…it was…it was just for you, Mark…"

Her eyes fluttered, helpless. She felt Mark's right hand shift, his thumb pressing firmly against the soft, spare fat of her clean shaven mons pubis, his middle finger pulsing gently upward into the rift of her cleft.

Not yet inside, just pressing.

Pressing.

She bucked her hips slightly. Involuntarily.

"From now on, Amy…you dance for me. Just for me."

His voice was low, but urgent.

Commanding.

Her face scrunched as she looked down the hallway.

"Look at me…" Mark growled.

She whimpered again as she looked up, her mouth falling open again.

God…his eyes. Like molten milk chocolate…

"Say it, Amy."

"I'll dance for you…" she whispered.

"You'll dance the way I like. And then I'll fuck you. Do you understand?"

Her lips pursed, her hands instinctively grabbing his right wrist as it protruded from the front of her stretched waistband. She nodded.

"Say it."

That growl...

Something about the gravelly menace of his tone made her womanhood begin to throb.

"I'll dance how you like…"

"And?"

Mark's eyebrow cocked upward.

"And then…"

Mark leaned in, his forehead touching hers.

"And then, what, Amy?"

"And…and then you'll f-f-fuck me…"

Her whisper was low. Scandalized and desperate.

Mark glowered down at her, squeezing a little more. His middle finger just barely nudged past the barrier of her cleft, the pad of his finger finding her rapidly moistening core.

"This is mine, Amy. Mine. You understand?"

Amy nodded eagerly, still reeling as he seemed utterly indifferent to the possibility that at any minute some arts faculty member could step out of their office and catch them with his hand down her pants.

"Your body is what I want it to be. And I want you to dance The Firebird for me. The whole ballet. As the Firebird. Do you understand?"

Amy whimpered, her eyes flashing fear.

"I'm not that good…there are other dancers…primas…"

Mark shook his head gravely, his finger snaking upward into her wetness as his other hand released her shoulder and covered her mouth, stifling her protests.

"No there aren't Amy. There is only this body, for that part, in that ballet. That's what I want, and that's what you'll give me."

She sucked in her breath as she felt him probe toward her deep, most sensitive spot, just barely teasing it before pulling back.

"You'll give me what I want, won't you, Amy?"

She nodded weakly, her mouth still covered by his large hand.

"Good girl."

He pulled his finger out of her body, then his hand out of her pants as he stood upright, pulling his hand off her mouth.

"You okay?"

She was panting audibly, red faced. She nodded as he reached up and ran his fingers through her golden hair.

"You can tell me to stop, and I will."

Now it was her turn to lean forward, her small hand clutching his shirt as she rested her head on his chest.

"I'm…um…I'm not going to."

"Good. I thought as much."

He pulled his hand forward slightly, gently stroking her feverish cheek with the back of his knuckles before cupping her chin in his palm. His thumb lifted in a smooth arc from her jawline up over her soft lips. Amy's eyes lifted submissively up to him as her lips parted, inviting his thumb into her mouth before sucking it gently.

"Good girl…" Mark cooed as he felt her warm mouth draw on his thumb.

He paused before he carefully turned her head to rest on his chest again, holding his thumb in her mouth, encouraging her as she quietly sucked his thumb like a baby lamb.

"Good girl. You're doing so good, Amy…You want me to own your body?"

He felt her gentle nod.

"Good girl. Now…get that part for me. I want to see the ballet. But I won't see it if you don't have that part."

She hesitated before releasing his thumb from her mouth. He used the moisture on his thumb to rub across her cheek.

"Okay…" she said meekly.

"You okay?"

Cradling the back of her head again, his fingers tangled in her golden hair. He felt her breath even out. She nodded gently again.

"Thank you…" she said.

It was the same breathy intonation she had used in bed when he pulled out of her body that morning. After ejaculating into her.

Mark felt an involuntary smile form.

She did seem relieved. Like he had pulled out a thorn from her foot or something. He pet her hair affectionately.

"Okay, Amy. Good girl. Go to the bathroom, splash cold water on your face until the flush in your cheeks goes down a little. Then go back to your friends. Study hard."

"Okay…"

"I'll be by later tonight. To fuck you. But we'll be in your bed tonight. That's what I want. Okay?"

He felt her cheek nuzzle his chest, the eager clutch of his shirt in her fist tightening before nodding her head gently again.

"Okay…"

* * *

"GUNNY!"

The entire front office at Charlie Company headquarters jumped at once. The furious bellow came from the CO's office.

Captain Rein never yelled.

Captain Rein almost never raised his voice. His cool, stoic demeanor was his trademark.

"GUNNY! GET THE FUCK IN HERE. NOW!"

The office down the hall flew open, and Gunny Poisson, eyes wide, with only two small bandages on his face left over from last week's televised fight, quick-stepped down the hallway and disappeared into the captain's office, closing the door briskly behind him.

They were in there for about fifteen seconds when the door flew open again and the company gunnery sergeant, showing a rare slip in his usual flinty poise, stepped into the reception area.

"Everyone outside, now," he barked. "Form up by platoon. The captain wants to address the company. No questions. Go."

Every marine in the office tumbled over themselves to spill out the front door, with Gunny Poisson right behind them.

Shouting gravelly orders to the platoon sergeants that stood in his line of sight, he directed the common space be cleared for an immediate company formation.

The platoon sergeants were agape. The platoon commanders and other officers exchanged confused glances.

A company formation in the middle of the day? In the middle of planned training?

True…all marines were currently present on the battalion campus, but…

This never happened.

Word spread like wildfire.

Captain Rein is pissed.

Why?

What did you do?

What did you do?

I didn't do shit…I've been good…

And so on. Every conscience was scoured, every infraction recalled and hurled back and forth between the marines.

Everyone was busy. It wasn't the best time for an impromptu formation and meeting.

First platoon was cleaning weapons, but quickly reassembled and stowed them in neat regulation stacks, quickly wiping their hands before falling in.

Second platoon was cleaning the grounds behind barracks "B." Some had mud on their boots, and even skids of mud and gravel on their pants. Their platoon sergeant was quietly cussing them as they sprinted, dirty, toward the common ground.

Third platoon had just gotten back from the swim tank, and were furiously pulling their camouflage and boots on over their swim gear, wet hair and chlorinated eyes blurring the whole process as they struggled to tie and blouse their boots in record time.

Gunny P was standing stock still in position, glaring at the scrambling marines. He barked out the formal order to fall in, then counted slowly back from 10.

9…

8…

Nobody wanted to see what happened when Gunny "Mad Dog" Poisson got to zero.

The sprints put on afterburners. Buttons were buttoned, boots were tied with haste, and by the time Gunny P got to 3, every enlisted marine was standing stock still in the prescribed box formation.

Jared barked the order.

"REPORT!"

"First Platoon, all present…"

Sergeant Ricks snapped a salute, which Jared returned.

"Very well…"

Second Platoon, Third Platoon, Auxiliary Platoon, each echoed the report. All present or accounted for.

Jared turned a sharp about-face, waiting stock-still.

The question hung above the whole formation.

What was Captain Rein so pissed about?

What was going to happen now?

Didn't he literally throw a chair through the window on his first day?

Yeah, and he wasn't even that pissed…And that was before he ordered Gunny P to literally fuck up the whole company at the pit.

One sorry sonofabitch at a time…

The company commander appeared at the front door of the old Victorian house, the hard-won prestige building of seventh battalion. Charlie Company's headquarters.

He was glowering.

He paused, then walked briskly down the steps and strode angrily toward the assembled company. Stopping smartly in front of Jared, he waited for the salute.

"Good afternoon, sir. Charlie Company is all present or accounted for."

Mark returned the salute.

"Very well."

Mark dismissed Jared to move to the back of the company, waiting for total silence.

The captain stood stock still, not moving a muscle, not saying a word.

Suddenly, everyone saw another figure round the corner. Then another.

It was Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe. And Major Robinson, the Battalion Executive Officer. In their trail walked Staff Sergeant Shaker, the battalion administrative sergeant.

What the fuck is going on?

The little parade continued…

A thin, athletic woman with dark hair and caramel skin, wearing a sharp business suit appeared in sight, stopping to stand next to the stairs of the headquarters building.

Holy shit…is that Gunny P's wife?

Yeah…yeah dude. Yeah it is.

Holy shit…

Yeah…

Two young boys followed…

Furious shushing made its way around the formation as Captain Rein remained posed in fury, glaring at the company.

"Gunnery Sergeant Jared Poisson. Report to your commanding officer."

What the fuck…is going on?

Jared marched smartly toward the front of the formation, catching on to the ruse. He could only just suppress the smile as he stepped in front once again to face his oldest friend and commanding officer.

Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe and Major Robinson stepped up to flank Mark on either side, and the staff sergeant stood aside and behind, pulling out a red leather booklet to read aloud from.

"To all who may receive these presents, greetings. Know ye that reposing special trust and confidence in the fidelity and abilities of Jared Poisson, I do hereby appoint this Marine meritoriously to the rank of First Sergeant, to rank as such from this date, at this time. Given under my hand, and under my authority. Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Wolfe–Seventh Battalion, Commanding."

An audible gasp of relief passed through the company as the promotion warrant was read.

Nobody was going to die today under the wrath of Captain Rein.

Gunny Poisson's wife and boys were invited up, where Captain Rein carefully un-pinned the rank insignia of gunnery sergeant from the lapels of Jared's uniform. Megan held out her hand, displaying two banged up metal insignia of a first-sergeant–three chevrons up, three rockers down with a flat black diamond in the middle–obtained from a friend and mentor at the MACE. She knew Jared had been secretly saving them for this eventuality, and she had sneaked them out of his drawer this morning after he left for morning PT.

A whispered conversation ensued between the little cluster around Jared, then each of his boys picked one of the rank insignia from their mother's hand.

Jared crouched so they could each pin one lapel on their dad's uniform.

The formality finished, Jared's family stepped back out of the formation space and Jared gratefully shook the battalion commander and executive officers' hands.

Mark broke protocol and pulled him in for a big, backslapping hug. He held him tightly, whispering something in his ear.

Smiling, the colonel and major stepped back, deferring to the captain. Mark stepped to the right and cleared his throat.

"Charlie Company. Just a few quick things.

"First, nice job snapping into formation. That was faster than I thought you could do it. All I had to do was scare the shit out of you.

"Second, you should have seen all of your faces. I could die tomorrow, that was way too fun. That shit was hilarious."

The company exploded with laughter. Mark waited a moment, grinning, for them to calm down.

"Third and finally, as you all know, Charlie Company has been without an official First Sergeant since I took command. And as you now know, that is no longer the case."

All 150 members of Charlie Company broke into a loud cheer. Jared beamed, as did his wife. The younger of his sons was grinning so wide that every one of his teeth was showing.

"So I will step back, instructing First Sergeant Poisson to take charge of this company formation. When he's done, we're done for the day."

Another cheer as Captain Rein stepped out of the formation, walking back to stand next to the new First Sergeant's wife and kids, with Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe slapping his back and Major Robinson shaking his hand.

First Sergeant Poisson turned toward the company, at a loss for words.

Finally, composing himself, his gravelly voice split the air.

"You all know I don't like to get sentimental. But I think this occasion might be an opportunity for you all to learn something from me."

He looked back and forth from one platoon to the next, as everyone leaned in to hear him. He registered–for the first time–a sense of total respect.

That total respect that is so rare, and so utterly earned by a true leader of troops.

It had clearly been growing slowly, mostly unnoticed, over the past year. But now it was in full flower.

He had never thought of himself that way. As a real leader. And the thought that they thought that of him intimidated him more than any fighter in any ring ever had.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm gonna cop to something. It might already be a rumor that made its way around the company, but I'm confirming it here and now. During my first deployment to Afghanistan, Captain Rein saved my life. He was Sergeant Rein back then, and I was Corporal Poisson, and we were both dumb as fuck."

An unforced laugh from the company.

"We looked out for each other back then. I wasn't afraid to lean on him. And he wasn't afraid to lean on me. And we listened to each other. That was the best lesson I ever learned–to listen to each other, and to lean on each other. And it has led to every single good thing I have in my life right now."

The company stood silent, hanging on his every word.

"My point is this…nobody makes themself. We bring each other along. So if you want to end up where I am, do that. Listen to each other, and lean on each other. You will bring each other along, and lift each other up. Don't be afraid to be your deepest, truest selves with the Marines you trust your life with. Because those friendships…"

Jared paused to look over his shoulder, seeing Mark standing with Megan, Marcos, and JJ. Megan was beaming like he'd never seen before. He turned back to face his company.

"Those friendships…will lead you to every good thing you will ever have in your life."

The silence of the company was deafening.

"Also…" Jared paused thoughtfully.

"Just a general directive–don't be pussies."

Another unforced laugh rippled through the company. Jared looked over his shoulder at Mark, who nodded permission.

"Alright, Charlie Company. We're done here. Clean up your shit, check in your weapons, and you're secured for extra liberty. Fall out."

* * *

"Oh my God…how did it go?"

Gil smiled as he hung his keys on the little hook by the door. The front door closing behind him, he turned toward his girlfriend, beaming.

"I've been accepted."

Amy squealed, throwing her arms around her boyfriend's neck.

"I knew it! I knew it, knew it, knewitknewitknewitknewit!"

Gil laughed as she buried him in happy kisses.

"So…?" She paused for details, her eyes sparkling with pride.

Gil cleared his throat. "I got top seed out of the West Coast applicants. Which is a good sign, but also means I have expectations from the first round. So it's good, but a little nerve wracking out of the next gate. But Dr. DeFoglio said my Andante Spianato was good enough for Warsaw, not just New York. Which I wasn't expecting."

"Good enough for New York, Warsaw, or the Emperor of the Universe!" Amy giggled, kissing him happily. "Oh my God. Gilbert Achs, I am so, so, so proud of you."

She kissed him slowly. Deeply.

"Thanks, baby…" Gil's heart warmed, his face heating in response to her eager embrace. He pivoted nervously, his growing erection beginning to poke up toward her stomach.

Amy's embrace held steady as she felt her boyfriend's arousal. She paused for a moment.

"Is that for me?"

Gil chuckled. "Yeah…"

She hesitated.

"Gil…baby. We have to talk about something."

Gil relaxed his embrace, allowing her to lean back and look up at him.

"Sure. Everything okay?"

Amy smiled nervously. "Maybe. I mean, I think so…"

Gil cleared his throat, his erection stiffening further.

"Did you…this morning?"

Amy nodded.

"Of course, baby. I told you I was going to fuck Mark, and I did."

"How was it?" Gil's cheeks heated.

Amy hesitated.

"Baby…"

Gil's eyes turned in surprise.

"Are you okay? Did something go wrong?"

Amy's cheeks began to flush.

"Baby…I'm okay. But…ummm…"

Gil's brow furrowed in concern.

"What happened?"

Amy shook her head, her eyes falling.

"It's hard to explain. But…maybe…"

She seemed to get an idea, her small hand unzipping his pants and pulling out his cock, delicately gripping his turgid member.

Gil cleared his throat again, the soft clutch of Amy's hands around him sending shock waves through his body. He imagined her in Mark's bed, his car not yet out of the parking lot that morning.

She would have eagerly mounted him, her panties in a little crumple on the floor. Or maybe she flopped on her back, her legs spreading wide to welcome him…

"Gil…you want this, right? This…thing with Mark?" she asked, breaking into his train of thought.

"I mean…yeah…" he gestured with a smirk toward the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.

Amy took a deep breath.

"Okay. Well…I'm going to tell you what happened, and we should maybe…talk about what it means…before anything."

Gil's brow furrowed again. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

Amy nodded, but hesitated, her icy blue eyes looking into his before looking back down toward her hands and her boyfriend's stiff cock.

"Okay. Here goes…" she took another deep breath before looking up at Gil again. Gil pulled his long hair back before clutching her waist affectionately.

"So…after you left, I went over to Mark's and we…you know."

"How was it?"

"It was good…" Amy smiled gently. "It was good, like always. Anyway, after he came in me, we were talking for a little bit, and he offered to walk me to class. Well, rehearsal. I guess it's on the way to his morning class today."

Gil's mind fixated on the casual revelation that their large, hyper masculine neighbor had ejaculated in his girlfriend. He knew it was routine by that point, but it never ceased to…

He had to force himself to focus on her story as it continued.

"So…I was like, sure! I mean, I don't care if anyone knows we're friends, we're neighbors. He's super nice, you know, whatever."

Gil's heart began to pound at the thought of Mark delivering Amy to dance rehearsal in front of all the other girls.

So soon after withdrawing his large, thick cock out of her petite ballerina body…

"So we get there, and I'm on the stage warming up. And everyone's kinda looking out into the audience, and I realize Mark's still out there, just sitting in one of the chairs. And some of the girls start kinda…stretching and practicing a little. I think trying to get his attention."

Gil's eyebrows lifted at the surprising turn of the story.

"So…I start doing it a little bit too. But I can't help but think…hey…I just fucked that guy. Like…a part of him is still in me. Like…he's mine. At least a little bit, you know? It was a weird feeling."

Gil felt the heat rise in his cheeks at the thought of Amy competing visibly for the attention of her lover.

"So…I'm stretching a little bit. And I see him watching us. But he's kinda watching everybody. And I just…without thinking…I just kinda let loose a little bit."


Gil cleared his throat yet again. "Let loose?"

"Yeah. I just danced this piece I did at Academy for my senior year. It's a specific choreography for Stravinsky's Firebird. I just did that…and when I started to get into it, I could definitely tell that Mark wasn't watching the other girls. He was just watching me. So I kept doing it, and I did some extra steps, and kinda really got into it, you know?"

Gil gulped, his imagination aflame trying to picture it.

"So as I was finishing, Mrs. Lyon kinda yells at me, and I think I'm in trouble because I'm all over the stage and no one else can move, right?"

Gil nodded. "Did you get in trouble?"

Amy shook her head.

"No. Actually, she really liked the choreography, and she even said we might do The Firebird for showcase this year. And she wants me to audition for the title part…"

An involuntary smile broke through her flushed face, her eyes pleading for her boyfriend's approval.

"Baby…that's amazing!" Gil's heart swelled with pride, hugging her tightly. She held her gentle grip of his stiff cock as their bodies pressed together before leaning back again. "What did Mark say?"

She shook her head. "Nothing…then, at least. He left when Mrs. Lyon started yelling, I think he thought he got me in trouble and didn't want to make it worse."

Gil gulped again at the thought of this man inspiring a groundbreaking performance from his girlfriend.

The thought of her twirling, kicking, leaping…with that still inside her…

He had a thought.

"You said nothing then…did he say something later?"

Amy hesitated again, beginning to gently stroke him.

"Ummm…yeah. So at lunchtime, he walks into the common area in Arts. And I'm studying with Frankie and Beth. And he just kinda comes up to say hi, and Frankie and Beth recognize him from that morning. And so we're talking, and they tell him about what Mrs. Lyon said."

"What did he say?"

Amy shook her head. "Nothing right then. He said he was going home for lunch, and then he like…asks me to look at this painting, you know the blue one on the second floor faculty hallway? He's like…come tell me about this painting…and I'm like, okay. Like, I know something's up, but I'm like…okay."

Gil felt his heart begin to pound again.

"So what happened?"

Amy hesitated.

"You sure you want to hear this?"

Gil nodded eagerly. His voice was raspy, showing early desperation.

"My God, Amy. Yes."

"So, we get in the hallway, and it's just us. And I'm about to crack a joke about sneaking a kiss or something, and he just kinda…slams me against the wall and puts his hand down my pants. And I'm like…oh my God! I have no idea what to do…I'm just like looking back and forth down the hall, and my heart is pounding."

Gil's heart pounded faster. He felt the throb begin–beating sympathetically in his cock as Amy stopped stroking and just gently held him. She paused again, looking him in the eye.

"So he just kinda…holds me. And I'm like…what's going on? And he just tells me that he wants me to get that part."

Gil's eyebrow cocked upward. "He just wanted you to get the part?"

Amy hesitated one more time. "I mean…it was more like…he expects me to get that part. He liked how I danced for him, and he said…that…ummm…"

Gil nodded, coaxing it out of her.

"He kinda grabbed me, you know, down there. And he had his finger up in me. And I was getting really, really turned on. I was still kinda wet from, you know, earlier. And he said…that he owns it. I think he meant my whole body, because he was talking about how I dance for him now. But it was like, he was gripping me down there. But he said it a couple of times, like…I own your body. Stuff like that…"

Her eyes fell again, afraid of Gil's reaction.

"Did…what did you say?"

Amy didn't look up.

"I didn't like…say anything. I was just…I mean, it was a lot. And I was surprised at how hot it was. After a while, I stopped looking to see if anyone was coming. I just…wanted to be his."

Gil felt a small dribble leak out of him and spill onto his girlfriend's hand.

Amy looked up.

"I liked it, Gil. I liked it alot. Feel…"

She let go of his cock with one hand and pulled the waistband of her leggings forward, inviting him to look, then touch.

Gil's hand trembled as he slid his fingers down over her shaved mons, cupping the space that Mark had apparently claimed earlier that afternoon.

It was sopping.

The thin band of her panties underneath was soaked.

"I've been like this all day, Gil."

Her face was deep red, her body twitching noticeably at the barest touch of her vagina.

"I've been kinda going crazy. I wanted to like…go home and touch myself, but I kept thinking…Mark owns this. I should ask his permission to touch it. And then I was like, that's stupid, but then I just…I don't know…I liked that thought so much. So I was going to text him to ask if I could touch myself, but then I deleted it, because…and I've just been…like this. Since like…lunchtime."

Gil's mind was tying itself in knots. The heat between them approached that of a cold fusion reaction.

"So what are you going to do?" Gil whispered.

"Baby…" Amy said, the edge of a plea in her voice. "I want it. I really want Mark to like…own my body. It's so hot…it's just so hot. Can we do that? Like…for real? Just for a little while?"

Gil nodded instinctively. "Yeah. I mean, yes. If that's what you want."

She kissed him gratefully, chattering off her intrusive thoughts rapid-fire.

"I just…thank you Gil. I know this is something we both like, but it just felt like…so much more…in the hallway earlier. I mean, I really did dance…differently. This morning, I mean. When he was there, and I was like…doing it for him. And then, now, I feel like. And then you did so good today after I told you what I was going to do this morning. And just…all of it together…I don't know. I want Mark to own my pussy so bad. So bad, baby. I want it to be all for him."

Gil swallowed as he felt her gently lift his hand out of her pants, pushing it away gently.

Signifying that he had touched what now belonged to another man.

She then gripped his desperately stiff cock with her free hand, her own voice taking on a tone of desperation.

"Are you sure you're okay with this, baby? I mean…it's like…working…like we said…"

Gil nodded eagerly. "Yeah. No, I mean…it's just…"

She nodded sympathetically before kissing him hungrily.

"Is he home…? I mean, it really felt like you kinda need him…" he whispered, filling the hot space between their flushed faces.

She nodded. "He said he's coming by tonight to fuck me. But in our bed. Is that okay?"

The throb in Gil's cock became unbearable as he felt himself teetering near an edge.

"When's he coming?"

Amy shook her head. "He didn't say. But I'm not gonna ask, I just…I want him to come in and just…take it. Take me, you know. Like…when he wants. So he knows it's…I'm his now."

Gil nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that's best."

Amy nodded again. "Baby, I'm scared, but I'm so, so, so turned on right now. It's been a weird day…" She laughed, her lilt both awkward and breathy.

As if she was a helpless player caught in a powerful, yet strangely funny twist of fate.

The silence grew between them as they kissed quietly. Then again. Then again, with increasing tenderness.

Gil felt her hand let go of his cock as she rested her palms on his chest.

"I really am so proud of you today, baby," she said. "Making the nationals. Top seed, no less. It's amazing, and I'm sorry. I feel like the news got like…bigtime overshadowed…it's just…"

"I know," Gil said, reassuring her.

"And baby…um…one more thing."

"Hmmm?" He lifted his hand to stroke her golden hair.

She looked up into his eyes, her icy blues shining with nervous hope.

"I…I want you to watch us fuck tonight…okay?"

* * *

"Baby…"

David stirred, still on the verge of slipping under the waves of sleep. His eyes fluttered open, his head turned.

Jordan laid on her left side facing him in their bed, her eyes moist, her face exhausted.

"What's up, Jo?"

She just looked at him. A single tear tumbled out of her left eye, dropping noiselessly onto the smooth, fresh sheet.

"Jo? You okay?"

Her head shook nearly imperceptibly.

David turned on his right side to face her. He cupped her cheek, his thumb running lightly up and down the side of her face before sliding his hand over her ear and back into the tangle of auburn hair behind it. He pulled her gently toward him, watching her eyes close instinctively as they kissed.

It was affectionate.

Not so much passionate as reassuring.

A soft smack as their lips parted. Jordan's eyes briefly flicked toward the bedroom door–if David wanted sex, she wanted to give it to him, but she was extremely tuned in to the fact that her father was sleeping on the couch uncomfortably near where she and her husband lay together.

David didn't make a move. Instead, he returned his hand to her face, stroking affectionately, wiping the track of her tear with his thumb.

"What's up, Jo?"

She smiled weakly. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it before leaning in for another kiss.

A little courage as their lips parted almost noiselessly again.

She managed a low whisper.

"David…I'm so sorry…"

David shook his head. "No…no need, baby. Nothing to be sorry about."

"I'm a bad wife, David…"

The tears came faster now, but the low whisper held. David's hand shifted to grasp her shoulder, shaking her gently until she looked in his eyes.

"No, baby. No."

Her gunbarrel blue eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, then snap back with clarity.

"I pulled you away from an important project…you're in trouble because of me…"

David shook his head again. "No…no, that's not what happened. Baby. That's not what happened."

She sniffled quietly, her eyes darting to the door again.

David waited until her eyes found his again. He scooted toward her, their foreheads touching, their eyes locking in intimate proximity.

"If anything…" David whispered. "I might be in a tiny bit of trouble because of you, but a bunch of mid level loafers in Bangladesh are in big trouble because of me…so, you know…it's a general thing. It's goin' around…."

Jordan stifled a small laugh. "I guess so."

"And I'm not in trouble, baby. I got the sense Arne wanted in to get a closer look at that disaster anyway, this was a good excuse for him to fly in there."

"Are you sure?" Jordan's eyes were pleading.

"Pretty sure." David tilted his head to kiss her gently again.

Jordan balled up her fists, scooting toward her husband until she was curled completely in his embrace.

"Honey, I…I was thinking. About what Dad said earlier. About intimacy, and blessing, and being together with your missing piece and stuff…"

David waited.

"I just felt like you should know…that I've only ever had that with you. I didn't have like…this…with anyone else."

David kissed her again.

"Good."

"I shouldn't have had anything else either…but I want you to know I didn't have this. Not with stupid Patrick, and not with Mark. I just…it's important to me that you know that."

"Okay, Jo. Thank you for telling me."

Her eyes dropped, a conscious move given the closeness of their faces. "I shouldn't have had…anything else."

David's lips tightened. She wanted him to castigate her for her infidelity. She was waiting for the communication of his disappointment, his betrayal, his hurt. She clearly wanted to bear the whips of his pain, and suffer for the harm she was sure she had caused.

"Jo…what we have here…this is special. And the other stuff, it's special too. But what I've always wanted is for you to own your own body. And choose what you want with it. You never hurt me. Not once."

"But I chose you, David. At our wedding. That's what I chose. You don't get to just…amend that choice later."

David waited for more, but she finished speaking. She was clearly not ready to move past the self castigation.

"Jo…" David whispered.

She didn't look up, even with their eyes inches apart.

"Jordan."

She looked up, recognizing the gravity of David using her full name.

"I know you think we can't ever get past this. But…"

He paused thoughtfully, noting a hopeful focus in her eyes, her pupils contracting ever so slightly inside her gunbarrel blue irises.

"I think it will really help if you answer one question. But you have to be totally honest. And you have to look me in the eye and give me a 100 percent honest answer. No BS, no sparing my feelings. It's important to me. To help build back trust. Okay?"

A mix of fear and eagerness infiltrated her eyes.

"Okay. I promise…"

David took a deep breath.

"Jordan…"

"Yeah?" The whisper was still low–barely above the silent fan circulating over the bed.

"Jordan…is my breath bad in the morning?"

An indignant smile broke across her face, and she playfully shoved him back in the bed.

"David…" she whispered fiercely. "I'm being serious!"

"So am I…" David grinned. "I'm self-conscious about kissing you when I wake up. I want to know if I should stock altoids in my nightstand."

Jordan rolled onto her back, the back of her hand flopping onto her forehead.

"I hate how you always know just what to say…" she whispered into a suppressed giggle.

David grinned, rolling onto his back in imitation.

They lay in silence next to each other for a moment before Jordan rolled toward him again, snuggling into the crook of his arm.

"David…I wouldn't say no to some altoids in the night stand. But ask me something real."

David paused, weighing his options.

Finally, he took a deep breath and kissed her tangled hair.

"Okay. Here's a real one. Was it really much better than when we…?"

She shook her head.

"No, David. It wasn't better. It's just different. And I think…I think that difference was kind of shocking for a while. But really…I think I was just lonely."

"Even with Mark?"

Jordan was silent for a moment. "Mark was different too. But in a different way. That wasn't loneliness. I mean, you were here the whole time when, you know…it was more like…something super exciting. And we got carried away, like in the movies. I mean, I got carried away. But it was more about how much you liked it. I really thought that was exciting. I loved how you looked at me after. Like when I came home."

"That's not how it was with Patrick?"

She shook her head. "You weren't here to look at me after. For the most part. I mean, that one time when you drove me. But it was more just…novel, I guess. Different. And novel things feel more intense for a while."

"So…it was just loneliness?"

Jordan nodded. "I think so. I had it all psyched up in my mind that it was something else. Some like…deep, existential, primal urge that was being released. Like sexual fission or something. But it wasn't. I just…didn't like being alone."

David nodded, unconvinced.

"It's okay if it was better, Jo."

"I know how you feel about it, David." Jordan whispered. "But it wasn't better. I don't have a secret devil-slut in my body raging to get out. I don't have secret repressed desires that turn into insatiable hunger. I don't have weirdly powerful sex dreams that demand release in similarly transgressive ways. And I don't want to have sex with other men. I was just playing all that stuff up for you, not fully appreciating that it was doing way more harm than good. For both of us. We played with it for a while, and now it's over. It's just you and me. Which is what I chose. And what I want."

She grabbed his hand and kissed it.

David didn't answer. Jordan sat with the silence for a full minute before propping herself up on her elbow and looking into her husband's eyes.

"Okay?"

David nodded.

"Okay."

She leaned down and kissed him gently one more time.

"Okay."

She plopped down into the crook of his arm again, feeling a little better.

"Jo…" David said after a moment.

"Yeah, honey?"

"If you're lonely…I was thinking…"

"Yeah?"

"I mean…I have to go back to Bangladesh to finish up some of these changes. But after I wrap that, I mean, summer's coming, and, since you won't have classes or anything…why don't you come with me for my summer trips? At least June and July?"

"Really?" Jordan's whisper brightened slightly. "I mean…yeah, absolutely. That would be amazing, honey? Where are the trips?"

"Greece. Then Argentina in July."

Jordan squeezed his pajama shirt with her fist.

"That would be amazing, baby…wow. Thank you…"

"Of course, Jo. I mean…I'll be busy, but…"

"No, I know…I'll plan out…wow. That sounds amazing, baby. Thankyouthankyouthankyou…I love you so much…"

[Cuckcop]

At the risk of repeating myself, I'll just say wow. What a great chapter. Your ability to write in depth on a variety of different subjects is truly impressive. I particularly enjoyed the Colonel Chen segment, I hope you will delve into that further. Thanks again.

[Luis]

the best I have ever read.

[nnjcpl2002]

Thanks again, Crushing. You are exploring/developing some very powerful psychological insights as they affect your characters. I believe it's real for many couples, and that wife sharing is a need that must be fulfilled for those people. And for some reason Mark Rein has a complementary need. Thus far, each of his lovers have belonged to another man, and in each case the hubby clearly wants to experience his own role as the cuckold sharing his wife. The last episode with Amy and Gil goes a step further, with the "claiming" and the implied demand for exclusivity. Yet he does not intend to fully exclude Gil, since he states the explicit requirement that they will be fucking in the marital bed in Gil's presence. I predict that a good time will be had by all, and somehow their regular existence as artists will be enhanced by this extra and powerful relationship. Is all this really possible? The answer is YES, and it can happen within an actual successful marriage!

How do I know this? Please don't ask!

[nnjcpl2002]

I think it's time to bump this masterpiece!

[Luis]

Bump

[Crushing]

Hey a

[Crushing]

Hey all,

A few of y’all have reached out, I’m definitely behind my usual output schedule. I’ve got a lot of things in the works for the next chapter, all I’ll say is there are pretty intense emotional turns for both Mark and Jordan in this chapter, so I’ve been taking a little extra time with them. Jordan’s crisis is pretty obvious, Mark’s a little less so at this point, but it’s tricky to get them to land together.

Shooting for the next chapter drop this weekend.

Sincerely appreciate everyone who takes the time to read!

-C

[lkh96]

Eagerly waiting.....

[john jasson]

We will definitely keep reading. We just hope, that after coming this far, you will carry on writing this epic. If it didn't reach its crescendo, what a tragedy it would be.

[Guhunkadorn]

I - and I'm pretty sure, we - sincerely appreciate you taking your time to write this.

[loyaltoher]

thank you for the masterpiece work you have provided

[Tire_Kicker]

Hands down the best ever.

[nnjcpl2002]

Can't wait! Thanks, Crushing!

[Crushing]

"Good morning, sir."

Lieutenant Jenkins stepped into the commander’s office, centering his body in front of the desk and snapping to attention before the captain finished sitting down.

Mark sighed, settling back into his chair and leaning back.

"Yes?"

"Sorry to bother sir, especially first thing on a Monday, but a message came through from the MEF commander while you were at the gym. Battalion is still getting their feet under them but I know you like to be first out of the gate. I took it upon myself to start moving on it."

Mark looked down at his desk to see a manila file folder with a red ink banner stretched across the top.

"Oh. Alright. What's up?"

He picked it up, opened it, and began to scan the file as his executive officer briefed.

"It's not just us, sir. It's basewide. Complete SL-3 check of all assets," Jenkins said briskly. "Apparently they want a full inventory. Something went down at the combat support battalion."

"CSB. That's not us…" Mark scanned the orders. "Why don't they have to do it?"

"Apparently they're frozen in place. I think the Inspector General is flying in to oversee an investigation. I guess a couple of their officers were led away in handcuffs this morning."

Mark's eyebrows lifted.

"Really?"

"Yes sir. I think Lieutenant Colonel Wolfe is trying to put an SOP for the battalion together, but I don't think it'll hurt us to start now, and pick up details later."

"Well, shit. That fucks the training day for us."

"It does, sir."

Mark sighed. "Dammit. When does the First Sergeant get back from his TAD press tour?"

"Tomorrow, sir."

"Shit. Then this one's on you, Jenkins. Go to it. Full inventory. Personnel, gear, weapons, ammo, and double check the numbers on every asset that doesn't have a serial number we can verify. Make it pretty, but make it fast. I want a rough count by lunch and a perfect count with a remediation plan by close of business.”

"Aye, sir."

Jenkins snapped to attention again before turning to leave.

"Let me know if you need anything from me," Mark said as his XO stepped toward the door. "I'll be around looking into the process."

"I will, sir. And of course."

The door clicked shut as Mark reread the orders.

"Huh…" he shrugged as he set the paper back into his "In" box.

Something at Combat Support Battalion…

Out of curiosity, he turned on his laptop and looked at the local news. Nothing. Nothing about Combat Support Battalion…nothing about Camp LeJeune…Must not be big enough for headlines.

Wait…

One eyebrow lifted at a headline two thirds down the front page. National news.

US CONGRESSMAN INDICTED FOR FRAUD.

He clicked the link.

The picture was predictable. An angry looking, well dressed, and somehow familiar looking older man being led out of a marbled office building in handcuffs by FBI agents in windbreakers. Mark squinted at the picture, then read below the headline.

“Representative Michael Macintosh of Pennsylvania was indicted by a grand jury this morning for conspiracy to defraud the US government. Initial filings indicate tens of millions in misappropriated military assets. Charges continue to accrue, and while the congressman vigorously denies the allegations, which include illegal kickbacks and side sale deals on military grade equipment, the FBI spokesman expressed confidence in the state of the evidence prior to the congressman's arrest. The charges were announced this morning by Margaret Shay, US Attorney for the state of North Carolina. The investigation is ongoing, but initial reports indicate the conspiracy went beyond the congressman's office, as unconfirmed reports indicate several arrest warrants have been executed on US military bases across the state.

“This story is developing. Check back for further updates.”

Mark squinted.

Macintosh…Could that be…

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

Notification.

Text message. Encrypted.

He opened it.

From Megan Rodriguez.

Happy Birthday, Captain.



* * *

The knock split the air.

Amy and Gil were set together on the couch watching a TV show, killing time before he arrived. Holding each other tightly, both carefully arranged their hands to avoid Amy's more intimate areas, as the unspoken arrangement ceding Amy's body to her lover had taken force without any formality.

They just…knew it instinctively. Hands off until the knock came.

And that knock severed their focus on the TV screen like a snapped cable after too much tension. Both of them snapped to a standing position, Gil walking stiffly to answer the door.

Catching himself, Gil slowed his pace just enough so that his steps didn't sound hurried before reaching for the doorknob. He turned to look at Amy, whose face was reddening already as she pulled her golden hair behind her ear. She looked at him, her petite body rigid, the potent blend of fear, anticipation, and desire clouding the piercing ice of her eyes.

She nodded. Slightly.

Gil turned the knob and opened the door.

Mark stood in the doorway, filling it. He looked briefly at Gil, then Amy, before stepping into the apartment uninvited. His stride was confident and purposeful. He occupied the space without deference or hesitation.

He spoke.

"Hey Gil. You know why I'm here?"

Gil nodded, clearing his throat.

Mark returned the nod and turned to Amy.

"Take off your clothes and kneel on the bed. I'll be there in a minute."

His baritone cut through the fog of her eyes, the buildup of an entire afternoon–and evening–of anxious waiting.

She nodded obediently, and wordlessly glided back toward the bedroom. Mark turned to Gil.

"How'd your audition go?"

Gil shook his head in surprise, shocked at the sudden shift tone and focus.

"Good. Uh, really good, actually. Thanks for asking."

He heard the dull rustling of clothes through the bedroom door behind him.

"Did you win?"

Gil looked back at Mark.

"It wasn't a win lose thing…this time. I qualified," Gil explained, pulling his own hair back and straightening it. "It's for a national competition, which is a launchpad for international competitions. So it's a step in a process."

"Still. Not easy to qualify, right?"

Gil nodded, his mouth dry. "Yeah, you're right. No, it's…it's good news. We're excited."

"You should be, man. Congratulations."

He extended his large, thick hand. Gil smiled genuinely and grasped it with his own long, delicate hand.

"So, you know what's going down now, right?"

Gil nodded, clearing his throat and feeling his face get hot.

"Yeah. She told me. She…she wants it. All of it. The whole thing."

Mark nodded. "And you're okay with it?"

Gil nodded. "Yeah. I mean…we should talk it through more, you know…going forward…but right now, I think she just wants to…"

Mark nodded again. "Good. She tell you about what happened at the rehearsal? The audition coming up?"

"Yeah, she did. It's amazing. You…you inspire her, man."

Mark smiled.

"I'm just glad I get to hang out with you guys. You teach me all sorts of stuff. And you're impressive as hell. Both of you."

Gil smiled back. "Thanks."

Mark cracked his knuckles one hand at a time.

"Well…I'm ready to go here…"

"Yeah, of course…" Gil said, gesturing nervously as Mark turned toward the bedroom. "Oh wait…one more thing, Mark…"

"Yeah?" He stopped and turned back.

"Amy…uh, she wants me to, uh, watch tonight? I mean I know we've done some stuff with me nearby, but I guess..."

Mark nodded. "I get it. Grab a chair and pick a corner, man. It's no problem. But fair warning…it's gonna be different tonight."

Gil nodded, nearly choking on his own breath. Mark turned and disappeared into the bedroom. Gil nervously grabbed a kitchen chair and followed him through the door.

When he crossed the threshold, Amy was kneeling on the freshly made bed.

As ordered.

Her straight, golden hair was untied and swept behind her shoulders, tumbling like a glassy waterfall down her bare back. Her back was carefully but subtly arched, her modest breasts exposed, her small nipples taut and pointed.

Mark strode to the bedside and reached toward her, nudging his fingers between her knees and urging them slightly apart.

"You're kneeling. Good girl. But when I tell you to present yourself to me, it's important that I can see your pussy. Make sure I can always see it. Never, ever close your legs in front of me."

Amy wiggled her hips ever so slightly, shifting her weight back and forth as she inched her knees open until Mark could clearly see her bare cleft.

“Like that?”’ Her eyes were curious and eager, soliciting positive feedback.

“Yes. Just like that next time. Don’t forget.”

“Okay.”

"Don't say okay," Mark responded sharply. "Acknowledge my status. To you, I am 'sir.'"

"Yes, sir…"

Her voice carried a noticeable tremolo now. But she was attentive, quick to respond.

Mark silently moved his eyes, then hands upward, inspecting her naked body carefully.


Gil was shocked at how different the experience was from what he had heard through thin walls and half closed doors before.

It wasn't like he didn't know what they were doing those other times. But watching it was different. Gil stood agape, the kitchen chair tilted forward on two legs as he held it, frozen in the doorway.

He'd pictured it. A hundred times, at least. Sometimes involuntarily, sometimes with his stiff dick in his hand. And sometimes while he was deep inside Amy, knowing she was comparing his dick to Mark's. But nothing prepared him for the real thing.

Seeing Amy completely naked in front of another man was jarring enough on its own, but it was the level of eager focus she clearly displayed toward her lover–without affectation–that stunned Gil. It was even tighter than her focus on the choreographer in rehearsal, or on the music during a performance. This was…totalizing. Her eyes were locked on Mark's face, searching for connection, hunting for approval, utterly attuned to any hint of displeasure, impatience, or indifference.

It was that, more than her exposed breasts with the dull red curve imprinted below them by her recently shed underwire bra, It was more than the soft, bare pink of her cleft, accented by the opening of her flower as she shifted her smooth, muscular legs apart. It was more than everything above, below, and in between, that revealed her as naked for her lover.

It was the visible dedication. She looked like she'd jump head first out the window if it would make Mark hard.

Gil found himself wrestling with the strength of his reaction. He felt things. Strong, deep things. But it wasn't quite jealousy. She wasn't depriving him of anything. It wasn't like she wasn't a good lover for Gil. She was. Their shared affection was fulfilling for both when they had sex.

But this…this wasn't the intimate vulnerability of shared affection. At least not in any way he had ever seen before. This was a first class performance artist finding the deep essence of her muse in sexual expression with another man–all five of her senses riveted to the object of her inspiration, attuned to his directives down to the nanosecond. However outrageous the demand.

Mark's rugged middle finger was nuzzled in her cleft now, her palms gripping each of her spread thighs carefully. Her head was tilted down now, looking where he was gripping and now beginning to probe her. Her breath held, then gasped out, then held again. Only a few seconds passed before an audible wetness schlurped in a shallow echo off the four walls of the bedroom.

"Who owns this, Amy?"

For some reason, Gil snapped back into his body at that moment. His erection painful, his posture seized, his naked girlfriend facing him and her lover hunched over her, still fully clothed with his hand between her legs, Gil felt profoundly self conscious. He quietly moved toward the nearest corner to the door and set the chair down.

The barely audible thump caused Amy's eyes to lift as she saw her boyfriend sit tentatively down in a chair that belonged in another room.

That chair and Gil had something in common…

"You do, Mark…"

Her answer, dependent wholly on the antecedent question, was given with her ice blue eyes locked into the helpless gaze of her boyfriend in his chair.

Gil shook visibly as he was verbally cucked for the first time. He clenched his hands together, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs.

Terrible posture for a concert pianist.

Amy moaned, tilting her head upward. Mark met her lips with a gentle kiss, then a harder one. Reaching around her with his free hand, he cupped her buttock and pulled her closer.

He leaned down further, taking a pink nipple into his mouth, his beard forming a rough hedge around her smooth nakedness for a moment. Amy instinctively lifted her arms to cup the back of Mark's head as she was suckled, but Mark stood up quickly. Indignantly.

"No."

Amy stopped, shocked. She set her palms back down on her thighs, holding Mark's gaze in silent contrition. Mark whipped his hand up, slapping the underside of her breast, causing her to jump. He whipped the same hand back down.

slap.

slap.

Shocked, Amy winced, but held still. The momentary betrayal in her eyes faded quickly behind a more visible hunger. Gil saw the beginnings of an eager smile suppressed on his bed, the flame rising behind her ice blue eyes.

"You move when and how I tell you to, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your body belongs to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Mark reached behind her head, grabbing a clump of her golden hair and pulling firmly down and to the side. Amy tumbled awkwardly to the side, catching herself, then adjusting to a half-crawl position where her head was held. She squeaked as she was pulled to the edge of the bed, then pulled off it. Her arms dropped to the floor, her naked bottom winking in the bedroom light before her knees followed. Mark turned his fist to guide her, causing her to crawl awkwardly, her arms and legs losing their natural dancer's grace as they clomped along, trying to keep up.

Bringing Amy to her boyfriend's lap, Mark squatted down, tugging her hair down and her face up to look at her boyfriend.

Gil, suddenly horrified at this rough treatment, weighed an objection, but was checked by her involuntary grin, her eyes half closed but looking happily up at him.

"You want your safe word?"

Amy shook her head and Mark tugged back on her hair again.

"Give your boyfriend some head. I'll be back in a minute. No talking."

He released her hair, and she sat up on her heels, fumbling with Gil's fly as Mark walked out of the room. Looking anxiously toward the open door, she quickly took Gil's quivering erection into her mouth.

Gil's whole body shuddered at the feeling of Amy's warm embrace. There was an uncanny disconnect in the act. Her lips were sealed around Gil's stiff and desperate manhood, but she wasn't paying any attention to him. Her eyes were locked on the open doorway, listening for any sign of Mark.

Gil couldn't tell what Mark was doing in the next room, but he didn't care. More urgent was his very tenuous grasp on his own control. He was holding on by his nails to keep from coming in his girlfriend's mouth. A fleeting glance up at him from her ice blue eyes, half concealed by the sweat and strings of her mussed blonde hair nearly pushed him over the edge.

"Up."

Mark's voice preceded him by less then a second as he entered the room again. A wet plop accompanied Amy's immediate pull back from Gil's cock as she bounced to her feet.

Grabbing her wrist, Mark walked calmly toward their bed, pivoting and placing his free hand on her shoulderblade and casually throwing her whole body head first onto the mattress.

Gil watched Amy bounce on her face with a squeak, scrambling to find balance, but Mark's hand was firmly between her shoulderblades, holding her down. Her voice muffled by the bedding, she whimpered as Mark's free hand lifted her waist, her knees falling in place beneath her, her small, tight rump winking once again under the bedroom light. Then, after a brief probing of her slit, finding it sopping, Mark grabbed her right ankle and wrenched it up and under her, causing it to extend straight forward under her splayed right arm.

The effect was erotically horrifying, the lithe dancer splayed asymmetrically, her exceptional flexibility used against her as she whimpered pathetically. Her exhalations caused small undulations in her waist, accenting the gradual opening and closing of her flower as Mark's thick fingers danced in its folds.

Amy held the unnatural position obediently, straining the range of her eyeball radius as she looked up at the extreme corner of her eye, her face smashed profile into the bedspread.

This was not what Gil thought this looked like. His heart thumped audibly, a dull rhythm underlying the avante garde music of grotesque sounds being produced five feet in front of him.

And it was Amy's voice, rising in ragged contrast to the smooth figured bass of her body's owner, that carried the melody of the evening.

Gil's mind swam with musical markings. Dynamics. Piano. Pianissimo as Mark's fingertips traced Amy's lower back, her bum, her splayed and stretched inner thighs.

A half rest, then a quick staccato as he crossed the turgid sparkle of her clitoris.

A robust, measured forte as one of Mark's fingers found its way inside the love of his life. The pitch was high, at least in the contralto range. Then full soprano as the second finger followed the first.

Her body, still rigid, began to quiver as Mark stepped back to take off his clothes. Her eye strained to look, but her head stayed still, her hands reaching to clutch the bedding.

Gil's eyes widened as Mark took out his cock.

He knew it was big. It had to be, given the noise…what he heard. During and after…before. But this was his first time really seeing it…

It disappeared inside Amy's modest womanhood with shocking speed, distending her flower around him. And the melody of the music stayed high as it pushed two thirds of the way in, then pulsed, appearing to bottom out.

Gil unconsciously charted Amy's music as it now tumbled from her with wild abandon. Mezzo soprano in range. The delivery was staccato for a few short minutes…then pizzicato…then rose violently to molto mercato as Amy wailed in a desperate orgasm, her little hands clutching, then squeezing the blanket that covered them as they slept.

Gil clenched the seat of the kitchen chair, feeling his own climax clawing for air as he desperately avoided hand contact with his own penis…

Then, unexpectedly, he saw Mark's hip pause, hesitating, then pushing in deeper–beyond what he was sure Amy could take.

The melody dropped a full octave, and suddenly she was singing alto. Her whimpers became grunts, inarticulate moans that seemed to cause her eyes to roll up and cloud over, her hands scrambling up to clench the far side of the bed, failing to find it.

Gil looked down in horror to see semen spurting from his cock, although he didn't touch it. His jaw locked open, his eyes wide as Amy began to gurgle as if drowned or possessed. Mark's pace began to quicken, buried completely in Amy's petite, but ravenous pussy.

But Gil's horror didn't peak with his pleasureless orgasm.

It was just starting.

Darkness began to crowd Gil's vision as Mark pulled back, his large cock hostile as it casually dripped with Amy's need.

Gil began to feel nauseous as Mark reached to grasp Amy's right ankle, tucked in the bedding by her outstretched elbow, and flipped her on her back, her smooth cleft visibly gaped by his intrusions.

His long fingers shaking, Gil tucked his softening penis into his pants, the unmistakable retch of shame rising in his throat as Mark, grunting audibly, moved his hulking frame between his girlfriend's submissive splay.

Gil couldn't look away, tears welling in the corner of his eyes.

What have I done…

* * *

"Hello and welcome back to FightNight, I'm John Sasson."

"And I'm Martin Cox. Coming up we have some surprising preview analysis for the undercard fights leading up to Tyrion vs. West next weekend on pay per view, but first we have a bit of a treat. For the first time ever in a studio interview, we’re excited to welcome First Sergeant ‘Mad Dog’ Jared Poisson. Thanks for joining us, Mad Dog.”

“Yeah. Uh, thanks for having me.”

Jared sat stiff and coiffed in his olive green service uniform, the blood red rank insignia on his shoulder sleeves popping in the camera.

Three chevrons up, three rockers down, diamond in the middle.

Not to be fucked with.

Mad Dog, I announced your fight just a few weeks ago. And you were a gunnery sergeant then. Looks like that changed. Congratulations on your recent promotion, I'm sure your victory in the octagon was a factor in that."

“Likely," Jared half-grinned, his gravelly voice a stark contrast to the velvet smooth delivery of the career sportscaster. "

"With Jermaine St. Croix now out of the running, Kentucky native Andy West has stepped up to challenge the champ," Cox continued. "Much to the disappointment of your fans, you have not. Why?”

Jared shrugged, gritting his teeth. "Mama Marine Corps keeps me busy."

"Too busy to let you fight for the title?"

Jared fought to keep his eyes from narrowing too much.

"Apparently."

“If you were cleared to do so by your command, would you challenge Damon Tyrion for the title?”

Jared paused.

“That’s a hypothetical. And it's a family decision, so I'm not gonna pop off and answer it. But if you’re asking if I think I could beat Tyrion, the answer is yes.”

“Even with your injuries?”

“I’m not injured.”

"You didn't suffer a ruptured ear drum during the St. Croix bout?"

"I think I heard someone say once…Barely a flesh wound."

"Okay…" Cox laughed.

"We have a debate going here on FightNight," Sassoon continued. "Some are saying that you spent the first few rounds baiting St. Croix, dancing and taking hits, basically feigning weakness, given the speed you showed submitting him in the end. Others say you just got an adrenaline hit or a second wind. Either way, the reels show an incredible difference between the opening and closing rounds. How do you account for the obvious difference in speed between the first three rounds and the move that secured your victory?"

Jared nodded, anticipating the question. "Look. Jermaine's pretty quick too. I don't like to hit first, and I had trouble clocking him. Not used to that, I usually lock in an opponent's timing in the first thirty seconds. But he…it took me a minute. Once I figured out his rhythm, I did what I did."

"There was no calculation?" Cox continued. "No planned strategy?"

"I rely entirely on planning right up until I step into the ring," Jared shrugged. "After that, it goes in the trash. Coaches say what they say. We try to listen, we train on their recommendation, their view of things. It's a collaboration, obviously, but when you get in the ring, when you actually get your eyeballs on an opponent, everything changes. You try and incorporate strategy, preparation, whatever. But in the end, whatever space your training leaves open, your instinct fills. You gotta leave some room to dance, or you're just gonna get fucked up in there."

"Please don't curse on air, Sergeant."

"Oh yeah. Sorry. And it's First Sergeant. In the Corps we say the whole thing."

Apologies, First Sergeant…"

Jared nodded.

"It seemed like you were giving up on a strike by strike victory, opting to shoot for submission after the third round," Cox leaned into the question. "And however you try to downplay it, the fight doctors reported a ruptured ear drum that affected your balance, which we can clearly see in this clip."

The screen cut to the opening of the final round, showing Jared leaning against the wall, then shakily dancing on the balls of his feet, his legs shaking visibly.

"Is St. Croix simply a better standing fighter, blow by blow?"

"He was that night," Jared conceded. "But I'm comfortable testing your theory anytime he feels the urge."

Cox laughed. "Do you feel St. Croix still has the technical advantage?"

"I don't know what the fff…rig you mean by that," Jared laughed at himself. "The kid's good. And I beat him. The fact that I bled a little more that night seems…not very relevant. In the end."

"Well, you've never been interviewed in studio before," Sasson pivoted the question. "But some of my colleagues who have interviewed you ringside or in the locker room said you're known for thinking like that. Up, down, black white, win, lose. Very zero-sum. Does that come from your experience in combat?"

Jared paused, then shrugged. "I don't know."


"You're the only documented combat veteran in the league. Do you see any parallels between combat in war and in the octagon?"

"Of course I do," Jared said. "They're both something you have to spend crazy amounts of time preparing for, and when you get into action, you figure out pretty quick that you're still unprepared. And both have like a 99 to 1 ratio between waiting, preparation and actual engagement with an opponent. So yeah, that's the main parallel–you think about it, you work your ass off to prepare for it, and once it actually goes down everything changes all at once. But on the other hand, I never actually thought about killing that kid, though. So that's a difference."

"No need to be glib," Cox laughed.

"Who's being glib?"

An awkward pause filled the studio before Sasson picked up the next cue.

"We know it's a tradition that you get a tattoo after every tallied victory. What are you getting this time?"

Jared grinned. "I think you guys have a picture, right?"

"We do…" Cox replied, "Can we put it up?"

Jared waited, his grin holding as the screen shifted to a shot of the new body art.

"It looks like a badger with a battleaxe?"

"Yep. It's a character…name's Orlando the Axe. From the Redwall series. Kids books."

"What's the significance of that?"

"My oldest son is really into those books. He talks about them all the time, and he was a big help to me preparing for this fight. And since he's old enough, and we're starting to train him, and he's starting to find his legs, I wanted to acknowledge his role. So this one's for him. Thanks Marky."

"Did he know you were going to do that?"

Jared shook his head, grinning widely. "Nope. He's finding out right now."

"Well, it's a great gesture. First Sergeant Poisson, thank you for being here, and thank you for your service."

"My pleasure, John. Martin. Semper Fi."

"We'll be back after these messages with more analysis and previews…stay tuned to FightNight."

* * *

"Mister Rein. Are you joining us today?"

Mark snapped out of the fog, finding himself in a crowded seminar room with a half dozen other seniors.

"Of course, Professor. I apologize."

The frizzy haired, middle aged instructor harumphed slightly as she turned back to the open paperback in front of her.

"So you have no opinion on the intertext?"

He shook his head, picking up his own copy of the paperback.

"Honestly, not really. I don't really see every allusion in Hemingway to be a thread in some rich tapestry of intertext. I can think of a half dozen twentieth century authors that have deeper veins of intertext than Hemingway."

"Really? Name them."

Mark half smiled, knowing she was trying to call a bluff.

"Borges, Woolf, Pynchon, Joyce, Nabakov, Proust, obviously. And I'll throw in Thomas Mann if you want a spare. That guy lives out of other people's work."

The professor pursed her lips slightly, nodding.

"I'm curious. As the only man in this room, if you have more global thoughts on him."

"Hemingway?" Mark's eyebrows lifted, knowing that he was walking into a minefield in this particular room.

"Yes."

He saw fourteen female eyes lock onto him. Almost half of which he'd fucked at one point or another.

"He's got a good command of prose, and a certain…kind of appeal. In a word, he's a douchebag. But…he is a really interesting douchebag. And guys like that…I mean…we gotta go somewhere, right?"

He shrugged impishly as the room tittered in response. Disarmed, the professor moved on, satisfied that Mark's apparent detachment was not in fact a full fledged daydream.

Even though it was.

Well, more of a reverie of uncomfortable remembrance, which seemed appropriate given his flippant evocation of Proust–a sure fire way to get this particular professor off his back.

It was about last night.

Like most life changing experiences, it hummed just under the surface of all of his thoughts, too dense, too prickly and complicated to be fully digested. Just flashes of memory accompanied by strange, new, and deep feelings.

Amy had been eager, even solicitous before. But last night, she seemed hungry for discipline. Not so much punishment, although she didn't shy away from that, either. No, she seemed to view herself a kind of doll to be dressed, undressed, and more importantly, contorted in awkward and vulnerable configurations of sexual availability.

Then fucked. Hard.

Mark had obliged her hunger, a strange hunger of his own finding its way to the surface as he simply unleashed his power and drained his vigor through her whimpers, her pants, and her occasionally desperate wails of climax.

Dominating her seemed…really natural. Even more so than before.

That part all kinda ran together, honestly. A few bits and pieces floated to the top of his memory, most of them involving her ice blue eyes finding his, their unblinking focus betraying some kind of deep need…and even deeper connection. A desire to be dictated to without condition or conscious reciprocity…a desire to be lovingly but harshly owned. A desire to be spent. Used up…utterly consumed–destroyed even–yet demonstrably sufficient to the task of sating Mark's obviously massive appetite.

The end of the night had her golden hair dark, clumpy, and stringy with sweat and friction, her face exhausted yet serene, and little marks, bruises, and red prints on the various curves and vertices of her petite body.

Gil had sat quietly behind, and when Mark turned around, his own substantial cock gradually softening after its wild release inside Gil's girlfriend, he was startled to see the skinny young man visibly weeping.

His heart dropped into his stomach at the sight. Amy had scrambled over to her boyfriend, cupping his trembling jaw in the palms of her hands, quietly consoling him.

It had been the strangest visual juxtaposition Mark had ever seen. A naked, sweaty, nearly fucked-to-death coed gently comforting a weeping, long haired, fully clothed young man in a kitchen chair.

The sight seemed like it should be in a postmodern painting somewhere–hanging in a sterile space in an urban high rise, surrounded by horn-rimmed glasses and ten dollar coffees debating the meaning of its meaning.

But it wasn't a painting. It was a young couple in love…one of which Mark had literally just finished fucking the absolute stuffing out of. The stammers of Gil's emotional spillage finding a soft bed in the warm, unaffected coos of Amy's consolation…all the while she hunched over his seated frame utterly naked, gleaming with sweat, marked and bruised with the signs of another man's vigor, a small, thick, white rivulet of his seed beginning to creep its way down her inner thigh as she gently kissed her boyfriend.

It was weird.

Mark had debated with himself in the moment. Should he say something? Just leave? Attempt to find out what was wrong?

But he knew damn well what was wrong. And he knew that Gil had been on board at the beginning…

But that seemed to have changed.

After a few minutes, all of which were occupied with Amy and Gil's faces locked together, eyes and lips connecting back and forth, one after the other, Mark finally cleared his throat.

"You guys…ummm…everything okay?"

Gil had sniffled, his eyes cast down as he nodded.

"I think we just…need a minute."

Amy didn't even look over her shoulder.

Mark had nodded, stepping back to pick up his clothes, one at a time before dressing.

"I'm…uh…sorry."

This time Amy did look up at him. She didn't answer, just conveyed a confused apology with a helpless look before returning to connect with her boyfriend again.

When he walked through the door of 1E, Mark's apartment had never felt emptier.

He found himself listening carefully for any sign coming through the wall.

Nothing. Not a peep, not a sound, not a rustle.

The next morning…as Mark gathered his books for the class he sat in right now, he had received a text from Amy.

Hey. Thanks for last night…sorry it ended weird. Gil's okay now. He actually really liked it…he just wasn't ready for…all of it. I think.

Mark had had no idea how to respond. He and Amy had had sex at least a baker's dozen times by then. Probably more–he stopped counting a while ago. Gil was always on board…their friendship had blossomed within the previous arrangement. Mark was comfortable throwing Amy around her own bed in front of Gil primarily because their conversations–comparing notes on the pleasures of her body–were by now as casual as the ones he and Gil had about music theory or history.

Apparently seeing it in person was different.

And he had definitely been a little more rough last night. Amy seemed convinced that last night should be the night when she basically asked him to bend her into three different varieties of pretzels and slap her around.

So that was one difference. He'd taken women in front of their men before. Well, he taunted Chris while he took Molly on the picnic table once. And there was that time when Molly recorded them. But Chris was a weirdo, and kind of a genius. Mark figured that would translate for Gil–less weird, much more of a genius.

And hell, Jared never got like that. Not even close. Of course that dynamic was completely different. Jared just seemed to enjoy sharing what he loved with his friend. And Mark and Jared shared Megan like they shared the last packet of M&Ms in an MRE. Passing her supple brown body back and forth until she folded in exhaustion, spent. Rock paper scissors on who would finish inside her first. Falling asleep in a pile–like hamsters–on their king bed, rising for work in the morning as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

Those were the days.

Gil's breakdown was heartbreaking. Not on the level of a dying marine on a battlefield…but there was some parallel there. Something about an unconventional, intimate bond, a betrayal. An unspeakable harm that damaged the harmer as much as the harmed.

Mark grimaced, once again catching the attention of his professor as the increasingly inane commentary and analysis on the ravages of war, delivered in the confidence that only undergraduate English majors can muster, swirled around him.

"Mister Rein. I'm sure you have thoughts. You've been noticeably silent. Boys think of little else than the glory of combat…I'm sure you have some experience with these misguided impulses. Video games, GI Joes, and the like."

Mark quickly masked the instinctive sour turn on his face with a half smile.

"Not really. I'm an exception to the male stereotype, I guess. I've never been in a war. A little football is as close as I come to combat. I guess I can empathize with Henry's romanticization of adventure. Obviously as an ambulance driver, not an actual combatant, he thinks he can skirt the moral injury of the war while still enjoying the adventure. Kinda dumb. But say what you want. He wanted adventure. He got it. All of it."

The seminar room tittered again and the professor moved on. Mark knew she was watching him, so he didn't dare check his phone again.

Normally after pumping all of his frustrations into that tight little ballerina body, Mark slept comparatively well–as well as he could, anyway. The fact that he hadn't had a decent night's sleep since Afghanistan was a foregone conclusion. But last night was particularly bad. He almost reached for a bottle of Jack again, his only consolation in the empty dark of his room, four feet away from a disaster he'd caused. But he wanted to keep a clear head in case they wanted to talk.

He wanted to talk. To make sense of it. And after hours of gritting his teeth in the dark, Mark finally grabbed his laptop and began a grudging email.

The private email address he'd hoped never to use. Belonging to the only man he knew who would understand the dynamics of the situation–even though his conclusions and advice would almost certainly be pig headed and obtuse, if not downright shitty.

Colonel Chen.

* * *

Hang in there.

Seriously?

Any updates?

Sentiments Jordan hoped never to need peppered the subject lines in her email inbox.

Unclear on how to respond, and even more unsure as to whether she would even want to read them, Jordan had consciously avoided opening her laptop. But as she had just received notification that her dissertation defense had a new date…

Friday. Three days from now. A week early.

That was either very good or very bad news.

She now felt obligated to read and respond to her concerned colleagues and well wishers. The scandal had spread like wildfire, of course. Factions had formed, falling quickly along the lines of an increasingly obvious fracture within the department faculty.

Jordan Stark-Simms, the golden student of the department's prestige member, Dr. Lukacz, was considered a promising up and comer, a sharp and original thinker of surprisingly broad reading for her age and experience. It wasn't hard to paint her as both victim and villain–the designation depending on the level of jealousy one might be inclined to feel toward her.

Some simply couldn't fathom the idea that the department's star child would plagiarize huge sections of a dissertation–especially since she already had published papers. And she didn't strike anyone as the lying and stealing type of academic.

Others found Patrick's story to be compelling–he was certainly repeating it all over the department. The phrase "parallel thought" occurred a number of times in his telling, and his attempt to be performatively magnanimous made him sympathetic. Professor Jenkins–his young and aggressively ambitious committee chair–was telling everyone they had straightforward proof of the plagiarism. Professor Johnstone–not on his committee, but rumored to be…interested in Patrick's career for extracurricular reasons–was less strident in her assertions. But tarnishing the name of Dr. Lukacz' favorite student would make Lukacz' candidacy for the brand new endowed department chair of psychology less of a lock, so she didn't seem inclined to run to Jordan's defense, either.

The emails seemed to fall along the lines of team Jordan/Lukacz, and team Lin/Jenkins.

Jordan opened each, skimming through them and responding politely, keeping a brave face. Across the kitchen table, the Reverend Jack Simms typed away at emails of his own. David had stepped out to get bagels for everyone's breakfast.

Classic David. Taking care of everyone.

She debated whether to tell her father about the rescheduling. She had mixed feelings about him attending her defense. Before this catastrophe, having her father sit in on her dissertation defense would have been a dream come true.

Now, it could easily devolve into a nightmare in a dozen different ways.

If he was still here on Friday, she wouldn't tell him to stay away. She couldn't.

But she didn't like the idea of Patrick's name coming up over and over again with her father in the room.

After what she'd done.

The second to last email was from Professor Schenk. Jordan's heart skipped, glancing briefly over the top of her screen to see if her father was paying attention. She unconsciously tilted her laptop slightly away from him before opening the email.

Dear Jordan,

Hope you're well. Haven't heard back about the results of your dissertation defense, but I can't imagine you did anything other than crush it.

I heard back from Debbie, she said your conversation went well. I hope she and the others helped to ground the phenomenological side of your analysis. I'm curious to know if she brought you any insights in regards to symbolic fluid exchange, as I know that has been of interest to you. It occurred to me that it might be compelling to those raised in a religious tradition if framed in a quasi sacramental context. Not sure if that's the angle you're assuming, or if it's something you considered, but it occurred to me after chatting with Debbie again, so I thought I'd pass it along. Just a pitch.

Anyway, let me know how your defense went. I'd really like to call you Dr. Simms soon. Just waiting for the signal.

Take care.

-Tom

Jordan shocked herself by weathering a dull throb between her legs after reading the phrase "quasi sacramental." The flashed memories of surreptitious swallowing–squirreling away Patrick's used condoms to tip onto her tongue before anyone saw her.

Chin up, mouth open, tongue out. Actively receiving…

Another flashed memory, but this time on her knees in front of the relative stranger in Patrick's house. Her hasty, improvised ministrations drawing his climax, the modest offering coating her tongue as she received it.

There was something to that…receiving. Symbolic reception…

The throb deepened as she imagined the hypothetical exchange with someone more…authoritative. Providing the offering as a kind of priest…Administering a rite.

Or a more pagan rite. A warrior with a captive slave girl, marking his property and solemnizing her shaky consent with a willing swallow…

She shook her head aggressively, garnering the attention of her father.

"Everything alright, Jojo?"

She caught herself, blushing in shame. This…fascination was developing into a pathology. It had to stop. She quickly moved to mask it.

"Yeah." She said, smiling. "Mostly supportive emails. I'm just never sure how to respond to things like that."

"Graciously," he replied unhelpfully.

"Thanks, Dad."

He smiled, and her stomach turned at the fact that she was almost drawn into the red fog of depraved reverie with her father mere feet away.

"Looks like they're rescheduling my defense. Friday."

"This Friday?" Reverend Simms' eyebrows lifted.

Jordan nodded. "It's either really good or really bad news."

He leaned back in his chair, cocking his head to listen.

"Well…did you cheat?"

Jordan winced at the word.

Her mind naturally leaped back to its first defense–intellectualizing, marking the ironic ambiguity of her father's word choice. The fact that if her answer were honest, that answer would be both yes and no, a truth and a lie simultaneously. The truth mechanism tied to a clear understanding about to which object the chosen word "cheat" referred.

Did you cheat?

On David? Yes. Several times.

On my dissertation? No. Not even a little.

It was a rhetorical trick, of course. The ability to conceal part of the truth and still credibly claim full honesty. A rhetorical trick her father knew extremely well, and one that he was primed to pick out.

Jordan took a deep breath, her eyes drifting up, masking her deliberate attempt to avoid eye contact with a posture of thoughtfulness. Her heart pounded, her stomach turned even tighter as she prepared a circuitous deflection to serve up to the man she respected more than any in the world.

"Patrick and I sat a few desks away from each other in the grad student office cluster. We talked all the time, compared notes. In the last little while I've been feeding him some leads on research and giving notes on his drafts. He asked for my help reviewing his work. I gave it."

She let her eyes drop to meet his, hoping that it would be enough.

"I have no doubt that some parallel thought could happen in the process of collaboration. Our research areas do have some…superficial overlap. But even though I read his work, mine was already turned in when I did. I didn't copy anything from him. Not a word."

Reverend Simms' hand raised to pinch the short red and gray hair on his chin.

"Not a word?"

"Not one." Jordan's terrified eyes didn't leave her father's caring ones.

He nodded.

"Then it'll be good news."

He leaned forward again, resuming typing his correspondence, signaling an uncomplicated faith in his daughter's imminent vindication.

Jordan smiled, her heart pounding. She quietly stood, retreating into the kitchen to top off her coffee.

"You want more coffee, Dad?"

"No, I'm set. Say…I was planning on heading back up Thursday…But I could make Friday work if you want. Do you want me at your defense?"

Jordan nearly dropped her coffee mug. She set it, shaking, back down on the counter before grabbing the edge.

She had no idea how to answer. On the one hand, attending his oldest daughter's dissertation defense had to be a life-defining opportunity for her father. She didn't want to deprive him of that, and, under other circumstances, she would be beyond thrilled to have him there cheering her on.

On the other hand…she didn't know what would come out in that room. Too many skeletons, and no idea which closet doors would be thrown open. The thought of her father finding out about what she had done…all while anticipating a life-defining triumph?

He might have a stroke. Or he might lose all sense of ministerial propriety and attack Patrick, or stand up and yell at a hostile committee member. Or worse yet…he would believe the accusations, and then carefully avoid looking her in the eye as she stood up to shake hands after they voted to award her doctorate. Completely ruining the triumph for both of them forever.

"I'm prepared for no, you know."

His voice drifted in from the main room.

"I'm sorry Daddy…"

"Oh, it's Daddy now? This is serious."

She walked back in and sat across from him, noting the return of his disarming smile.

"I…I mean, it's a big deal, and I know…"

"It's about your research, isn't it?"

Jordan's mouth dropped slightly, taken aback.

"My research?"

"The paper you published a couple months ago. With a…Thomas Shake?"

"Schenk. You read it?"

"Of course I read it, Jojo. I read everything you write that I can get my hands on."

"Oh…Well..yeah…"

"Not quite what you want to think about your father reading, I suppose."

Jordan's face blushed deep crimson.

"I mean…"

"I'll admit it wasn't what I want to think about my daughter writing. But you're a grown up now. And honestly, it definitely filled in some gaps about why you were so interested in flesh/spirit paradigms a few months back."

"Daddy…I'm so, so sorry…"

"Why?" Reverend Simms' brow furrowed. "It was a solid article. You had a strong hypothesis, and you defended your points well. Not quite my cup of tea, but it was earnest, well reasoned, and authentic."

Jordan stopped in her tracks.

"Really?"

"Of course." He cracked a knowing smile. "You think I don't hear about that kind of stuff? Believe me, Jojo. Pastors get an earful sometimes. And it can get weird."

Jordan laughed in spite of herself.

"I didn't tell you I'd published that."

"I search your name on the internet, Jojo. Once a month or so against all the publications I know you read. I saw that one drop. Said it was part of a project you did for a big conference, too. Sounds like you're making a name for yourself. But to the point, I get not wanting your holy roller dad in the room while you talk about…you know…that kind of stuff. I assume it made its way into your dissertation?"

Jordan's lips pursed, and she nodded, the red in her face deepening again.

"Well, maybe I'll skip that chapter when I get the published version," he grinned.

She laughed again, half horrified, half relieved.

"I'll head up Thursday night, Jojo. I'll clear the battlefield for you and you alone. I know you're ready. Mom and I are in your corner, but you're the one throwing punches. As it has always been. Some things never change, do they?"

Jordan's heart swelled, the turn in her stomach still holding her back a bit.

"Thanks Dad…"

The front door opened, and David stepped in, his left arm cradling a paper bag.

"Speaking of conquering heroes," Reverend Simms stood up to take the bag from David. "What do we have here?"

David laughed, leaning over the bag with his father in law as they took turns extracting pastry, bagels, and smears. The Reverend stole a glance at his daughter, still frozen in the kitchen doorway and shot her a disarming wink.

She smiled.

* * *

"Hey! You!"

Mark's brow furrowed, unsure of the source of the noise. He was alone in the hallway, or so he thought. The back hallways of the arts building were usually pretty empty, and he could cut through them on his way back to the apartment.

And passing through the lobby of the arts building was a good way to see Amy.

But she wasn't there this time, so he just moved on.

"Hey! You. Tall man."

The voice was old, shrill, and insistent. Mark stopped walking and turned around.

Then looked down.

A tiny old woman had caught up to him and was in the process of reaching up toward his neck. Mark's eyes widened with surprise when she grasped the collar of his crew neck T-shirt and yanked him down to her eye level.

"Uh…can I help you?"

She had intense eyes. Something about her old body and physical frailty seemed to hide that intensity…until he got close.

She looked like she could drill through sheet metal with those eyes.

She didn't answer right away, just examined Mark. Evaluating him, it seemed, with a sense of expectation and expertise.

"You are the lover."

Mark caught a hint of an accent on the word "lover." Not Spanish…Italian, maybe?

"Excuse me?" He asked.

"La sua graziosa piccola ballerina. Amy."

"Oh, you know Amy?" Mark asked, still baffled after the old woman's apparent gibberish.

Did she say "ballerina?" Probably the right Amy, then…

A slow smile spread across the old woman's face.

"Come with me, tall man."

Mark squinted momentarily, ready to protest, but she didn't let go of his shirt collar. She dragged him down the hallway, a full foot of difference in their height as he stooped and stumbled behind a woman with half his body mass.

She pulled him through the door of a plush office at the end of an adjoining hall. A desk was in one corner, but the other held a baby grand piano, with two comfortable chairs facing each other in the third corner. She let go of his collar as she shut the door behind them, motioning toward one of the chairs.

Mark sat, somewhat sheepish, somewhat confused. Was he in trouble? Did Amy say something?

The old woman sat across from him, crossing her legs and folding her hands.

"Who are you, tall man?"

Mark cleared his throat. "Uh…I'm Mark."

She scoffed.

"Mark. What an uninteresting name. It looks like our little ballerina lusts after tall, greasy men who grow out hair they cannot control."

"Um…sorry?"

"Mark. One syllable. Like the sound a dog makes. Or like dropping a frying pan on a wood floor."

"It's technically Marcos, actually."

"Of course it is. I don't care. Listen, tall man. I know what you have been up to with the little ballerina."

Mark shifted in his chair. Where was this going? He had no answer ready.

Seeing him visibly uncomfortable, a sly smile started to break on the old woman's face.

"I apologize. I should have introduced myself. My name is Allessandra De Foglio. I am a professor here…I am Gilbert Achs' piano teacher."

Shit.

Mark cleared his throat.

"Nice to meet you."

"Yes…"

She seemed uncertain, a half-sour, half-curious look on her face.

"So…yeah. Is this about Amy?"

Dr. De Foglio hesitated.

"Not directly. I just wanted to see…for myself."

"See what?"

She squinted, scrutinizing Mark. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Dr…Defolio?"

She cleared her throat.

"You and Amy are lovers."

He hesitated.

"Ummm…yeah. I guess. Did she say something?"

Dr. De Foglio ignored the question. "You talk to Gil?"

"Um, yeah, actually. Pretty often. We're…friendly."

She nodded. "Friendly..."

Mark swallowed. "Yeah."

She cocked her head.

"This is…disappointing."

Mark cocked his head back, incredulous, and starting to feel defensive. He didn't do anything wrong. They were all consenting adults. What was this old lady on about?

"Disappointing?"

"Si. You are handsome. But little else. From what I can see. The ballerina…she gets hot for dumb meat stacked high. It is…disappointing."

Mark's head jerked back slightly, unsure how to respond.

"What am I supposed to say to that?"

"It doesn't matter, tall man. But fate…she gave us you."

"Fate?"

"Yes. Fate. Mark."

She enunciated the monosyllable of his name with dismissive disgust before continuing.

"You may struggle to comprehend this…or anything that doesn't involve lifting heavy things and putting them back down. But you are a muse. And you have a very important role to play in creating something…immortal. And that is what is disappointing."

Her eyes narrowed as Mark squinted, confused.

"I had hoped…that you would have some depth. Something of the artist in you…something I could use to finesse the lines of your little love triangle into a perfect circle. But I would be wasting my time. You will not understand anything I have to say. I suppose…I could recommend to you a different brand of shampoo. Maybe this would help?"

Mark bristled, suddenly inclined to defend himself.

"How do you know that?" He shot back. "I get creativity. I get art. I respect Amy…and Gil both. As artists. And Gil and I talk about music all of the time. He's helping me get educated on different composers, and periods, and styles. I'm learning a lot. I actually really like it. I mean…"

"Si…Mark." She swatted the air dismissively. "And Einstein could teach the little children their mathematics. Their long divisions…and fractions."

Her dismissive look shifted rapidly into a glare.

"But it would be beneath Einstein to do such a thing. A waste of his time. Don't you agree?"

Mark's jaw clenched. Who did this old bitch think she was?

He shrugged.

She let out a monosyllable of a laugh at his response.

"That's what I thought."

Enough. Mark stood up to leave, indignant.

"Sit."

Her bony finger pointed to the chair. Mark glowered down at her, but curiosity got the better of him. Surely she didn't just drag him back here to berate and insult him?

She paused as they sat in uncomfortable silence.

"Do you know what a muse is? Mark?"

Mark let out a monosyllable laugh of his own.

"Yes. I know what a muse is."

"A muse is a catalyst. Someone who exists to start…sometimes nurture…a process of inspiration. And since there are few things in the world more useless than an uninspired genius, the muse has a very important role to play."

"And you think I'm Amy's muse?"

Dr. De Foglio smirked.

"Undoubtedly. But more importantly, she is Gilbert's muse. Thus, the process of his inspiration is…indirect. Normally, she is good for him. When their relationship is good, when she is attentive and affectionate, when she gives him love, he plays adequately. He could have a good career as it stands. I'm confident of that."

Mark got the sense she wasn't finished, even though she sat in silence, her eyes wandering back and forth on the ceiling.

"But Gilbert Achs is a genius, Mark. Something I have no doubt you cannot see for yourself."

Mark clenched his jaw again, but let her continue.

"And when the pretty little ballerina is on fire…Gil catches fire. When she smolders, he is an inferno. And when she burns, he is Chernobyl."

Mark nodded. He could say that he agreed with all of that. That he saw it too. That he had had conversations to that effect with both of them–separately and together–but the old woman seemed more content to explain things to him than to enter into any kind of collaboration or conspiracy of equals.

"Right now…she burns for you. I suspect when we get them away from this…backwater…El Paso…we will find her a better lover. One more worthy of them both. But you will do. For now."

It suddenly dawned on Mark that she was attacking him to extract some kind of leverage. To ensure that the strange configuration of sex, love, affection, and inspiration that had been emanating in the space between apartments 1E and 1F could continue throughout this critical formative process in Gil's education and early career.

She needed him.

He concealed a half smile.

"So what do I do?"

Sensing a rising smugness, Dr. De Foglio's tone turned harsh again.

"Quello che ti dice il cazzo."

"Excuse me?"

She smiled, softening.

"Light the fire, tall man. Whatever you've been doing, keep doing. And then…when she no longer burns for you…go away. The only thing more useless than an uninspired genius is an insipid muse."

"Uh…okay. How will I know when that is?"

"I'll tell you."

Mark laughed out loud.

"I believe that."

He stood again, reaching for his shoulder bag. He towered over her. She didn't stand, but didn't stop him, either, completely unmoved as he began to walk toward her door. Then, he stopped himself, turning back.

"What if Gil…doesn't like it?"

Dr. De Foglio rolled her eyes.

"Must I explain every little thing to you? He will hate it. He hates it and loves it. It challenges him. He conquers it, and it defeats him. He is both martyr and warrior, saint and sinner. He has all control, and none. He tells the biggest lies and uncovers the deepest truths, he achieves the most ecstatic joys and falls into the most devastating despairs. And he does it all–all at once. It is transcendent, and it is all-too present. He cannot escape it, and he will spin in its grip until he tears open the deepest secrets of the human soul. And then he will bear those secrets to the world through his music. He is cornuto. And he is an artist. You light that little dancer on fire, and he will light the world on fire. So…go do your little part. Make his little dancer squeak, and then get out of his way."

She waved him away, standing to walk to her desk from the chairs.

"But…what if…he gets too emotional, or loses control?"

Mark surprised her with his sincerity of tone. She clearly picked up on the implication.

Something had happened.

She turned back toward him and squinted for a moment, unsure how to tailor her answer.

"Leave that to me, tall man."

* * *

"Look at me…you've got this. You've got this."

David's eyes were unshakable. Locked into Jordan's as they stood in the stairwell outside the lobby door, austerely lettered.

Department of Psychology.

When did he get so strong? His grip on her shoulder grounded her as she fought to take a slow, deep breath. His eyes were deep. Concerned, but confident. She drew in a breath, then let it out as he pulled her in for a tight, uncompromising hug.

Her father had held her exactly the same way last night. Arm on shoulder, eye contact, statement of absolute confidence before an airtight embrace. Then, he had stepped back into his old Honda and driven away, back into the misty horizons of her childhood.

She had cried for a long time. Sending her father away to obviate the possibility of an earth-shattering revelation about her in what should be one of the greatest moments of both their lives...it tore her apart. Nevertheless, the choice itself was not a hard one. It was just plain common sense. Painful, gut wrenching common sense.

Now, as her heart began to pound out of her chest, she found her husband demanding her attention, not letting go of her shoulder.

"You're gonna be great, Jo. You'll absolutely tear it apart. Don't even think about the other thing. It's a non-issue. Just be yourself. And you're the smartest person in that room by a long shot."

Jordan laughed out loud.

"Okay…I was with you until that last part…"

"But it got your attention, didn't it?"

Jordan thought for a minute, then returned to David's eyes. Clear, strong, encouraging–undiminished by the thin lenses of his glasses.

Total faith.

"Jo. It's time. You've got this. I'll be right there."

She nodded, then straightened her hair nervously before walking through the door. The department secretary smiled at her, and gestured toward the conference room door.

"They're waiting for you. Break a leg."

Jordan smiled nervously and nodded, walking past the desk and into the conference room. David walked in behind her, quietly shutting the door and taking a seat along the wall away from the table where Jordan's committee was seated.

"Ms. Simms," Dr. Lukacz greeted her as she sat down at the head of the conference table. "Thank you for coming on short notice. The report you submitted greatly expedited the process. It was concise, relevant, and convincing to…well, almost everybody."

Jordan saw Dr. Jenkins face sour out of the corner of her eye, but she didn't fully register the words she was hearing.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Lukacz. Report?"

"Yes. The report analyzing the metadata around the composition of your dissertation. It showed conclusively using three different modalities that Mr. Lin plagiarized you, and not the other way around."

Jordan was taken aback, unprepared. Even though she had braced herself for a much broader array of attacks than she had the first go around, this wasn't something she was prepared for.

"I'm very sorry to be difficult here, but I didn't submit a report."

Dr. Lukacz' brow furrowed, and he reached into her file, pulling out a thin packet, handing it to her.

INDEPENDENT REPORT: METADATA AND PROCESSES ANALYSIS DETERMINING AUTHORSHIP OF SUBMITTED DOCUMENT

Prepared by C. Cohen and Partners, LLC.
Expedited.

Jordan's brow furrowed too. "I don't recognize this."

"Really?" Dr. Lukacz seemed suddenly nervous. "Where did it come from?"

"I'm not sure…who sent it to you?" Jordan asked.

"Lukacz, this adds a wrinkle to an already problematic chain of evidence here." Dr. Johnstone objected.

"It does nothing of the kind," he snapped back. "I'm not an idiot. The report was sent directly from the firm. I made the assumption that Ms. Simms arranged for an independent review, but whoever arranged it, it is nevertheless an independent review from a firm we have since vetted as reputable."

"Still. I don't like that things fall from the sky around your student." She adjusted her glasses, pursing her lips.

"I did it."

David's voice poked in from the back of the room.

"I did it. To the full committee, I apologize, I know I'm not part of this meeting. It was a miscommunication on my part. I contacted the firm, commissioned the independent review, and gave them access. I certainly didn't intend to interfere, I just intended to give Jordan something to fall back on if she needed evidence. It appears they contacted you with the report instead of me, and you rescheduled her defense quickly, so I didn't bother following up with them, as it seemed irrelevant. Just a miscommunication. But I assure you it's an innocent one."

The room was silent. The professors on one side of the table had to turn to see David explain.

"Well, then, you see? Nothing to see here." Dr Lukacz nodded at him. "Thank you."

Jordan's eyes gleamed.

"Who are you?" Professor Jenkins shot at David.

"That's my husband." Jordan snapped at Jenkins, causing him to jump slightly. "He flew back early from a business trip in Bangladesh to be here. He's the best."

Dr. Lukacz smiled warmly. A rare occurrence.

"Yes. Well. The intradepartmental scuffle over authorship of this dissertation is resolved for a deciding majority. We'll consider the matter of Mr. Lin at another meeting. For now, we owe you your full measure of verbal combat over this magisterial treatment of identity formation. Would you give us a two minute overview of your argument, please?"

David dabbed the sweat from his forehead as he saw Jordan begin to relax. The defense had begun in earnest, and although he was impressed and even a little aroused watching his wife in her element, deftly sparring with five more experienced, credentialed academics and getting the better of all of them, he couldn't get his heart to stop racing.

He had no idea who commissioned that report. He also had no idea why he took credit for it. Just jumping on the barbed wire for his wife, most likely. But it was terribly risky.

He made a note to contact the firm. He saw the name printed on the packet, just barely visible above one of the professors' shoulders.

C. Cohen and Partners, LLC.

He googled it on his phone.

It was a real company. Software. Specializing in security, systems architecture, and code efficiency consulting. Based in Baltimore.

He linked the website to the note on his phone, then returned to the task of trying to keep up with his wife's V-8 engine of an intellect as it roared all over her committee. It was interesting noticing the differences between the professors as they questioned her.

Lukacz clearly loved her…viewed her as a surrogate daughter probably. As harsh as he could be at times, Jordan never once said a bad thing about him. He wasn't pitching her softballs, though. His arguments were aggressive and multifaceted–but Jordan was repelling them effortlessly, bullet point by bullet point.

The lady on his right…Johnstone. She seemed mildly hostile, but after a few questions, it seemed like her hostility was directed more toward Lukacz than it was toward Jordan. Her questions were hard, but David smiled when he saw the realization cross the older woman's face that she was clearly outmatched by a woman three decades her junior.

The guy across from her. The blonde one. Jenkins. He was an asshole. And clearly didn't like Jordan personally. She had said that one of the professors on her committee was the chair for Patrick's. This was probably him. His face was sour, and his questions were condescending.

But so were Jordan's answers.

David loved it. She had clearly gotten into the deepest groove in her brain–Jordan the intellectual. She had been sparring with adults over ideas since she could talk, and she was an absolute master of it.

The other two committee members seemed indifferent to Jordan as a person, but deeply interested in her research and ideas. Jordan clearly enjoyed conversing with them, as their questions seemed to open new avenues of inquiry for her to pursue later on.

The conversation gradually died down, circling around its own natural conclusion. At last, Dr. Lukacz thanked Jordan and asked her to step out while the committee conferred. Jordan stood, pink faced but pleased after more than a solid hour of verbal combat.

The conference room door closed behind her, and David grabbed her into a bear hug.

"You are such a badass, Jo…"

She giggled. "You think?"

"I know." David squeezed her, then gave her a big kiss.

Jordan kissed him back.

"Sorry Sherry," she said, turning to the department secretary, who was smiling over at them. She shrugged it off, assuring Jordan that she was sure it had gone well.

"Do you want to go get a coffee or something?" Jordan said. "Usually committees confer for a while before…"

David was about to agree when the conference room door opened. Dr. Lukacz was grinning, waving Jordan back into the room.

Shocked at the speed of deliberations, she stepped in, David slipping in discreetly behind her and disappearing out of everyone's line of sight.

Dr. Lukacz shut the door, and Jordan noted the whole committee was standing. He stuck out his hand.

"Congratulations, Dr. Simms."

Jordan's hand shot up to cover her mouth, then, overjoyed, she shook her mentor's hand. She went around the table, red faced with tears forming in the corner of her eyes as the congratulations were repeated by each of them.

"Not that it matters, but it was 4-1," Dr. Lukacz explained. "But whatever the reason, no one here has any doubt about your prodigious intellectual and verbal ability. We will all watch your career with great interest."

"I maintain that not all avenues of investigation were exhausted," Dr. Jenkins popped off, shaking with indignation. "She was sleeping with him, there's every possibility they exchanged laptops as easily as they exchanged bodily fluids…"

Dr. Lukacz shot a death glare across the table.

"For the love of God, Jenkins, stop. Can't you see that you're embarrassing yourself? Moralizing like that in a room full of psychologists…She's an adult. So is he. And I don't see anyone making any snide remarks about Lin's 'special trip' to Vienna with Johnstone here last year."

Dr. Johnstone jumped, newly indignant. "I don't know that I care for these implications."

"Your brilliant ally fired the first shot, Johnstone. Now he tried to ruin Dr. Simms' big day by embarrassing her in front of her husband. But the real embarrassment will be when we get Mr. Lin in here for his defense–such as it is–to stumble ineptly through material he obviously doesn't understand, and finally to show Jenkins here to be the complete and utter failure that he is. Don't worry, I'll see to it. You think that boy can stand up to half the scrutiny Dr. Simms did? I'll crush him like a wet paper crane…and if you try to carry him…"

The noise faded in Jordan's mind. Her face darkened to a deep red, her exuberance replaced by sudden horror as the meeting devolved into a chaos of ad hominem accusations.

The casual reference to her sexual relationship with Patrick. Clearly everybody knew. He must have told someone…

She looked helplessly over at David, who wore an ambiguous look.

She wanted to crawl under her chair and die. The shouting between the three professors on either side of her continued, but all she could hear was the ringing in her ears.

There was no way around it. She had outed them.

* * *

Rein,

Good to hear from you. It's been a while.

Hope Texas is treating you well, and you haven't turned into a fat kid or a shitbag. And congrats on graduating this year. Seems like forever since I walked with my bachelor's. But don't be afraid to keep going. I'm about to wrap a Ph.D, actually. Ethics and History. We should chat sometime.

But you didn't reach out to chat. You've got a situation. Sounds like a good one overall. Couple of artists, exploring the bohemian side of things. It's definitely normal for a cuck to get antsy and emotional. Part of their whole thing. They usually recover and come back craving it even more. Honestly, the craving is more dangerous than the regret if not managed.

You didn't give me very much detail on her, other than that she's a dancer and into submissive shit. My answer to your question is that there's really no single way to dom, it's honestly a pretty bespoke process. The relationship is crafted over time and carefully negotiated using a combination of explicit conversations and consistently reading implicit cues from the sub. But Amy sounds like a pretty classic case–the damaged rich girl. Insecurities run deep, but being raised in an image obsessed environment means her catharsis is probably going to be found in exhibition. I'd look into that.

But you're on the right track overall. You always had good instincts. Functioning as a dom isn't an end in itself. It's a means to an end. Helping a sub find her best self by challenging her self-imposed limitations. Different subs have different limitations. Or more accurately, they often have the same basic limitations that manifest in different ways. So the way you talk to them, the way you handle them, obviously the way you fuck them…it all needs to challenge whatever thing in their head is causing them to get in their own way.

Since she's a rich girl, I'm going to guess she has a weird relationship with clothing. If you haven't already, change how she dresses in public, especially if she knows she might see you during the day. Be subtle, but push her boundaries. Express preferences for things that you genuinely like, but challenge her relationship with clothing. She probably has strong associations with status markers, designers, cuts, fabrics, all that shit. If you can get her to seek your approval as the primary paradigm of dressing successfully, you're on your way to breaking down that wall. Ideally, highlight parts of her body that she's insecure about. Then when you fuck her, constantly affirm that seeing her that way makes you want her.

Eventually, she'll use that paradigm to redefine her self-presentation. And don't underestimate how deep a process like that can be for a woman. So be careful, but don't be afraid to go deep.

There's much, much more to this, and I can't really cover it all in an email. But don't worry too much about the cuck. Don't be a dick for no reason, don't be disrespectful or shitty; amateur shit like that ultimately comes off as weak, even if they seem to get off to it in the moment. Ultimately being a cuck is his place, and you should respect that place. But it's her role to look after him in his place, not yours. Focus on the girl, and she'll figure out how to take care of her cuck.

The only landmine you need to be aware of is if she tries to center you in their relationship. You're not the center of their relationship. She is. You're coming from the outside, the cuck stays inside. You both have to be careful to provide aftercare, but stick to your role. Don't get too mushy, don't get vulnerable. You're there to pull her out of her own limitations. Once she sheds her skin, which can be a scary, even humiliating process for her, her confidence will surprise you.

Give them room to work out their shit together, but don't cut anyone off. Keep talking. Learn to communicate about everything outside the bedroom. But once you're in the bedroom, take over. Remember what it was like to be assigned a new squad or platoon and you had to establish cred quickly? Do that. Be aggressive. Get creative.

And I can't emphasize this enough. Know your place. Stay on the outside. This isn't your relationship. Step in, take over, then step out. You're the squad leader stepping into the fire team here. It's kind of yours, but mostly theirs, even if you're obviously in charge.

And shit, Rein. Call me once in a while. You have my number.

-C

Mark tapped his keyboard absentmindedly.

He hated how lucid Chen could be. There was a reason he was such a successful commander. But Mark didn't like chewing on grudging respect.

That last big stuck in his craw more than he thought it would. It hadn't been a conscious thought before, but he was definitely starting to wonder where he actually stood. With Molly, he was clearly in charge. And he had every intention of stealing her wholesale from her shitty husband. And it had blown up in his face. Maybe that's what Chen was warning him about.

Yeah. That was it. He had to admit, he put himself on the inside with Jared and Megan too. And that had blown up in his face too.

Stay on the outside.

A small pang bit into his stomach.

He understood the concept, but as much as Amy enjoyed playing the eager fucktoy, wasn't there anything else there?

He had to admit it. He had loved Molly. And Megan. Deeply.

And that was an ingredient in the explosive mixture in both cases.

But he couldn't help having feelings. Amy was cute, kind, approachable. Vulnerable in ways he could understand. And affectionate in a way he craved.

Was this all there was for him? Picking up the scraps of emotional nourishment left over from other couples?

Mark tapped on the keyboard again, his eyes clipping over to his kitchen counter–cleaner than it had been in months. But with the half full bottle of Jack Daniels tucked in the corner.

Is this all there is?

* * *

The text exchange was succinct. Clear, concise communication with only relevant details. Unambiguous intent.

Econo Lodge…Swansboro. 12:30.

He had grabbed fresh gym clothes, and had quickly changed on his way out the office door immediately after reviewing the preliminary inventory report. Praising Lieutenant Jenkins, he reiterated his orders for a complete report by 1700 hours, and then announced his return in early afternoon before zipping off in his ancient 4Runner.

She had been waiting in the room, stripped down to her bra and panties. Her caramel eyes hungry, her dark hair pulled back into an easy ponytail.

Just the way she knew he liked.

Breathless pleasantries expressing incredulity were followed fast by two feminine hands, one with a wedding set on the third finger, sliding under his shirt as their lips met.

And stubbornly refused to leave each other.

For a full five minutes.

Then the bra came off, and his lips left hers only to clasp hard onto her dark nipple, causing her chin to tilt up sharply, her breath catching.

Little to no foreplay beyond that.

Mark's thick cock, aching for the snug embrace he had craved for months now, found its way quickly into Megan's eager warmth.

Then moans. Almost univocal, separated by an octave.

Megan's mouth hung open like a cadaver as he drove deep inside her, his own hips grinding furiously into her thighs.

Grunts became oaths, became gutteral utterances.

Vocalizations were rhythmic–offset in a strangely regular syncopation. The result of a decades long chemistry punctuated only by fits and starts of coupling.

The creak of the bed sounded like an indignant church lady, loudly protesting each muscular thrust. But other than that, and the wet smack of Mark's lips on Meg's neck, there was no sound…

Then there were overlapping gasps.

Megan found her inner elbow wrenching around the back of Mark's neck as she felt the first warm coating of his ejaculation. She pulled him tight with all the strength she had, squeezing him as she felt her open legs spasm like a landing butterfly, her own climax rocking her body as he twitched inside her.

Then there was breathless heaving.

His ejaculation weakened slowly, but the gradually fading pulses pressed a button in Megan’s psyche that she desperately needed pressed. She closed her eyes, feeling her own pulsing satisfaction complementing his.

Then there was a kiss. Softer this time.

Then another.

Then another. Tender. Slow.

Then eye contact–caramel iris to milk chocolate pool.

Then silence.

A few moments. They held their still coupling quietly, Mark softening slightly as Megan's warmth clenched and unclenched around him involuntarily.

Then…

"It's not my birthday."

Megan laughed out loud at the rumble in his chest.

"Duh…" She kissed him again.

He grinned.

That smile of his. So rare. It was beautiful. Unaffected. Easy. Natural. The smile she had been desperate to see on his face for months now.

"I can't believe you indicted Macintosh."

"Well, technically, I didn't." She grinned back.

"Yeah…I saw that. Boss lady takes the credit."

"Always." Megan laughed. "Lucky for her, I don't actually care. I just love the idea that I'm going to destroy that motherfucker."

Mark laughed. "How did you catch him? Were you stalking him?"

Megan sighed, kissing him again.

"Nothing so manic. It dropped in my lap, actually. He’s just as stupid as he always was. Two looks at the purchase record was enough to get the ball rolling. Once we had warrants to search the suppliers, it was a quick lock. But the ADA didn't want to touch it, since his dad's on a couple important committees in the House. They didn't count on me having a vendetta."

"Do they know?"

She shook her head vigorously.

"Of course not. No one needs to know."

She kissed him slowly.

"Nobody except you."

Mark grinned again, an involuntary growl escaping his throat.

"God, Meg. You don't even know. If we weren't…I mean…if we didn't have…this whole, whatever. I mean, I would just take the whole afternoon off and absolutely wreck you."

Megan laughed, stopping herself halfway through.

She looked into his eyes. Deep, milk chocolate, already fading again into sadness. That unaffected smile she craved. It was already morphing from a signifier of fulfilled joy to one of hopeless, single-serving gratitude. The craving for meaningful companionship once again finding a moment of consummation, then to be kicked back out into the cold world.

"Oh, shit. Mark…I shouldn't have…we shouldn't have done this."

"Why not?" Mark's eyebrow lifted. "Is Frenchie…"

She shook her head. "No, it's not that. He'll love this, actually. As long as we don't get caught, obviously."

"Well then what is it? You didn't like it?"

She laughed. "Will you shut up? Jesus, Mark, did you see that I almost came out of my skin?"

Mark rolled sideways, his softening cock withdrawing from her as he laid next to her in the bed. Parallel, they stared up at the ceiling.

"Seriously, Mark." Megan continued. "The thing itself hit the spot like you wouldn't believe. With Jay gone on the dumb press tour, I didn't get my usual post-fight jackhammerings. So I feel a little shortchanged. This is welcome compensation."

Mark laughed again.

"Glad I could help."

"And just in case I didn't make it clear, fuck the recruiting command that's making him do the dumb press tour. He hates it, and they've never made him do it before. And they should know that I had to forego sex with my husband for…fuck…six weeks before that fight? It's cruel and unusual."

"Hey, I'm like…ten minutes away."

"Don't I know it…" Megan rolled onto her side, nuzzling his cheek with her nose and kissing his neck. "That makes it a hundred times worse."

Her eyes caught the scar on his jawline. She kissed it silently. That strange, asynchronous ritual solidifying her bond to both of the men in her life.

"But…you are bound by the Uniform Code of Military Justice to not fuck your first sergeant's wife. Even if all parties consent. So…we can't do this."

Mark sighed.

"I know."

Megan swallowed nervously. "And now…I feel pretty shitty about it."

"Don't," Mark said gravely. "I really needed it."

"I did too," Megan replied quickly. "But…I got all mad at Amy for doing that. And then you saw Molly at the fight, and now I'm telling you we can't…"

"It's okay." Mark said flatly. "I'm used to it."

"That's not okay." Megan replied, equally flatly. "That's not okay, Mark. I can't stand to see you having nobody. I can't stand it!"

Her voice rose in indignation.

He shrugged.

Megan pursed her lips, recognizing the signs of her longtime lover distancing himself from the conversation and closing off emotionally. Something he did to protect himself when he knew he was a connection of convenience. A willing, even eager, but ultimately disposable asset in other people's relationships.

Megan sighed, sitting up. He looked over, a half smile breaking her lips as he began to caress her bare breasts absently with the fingertips of one hand.

She smiled back down at him, grasping his hand and bowing her head to kiss it.

She wanted so badly to tell him she loved him. But it would make everything worse.

So she just dropped his hand and kissed his lips one last time.

"We should get back."

[Cuckcop]

Brilliant, as always. Thank you.

[nnjcpl2002]

Thank you, Crushing, you've done it again! Your work is high-quality literature. Wonderfully descriptive prose with fascinating and insightful content.

I note that you have started to develop the counterintuitive position of the Bull in a cuckolding situation. In a sense, the cuckold may have the favored role over time, because his role tends to be more permanent. He has his "place," whereas the bull at some point ends up on the outside and in need of an actual relationship. Rein and Megan are recognizing this situation, and she would like to see his need fulfilled because she feels genuine love for him. But she can't really provide it even though she would if she could, bringing home the point that a good woman is capable of loving two men simultaneously. It's a challenging problem and we are eager to see whether resolution will be possible. Of course, it's difficult for us really to feel sorry for Mark, because his affairs are super-hot and a wonderful part of the story, especially for those of us with a slightly prurient cuckolding interest!

Thanks again, C!

[Tire_Kicker]

I wouldn't want to be Patrick Lin right now...
Looking forward to more of this great story, thanks Crushing.

[Guhunkadorn]

So glad I did a reread of this story...the 'Happy Birthday' and C. Cohen & Co. parts would've lost me.

Crushing, you are a gifted writer. To think you had this story so elaborately outlined from the beginning is just quite a feat. I know you added the Amy & Gil segments but those are enhancing the story beautifully.

I'm not sure where you're going with the Jared interview or the interaction with Mark & Dr. Foglio ( she was rude btw....), but Im sure both areas are in line with the plot.

David will have to fess up that he didn't order the report; somehow/way Jordan will find out who did and that could add to the overall arc of her actions. ( Though kudos to David for thinking on his feet and interjecting his words )

The overview of Mark's feeling about the guys he's cucked was a useful compare and contrast and added nicely to his character development. Of course the ever presence of Colonel Chen as a type of Obi Wan Kenobi of dominant/submissive/cuck living is filled with fun substance.

And we left Jordan experiencing both the best and worst of times, being congratulated as a now Dr. and recognized as an adulteress slut with cuck hubby standing by in his support role.

Thank you!

[Crushing]

"Congratulations, honey."

Jordan scowled, refusing to look up.

"Doctor Jordan Stark-Simms. Ph.D. Bravo."

Jordan's mouth scrunched in indignation.

"I am not in the mood."

"Oh, I know, honey. I can tell."

Jordan looked over at the closed bathroom door, then flipped on the fan to obscure her voice in case David was listening. She took a deep breath, then returned her gaze forward, locking eyes with her most forbiddable opponent, and her greatest enemy.

"I knew this would happen."

The girl in the mirror pursed her lips sympathetically.

"I'll admit. It's not ideal. But I don't think it's quite as bad as you think."

"Not as bad? It's out! I cheated on my husband, and people know. People whose esteem and professional reputations I need to build out my career. And David…"

Jordan felt a sob choking up, watching her face contort in an ugly cry.

"He was…he won't even talk to me."

The girl in the mirror didn't respond for a moment. Finally, as Jordan turned on the faucet and moistened a washcloth to put on the back of her neck, she spoke up.

"He's a little at a loss, honey. But don't count him out. You know how quickly he figures things out. Five to one he's coming up with some scheme to make you feel better."

Jordan ignored her. "He was humiliated…"

"In front of a half dozen people who he'd never seen before, and who he'll never see again."

"That's not the point," Jordan shot back.

"It is, though," the girl in the mirror responded just as quickly. "And I wouldn't worry about what they think about you. If you haven't figured out that academics are a pretty amoral, cutthroat bunch yet, you're just…late to the party. Whatever they think you did, it's probably child's play compared to what some of them do on a regular basis. Did you see the melee that broke out at the end in that conference room?”

Jordan sulked.

"Shut up."

The girl in the mirror scoffed. "And back on to the bigger issue, you think I'm the bad guy here, but you consistently underestimate David. And yourself, while we're at it. But that's not the point."

Jordan's chin jerked back indignantly. "What are you talking about?"

The girl in the mirror tilted her head in exasperation. "Are you really that blind? Your husband…Our husband…is brilliant. And we both know in the next ten years he'll be able to buy and sell everyone in that cutthroat conference room twice over. Maybe more."

"Money isn't everything," Jordan muttered, reverting to cliche out of sullen desperation.

"It isn't nothing, either, honey. And stop being a Puritan about that. David works himself to the bone for you. He's brilliant, he's talented, and he's nuts about you. And he shows love by providing. It's insulting to him when you devalue what he brings to the table just because we grew up poor.”

Jordan scowled, glaring at the girl in the mirror. Her face was different than she was used to–intense and earnest, rather than playful and seductive.

Clearly, something in this whole externalization dynamic had shifted…

"My point is," the girl in the mirror continued, "if David got hurt or humiliated, let him tell you. Stop speaking for him. He's a grown man. A good one, a kind one. And much stronger than you give him credit for. Let him be who he really is. He can stand up for himself, and he can stand up for you. He's done it before. And for the record, he did it in that meeting. That report saved your bacon, young lady."

Jordan's eyes dropped, surprised to be shamed by her seemingly shameless interlocutor.

"It's still my fault."

She waited for the response, but none came. She stood silent, head down, for an uncomfortable amount of time before looking up.

The girl in the mirror was gone. Staring back at her, helpless and cluelessly contrite, was the newly minted Dr. Jordan Stark-Simms, Ph.D. With nowhere to go, no answers, knowing she would have to fight for her marriage, but not knowing how.

Her hand shot up, catching her mouth as she choked back a sob.

* * *

This time, the music stopped when the stage door clanked shut.

Mark walked nervously through the uncomfortable, silent darkness behind the heavy velvet curtain, parting it to find Gil sitting tensely on his piano bench, looking sheepish.

It was unsettling. This was Gil's domain. He usually looked much more confident here, dominating the space like it was his God-given realm.

"Hey man."

Gil nodded back.

"Hey Mark. How's it going."

A greeting, not a question.

"What are you working on?"

Chopin. First scherzo.

"Oh. Haven't heard that one, I don't think."

"It's a barn burner," Gil half-smiled. "At least it will be when I work the kinks out."

Mark nodded.

"How about you?"

"I've got to commit to a senior thesis,” Mark sighed. “Trying to nail down something interesting, since I'll be writing on it for the next six months."

"Any ideas?"

"No good ones, yet. Just a couple vague ones."

"Pitch me."

Mark started. "What?"

Gil pointed to the empty chair next to his piano bench, usually reserved for teachers and designated page-turners.

"Pitch me your idea. Let's see if it lands."

"Okay."

Mark sat down, surprised at the turn in the conversation. Gil waited expectantly, ready to parse the raindrops in a brainstorm.

"Well, I'm an English major, so I'm surrounded by women all the time."

"That must suck," Gil joked.

"Depends on the day. Anyway, I've spent most of my time reading high modern stuff, you know? Twentieth century stuff, some Russian novels. But mostly longform, deeply probing, existential stuff."

"Okay," Gil replied.

"But when I was a kid, I was obsessed with this medieval fantasy series. They sold them in the grocery store, and my mom would get me a paperback on paydays. So I had a little line of them in my room."

"What was the series?"

"It was called Redwall. Well, that was the first one, but then it spun out into a bunch of prequels and sequels, and other side stories. It was like…medieval stuff, knights, ladies, religious shit, all that. A lot of focus on feasting and food. But it was like…miniaturized. All the characters were little woodland creatures."

"Oh, like squirrels and stuff?"

"Basically, yeah. Mice, rabbits, badgers. Some birds. Weasels and rats were always the bad guys. Anyway, I was thinking about that series recently, and I had this realization. All these themes in high modern literature, authors like Joyce, Kafka, Hemingway, Proust, they focus on themes of wandering, loneliness, alienation. Being trapped in a world that feels like…wrong for some reason. Figuring out how to exist in it. And I realized…the old stories of knights are kind of the same. They do it in a different way, but…you know."

"I don't, actually. I think you're miles ahead of me in the literature repertoire," Gil said, a half grin cocked.

Mark smiled, a feeling of sudden satisfaction sticking in his chest. He knew things that a bona fide genius didn't know.

"Yeah, it's like…the knights and heroes have a home, but they're almost never there. They wander around, they have adventures, they woo ladies but almost never get with them. And then if they do, there's not a lot of happily ever after in the old medieval knights tales. Some of them father a kid and then just go off on more adventures. It's like…they're constantly wandering, constantly fighting, but never really find a home."

"That sounds tragic."

"Maybe," Mark leaned back in his chair. "I don't know. I'm thinking about that, about the early novels–like Don Quixote, and some ancient stories like Homer's Odyssey and some other epics like it. It seems like there's like…this archetype of masculinity that craves the feeling of home, but never gets it. Just…eternally alienated. So I thought I might do a review of some of those, and make the case that to be a man is…to be alone. Eternally alienated. At least that's what this long line of stories suggests, you know?"

"That is tragic." Gil laughed.

Mark shrugged, a half grin forming in response to Gil's laughter.

"So what do you think?"

"I think it's a bummer, but it sounds really deep." Gil's tone was sincere, his response thoughtful. "I think if you've got an itch to explore that, it's solid. I'm trying to think of music that jive with your theme. There are some options you can check out, but with music being so subjective, you kinda have to listen to them a certain way. The one I was playing when you came in is a decent start, actually. All of Chopin's scherzos and ballades have a kind of heroism to them. But if you listen to them carefully, they're not all flash. The substance comes across as…I don't know. Frustration, maybe. Like Chopin is trying to wrestle some ultimate meaning out of them."

Mark's eyebrows lifted. "Really? Interesting."

"Yeah. Check those out. And then Scriabin's Etudes. That might be a good next move. A little more obviously alienated, but still weirdly romantic. Like your knights."

Mark nodded. "Thanks, man."

"No problem. And I think there’s a real connection between some piano music and the theme you’re exploring. At the end of the day, I've never found a lonelier place in the world than sitting on a stage like this. By myself."

Mark nodded, moved by Gil's confession.

"I never thought about it like that."

Gil shrugged. "It's kind of what makes it special. Most musicians collaborate. Share the space, and the process. Pianists like me…it's just us. All alone up here. There's something existential about it."

"Yeah…I can see what you mean." Mark looked around at the expanse of empty seats, imagining them filled. Then he imagined walking out here, alone. Nobody to back you up. Nobody to stand with you.

It seemed a peculiar kind of torture. And heroism. It made him see Gil in a bit of a new light.

They sat in silence for a moment, the empty theater yawning around the awkward question that still hung between them.

"So…sorry about…" Mark started.

"Don't apologize," Gil raised both his hands. "You didn't do anything wrong. I just…it was an intense experience. I've been…chewing on it since."

"I really didn't mean…I mean, I thought you liked it."

"I do." Gil insisted quickly. "I really do, and I really don't. It's weird. It's a lot of emotions at the same time, and they kind of…duke it out in my head. And I kinda get caught in the middle."

"Sounds wild."

"It is. But I'm trying to find my artistic center, you know? I'm trying to figure out all the feels, and that was a really rich vein to mine. I just…went too deep too fast."

Mark nodded. "Look, the last thing I want to do is hurt anyone. Or mess up what you and Amy have."

"I appreciate that. And you haven't."

Mark nodded again. "Well, Amy texted me the morning after, and I haven't gotten back to her. I wanted to…give you guys a little space, you know?"

"Yeah, feel free to text her back. I think she's worried about you."

"About me?" Mark sat up, surprised.

"Yeah. I mean…you guys have…something. A relationship, of a sort, I guess. I mean…she's got feelings. She's not a robot. She's…attached to you. But not like she's attached to me. It's like…it's own thing."

"Really?" Mark's eyes brightened. "And you're okay with that?"

Gil nodded. "It's kind of like…she knows it's temporary. But it's like a performance she's involved in. We both get that dynamic. Like a dance production. You get…involved, you have all these feelings and attachments with it, you kind of immerse yourself in it. It becomes everything you think about for a while. Then, you do the run of performances, and it's over. You always carry it with you, but…you move on. It's kind of like that."

"Oh."

Mark nodded, masking his disappointment, but earnestly trying to wrap his head around it.

"Yeah," Gil continued. "We've talked about it. I don't feel threatened. I think you and me…we both kinda give her something that the other one can't, you know? And…for now…we like this."

Mark paused, thinking.

"Okay. I think I understand. So…what's the next step?"

Gil looked out at the empty theater for a moment before responding. Then, turning back toward Mark, he cracked his knuckles absently.

"Why don't you come over tonight. We'll have dinner. Feel things out. And if it feels alright, maybe we pick up where we left off."

Mark's heart began to race. "You're okay with that?"

Gil cleared his throat. "Yeah. And honestly…what you've been doing…it really helps her with her confidence. She's…starting to come into herself as a dancer a little more…and you know about her opportunities. And I like it. So I don't think we should stop."

Mark nodded, swallowing.

"Okay. What time?"

* * *

"Dad's home. Dad's home!"

Hearing the front door close, JJ dropped his legos like hot potatoes and darted out of the room like a frightened mouse caught in the light.

Megan smiled more serenely, but her heart jumped at the sound too, following her youngest out of the living room and toward the front door.

Whining and clicking his nails on the hard floor, Zipper beat everyone to the front door leaping up and licking Jared's face.

"Ooouhhh…" Jared's involuntary grunt sounded like a gut punch he hadn't prepared for.

Probably because JJ delivered a gut punch he wasn't prepared for.

He recovered quickly, laughing out loud.

"Alright you little turd…you got me."

JJ giggled as his dad bent down to squeeze him in a hug. Marcos entered behind them.

"We saw you on TV, Dad!. Three times!" JJ's tone was exuberant.

"Yeah? Was I ugly?"

"No more than usual," Megan joked, stepping in and leaning forward to kiss him while JJ clung to him like a barnacle. "I just enjoyed the thought of someone forcing you into a makeup chair."

"That was cool about your new tattoo…" Marcos said.

"Yeah, thought you'd like that. Wanna see it?"

"Yeah…"

Megan always cringed slightly when a new tattoo crowded into her husband's already overpopulated torso. But she was curious too.

Jared dropped his bag and pulled his shirt off, turning around to display the surprisingly intricate picture of one of Marcos' favorite characters–a face frame of a brawny badger with a steely look, the broad head of a battleaxe next to his face.

"That's so cool…" Marcos cooed.

"Glad you like it, bud."

Megan paced around him, cocking her head playfully.

"Is it my turn?"

Jared smirked and slipped both arms behind her back, pulling her in and giving her a long, deep kiss.

"Eeeeeewwwwww…." JJ protested. One side of Marcos' face contorted slightly, suddenly uncomfortable.

Megan broke the kiss, laughing.

A few hours later, both boys in bed, Megan caught her breath as her husband rolled onto his back. Her skin gleamed with sweat, her hair mussed and clumped, with the healthy deposit of his ardor inside her giving her a feeling of deep, warm love beyond the mere physical sensation. And knowing that it mixed with the remnants of Mark yesterday made her feel wanted in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.

But it also reminded her.

"You…should know, honey, Mark and I hooked up yesterday."

Still recovering, Jared looked over at her quizzically, panting slightly.

"Really?"

She nodded, unsure how he'd react.

"Did anyone see you?"

"No. I got us a room at a motel in Swansboro. Nobody was around."

Jared nodded. "Okay."

Megan relaxed slightly, feeling the need to explain.

"It was after the news. About Macintosh. I think we both just…got excited."

Jared nodded. "I get it. Just gotta be careful."

"Of course, baby." Megan turned to snuggle up to him. "I missed you."

Jared's breath evened out after a moment.

"Real talk. Were the boys okay?"

"They were the boys,” Megan sighed. “Marcos was fine. And JJ…well, I looked up online whether hamster moms actually eat their babies. And it turns out they do sometimes."

Jared laughed. "That bad?"

"He's a two parent kid, honey. No way around it."

Jared nodded. "Yep. So was I. Thank God Marcos got your temperament."

They sat in silence for a moment, knowing full well whose temperament their oldest son actually inherited.

"So how was he? Mark?"

Megan shifted, clutching his chest.

"It…was good. It's always good. But then I felt like a monster afterwards. I mean, I got all pissed at Amy for hooking up with him and leaving, and then…"

"Mmmmm…" Jared grunted in understanding.

"And then he sees Molly at the fight, and all the wounds reopen, and it's just…I feel like I really messed up."

"You didn't leave though. You're still there for him. Molly and Amy…they're really gone."

Megan shook her head. "I can't give him what he needs."

Jared shrugged. "Maybe not all of it. But he's still got you. He's got the boys, and I'm watching his back every day. You didn't leave."

Megan began to protest, but Jared talked over her.

"...and I know you want to do it all for him, and I know he's sad and lonely. But he really does value his career and his place at the head of Charlie Company. He doesn't have nothing. He has a lot. And he still has us. If that means keeping some physical distance from us for appearances, he's willing to do that."

"I know he's willing," Megan persisted. "I just…after we finished, he smiled like he used to. I haven't seen that, Jay. Not in a long time. I just want that for him."

Jared didn't answer.

The conversation ran its course.

"Real talk," Megan parrotted his phrasing from earlier. A lawyer's trick. "How was the press tour?"

"Stupid," Jared replied flatly.

"Did they…why did they do it? Why now?"

"It was a top 10 fight. And the way it went down…the brass liked it. Wanted to circulate the story more."

"Well, I don't want them taking advantage of you."

Jared didn't answer, but seemed suddenly distant. Megan sat with the silence for a moment, then propped herself up on her elbow.

"Jay?"

He looked over at her. His lapis blue eyes seemed troubled. Her heart began to race.

"Jay? What happened?"

He pursed his lips.

"Goddamn social media," he muttered.

Megan's brow furrowed. "What?"

Jared grunted in frustration. "After the FightNight interview. It started trending."

Megan whirled around, picking up her phone and opening the social media app.

Number one topic. Trending on all combat sports pages.

#lethimfight

Megan's eyes widened as she began scrolling through topics and comments, all clipping the segment from the show. Megan clicked the video, seeing her husband in the studio with the two veteran sportscasters.

"If you were cleared to do so by your command, would you challenge Damon Tyrion for the title?”

Megan watched her husband pause thoughtfully, weighing his answer.

“That’s a hypothetical. And it's a family decision, so I'm not gonna pop off and answer it. But if you’re asking if I think I could beat Tyrion, the answer is yes.”

The video ended. The comments were mostly crude, and mostly uniform. And there were hundreds of them.

Thousands.

This is bullshit. Mad Dog could have been the champ five years ago. #lethimfight

The Marine Corps is fucking over Mad Dog's career! #lethimfight

GO MAD DOG! #lethimfight

The Marine Corps is a bunch of pussies if they don't let Mad Dog take on Tyrion. #lethimfight

"No…no, baby. No…" Megan's heart began to pound, and tears welled in her eyes.

Jared sat up, gently clasping her shoulders.

"Baby…Meg…baby…I said it was a family decision. And I meant it."

Megan shook her head, throwing her phone sideways. It thumped on the carpet and clattered against the wall.

"No…Jay…I can't…"

"Meg. Look at me…"

She looked over, her caramel eyes glistening with fear and frustration.

"Meg…" Jared insisted. "I said it was a family decision. I said that. And I meant it. I really, really meant it."

"They'll order you to do it!" Megan said loudly.

"Then…I'll deny orders. If you don't want me to fight, I'll deny the orders."

"It'll kill your career!" Megan's voice got louder.

"So?" Jared shrugged. "I got my target rank. I got to serve with Mark again. I built up a shit company with him. I've seen combat, I've belted up, I've done all the things I wanted to do. And more. If this is the end, so be it."

Megan shook her head again, her voice trembling with frustration. "I'm not going to be the bitch wife that kills both of your careers, Jared. GodDAMMIT! How could you let this happen?"

Jared flopped back down on his back, slamming his fists backward into the mattress.

"Goddamn social media."

Megan was about to emote more, but she saw hints of shadows under the crack of their bedroom door.

She had woken one of the boys.

Jared saw her eyes fix on the door, then looked over and saw what she saw. He quietly put a hand on her shoulder, then sat up on the bed, hastily pulling on a pair of boxer shorts. Megan lay back, covering herself with the sheet and comforter as Jared stood, the black mosaic of his dozens of victories in the octagon swirling symbolically up and down his bare torso.

He opened the door.

JJ was looking up, eyes wide, quiet and listening carefully.

A rare occurrence for JJ.

"I heard a thump, and Mom was crying…"

Jared squatted down, looking him in the eye.

"Don't worry about it, Tiger. Mom dropped her phone, and we were watching a sad movie. You can go back to sleep."

JJ pouted.

Megan's eyes fixed on the new tattoo on his back. The badger with the battleaxe.

"I promise, bud," Jared said quietly. "Everything's fine. Go back to bed, okay?"

The boy nodded, turning back and shuffling back into his room, shutting the door sullenly behind him.

Jared stood and closed his own bedroom door, turning to look at his wife. She was covering her eyes with both hands.

"Meg…"

"Let's just get some sleep, Jay. Okay? We can talk about this after…after…after whatever the cliche is."

Jared pursed his lips, frustrated but helpless. He walked back to their marital bed, sitting down on the side.

"Okay."

* * *

"Yeah. That's it. That's perfect."

Mark stepped back, cocking his head as he evaluated.

Amy blushed, absently clutching the hem of her plain black camisole as Mark's fingers slipped under the thin shoulder straps.

"You like it?"

"I do." He bent down, playfully gnawing on her shoulder as his hand slipped downward into the open camisole top, cupping her perky breast from above.

"Mmmm…"

Amy's hum found Mark's lips as his own mouth lifted off her bare shoulder.

Gil had already left for the day, and Amy had seen Mark at the apartment gym for their usual morning workouts. They had both rushed through their routines, then, without having to say anything, returned back through the door of 1F together. Mark had peeled down her leggings in the kitchen and slipped a finger inside her before she could even reach the shower.

"Don't…I'm gross," she had protested playfully.

Mark had ignored her, and had her seated on the counter within a minute, entering her halfway, her slick welcome eager since seeing him lifting at the gym and checking her out nearly an hour before.

Amy had come quickly–she often did in the mornings.

And although she had not yet tented enough for him to slip all the way into her, Mark had come soon after, his own morning tensions having been inadequately released in the weight room.

Especially as he had been watching Amy stretching, running, and doing calisthenics the whole time.

Mark had withdrawn from his proprietary pussy, lifted Amy off the counter, and reached past her to get a glass to fill with water. They passed it back and forth, and Amy, with her leggings still bound around her ankles, had waddled awkwardly toward the bathroom to turn on the shower, giggling over her shoulder.

Mark had refilled the glass, taking a moment to savor the cool relief when Amy's pink face and blonde ponytail poked out the bathroom door over the sound of the shower.

An invitation.

A slower, deeper coupling had found its consummation under the warm curtain of water. Amy's eyes had softened into murky glass as she bent over and grabbed her ankles; she had exhaled as if she'd been holding her breath all morning when, now fully tented, he slipped past her early limitation and seated his large cock all the way into her.

Moments like these, the quiet ones, were different than the clumsy, passionate ones. It was a new kind of experience for Amy–the quiet empty of her apartment mixing with the low volume of the shower, mixing with the full body warmth of the shower stream, and mixing Mark's ardent, but subdued movements inside her tight body. The combination didn't amount to explosive orgasms. It was different. Deeper, in the literal and figurative sense. Almost like a trance…a profound connection that filled her head to capacity with silent, calm static, pushing out the junk anxieties and stresses.

She never knew how much time passed when she was like this, but it was definitely meditative–she was completely present to the physical moment.

Mark had recognized it too. It had happened before, when she got to what he called the "statue stage," and he had done what he usually did–counted out a slow, constant rhythm, his balls gently tapping against her with each thrust. Amy had gone quiet, the grip of her hands around her ankles tightening and loosening alternately.

After about ten minutes of that, Mark had quietly withdrawn, and Amy had stood, the clouds dispersing from her ice blue eyes as she turned around. She had looked up at him, her face asking if he had had enough.

He had answered by cupping both her buttocks and lifting her up. She had squealed, her legs opening, and they had both smiled through the curtain of warm water between them, the tense moment of careful alignment before dropping her small frame down onto him.

Her mouth had dropped open as his movement became more aggressive.

"Lean back a little… grab the shower head…not there…the base…"

Amy had complied with the low grumble of command, her arms straight up as she gripped the base of the shower head jutting out of the wall with both hands. Mark had pressed her back against the shower wall, the cold causing her to yelp for a moment, then relax as he continued to fuck her deeply.

"God, I love those…seeing that…"

He had stared down at her breasts. She had laughed out loud.

"What are you talking about?" She had protested incredulously. "When my arms are up like this, they basically disappear…"

He had kissed her, interrupting her. He shook his head, their lips still locked.

"Nope. Nuh uh...I like them. Just as they are. And they're mine. All mine."

Amy had gasped, a surge of arousal shooting up her spine.

Mark had thrusted harder.

"I like it when you wear those little tank tops. No bra…I like to see them."

"Okay…" Amy's reply had been breathless.

"Wear one today. No bra." He had begun thrusting harder.

"Okay…" Amy's fingers had squeezed on the shower head, her small vagina squeezing Mark as her tide rose.

"I'm not fucking kidding, Amy…" Mark had growled. "I love your tits that way. And that's how I want to see them. You get me?"

"Yes sir….yes sir…." Amy's face had contorted as she clenched Mark's cock in a death grip. Mark's own recognition of her acquiescence, not to mention the warm, wet pressure of her womanhood, sent him over the edge again as well.

Her gasp marked his own release, coating her interior warmth well and amply with his own.

After twitching out his tension, filling her for the second time, Mark had slowly, gently lifted her down onto her feet in the shower.

They had bathed quietly after that.

Shampoo, bodywash, rinse. Amy had carefully checked his brand of bodywash, and kept a bottle for him in their shower.

They had toweled off quietly, and Amy had slipped out of the bathroom into her bedroom while Mark was dressing, returning after a moment in blue jeans and a plain black camisole, her still aroused nipples denting the cheap fabric of the top.

"Like this?" She had asked earnestly, not a little trepidation tinging her delivery.

"Yeah. That's it. That's perfect."

Mark stepped back, cocking his head as he evaluated.

Amy blushed, absently clutching the hem of her plain black camisole as Mark's fingers slipped under the thin shoulder straps.

"You like it?"

"I do."

* * *

"Cohen and Partners."

David cleared his throat, lifting the phone up to hear better.

"Yeah, hi. I'm calling about a metadata and authorship report your firm prepared for my wife. Just had a couple questions about it."

"What's the report?"

The voice sounded clipped. Impatient.

Working with shippers and dock workers as much as he did, David was certainly accustomed to the tone, but it was a little jarring out of the gate. He wondered if this was normal for the firm, and if so, how many customers were repelled by it.

"It was a forensic analysis determining authorship of a long paper. A doctoral dissertation, actually. Might be under the name Simms."

There was a pause on the other end.

"Yeah. We did it. Who's this?"

"Um…this is David Stark. I'm…the woman who wrote the document is my wife."

Another pause. David shifted uncomfortably.

"Hello?"

"Yeah." The voice sounded less clipped, but now seemed evasive. "Is there a problem?"

"Well, not with the report per se," David said, lifting up the title page. "It's clearly thorough and more than adequate for our purposes. But it's a little unclear where it came from. I didn't order it, and she didn't even know about it. I wanted to clear that up in case it becomes an issue. If there's payment due, I'm happy to cover it."

"There's no payment due."

The voice was clipped again, but nervous.

"I'm sorry," David tried another tack. "To whom am I speaking? I just like to know people's names."

Another pause.

"My name is Chris. Chris Cohen."

"Oh," David said, looking down at the report. "Are you the Cohen from the firm's name? Is it like, a family business?"

"Yes, that's me. I'm the owner. And no, not really a family business," Chris said. "My daughter helps out with a few projects sometimes, but no. Not really."

"Oh. Well, I've looked you up online. Looks like you do good business, and this report really did the trick for what we needed. There was just some question where it came from since my wife and I didn't order it. I thought it might have been her dad, but that's pretty out of his wheelhouse, honestly. And I've been racking my brain…"

"Mark Rein ordered it."

David sat in stunned silence for a moment before Chris interrupted again.

"We good?" He clearly wanted to end the conversation.

David shook off his shock. "You…you said Mark Rein?"

"Yeah."

David thought quickly.

"You sound like you know him. Actually, you sound like you know I know him."

Chris sighed.

"Yep."

"Do you mind if I ask how you know him?"

"If you're calling on behalf of your wife, and if you didn't know he ordered this, then I'm guessing I know him for the same reason you know him."

David didn't speak for a moment, once again at a loss.

"So…Mark and your wife…"

"Yep. A while ago. He damn near cost me my marriage."

David's teeth clamped shut. He gulped nervously.

"Really…"

"Yep."

"So you knew…at the time?"

"Yep."

"What…did he…you…she…do?"

Chris sighed again, not speaking for a moment.

"Look. I don't know if you can get this from my tone, but I'm not really inclined to help people for free. I'd just as soon…"

"I'll pay you," David answered quickly.

"I was going to say…" Chris went on, clearly measuring his response against his rising aggravation, "that since I'm assuming you're probably in the same boat as I was once, I'll give you a couple minutes. As long as you don't call again."

David clenched his teeth again.

"Okay. Let me think."

A moment passed.

"Okay." David cleared his throat. "How did Mark know about Jordan's situation?"

"I don't know." Chris' response was flat. "My wife told me he called her, and said she was accused of plagiarism, and passed off a google doc. I did my thing based on the doc and the metadata I got access to. It was enough to make the case I made. I don't know how Mark got it, I didn't talk to him."

"Okay." David paused again. "How…how long did it go on? Between him and your wife?"

"That's complicated," Chris responded. "All told, it was around a year. But he was deployed for like…half of it."

"And you were aware?"

"Yep."

"And it almost cost you your marriage?"

Chris sighed once again. It seemed like he did that a lot.

"When he got back from deployment, it became…more than physical. And she was talking about leaving me for a while. For him."

"And she didn't?"

"No. They broke up. And we moved to a different city pretty quick after that."

"To get away from him?"

"No. Coincidence. But it…kind of made it final."

"But it sounds like they still talk."

"Yep. They didn't for years, but I don't know. I guess they're friendly now."

"Do you…"

"One more question," Chris interrupted, clearly growing tired of the conversation.

David thought for a moment.

"Was there anything you would have done differently?"

Now it was Chris' turn to pause.

"It came out of nowhere. And then it became a kind of addiction. For both of us."

"So what would you have done differently?"

Chris paused for a long time. At length, he answered.

"Communicated."

David nodded, the lump in his throat rising. Since the dissertation defense, he had struggled to know what to say to his wife. He knew she needed him, but he just didn't know what to say now that the affair was out.

"Communicated?"

"Yep. Look, I'm pretty busy."

"Yeah, no. Of course. Thanks for your time, Mr. Cohen."

"You can call me Chris."

"Okay Chris. Thank you."

"Yeah. And your name is Daniel?"

"David. David Stark."

"Yeah. Well…I'm gonna regret this, but…you can call again if you need to."

David swallowed, still processing it all.

"Okay. Thank you."

"Yeah. Bye."

"Goodbye."

* * *

Amy's giggle was infectious. Gil couldn't help but laugh in response.

In the beginning, after the initial awkwardness when they first got together in the first year dorms, learning each other's bodies, Amy signaled her comfort to her boyfriend by giggling happily when they made love. And without fail it drove Gil bananas to see the warm grin on her face. The innocent playfulness of their coupling reminded him of dolphins playing in warm water.

Her lean, powerful thighs slid up his waist as she moved her knees upward. Her soft hands cupped both sides of his face, cooing happily as he moved inside her.

"I'm really glad…I wanted this…"

"Yeah…" Gil exhaled, reveling in Amy's warmth as he moved in and out of her. "Me too…"

They made love quietly, Amy cooing happily as she reconnected with her boyfriend.

Gil shifted his weight, slipping his hands behind Amy's bare back, clutching her and pressing their bare torsos together.

"God…I love you, Amy…"

"I love you Gil…"

That voice. That breathy giggle. The soft, but powerful musculature of her legs.

The warm clutch of her pussy.

Gil's vision began to swirl as he began to lose himself.

"You want me to say it now, honey..?"

Amy's voice was gentle, broaching the trigger point they both knew Gil had come to crave lately.

"Yeah…" Gil's breath was ragged.

Amy turned her head so her lips almost nuzzled against Gil's ear. She took a deep breath, then let it out in the gentlest, most feminine whisper she could muster:

"I'm so glad Mark let you borrow his pussy tonight…"

Gil's cock lit up like a midtown Manhattan skyscraper. He began to twitch violently.

"Baby…" Amy's voice was gently insistent.

Gil heard and withdrew from her quickly, kneeling up and facing to the side, ejaculating awkwardly all over the exposed sheets of their bed.

He had been given permission to enter Amy. But not to cum in her.

"Mmmmm…" Amy bit her lower lip, reaching up to trace her fingertips down Gil's heaving chest as he squeezed his full climax out onto the bed. "Nice, baby…that was a lot…"

Gil's eyelids fluttered, and he collapsed on top of his girlfriend, who resumed cooing as her arms wrapped around his neck.

She pulled him close, kissing his cheek and whispering in his ear.

"I love you, Gil…You're my forever guy…"

Her hips wiggled, her legs settling back down, splaying out underneath him.

Gil's breath still tore the air, his eyes swimming. He leaned into Amy's affections, and began to return her kisses.

"Was that okay?" Gil asked.

Amy nodded, smiling. "Of course, baby."

They lay silently for a moment before Amy checked in again.

"Gil? Are you okay?"

Gil nodded silently, his face down in the pillow next to Amy as she looked up at the ceiling.

"Did you go to the dark place?"

Gil nodded again, then turned his head toward her.

"Just for a little bit. I think…I think that's just part of it now."

Amy pouted. "I don't like that."

"Dr. De Foglio says it's part of it. The journey. And what comes before…it's…"

"What?"

"It's really intense. Makes it kinda worth it. As long as you pull me back from the brink."

"Always…" Amy squeezed his neck.

Gil rolled off his girlfriend, flopping onto his back and sighing deeply. "I don't love that I…like uhh…need to hear that. What you said. About…borrowing. To get there, you know?"

Amy rolled to her side and kissed his cheek again.

"I…sometimes I don't like that I need to feel like Mark owns my body. Sometimes I don't like that I like that. I think it's just part of it."

Amy paused, looking past her boyfriend's chest into a blank distance.

"It's weird. To realize you shouldn't like something. But then still crave it. Is this what addiction feels like?"

Gil clutched a tuft of her golden hair, smoothing it down. "I don't know. I feel like we're kind of wandering in the dark. We're discovering things we couldn't know otherwise. But it's…scary."

"You're always so wise right after you cum…" Amy giggled.

Gil laughed. "Never thought about that."

Amy took a deep breath, laying her cheek on his chest.

"I do like it, though. Mark owning my…body. Like…a lot."

"Yeah. Me too." He rubbed her back affectionately with his open palm.

"Do you think it's working? What Dr. De Foglio says?"

Gil paused.

It was difficult to tell. Back in Oklahoma, his progress was easier to chart. Probably because he was consistently the best. Now that he was qualifying for national competitions, and placing highly in them, it was harder to know what was working and what was not working.

Overall he was doing well. There was no denying that. But was it correlated with his extracurricular activities? Or was it just consistent effort carefully guided by an expert teacher?

His repertoire had expanded significantly. Dr. De Foglio said he was easily a match for anyone at the Julliard School, or any of the European or South American academies. As much as he enjoyed–even craved–hearing, hearing about, and yes, even seeing Amy be sexually dominated and filled by the neighbor, the utility of yielding to that impulse remained an open question as far as his musical development was concerned.

Gil exhaled slowly. "I don't know."

Amy sighed in response. "I know what you mean. It's…hard to chart progress when you're kind of on top already. I don't know what Dr. De Foglio is trying to get you to achieve."

"Whatever it is, it's intangible," Gil responded. "And she thinks this…"

He gestured toward the blank wall at the head of the bed.

"I don't know. She thinks the emotional intensity of this can help me uncover something. But even she can't really say what that is."

Amy thought for a moment. "Maybe she doesn't know. Maybe whatever it is, it's totally new. Truly creative. Maybe groundbreaking."

"Maybe," Gil admitted.

It was his turn to think for a moment.

"What about you? Do you think it's working for you?"

Amy took a deep breath, tracing lines on her boyfriend's chest with her soft finger. Her mind drifted to her time in the bed on the other side of the wall. Of the feeling of Mark's imposing manhood moving inside her. Of the various positions, contortions, and ecstasies that he pulled her into with his powerful body, his strong, stoic presentation, and his smoldering, sad brown eyes.

She thought about her freestyle dance in rehearsal while he watched. The other dancers clearing the stage. Mrs. Lyon's high, shocked praise.

She thought about their shower sex. Grabbing her ankles as if she was stretching before rehearsal while he cleared her head of every worry, insecurity, and complication while thrusting deeply and steadily into her body.

She thought about the subtle changes in her dress. The daring, sole black cami she wore to school the other day, her stiff nipples clearly denting the fabric, her small breasts completely visible to anyone whenever she bent over. She thought about how the accidental uncovering of her deepest physical insecurity was blunted, a crippling anxiety reduced down to a playful blush knowing that Mark simply wanted her to present her body that way.

She thought about the new feeling of old leotards, snapped on before rehearsals, no longer comparing her shape to the other girls. Of lifting her ankles up on the stretch bar at rehearsal without looking down the row of girls to define herself as less curvy than that one, less lithe than this. Where her confidence sprang from the hope that Mark would see her and desire her.

Knowing that if he did see her, he would desire her. Exactly as she was.

That she had proof of it–in the seed she carried in her body more days than not lately.

She thought about the newfound ease with which she moved on stage, simply by reminding herself that her body was not her own anymore. That it was the sole possession of a man who could make it come completely undone. How her arms, her legs, her balance, the control and confidence of her movements, the steady air that stabilized her ability to glide from one place to another without a hint of hesitation…all were drawn from the deep well of those hungry brown eyes; all were massaged out of her body by those strong, calloused hands; all were fucked out of her by that powerful, thick cock that pushed deeper into her body than she even thought possible not so long ago.

But…even with all that, she knew she wouldn't get the prima role for the Firebird. She just knew it. There were at least four other strong contenders, two were seniors. And Mark's confidence, his desires, his insistence that she dance that role for him in performance…it could make her better, more confident. But it couldn't make the other girls worse. And at the end of the day, she simply was not as good, not as pretty, not as confident in her body as they were. Even with Mark watching.

"Amy?" Gil interrupted her thought.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think it's working for you?"

Amy scrunched her lips into a tight "o" and exhaled slowly before answering.

"Yes."

* * *

"I can't get over the fact that they just…don't go anywhere on Deep Space Nine. I watch it and it's like…being stuck at the mall waiting for your parents to pick you up. But in space. And it's forever."

Jordan cocked a half grin, waiting for David to leap on to her impish dig at his favorite franchise.

"It's more complicated than that…"

He couldn't help himself. He took the bait.

Jordan giggled, dropping her cheek onto his shoulder.

They had had a pleasant day. Jordan viewed it as D-Day plus two. Two full days since her dissertation defense. And as it was a Sunday, they had just gotten back from church, unwrapping sandwiches from her favorite deli in front of the TV. A handful of hours before David returned to the airport, bound for Bangladesh again to finish what he started.

David was talking to her again, which was a relief. Just not about…that.

She cracked open her bottle of lemonade, and David sipped his soda before taking a bite of sandwich.

"So the shapeshifter guy decides to be a cop? I'd be a thief. Much more lucrative." Jordan's impish digs at the show on the TV continued as they ate.

"Can't argue with that logic." David took a big bite. "But I'm surprised. I thought for sure you'd have encountered some ancient philosophical text that said you should be a cop instead of a thief if you were a shapeshifter."

"Nope," Jordan replied, taking a swig of lemonade. "No human shapeshifters that I know of in the ancient world. Except Proteus. And he wasn't human. Of course, whatever he was, he wasn't anything, right? That's the point? They become whatever their form is in the moment?"

"So they're nothing?" David crunched a potato chip.

"Not really. I mean, kind of. Nothing stable. Whatever their essence is, it's impossible to pin down. But then again, if you could just…be something different every day, I'm not sure what money could get you that you couldn't get just…shapeshifting in a strategic way."

"Another good point. You're really good at those. Dr. Simms."

"Dr. Stark-Simms," she swatted his shoulder playfully. "I shouldn't have to remind you about that."

"Oh, right. The small matter of the hyphen. Talk about shape shifting."

Jordan swatted his shoulder again.

"But no…I meant, isn't there some ancient text about not doing bad things just because you can get away with them?"

Jordan chewed and swallowed. She loved the cold turkey from that deli, and moaned in delight at the flavor.

"Mmmm…Yeah. The Ring of Gyges section from Plato's Republic. Basically this guy finds a ring that turns him invisible, and then when he realizes nobody will catch him, he does a bunch of bad stuff. Basically saying that people are only good if they're afraid of getting caught. And Socrates has to spend the rest of the time showing the opposite. That rational people crave the just life because…well, because of a bunch of convoluted reasons. It's a long book."

"You've read it?" David quipped.

She swatted his arm again. "Quiet, you."

They watched the show for another few minutes. At a scene break, David took another sip of soda.

"You think it's going to be a problem? People knowing about you and Patrick?"

Jordan's stomach dropped.

"I don't know."

David nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" David asked, taking another bite of sandwich.

"About…any of it," Jordan said, her eyes dropping.

"Only if you do. I'm just worried this'll eat you up when I leave. And I want to run interference on that if I can."

Jordan shook her head, smirking in disbelief.

"I can't even. David Stark…"

"What?"

"I just don't know how you'd think about me in a moment like this."

"Who else am I going to think about?"

Jordan shook her head again, savoring another bite of turkey sandwich.

"Yeah. I'm holding it back now. But when you leave…I'm gonna be a mess. I don't know if that hurts or helps, but it's probably what's gonna happen."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"Yeah, well, I don't have much else to do. I finished all the paperwork for the Ph.D. Just…have to walk now."

"Don't you have leads on search committees for a posting?"

Jordan shrugged. "I don't know…I guess that's what we're trying to figure out. If this gets out…"

David nodded.

Jordan looked over at him, setting her bottle of lemonade down on the floor by the couch. "And…I'm sorry. About what happened at the end of the defense. About what they all said."

David shrugged. "They seemed much more invested in throwing rocks at each other. I think I was more of a rock than a target in that exchange. So it didn't bother me as much as you think. I was just worried about you. It was a dick move on what's his name's part, trying to get in your head after they'd voted. But he seems like a dick. So it's probably on brand."

Jordan squinted, cocking her head in shock. "You really don't see this as affecting you, do you?"

"Not directly," David responded evenly. "I just want…to communicate. About what you need."

"What I need?" Jordan chuffed, tears welling up. "I don't deserve anything. After what I did…"

David set his sandwich down and scooted closer, squeezing her arm with his hand.

"Why won't you yell at me? Why don't you hate me?" she demanded.

"Why would you want me to do either of those things?" David responded, again with characteristic evenness.

Jordan shook her head in frustration.

"Jo. Look at me."

She turned to face him, a tear streaming down her far cheek. Her gunbarrel blue eyes waited for him to explain.

"I think when you apply your prodigy brain to this, you need to decide where the wrong part is. Because the stuff with Patrick…I was fine with that. In fact, I had a lot of fun thinking about it on my own, halfway around the world. It kept me sane, and made me feel a little bit closer to you. And the jerk saying it out loud in a room full of people I don't know…I don't see how any of that is your fault, or even why either of us should give it a second thought beyond how it might make job interviews weird for you. Honestly, I think you need to take some time to think about the fact that on some level, you want this to be wrong, you want to beat yourself up and see yourself as a bad person. And it might be worth your time to analyze why. Why you're trying so hard to paint yourself as a villain. When really you're an angel, and a genius."

Jordan was dumbfounded.

"Just a thought." David turned back toward the TV and took another bite of his sandwich. "That whole Ring of Gyges thing. If you're worried that what you did with Patrick was only bad because it got out, then maybe it wasn't bad in the first place. Maybe you're just embarrassed because he turned out to be kind of a splooge."

Jordan laughed at the word. She cocked her head, waiting for him to continue.

"As for me, I couldn't care less if some eggheads in a university department think I'm a cuck. They are, as a matter of some coincidence, correct about that. But it's not all I am. I'm a lot of different things. And none of those things change because of a passing fascination with gossip. And in that vein, you're not permanently damaged or stained because you went to bed with Patrick a few times.

"Look. We're all shapeshifters, Jo. Every one of us. We all shift form a little bit here and there to get along, to get things done, to convince or persuade, to make each other feel comfortable, to compromise, and yes, even to get our own needs met sometimes. Sometimes it's wrong to shapeshift, sometimes it's not. But none of those things are wrong because we get caught. They're just wrong. Or…they're not."

A glassy eyed smile now plastered Jordan's face. "Did you rehearse that little speech?"

David chewed and swallowed. "Not really, no. But I was just trying to say. Don't worry about me. Take care of yourself, and don't make things harder than they need to be. You're beautiful, and you're a genius. Stop getting in your own way. And let me take care of you. I like doing it."

Jordan's lips trembled. She knew he didn't want to argue. And she had nothing to add. She just leaned forward and kissed him softly.

"David. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Dr. Simms. Sorry. Dr. Stark-Simms."

He handed her the bottle of lemonade she had set down on the floor.

"And lay off Deep Space Nine, will you? It's underrated."

* * *

The audition was four days away.

Amy's nerves were stretched in multiple directions.

On the one hand, her physical preparation was consistent and vigorous. She was early to every rehearsal, kept her gym regimen religiously, did all of her stretching, and kept her pre-audition diet. Her body, usually slim and lithe, was noticeably tighter given the added layers of discipline.

On the other hand, the old anxieties of her elite training and Manhattan arts clique flooded her mind, swelling her fears and constricting her confidence. Two thousand miles away, "Trish" had gotten wind of her audition, and while she made no secret about her feelings regarding the second rate quality of a college dance troupe in El Paso, she nevertheless heaped her own ambitions and insecurities on her daughter.

On the third hand, she had, for the first time in her life, outlets for those anxieties. She could talk to her boyfriend about her feelings, knowing he could understand and empathize with audition and performance anxiety like few others could. It was an enormous help to vent each night over dinner, or snuggling on the couch watching the latest episode of their favorite TV drama.

And on the fourth hand, she had Mark. It was hard to put into words, and it was with oscillating pride and embarrassment that she admitted to herself the level of relief he provided her. The endorphin and oxytocin rush that followed hard after he wrenched orgasm after powerful orgasm out of her petite body.

It was like a performance enhancing drug.

Her whole demeanor became more loose and confident after rising from bed, or emerging from the shower with him. Especially in the morning. And that confidence would inevitably show at rehearsal.

Mrs. Lyon was certainly noticing.

And both within and from the tense, overlapping matrix of stressors and relievers, guided by Mark's preferences, Amy was slowly finding a new way of presenting herself.

It felt significant. Perhaps even a new identity–the casual deference paid to her lover's preferences regarding her wardrobe sometimes made her feel like a butterfly slowly emerging from a carapace.

It was odd. Even funny at times how it actually played out. How well it seemed to work, even though it seemed like it shouldn't.

Mark, like Gil, came from a working class background, but Gil at least understood some of the cultural weight of designer clothing. Mark either didn't know, or more likely had some idea but genuinely didn't care.

What was a novelty just a short while ago had become routine. She would emerge from the shower, wrapped in a plush towel, and he would stand up from the breakfast table, move into position next to her, and point out a top, a pair of pants, and shoes. Occasionally he'd get a wild hair and tie on an accessory, but he kept it basic. His taste was extremely counterintuitive to an Upper East Side Girl–even an apostate one like Amy.

No, Mark's tastes were eclectic to the point of Manhattan blasphemy. Picking out a cream Khaite Fifth Avenue tank from the Upper East Side and pairing it with blue Levis from the Target on Sunland Park in El Paso, paired with clean white sneakers from the Adidas outlet store.

It sounded like a nightmare, and it would give her mother a stroke. But he actually had an eye for what worked for her body. She never walked out the door uncomfortable with how she looked. Partly because how he looked at her was a strong determining factor in her confidence.

But the ensemble's stroke-inducing potential didn't even come close to what would happen if "Trish" knew Amy didn't even bother reaching for a bra in the morning anymore. Mark loved her petite breasts, and he liked to see them as they were–perky and excitable. Well aware of the scandal it caused among the other dancers, Amy had simply chosen her lover's preferences over her peers' approval.

It was her favorite part of their new routine: pulling her top down over her naked torso, and biting her lip coyly as her eyes shot sideways to her lover. His own eyes would be on her stiffening nipples.

Which would sometimes recede somewhat throughout the day. Sometimes not.

The other dancers, catty though they were behind her back, couldn't help but acknowledge to themselves that Amy's new found–and surprisingly brash–confidence was working for her.

Mrs. Lyon couldn't care less about Amy going braless–being French, she didn't understand the fuss from the get go, and Amy's steady move to center stage was getting attention from everyone.

And even to the clucking judgment of the other dancers, her wardrobe clearly wasn't the cause of the shift in confidence, it was obviously the effect. Or maybe the confidence and the wardrobe change were both located somewhere in the wake of the effects of something else altogether.

A couple had even experimented with going braless themselves.

So on a Saturday night, seated in the front of Mark's 4Runner with Gil in the backseat, Amy was experiencing all four pulls on her nerves at once. The upcoming audition, the strain on her body, the emotional support of her boyfriend, and the quiet, yet persistent confidence stemming from Mark's ardent hunger for her body.

"So…no hints?" Amy asked, looking over at Mark in the dark.

"Nope."

His answer was flat, but somehow playful.

The night had thus far been a welcome break from everyone's routine. Mark had offered that morning to "make a night of it," which had intrigued both Amy and Gil. Mark had treated them to a nice Tex Mex dinner at a hole in the wall restaurant that was apparently down the street from where he grew up. It was shockingly delicious, and the old woman who cooked the meal jumped up and hugged and kissed Mark on the cheek when he walked in.

Amy thought it was sweet to catch a glimpse of his roots…

And then he took them to a little comedy club, which was surprisingly fun too. They had a couple drinks, and Amy found herself forgetting which man she was nuzzling up to affectionately, alternating between Mark and Gil.

Which Gil loved.

Then to a little dance club, where Gil sat awkwardly off to one side while she and Mark danced the salsa.

Which Gil also loved.

She didn't know Mark danced at all. He made her feel so small, so delicate, and she craved his touch all the more as he moved seductively with her. After an hour and a half, they had piled back in the 4Runner, and had taken off in the opposite direction from the campus and their apartments. Within minutes, they were on a back road, shrouded in the blank darkness of the West Texas desert.

Amy had quickly assumed that Mark was taking them somewhere secluded so he could fuck her.

Her body brimmed with anticipation, tinged with some genuine fear.

They drove on for forty minutes, the signal from the radio station on Mark's stereo fading gradually into hissing static.

The only light left in the darkness: the dim bulbs of Mark's ancient 4Runner.

An odd silence fell between them, and Gil, a total lightweight 4 drinks in, had fallen asleep in the backseat.

They turned a curve, noting an ancient sign from a small farm town suddenly awash in the headlights. Amy jumped slightly when she felt his large hand grasp her leg. She looked over to see him looking at her through the dim light of the cab.

"This is mine, right?"

He squeezed her leg gently.

She smiled, her insides suddenly throbbing. She smiled shyly and nodded.

"All of it?"

Amy blushed and nodded again, suddenly excited at the prospect of whatever Mark had planned. An overnight stay in an old farmhouse, maybe? But something exciting…

"Good. Say it out loud."

Amy cleared her throat, then, her senses slightly dulled from the wine earlier in the evening, and with a now conscious, warm throb building between her legs, said what she had said a dozen times by now.

"My body is yours, sir. All of it."

Mark nodded and squeezed her leg once more before putting his hand back on the steering wheel. A few moments later, he pulled into a parking lot. A square, unmarked building surrounded by dusty pickup trucks.

"Gil. Wake up. We're here."

"Where's here?" Amy asked, looking back and forth at the parked pickup trucks as they pulled into a parking spot several rows back.

"Boot Scooters. It's a dance club, but on alternating Saturday nights it's a cowboy strip club."

Amy's eyes widened. She looked over her shoulder at Gil, whose eyes also shot open.

She looked over at Mark, her heart beginning to pound.

"Why…why are we here?"

Mark's face was stone.

"Because it's amateur night."