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Love's Wicked Craft Ch. 01

By: Abraxis



"For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace."

- Romans 6:14

"A good act does not wash out the bad, nor a bad act the good. Each should have its own reward."

- George R.R. Martin

* 

"I wish to offer myself up to you, to reconcile our past, to atone for what I'd done; to you."

Hannah Ansley was stunned still the instant she realized the voice of her first love, its sudden weight and the ghost substance of his words.

"Are you serious?" she spoke back to the voice mail; the sensation of blood pulsing at the base of her throat, "Parker; now, after how long?"

She had just entered her house, half past midnight, heaving a gym bag onto the kitchen table, along with her keys, her mind clouded, her skin still alert to the clammy texture of her sweats, her sex still tingling. 

Hannah put the phone on speaker, and then set it down on the kitchen counter. She breathed heavily, tuned in to each breath, trying to wrap her head around this new thing, this echo. 

"Has it really been fifteen years?" she asked the darkness of her kitchen.

Hannah, now thirty-one, , began to find the occasional gray in her thick copper blonde hair, which she'd pluck upon spotting. Otherwise, she looked and felt as good as she had when she was seventeen, before, during and after what she reflected on as the fragmentation by Parker.

"I know you'll have very strong reservations about returning my call." said Parker, his voice husky, wistfully sorrowful, "It's just that I was hoping I could talk it out with you; finally, and somehow resolve our past. There's, there's always something deep in me, nagging, something that keeps reminding me of the mistakes I've made, and-"

Hannah stood immobile during Parker's pause. Why now? she thought. How did he find me? The number's not registered. You never changed it dumb ass. Dad willing the house to you was a matter of public record. Remember? You're the one who never left town; wall flower, sweet and sour- Just shy of spent, Hannah swayed slightly by the space of counter where she'd placed the phone. She'd suddenly gone under a self hypnosis of reviewing memories she hadn't recalled for years. Across her mind's eye, there she was: heartily kissing Parker in Columbus Park, the two of them inseparable, belly laughing at even the most remotely humorous thing. There was the priceless shocked expression on his face the afternoon she'd pulled her mother's slip down in front of him, the time she'd given him head at the movies, the time he'd paid her back in the woods behind the house, the time she'd betrayed him, the time he'd broken up with her, the time he'd wanted her back and the time he couldn't have her.

"I think we can agree that there is absolutely no real reason why you should talk with me."

"You got that right hotshot."

"However, if you feel comfortable about talking- like- just call me. Take care Hannah."

Hannah drew a deep breath; the smell of Chase still in her nose. Mizz Skitters, the stray black smoke Maine Coon she'd taken in two years earlier, joined Hannah in the kitchen, purring as she walked a series of figures eight around and between her ankles, brushing her long bushy tail against Hannah's shins. Whiskey sour, buckwheat flour, she mused as the fall out of Parker's message settled like snow in the cracks of her long term memory. Suddenly, she screamed aloud, the sound of her frustration prompting Mr. Skitters to rush out of the room. I am not the same girl you messed around with back in high school Parker. Now there's the Chase, Chase and me. But what about you Park? Have you changed? I mean, we're all capable of it, aren't we? 

Hannah waited a few seconds more before finally saving the message, and then proceeded to undress on the spot. She had forgotten how disappointed and angry he had made her, getting over him finally after months of lingering angst. But in that moment, twinges of regret, contempt and sadness tugged weakly in her gut, as she flung her musked sweats away with the toes of her left foot. An incredible build up of sexual tension had been on simmer since she'd left Chase. Now on the brink, Hannah could do nothing but yield. She felt the throb inside her sex, blood pulsing, relentless. This is okay, she convinced herself, too far over the edge to stop. It's fine. What Chase doesn't know won't hurt us, and the past shouldn't hurt us either.

"Oh God Chase," Hannah spoke aloud as she caressed the smooth slopes of her breasts and the perceptible curves of her ribs, "I want to eat your pussy so bad. Please; let me taste it. Hmm, haven't I been a good girl to you?" 

Certain this time that she would not be preempted , Hannah sped down the hall to gather her props. She returned to the kitchen a moment later, with a towel, a water resistant cushion and a baby pool; four feet in diameter, a school of caricatured clown fish, dolphins, star fish and sea turtles parading around its circumference. Settling into the pool, towel folded beneath her back, cushion propped behind her head, legs raised and her pleasantly musked, brown haired, sex very near her face, Hannah licked the longest fingers of her right hand, and reached them to her vulva's clef. 

As she massaged herself open, painting saliva on her unfolded rose, Hannah was realizing that her contempt for Parker had aged, weathered and felt more like a pleasant trickle rather than a surging flood. Her engorged clitoris exposed, Hannah proceeded to rub rapid fire vertical friction against it while she plunged the longest two fingers of her other hand to stroke the spongy patch of her G. Her recollection took her to the Parker fantasy she thought of through the times she'd loved and hated him: that sunny spring day in the woods behind his house, his naked brown skin, the swaying dapple shadows of branches and leaves along his flesh, his hard cock swelling inside her mouth, and then her crawling upon it, watching her pussy envelop it entirely, fucking him until the oblivion of completeness left her drooling.

Then there came the snap of a twig, a foot fall, and then another. Oh yes Chase, she thought. Please. Hannah could still smell her, taste her perfume in the corners of her mouth. As she closed her eyes and more quickly affected the friction of her fingers, she saw Parker disappear from beneath her, and turned to watch lovely Chase, glowing inside the light of a hundred candles that flanked her on either side: illuminating her magnificent eyes, the allure of her golden skin, the white honeysuckle orbs of her breasts and their mesmerizing pink nipples, her generous mouth and long fingers. 

Hannah began to pant, the occasional breath catching in her throat, as she called to mind the scenes, the spectacular torment of her new lover's play and the succulent fruit that hung just out of her reach. Ivory tower, electric power, golden shower, please Chase; please. Half a moment more and Hannah began to tense, a seemingly pained grimace coming into her face. As the curl of her orgasmic wave hit, she grunted and began to cream thin arches of milky come, and then a clear cascade of urine drenched her breasts, neck and chin. Her mouth open wide, Hannah shuddered, panted and drank until the stream no longer reached her mouth. She lowered her legs, and let Her body finally go limp. In the ensuing silence of her afterglow, Mr. Skitters meowed plaintively from the kitchen doorway. Hannah, comforted in the knowledge that so precious few knew her darkest, most secret desires, took a long, relaxed, breath through her nose; and exhaled.

"I don't think you should call him." insisted Catherine, "He's right. You don't owe him a damn thing."

It was the following morning, and they had arranged to meet at Lenny's, on the Silus Dean highway. Catherine Wisneuski, pleasant, plainly pastel and generally aloof, had been Hannah's friend since the sixth grade. It wasn't a complicated relationship. They shared in each other's joys and sorrows. Hannah was Catherine's barometer for what the world offered in indulgences and Catherine showed Hannah how to conduct herself politely through a world that functioned through convention. The one cried on the other's shoulders when the need arose or treated her like shit when no one else was around to take it. Hannah's truth was that everyone was bound to hurt you, and it was Catherine's truth that one had to stick with the other that was worth suffering for.

"You're right." was Hannah's answer as she poured a cascade of syrup on her stack of four banana pancakes, "I owe him nothing."

"Right." agreed Catherine as "she took one of Hannah's sausage links and added it to her own plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and home fries.

"but." said Hannah as she held a fork full of dripping pancake aloft.

"But what!" asked Catherine, her mouth half full with scrambled egg, her brow furrowed, "But nothing."

She swallowed quickly, and then cleared her throat.

"Hannah, honey, the only possible reason for you to entertain him is for the sake of helping him to absolve himself, which we agree he doesn't deserve, or to possibly use the man for sex: or to make him pay, some how, for what he did to you."

Actually, thought Hannah, as she took two more mouthfuls of her breakfast, I was thinking about making both happen. But, Catherine knew her friend too long, too well, and so Hannah's eyes did, once met with her good friend's, betray her. Hannah could do nothing but look away from Catherine's "you lying sack of shit" stare.

"You are insane." accused Catherine, "What- How- What if he tries to hurt you? How will you be safe!?"

"Chase will be there."

Catherine studied Hannah's eyes for half a moment. She wasn't sure how to feel about her friend's new pastime. As even as Hannah's temperament was lately, Catherine sensed there was something still unsaid, the if, and or but that Hannah had yet to utter. Catherine, not necessarily an innocent bystander to the evolution of Hannah's bisexuality, was still no less surprised to hear that she had started a relationship with another woman after a long dry spell, punctuated with the occasional series of dates with only two or three men. Presently, Catherine propped her head on her free hand, and cast her eyes down to her plate.

"Hannah," she spoke softly, "I was there the last time, and Parker nearly killed us both. What difference would this; Chase person make?"

"Chase will make a mockery of him." Hannah hissed as the waitress approached with more coffee, "Chase will make him beg for mercy and then beg for more wrath."

The waitress appeared, refilled their mugs and asked about their meals. Hannah drove her fork aimlessly through her pancakes. Catherine demurely wiped her mouth and nodded to the waitress.

"Wrath?" Catherine intoned after the waitress moved on, "Mercy? You know what? The less I know, the better."

Hannah peered up from her pancakes, a wounded expression softening her features. From beneath looping bangs of chestnut hair, Catherine assessed the look from her own remarkably luminous hazel eyes, their shape betraying her mother's Icelandic lineage. They ate in silence for a time before Hannah began to mutter; her chain of words getting gradually louder.

"baby shower, water tower, solar power, witching hour, pussies cower-"

"Hannah!?!"

"What?"

"We don't do that stim in public."

"You're right Cat. We don't do that stim in public. How's your breakfast?"

"Fine, thank you."

Their silence resumed while small talk chit chat, glass tink, dish clack and silverware clanged around them.

"Does she love you?" Catherine heard herself ask.

Hannah looked sidelong at her friend, and then raised an eye brow. A second later, she shrugged and took another mouthful of pancake. 

"It's you that loves me." Hannah chose to say, then smiled broadly.

Hannah hoped Catherine would feel less angry, but it only elicited another cold stare. The smile faded and fell; though a ghost of it lingered around Hannah's lips.

"Do you remember when we used to jill off together?" was the next thing Hannah chose to say.

Catherine quickly scanned the tables immediately around them, her complexion reddening with the same urgency.

"You're going to bring that up too? Jesus Han; what is up with you!"

"Why did we stop?"

Catherine watched the wounded look reappear on Hannah's face. Sighing, she looked into her bowl of buttered grits.

"Because we got too old," Catherine muttered, "Maybe; because you, we, started talking about boys?"

"Yeah, but that didn't mean I stopped liking masturbating with you."

"Oh my God. Okay, and it also didn't mean that I continued liking it enough; to continue. Please lower your voice. You know what? Never mind. Let's just drop it."

Hannah's cell, which she'd laid on the table beside the sugar caddy, suddenly jingled the arrival of a text. She leaned toward the phone, opened the message and read. Catherine, still befuddled by Hannah's sudden mention of their mutual masturbation, looked on as Hannah's face flushed. She thought she seemed suddenly apprehensive, maybe even a little fearful.

"So Parker's got your cell number too?" asked Catherine, suddenly not shy about how full her mouth was, "That's nice. I always wanted my very own stalker. Or, is that Chase writing you sweet nothings?"

"Whatever Cat." said Hannah before dropping her fork, wiping her mouth and grabbing her cell and purse, "I'll be right back."

Hannah locked herself inside one of the ladies room stalls and opened the text message again.

So that's your old buddy Cat, was how the message began. She might have a sex life if she lost a few pounds and did something with her hair. Hell, I might even do her. 

Where are you, was what Hannah typed back.

No where that you can see me, so don't look. Now, my lovely little girl, take that remote control vibrator I gave you last night and insert it into your special place.

Not here, not now, please?

Yes here. Yes now or else the cat will come out of the bag and scratch you in front of your little friend; Cat. Oh my goodness, I am so funny. Now do it Hannah, and never argue with me again.

Yes mistress.

Good. Write me when you've done as I've told you.

Hannah muttered mild curses under her breath as she tucked the phone into her bag and pulled out the slick white vibe. She then placed her bag onto the back of the toilet, and then began to open the fly of her jeans. In spite of her reservation, Hannah's sex yielded quite easily, and the vibe was as good as in. 

"I am now a new me," Hannah whispered as she put herself back together, and then retrieved her cell. "And I can become more, go beyond the new me. Just you watch."

I'm ready mistress.

Good. Now get back to your booth, and don't you dare try to scope me out. Go.

"Are you okay?" asked Catherine as Hannah took her seat.

"I am just peachy. Are you finish yet? Let's get out of here."

"What's your hurry Han? Oh, sorry: maybe you need to be somewhere. A few more bites and I'll be done." 

As Hannah glowered at Catherine, the first wave of Chase's control hither, and startled her to attention. At first, she wondered if Catherine could hear the vibe. Then second, she realized that her eyes had closed. Hannah felt her self becoming steadily wetter with each of Chase's variation of the vibe's speed.

"Hannah, are you okay?" repeated Catherine as the waitress dropped off their check.

"I'm fine." Hannah sang softly as the vibe's speed rose again.

"You look like your falling asleep."

"It's the pancakes." sighed Hannah, "They always make me sleepy.

She knew it was one of Chase's tests, her evaluation of Hannah's own self control, her ability to remain calm in the face of exposure. It was an important lesson, valuable in that it meant that she was that much closer to coming into her own. 

"Do you remember our prom, and how we danced most of the night away with each other because our dates invited us just to see how Parker would react to our being there?"

"Man, you know you are full of regretful memories today. Please don't remind me. God, why did high school have to suck so bad? And I liked that asshole who invited me too. What was his name?"

"Gordon, I think. You were so sick that night in the hotel, and I couldn't stop laughing as I held your hair back from falling into the toilet bowl." 

"I asked you not to remind me."

"Sorry. God, faster is definitely better."

"What is that supposed to mean?" asked Catherine between spoonfuls of grits.

"Nothing," Hannah sighed as she rode the crest of a small orgasm, "I was just thinking about, thinking about the ocean."

"The ocean?" Catherine laughed, "What about it?"

"The ocean is like a secret or maybe the secret is like the ocean, with waves and ripples and swells and alternating currents on top, with rip tides and devastating undertows threatening sometimes just below the surface."

"That's cute Han. And what's your secret?"

"Do you really want to know?"

Hannah clenched her thighs tightly as the waitress strolled up to take their dishes. The woman raised an eyebrow as she noticed Hannah's position and her reddening cheeks and neck. I could blow it all right now, thought Hannah as the waitress left and as Catherine's gaze turned into something more suspicious. Yes; I could turn Cat or maybe even long lost Parker into my own little; side project.

"What my secret is, Hannah resumed as a second thigh muted orgasm throbbed inside the vault of her sex, "Do you want to know what it is?"

Catherine shrugged, scanned the most immediate faces, and then met Hannah's glazing eyes.

"In the little girl's room, I put a wireless bullet into my pussy."

Hannah grinned then as she watched Catherine's mouth go agape and her eyes wide. Once again, she scanned the patrons in their surrounding booths, before returning her eyes to Hannah's, her expression evolving into a lighter shade of amused.

"This is quite possibly the most insane thing you have ever done in my presence. Catherine hissed, leveling her stare, "I just assumed you two had more between you than a couple of watch batteries to make you happy. Oh, and since you're so sexy tough, I'm going to watch you go up and pay the bill!" 

Hannah sat still for a few seconds as Catherine rose from her side of the booth. Then, she stood aside and waited for Hannah to get on her feet. She did eventually, and Catherine watched as her friend stepped into line at the register, and saw that if anyone else was paying attention, they could see that she was gently rocking her hips to some slow inner rhythm. When it was Hannah's turn to pay, she smiled broadly at the elder cashier, who responded in kind. Hannah then took her change, and swaggered back to the booth she and Catherine had occupied, and then lazily brushed her hair back before finally leaving a tip. She strolled back to Catherine and stopped beside her. A sudden rush of screeches and remonstrations came tumbling into the restaurant, and a bedraggled pair of parents herded their five little ones to the "Please Wait to be seated" sign.

"Ready?" Hannah asked, smiling, her hips still grinding slightly.

Catherine was livid. Hannah took the moment to hold her gaze, to stand her slippery, sloping, ground, and realize the plain beauty of Catherine's narrowly slanted brimming dark hazel eyes. She was a natural brunette that never experimented away from her usual shoulder length cut or body wave style, but she always dressed well, in muted soft burgundies, maroons, dark yellows and browns. Today was actually purple for her, violet stretch jeans, with a spacious lavender sweater and gently worn brown loafers. Catherine never dressed sexy, because she was far too self conscious about the weight around her middle she never seemed able to lose. Hannah had expressed to her best friend often enough that the style she had developed for herself did in deed make her attractive, and as genuine as Hannah's feelings were about the matter, Catherine would never once buy it because she could never muster enough confidence to take the risk of wearing something a little more revealing or provocative. She's not fat, thought Hannah as Catherine suddenly turned on her heels and walked out the door, just a little round bellied, a little round assed, and a little round assed is a good thing. I bet she'd look pretty good in, let's see: a little spandex, a little fishnet? Hmm. Noticing that Catherine's anger had quickened her step, Hannah found that she had to pick up her pace in order to have some last word before they parted company.


Love's Wicked Craft Ch. 01



"Oh, so what are you mad at me now?" called Hannah.

Catherine shrugged, stepped off the curb, arrived at her clean white Omni and drew her keys out from her purse. Hannah's vibrator had since ceased. She had taken the space beside Catherine , and watched her fumble with her keys as she stood leaning against the passenger side of her own vehicle. In the next instant, Hannah chose to give Catherine a good slap on her ass. Catherine whirled and quickly scanned the parking lot before finally leveling a furious stare at Hannah.

"You are a total fucking ass hole!"

Hannah didn't look away. Catherine eventually dropped her eyes, and reached her arms helplessly out at her sides, and struggled for how to say, for what to say.

"I thought this Chase person would be a good thing for you, but I don't know who you are anymore Hannah!" Catherine voiced solemnly, "I mean lately, spending all those nights working out, and already way to thin to be pushing yourself so hard, and, and, getting off in public!?! That might be perfectly okay among more than a few people, but I've never known any before, and, and I just don't know how to feel about knowing one now!"

Catherine folded her arms, and then searched the parking lot before turning her attention back to the friend she'd dragged out of pit after rock bottom pit. Meanwhile, Hannah's gaze never wavered. Presently, she lifted a hand and wagged her head, and moved her lips to speak.

"I'm sorry Cat," Hannah said finally, "But, but you know, I can't get your permission to mess with you because then it, you know, wouldn't be; spontaneous."

"Meaning what!?! Catherine hissed, "I had to get used in order so that your titillation could reach maximum intensity!?!"

With that, Hannah finally averted her dark blue eyes and glowered at the asphalt at her feet. A few seconds more, she stepped round to the driver's side of her green Maxima, unlocked the door and got in without saying another word. Catherine turned to work her key into the lock, rather than watch Hannah drive away. Once inside, she buckled and sat, staring blankly at a section of the restaurant's brick facing, her keys still clutched in hand, gripping them tight enough so that a pair of keys were pinching her palm.

Hannah had driven away quickly, more with confidence and the alertness of someone between orgasms rather than out of frustration and anger. She'd turned right, certain of exactly what she'd do next. Half a minute later, as Catherine was pulling out of Lenny's lot and turning left, Hannah found the first gas station convenience store, and ducked in for a pack of Newport Lights and a black lighter. She returned to the car, muttering three or four choice profanities under her breath. She tapped the pack against the dash seven times before unwrapping the cigarettes, withdrawing one from the box and putting it between her lips. Where the fuck is Chase now, thought Hannah as she lit up and took in her first puff after a year of having quit smoking for the second time. Hannah eased back into the head rest, closed her eyes and breathed a great breath. She felt in her jacket for her cell, held her cigarette between her lips and typed a text.

Hey! Where are you now?

She sent the message, turned her Maxima back into life and pulled out of the gas station's lot. Weaving through traffic, Hannah searched for any sign of her new lover's Suburban, and thought absently about how comfortable Chase's gift felt as it waited inside her. It was as if it had become a part of her until she'd clenched her muscles around it. Hannah set her phone in the cup holder, clenched her vaginal muscles again, loosened them, and then tightened them again as she fingered the ripples at the crotch of her jeans. Come on Chase, thought Hannah. I want you. I want you so fucking bad. Ten more minutes of tender torment, Hannah's phone chimed, and her instructions followed.

The truth was that Hannah hadn't been working out at any gym. Going that far out of her way just to exercise went against her general philosophy on living well. She was thin enough as it was, 108 to her 5'10, to much the chagrin of her primary doctor. The gym bag was what Hannah happened to be using for her over night things; though as hot as that July was, its contents were few. Now, five months into Her relationship with Chase,, Hannah stopped by her own home just to get fresh clothes and tend to Mr. Skitters. 

The "late nights at the gym" pretense Hannah had contrived because Catherine was the last in her life whose disapproval mattered. Though now, exposing Cat to an element of her "work outs" with Chase, Hannah had conveyed a rearrangement of priority. It was cruel, she knew it, but they'd both attribute it to Hannah's autism, her Aspberger's syndrome. Still; Catherine would be there, again, sooner or later. Hannah wasn't worried. It wasn't fair to Cat, she knew. But, Hannah wouldn't be fair to herself if she didn't chase Chase. Like an addict, Hannah would take in every last drop of her lover, whether it led to a strung out existence, clean sobriety or death by over dose. I'll just make Cat understand, she thought. I can make her understand.

It was a temperate, lazy, day in early April when Hannah found herself in the mall's highest end shoe retail store. She was trying on a pair of black four inch heels she couldn't afford, let alone walk in. She called it wishful shopping: taking most of a day to try on the most expensive clothing and footwear. She was in the middle of thinking about how dressing differently might put her with people of a different class, as if the level of class meant that the quality of the people would somehow allow for genuine genuineness, when she quite literally fell into the arms of a stranger.

Hannah had teetered and groped awkwardly until she felt the person's arms. Reaching around strong shoulders, she regained her footing before finally looking into the stranger's face. From the very second Hannah met her eyes, she'd lost all sense of time as well as space; jaw slack and fingers clinging. As to exactly when the woman started speaking to her, Hannah wasn't sure. Her senses were flooded, stunning her with over stimulation. 

Reality came back into view, seeming to first revolve around and then radiate from the woman's face, a picture of sheer, flawless, beauty: framed with long luxurious feathered jet black hair and the kind of glowing blue eyes that seemed to have their own magnetic field; the kind of eyes that could shame even the entirely guiltless. In the few seconds it took Hannah to steady her feet, she teetered once more, and held the woman fast. The pleasant aromas of coconut and lemon and something she couldn't name filled her nostrils as the miraculous creature stopped her from plummeting to the floor.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" Hannah said as she steadied herself enough to remove one heel and then the other, "I'm just haven't worn these things in a long while."

"That's okay." the woman replied, her voice husky, sweet and confident, "It's fine. Can I help you find something a little more manageable?"

"Uh, sure." Replied Hannah as an embarrassed, anxious uproar of butterflies crashed into each other in the pit of her gut. 

the woman gave Hannah a warm smile, and then began to search their immediate surroundings. Hannah, caught up in a level of enthusiasm she hadn't known for what felt like years, could barely take her eyes off the woman. As she nervously tucked the stray strands of her otherwise bound copper hair, she roved subtle scrutiny over her helper. She was a bit taller than herself, ruler shaped yet voluptuously robust in the chest and hips, and moved with a confident bearing. The woman was dressed in a pair of green flower patterned coo lots with a cute gecko peeking through a cluster of leaves, brown leather flats with no socks and a beige polo shirt. Riding in its pocket was A cell phone. In either ear lobe hung a blue sapphire tipped white gold stud. Around her right wrist was a very slender, white gold, small faced watch. On her left wrist, she wore what Hannah believed was one of those magnetic mood regulating bracelets, the slim cubes of magnet linked by a series of ultra marine enameled beads.

The wandering eyes of nosey grandmothers and giggling tweens suddenly made Hannah conscious of her staring. Blushing, she pulled a gaudily colored pair of pumps from the nearest shelf, and began to feign admiration for them. The woman, still visible from the corner of her eye, approached with a foot measurer. Hannah turned, gathered her worn black flats, and carried them to a seat at the end of the aisle. Setting her shoes aside, Hannah sat down. The woman knelt before her, placing the measurer on her lap. Hannah wore nude stockings, knowing she'd be trying heels on that afternoon. She was about to initiate the raising of her right foot, but the woman gently cradled her fingers around the back of her ankle and, letting her fingers slide along the arch and first two toes, set her foot into the device. Hannah stared at the woman as she very attentively, seeming in complete absorption, measured Hannah's right and then left foot.

"Ten and a half regular, though your right is a might wider than your left." Said the woman, raising her gaze to meet Hannah's; her smile seeming genuine enough, but her eyes so mysteriously blue around their black pupils that Hannah suddenly felt as if she had to hide.

"Would you be open to open toes?" asked the woman. 

"Uh, I guess," Hannah agreed, "But I; don't have a lot in my budget to-"

"That's fine." the woman answered, "We can accommodate that. I'm just thinking it wouldn't hurt for you to go with a little shorter heel. It's not like you have the stature of a woman that needs a four inch heel. Let's drop that to half. Is that okay?"

Hannah watched the woman as she spoke, sitting comfortably on her knees. She suddenly realized she had been staring again, and redden as she nodded. The woman smiled again, almost beaming, and then quickly got to her feet.

"Let me see what I can find you." she said before stepping out of sight. 

Hannah sat alone then, stunned and befuddled, as if suddenly caught in the after glow of a very long, open mouth kiss. She looked about herself, slightly paranoid, avoiding looking other customers in the eye, glancing at scattered shoes, disorganized boxes, wondering if the same feeling would come back with the woman. Hannah imagined her, cradling boxes and boxes of pumps, and smiling brightly over them all. A moment passed. She's like an explosion, thought Hannah, like boommmm, and I, and I don't think so. Another minute passed, and she was unable to complete her next thought or think about anything beyond her explosion's radiation. Eventually, Hannah found herself going about returning the shoes she'd tried on back into their box. She had begun to clean up after other customers and organize the shelves most immediate to her, when her shoe store angel returned, carrying only two boxes.

"These are totally you." she smiled, "Have a seat."

Hannah took the two boxes and went about trying on the first pair while the woman stood across from her, leaning against the opposite shelves. She watched pensively as Hannah walked the aisle after strapping on the first pair; gleaming black pumps, the heels just over two inches tall and wider at the base. Training wheels, thought Hannah, but they look nice on me. She turned around, met the woman's assessing gaze, smiled and nodded an affirmation. The woman returned her smile, and then told her to try on the second pair. Hannah took out the next pair while the shoe store lady returned the first pair to their box. The second pair had nearly the same height of heel, but they were wider around the balls of her feet, open toed and constructed with a sturdy and lustrous maroon dyed leather. Humming to herself, Hannah sat back down, took off the heels, and then put her own shoes back on.

"I'll take them." Hannah smiled, extending the boxes toward her helper; too excited to remember that she had absolutely no cash or that the woman would be just another memory after she learned that Hannah had maxxed out all three of her cards.

The woman had a sudden struck look in her face, giving Hannah pause.

"Oh," she laughed, sitting crossed legged at Hannah's feet, "I can't check those out for you."

"Why not?"

"I don't work here."

Hannah stared blankly at the woman. 

"How did you find these then? They weren't in this aisle or the next one."

"I snuck into the back room and found them."

Hannah was struck dumb, her eyes wandering to the right and back again.

"Sorry." the woman continued, her expression solemn, "My name is Chase, Chase Hudson, and, well, I just wanted to help you find some shoes, and I didn't think you'd let a perfect stranger just walk right up and tell you what to ware on your feet, that is of course if the perfect stranger was someone who worked in this store."

"Oh. Uh well; that's okay." said Hannah after a few seconds, still thought cluttered from the inconceivable reality of the woman before her, "I don't have the money to pay for these anyway."

"Are you mad?" asked Chase, still sitting at Hannah's feet; her legs drawn up to her chest, her fingers laced around her knees.

"uh, No. I've gotten real used to being broke."

Chase gave Hannah a broad smile.

"And you're funny too. " she remarked, "Do you think I'm nuts?"

"Yes."

"What's your name?"

Hannah paused.

"Well; before I venture to tell you, may I ask if you're certifiably nuts, or; nuts out of impulse?"

Though her gaze didn't waver, a quizzical look came into the hypnotic ice of the woman's eyes.

"My; deception was born purely out of impulse." Answered the woman, her gaze still unwavering, "But, how do I know you're not wanted in three states for armed robbery or something?"

"Hello; because you would have remembered my face from the wanted posters, silly." Hannah said soberly, "And by the way: just because someone robs a few banks, that doesn't mean their crazy. It means they're-"

"Impulsive?"

"Exactly. I mean; right. Yes; why not?"

Hannah's eyes darted from the smile that had begun to raise the woman's lips, to the customers passing by their little corner of the store, then back again.

"My name is Hannah," she said, "Hannah Ansley."

"Nice to meet you Hannah." Said Chase, extending her hand, her eyes showing the same truth as her smile.

Hannah took her hand. She gripped it weakly at first, but in realizing Chase's firmness, she suddenly increased her own pressure. 

"I feel like getting some Tai food for lunch." Chase declared, "Would you like to join me?"

"Tai sounds interesting." Hannah admitted, "But, I'll still be broke."

"Relax. We'll work something out."

Their conversation continued as they strolled past the checkout counter, out the door and through the parking lot. The dialogue was a light exchange, a ping pong banter that seemed to amuse Chase very much and reassure Hannah somewhat. The exchange allowed Hannah to paint herself in her best surface colors. After all, not everyone understood or didn't feel threatened by persons on the spectrum. Hannah, thought lapsed and mesmerized, absently listened to the woman's directions to The restaurant's location on New Park Avenue. 

She wants you, Hannah thought. No she doesn't. Yes she does, 

scratch and scour, flower power, pussies cower- Stop. You're bright and engaging, Hannah told herself as she walked back to her Omni and got in. Fine; but at the end of the day, there would be the truths left unsaid, the shack of a house that was her father's estate, the mother that left to find a rich new husband in sunny California, her extremely low wage house keeping job and the Aspberger's syndrome that had once been so severe that television was the only way Hannah ever learned anything.

There was Catherine though, Hannah reminded herself as she followed Chase's vehicle out of the parking lot, who helped to qualify the rhyme or reason inside her TV head. It was a fact that never seemed to remain in her working memory or was perhaps disregarded whenever it was convenient. Hannah sighed as a mild guilt churned in her belly, though she thought it could have just been a pang of hunger. 

She could be an awful friend; she knew it. What did she have to offer this new person really? Forging closeness was hard, especially when your new friend suddenly discovers that a. you're liable to scream out loud at the worst possible moment, b. you occasionally perseverate on multisyballic strings of phrase that end in the our sound, c. smuggle toilet paper from people's homes, even after being caught twice, and d. relate every last detail of each installment of the My Strange Addiction series, in spite of her obvious lack of interest or spoken demand that you shut the fuck up.

Oh come on; I'm not that bad. You were, she heard Catherine's voice say inside her head, before your dad died and your mom took off. Do people create new friendships at the drop of a hat, Hannah asked herself as she turned onto the on ramp to route 84. Why make the investment. After all, isn't every acquaintance still a stranger ready to revert back to their previous aloofness, indifference and distance, once they learn that the object of their pursuit was either too shallow, too needy or just too wrong a choice of pursuit in the first place? Well there you go, thought Hannah. This Chase and I will continue to talk over lunch. She'll learn that I don't have any redeeming qualities or an appropriate set of social skills, and I'll never hear from her again. This'll be a piece of cake. 

If only I didn't like her so instantly. She assessed her face in the rear view between green lights, I should save her the money, and just take off. Why get deeper? She seems real. Yeah, but real could be fake or at least fake later on. Maybe it's worth diving in. You like her, Hannah, because she's likable. Shit, she's more than that. I feel, I don't know, really strange. God, please let me remember not to scream or eat anything off of her plate.

"Are you okay?" 

Hannah had been looking around the restaurant while Chase finished talking to the waitress. The place was small, quaint, decorated in warm reds and purples, thatched bamboo sculptures mounted on the walls above each square, glass covered table. They sat in a little windowed alcove. Hannah had her back to the window and Chase sat facing her. The waitress brought them each a goblet of water, and Hannah very quickly drank half of hers. She then cleared her throat, and, for the fourth time, spread and patted the napkin on her lap.

"I'm fine." Hannah replied, "I just can't remember if I opened up some windows for my cat. It's turned out to be a really warm day."

"He'll be alright." assured Chase, "Cats always know where the cool spots are when they need them. Me, I like hot, spicy hot. Wait until you try this place's green papaya salad. Between the crunch, the sweetened lime and the chilies; oh my God!"

Electric power, Hannah rattled inside her head, ivory tower, magical power, meteor shower; chill, chill dude, chill. Okay, hot, heat; I can make a connection.

"Did you know that peanut oil is used for cooking in submarines because it doesn't smoke unless it's heated above 450°?

Having been caught mid sip, Chase chortled and dribbled enough of her water that she wiped it with her napkin.

"I'm sorry." Hannah said as she looked on, smiling nervously.

"Don't be sorry." Said Chase, "It's always nice to laugh. Uh, really? I didn't know that about peanut oil."

"Yep." Agreed Hannah, a culpable hint of pink tingeing her cheeks, "It's a fact."

"Hmm." Said Chase, sipping her water again and studying Hannah over her glass, "I hope you can handle hot, I mean; spicy.




Love's Wicked Craft Ch. 01



The waitress returned to fill Hannah's empty goblet and take the rest of their order. Hannah opened her menu and shrugged, wishing it was on a teleprompter or posted on the wall like at her favorite Chinese place. Ultimately, asking her guest if she had exceptions to chicken or beef, Chase went ahead and ordered for them both.

"I'm no stranger to spice I guess." Offered Hannah shortly after the waitress left their table, "But, the hot I really Like is that hot that gets on you in a sauna or the hot at the beach, between the baking sand, your sweat and a nice coconut tanning oil on your skin. You know?"

With her elbows still on the table's edge, fingers interlaced, bridged, beneath her chin, her eyes smoldering translucent lapis, Chase continued to assess Hannah.

"Yes," she answered; her expression unreadable, her words slowly intoned, "I wish I had more time to enjoy visits to saunas or a nice sandy beach, but..."

Hannah nodded, realizing that the time arrived to ask about Chase's work. She raised her goblet of water to her lips, and took a slow sip.

"So what is it you do for a living Ms. Hudson?" she asked; knowing that the question would ultimately lead back to either her own meager, static, employment, her difficulty in school and the nerve racking admission of her disability.

"Well; I'm the principle at Montbury Middle School." Answered Chase, "I'm an adjunct professor at Eastern State University, and I run a biweekly sowing class at the Montbury Stitch In Time."

Oh for Christ's sake; I should have took off when I had the chance. 

"Really?" said Hannah through nervous laughter, "And what else would you be doing with the free time you don't have?"

"Oh, well I like to sow, take care of my plants, write, do a little photography, paint, bake and-"

Chase paused, her expression darkening slightly, her gaze flitting between Hannah's gaze and out the window beyond her.

"And other things, I guess." She Finished ; lowering her hands onto the table, "I'm sorry. You're right. I have no time for me or for anybody outside of work. I don't know. People get freaked out a little when I say I'm a school principal. Not that you seem; too freaked. Sometimes, I wish I didn't go into administration. That way, I'd have plenty of summer to do all the things I get so ambitious about. But, you just don't give up a principalship; you know?"

Hannah nodded. Oh my God, rise to power, overpower, , paper flower; if I feel any smaller, I might be able to sneak out of here. What would Catherine do? Rephrase: what would Catherine tell me to do? Be honest? Be honest; aw shit, but I like this one.

"Well, I don't know what your spiritual philosophy is," Hannah clarified, "But, did you know that if you get into the bottom of a well or a tall chimney and look up, you can see stars, even in the middle of the day?"

Wait: that's not what I meant to say. Crap, crap, crap!

In that instant, as a shift occurred in Chase's expression, the waitress returned with a bowl of steamed edamame and green papaya salad.

"Meaning," said Chase as she nodded to the parting waitress, "That no amount of ambition or no matter how many kids I help, if I don't make the time for me, I'll still won't do half of what I need to do and even less of what I want to do before I die?"

"Uh, yeah," Hannah shrugged, suddenly smiling, "Exactly.

Chase was smiling also; the blue in her eyes brightening to a shade of cobalt.

Chase prepared to take the serving spoon from the dish of papaya salad, but Hannah suddenly interceded. Remembering that she had barely enough money in her pocket to leave a tip, she decided that the least she could do was serve the woman. Then, as she filled her own plate, Hannah glanced at Chase; head tilted, chin rested once again against her steepled fingers, a pleasant smile on her lips and a warmth in her eyes to match.

"Oh this is awesome!" Hannah declared after her second mouth full, the chilies so hot that her eyes began to water.

Chase bobbed her head playfully and smiled. 

"You sure it's not too hot?"

Hannah nodded as she found a clean spot of napkin in order to wipe the tears away.

Presently, the waitress returned with two large round, fish shaped dishes of chicken, onions and red peppers, bathed in a sauce of coconut milk and green curry, and topped with chopped cilantro and basil. Hannah, as properly as she could manage, set her chop sticks within her fingers and took her first mouth full of the entree. Almost immediately, her taste buds were stimulated anew, leaving her shamelessly expressive in her delight.

"I think your eyes just rolled back into their sockets!" Chase pointed out, mimicking the accent of an aged, English speaking German Jew.

"Oh my God," Hannah exclaimed, "This stuff is better than-"

Hannah closed her mouth to chew, wagged her head slightly, then gestured with her free hand, as if trying to pluck back some meaning she'd left hanging in the air between them. Chase chewed her food thoroughly, her expression cool and amused, as she watched Hannah's brief struggle. ,presently, Chase made her own gesture as she swallowed.

"Would you believe me if I told you," she said, leaning in, a gentle smile brightening her whisper, "That some of the best sex I ever had; happened between a knife and a fork?"

Hannah was struck silent, her empty chop sticks hanging in mid air. Oh my God, she just said an inconceivable thing. She felt the scream, itching in the bottom of her throat. Hannah quickly covered her mouth. Chase sat back, her eyes betraying nothing as a weak smile crossed her lips. Process, process, process; fucks her favorite food; pokes herself to orgasm with silverware- Hannah suddenly imagined Chase dressed in a hot dog in a bun costume; her head poking from its hole; her eyes shut, her mouth open, panting and moaning as she climaxed. Is she really sure she wants to go here? Hannah cleared her throat, set her chop sticks down and leaned in to whisper:

"Movie theater popcorn; costs more per ounce than filet mignon."

"Really?" asked Chase, wearily eyeing Hannah. 

Quick; recover, come back, come back!

"Really. So; I guess it's a good thing you're eating with chop sticks right now."

Chase's face brightened then. Smiling warmly, she nodded, and gestured toward Hannah with her chop sticks.

"Uh-oh. Be careful where you point those." Continued Hannah.

Chase, her cheeks suddenly quite flushed, tried to contain a burst of laughter. Heads turned and eyes lingered as she recovered. Hannah swallowed behind her own embarrassed smirk, her cheeks flush slightly. It occurred to her that she'd possibly conceived and delivered what Catherine called innuendo, and was actually very proud of herself. It had gotten easier to live, to disguise herself under high functioning, but trying to retain or broaden her social skills could still be like trying to fit the jigsaw pieces of three different puzzles into one. Hannah knew certain morays and expectations should apply, but if one act or statement didn't fit, she'd try to jam it in until it did; or until the perspective friend didn't want to play anymore.

Either way, Chase hadn't got up and left. She seemed genuinely amused as she sat back and returned to her meal. So, as they ate in silence, there it hung, the idea of sex . It lingered in Hannah's imagination, a naked pink pussy figment flying a holding pattern among the clouds of her mildly autistic brain; virgin's bower, larvae dauer, golden shower- Her heartbeat quickened as a secret desire was born in her consciousness, conceived inside the slip stream of forethought and rumination, and only within the short space of time that the strange woman across the table brought her to that very moment. Either by intention or fortune, a sudden magic music had been conjured in the usually comfortable static inside Hannah's head. 

Nearly finished with her meal, Hannah announced that she needed to use the rest room., That woman, she thought as she closed the bathroom door behind her, can't be anything more than a pleasant stranger. What am I doing? I'm kidding myself. She's oodles, everything, so much more; like suddenly being dropped in the middle of Costa Rica or the Amazon or something. I can't do this. I can't- Hannah's fear was becoming too great. After all, it wasn't everyday that she encountered a person capable of, and seeming with virtually no effort, turning her on so instantly, let alone get her to do the work it took to recall and demonstrate as many of the appropriate social skills she could muster.

The realization then, in combination with her ever speeding pulse, was dizzying. Settling on the commode, Hannah wondered: if the bathroom door wasn't locked, and not a unisex single, would Chase have followed her in? She parted her vulva and dipped her fingers into her urn stream, imagining Chase walking through the door, and then getting on her knees before her. Her curiosity and ardor were so sharp that Hannah stopped her flow, took off her pants, underwear and shoes, kicked them aside, and then rubbed off a mini as she watched herself pissing in the sink. Naughty Hannah, naughty; secret secrets. Wait: can I be gay enough for this one? Oh my God you dork, what does that even mean? 

While quickly cleaning up and getting dressed, Hannah thought of the last woman she'd been with. Her name was Amy, and she was a sleepy eyed brunette Hannah met through an online dating site. The sex was good, dynamic, instructive, but the relationship might have lasted a little longer if Hannah just hadn't made the decision, in the heat of passion of course, to just let her bladder loose one night in bed, without discussing it with Amy in advance. I still don't get what she was so upset about, Hannah reflected as she checked her face in the mirror. A moment later, she returned to the table. Settling into her seat, she saw that Chase had taken one of the free local news magazines from the rack inside the restaurant's entrance.

"Looking for something to do with the rest of your afternoon?" asked Hannah.

"Maybe." Said Chase; glancing at Hannah between bites, "How's the rest of your day looking?"

Hannah cleared her throat, and then took a drink of her water before returning the chop sticks to her right hand. She didn't answer right away. The truth was that she had an office building to start cleaning at three. She didn't like lying, but withholding as long as possible might be worth the time it could buy her. Hannah wanted her experience of Chase to last. She fully realized that she could in deed be way off base about Chase's intent. After all, just because she felt beguiled didn't mean that she was actually being pursued, but it would be nice to take the time to find out for sure.

"I have an obligation at threeish." Hannah answered, "What did you have in mind?"

Chase shrugged as she flipped through the magazine's pages with her right hand while managing chops sticks with her left. Three flips later, Hannah saw that Chase had discovered an envelope tucked in the personals section. She looked at it quizzically before withdrawing its contents. After a brief appraisal, Chase blushed slightly and giggled.

"What is it?" asked Hannah as she struggled with her chop sticks and a particularly vexing string of noodle.

Chase set the document along the edge of the table by Hannah's right arm. She looked at the first page and read the title: Activities Of Intimacy Questionnaire. Part I: Preferences And Interests. Hannah glanced at Chase, and then she read the directions: Pick the closest response and use the answers to generate embarrassed giggles and discussion. enter number or check mark indicating your level of interest. Hannah looked up from the page. Chase made an enticing picture; her head propped upon the heel of her right hand, her lips turned up in a playful smile, the tropical blue of her eyes beckoning, seeming to dare Hannah to test the deep waters inside them.

"Would you like a pen?" she asked.

Part II. As per Chase's instructions, Hannah used a spare key to unlock the door and enter the house. How do you like it? (use all that apply) (N) never, (T) thud me, (S) sting me,

(L) light, (M) medium; Ouch, that feels nice, (H) heavy; Thank you Master/Mistress. May I please have another? Hannah was still going through the questionnaire after they'd eaten the rest of their meal, finishing with a dessert of banana dumplings with a drizzle of passion fruit sauce. If the questions had been spoken aloud or presented on a computer screen, she might have completed the survey more quickly. But, as it was, Hannah took it seriously enough that she gave each question or rating the time necessary to be certain of her responses.

As Hannah locked the door behind her and slipped out of her shoes, she continued to fondly reflect on that afternoon. Chase was very patient as she watched her inscribe numbers, letters or check marks on the form. She had laughed each time Hannah came across an activity or fetish that made her gasp, blush or cringe. Parts of your body you would be inclined to have bound or stimulated through bondage or torture: a. back & shoulders, b. bottom & thighs, c. breasts & chest, d. genitals, e. feet & ankles, f. wrists, g. all of the above.

Hannah proceeded to undress as she took in the spaciousness of Chase's home. It was a modified colonial, Greek styled in its lack of hallways. The foyer alone was enormous. A matter of ten feet ahead and to the left was a wide case of stairs, that led to an open balcony, beyond which Hannah could see into one bath and two other rooms. Off to the left of the stairs was the dining room. Forward, beyond the stairs, was Chase's huge kitchen. 

What Chase called her living room opened on her immediate right, and seemed to run along the entire right side of the first floor, and ended in a set of French doors, flanked by windows that went from floor to ceiling. Framing the windows, and arranged artfully along the base of the north and south walls, was a thriving green, flowering jungle of annuals, vines, succulents and varieties of cactus. In the opposite right corner stood a great pillowed wicker chair, beyond which stood a brushed silver standing lamp. To the left, fastened to the wall and looming over a very modest entertainment center, was a fifty inch plasma screen TV.

Completely undressed, Hannah glanced at the surveillance camera, mounted by the kitchen entry way, before grabbing up her clothes and making her way up the stairs. Turning into the bathroom, she dumped her clothes into the wicker hamper beside the vanity, and then turned on the shower. As instructed, Hannah removed Chase's remotely operated vibrator, rinsed off its water proofed surface, and then set it on the edge of the tub. Hannah sighed deeply as she washed the smoke from her hair. 

There was the pressure, not being entirely honest with Cat, hiding her smoking from Chase, and the rigors of her scene training, but it was all worth it. The connection, the almost mathematical rhythm developing between she and Chase, the rules and structure of their depravity, pleasure and pain; it all seemed to naturally fit with Hannah's Aspberger's, and left her free to be in static, to take and enjoy the pain. And how miraculous it was that Chase knew exactly how to exploit the pain in such a way that it always ended in the greatest pleasure Hannah had ever known. The way Chase's mind worked, even outside of the few scenes they'd done so far, did nothing but lend to Hannah's extremely structured patterns of action, thought and desire. 

What more could Hannah have wished for? She served in work. Why not live to serve, serve Chase; clean her big beautiful house, do her laundry, feed her plants, where the clothes she wished her to wear, eat the foods she told her to eat and do the sexy things she asked her to do?

Washed, dried; her copper hair blow dried and cascaded around her shoulders, Hannah made her way to the master bedroom. She passed through the nearly three hundred square foot space, glancing at the great bed and its frilled lavender coverlet, and entered Chase's walk in closet. Hanging behind the door, was her costume; what Hannah recognized only as a high school field hockey uniform, but what Chase described as something a little more parochial. Hannah still marveled at the stitching. Chase was an amazing seamstress. Lately she was working on something new, something she was calling a surprise.

Hannah put on the pink cotton panties Chase had left for her, and then the white short sleeved blouse, the slip, the navy blue plaid patterned skirt, and then the solid navy vest. Lastly, just before the navy socks and the black Patton leather shoes, Hannah knotted the short, satiny blue tie just the way Chase had taught her.

"Can I see it?" asked Chase with little expression or inflection.

"Oh my God no! Hannah laughed nervously as she tucked the form into her back pocket, "Not here."

"Then where?"

"Hmm; do you know the Beatific?"

"I've heard of it, but I can't say I'd know where to find it."

"Then you follow me this time."

Beatific Park, listed in the national register of historic places, graced a hundred acres of the city's west side. Hannah had enjoyed Chase's child like wonderment as they advanced into the grounds. The park was home to vast gardens of roses in a variety of color, and most were already in bloom. Chase was almost constantly snapping away photos with her phone's camera, taking snap shots of the perennials, heritage rose, iris gardens, herb plots and dahlia beds.

"Thanks for buying me lunch." Hannah remembered she was supposed to say as they strolled side by side along one of the park's cobbled walking loops.

"Thank you for your company." Chase replied, making a point of looking Hannah in the eye as she spoke the words.

A warm, tingling, sensation began to radiate from Hannah's suddenly budding clit, through the vault of her sex, into her belly and up through her spine. God, it's like she can literally touch me just by looking. 

"This place is absolutely amazing." Chase Remarked as they resumed their pace.

"It is. It's nice to see it again. I used to come here with my dad."

They walked for a time, saying nothing as they admired the landscape, a rolling meadow to their right, a gently meandering brook to their left.

"You were saying that your dad has passed on." Said Chase, gazing out at the grounds lushness rather than where she was walking. not seeming to 

"Yes."

"How did your dad die?" Chase inquired as she stumbled either by mistake or purposefully, causing her shoulder to press against Hannah's.

"Pulmonary embolism. He was really overweight and he was just diagnosed with stomach cancer. He'd just turned forty-seven. He was so late stage, that if the embolism didn't get him, the cancer would have anyway before he ever started chemo."

They were just about to turn off onto a trail hidden by the low bows of a swamp maple when Chase stopped and fixed her gaze on Hannah again. 

"Whether it was a loose cluster of fat cells or cancered blood, it scared the Hell out of my mom, so she became a vegan. That was her way of coping, I guess. But that change, after the change of dad leaving us, wasn't enough for her I guess, or maybe she got sick of dealing with me; either way, she took off for the west coast."

Chase's expression softened, sympathy churning the blue water of her eyes. She slowly reached to Hannah's collar, gently touched it, and then withdrew her hand to show Hannah the tiny lady bug that had found its way onto her blouse.

"She calls me." Continued Hannah as she watched the insect wander along Chase's finger until it climbed onto the swamp maple leaf she was pointing to, "We talk once in a while."

"Have you ever gone to see her?"

"No. I already know what she looks like."




Love's Wicked Craft Ch. 02



Significant Others

"There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable."
―
- Mark Twain

*****

1

It was another night, with another one of Catherine's perfectly prepared dinners on a finely set table; candle lit, the red wine poured: when Frank was offered another opportunity to have a civilized conversation with her. Cat still believed that the guy she'd met a year ago was still somewhere inside there: the guy that was easy going, smart and had nice things to say and did nice things too, just for the sake of doing them.

They ate their Friday night dinner in silence, just as they'd had the night before and the night before that. Frank made short, quick work of his stuffed pork chop and roasted potatoes, eating the way he fucked, while Catherine shot hopeful, furtive glances in his direction, slowly cutting slices of her meat, carving her boneless chop into the shape of a diamond. Whoever he's turned into might hate me, but he sure doesn't hate my food.

Frank popped another chunk of meat into his mouth, and sighed wearily as he chewed. Catherine watched him looking over her shoulder into the living room. And there he goes, she thought, even if there was a remote to turn me on, he still wouldn't be as interested. Is this who you really are Frank? What about me? Who am I with you? Where did the me I liked go? 

Catherine knew her authentic self was hidden somewhere between her good cooking, her work as a secretary in a dental office and the growing distance she felt in the small apartment she'd rented. Cat couldn't express herself freely. She felt lost in her own home. Frank's more regular anger and hostility had gagged her; woven a sprawling web of tension, the threads of which he'd drop long enough at night to coax her into sex, only to pick them back up in the morning. 

Yes, work was hard, every day, day in and day out. Yes, people could suck, suck really bad sometimes, but why did she have to be the one who suffered for it? 

Was Frank really that superior to Catherine? Did he really deserve the latitude it took to criticize or demean Catherine the way he did? He came from being a friend, just as Hannah was, had been, a friend. What had Frank exploited in Catherine that Hannah never had? Hannah never played the superiority card or mocked her in public. Oh you're so needy Cat, he'd say. But, when he wanted his dick sucked, he'd do some house hold chore or tell her he loved her. Then, when he got what he wanted, he'd start avoiding her all over again.

Frank left his seat, flicked on the TV, and then returned with the remote.

"Are we still on for your sister's tomorrow?" Cat asked, breaking the silence as she reached for another slice of bread.

"What?" answered Frank, looking at Catherine as if she'd suddenly appeared before his eyes, "Uh, no. I actually have to be on a job site tomorrow. Boss says we have to use what good weather we get to get those foundations in Montbury poured."

It was just as well. Frank had absolutely nothing in common with his brother  and Catherine was relieved that she didn't have to stomach Marina's not so subtle digs and slights. God, where had they come from? Neither Frank or Marina's mom and dad were like that, at least not when they were all together anyway; though Mrs. Pompano definitely seemed like she had a mean streak she could pierce her husband with when no one was looking.

"Ease up on the bread Cat, would ya'?" Frank requested between bites of potato.

Frank hadn't even looked at her as he made the remark. Cat stopped mid chew. The liquid churning in her gut suddenly seemed loud enough for them both to hear while the acid of his words bubbled their toxicity, leaving yet another corrosive mark on her already disintegrating self respect. Frank was like Hannah that way: we should only be talking about me; we should only be doing what I want to do; you should only be telling me what I want to hear.

Catherine wondered When exactly she'd given up trying to exert some level of influence on the prick. When did I stop trying to express my needs and wants? When he stopped believing they were important, was her answer. Retreating from the world became important to Frank. Refueling with food or relaxing through sex he'd coerce Catherine to have with him had become the top priorities. And now the weight gain; slowly but surely mounting. It wasn't that Catherine suddenly stopped looking good. She wasn't ignorant to the fact that she was still being noticed by other guys. But, the extra fat looked its worst when she was undressed, and all Frank seemed to notice were the few more pounds and all the other things that set him off. 

Casually, Catherine placed her fork by the side of her dish, and then took her glass of wine. She drank three good gulps before setting the glass back down. Frank continued to watch TV as he stuffed a chunk of bread and a wedge of potato into his mouth. This has to be my fault, she thought. No other man, her ex-husband or the two other men that followed, didn't stay around long enough to become like Frank. I found him. I found Hannah. They didn't find me. Hannah- Another layer of regret, sickening her, washed over the radiation of Frank's remark. Hannah and Cat worked at least. She might not have ever said that she appreciated Catherine through words, but Cat couldn't count the sheer number of times Hannah had expressed it with her eyes or through the gesture of a small gift or favor.

"I bought the bread for you because you expect bread on the table." Catherine intoned, casting her eyes down at her plate, "Otherwise, I wouldn't have it in the house."

"Okay then," replied Frank; boring his eyes into the top of her head, "So don't eat anymore of it."

Catherine winced, and took a deep breath. Just as Frank had devolved into some vicious prick, he'd turned Cat into someone else. She turned into someone who said she liked or disliked or held the opinions he held. What if I don't, she thought. He'll get worse. I keep trying to please him, but he's only getting worse. It was if a chain reaction of desiccation had started in the still smoldering ashes of her lust and starved the roots of her soul, drying it so that the stems and petals of it pulled away from her consciousness, drying and cracking into a shell of its former self.

Who knows? Maybe he's saving his nice guy persona for the other woman he's fucking. How had he devolved into such an asshole? No, Catherine thought, he skipped ass hole and went right to mother fucker. Her apatite totally lost, Cat got up from the table, and brought her dish to the sink. She scraped the remains of her meal into the trash, and found herself suddenly remembering exactly why she'd stopped jilling off with Hannah all those years ago. 

She was home, back in her parent's place, alone, doing the laundry. No one else was home. The washing machine was vibrating in its way, so Catherine decided to take off her jeans and undies, and get on for a ride. She discovered that if she straddled one corner just right, eased her clitty thingamabob forward in just such a way, that what Hannah had showed her how to do would just about make her drool. And it did. It did make her drool, a thin line worming its way down and off the middle of her bottom lip. Her dad could have snuck out just as quietly as he'd walked in and found her. He could have told her mom what he'd seen, and asked her to talk to her daughter about it. And Cat might have become quite discreetly self satisfied on a regular basis, if her mom had addressed it in a different way than the way she had. 

But, as it happened: Mr. Wisneuski chose to shout "What the holy fuck Catherine" at the top of his lungs, which caused her to simultaneously jump, scream and shoot a thick stream of urine; which made it so that she slipped off the washing machine, landed with her naked ass smacking the hard cement floor, only to roll over to expose her bruised buttocks, and the backs of her thighs, to an extensive spanking from Mrs. Wisneuski, with what she seemed to recall was the long handled cast iron shovel they used to clean the ash out of the fire place.

"Hey Cat; take a break." Frank told her, "I'll clear the rest of this up."

No; Frank wasn't stupid. It was true; he had a certain knack for making you feel guilty and indebted to him. It was probably one of the major tools in his repertoire when dealing with people on the job, and probably what put him where he is today. So Catherine could do nothing but feel obligated to give him what he wanted, especially when he reminded her of this or that nice thing he did or got for her the week or month before. It was remarkable, how the look in his handsome face, his impressive stature and those suddenly, briefly, pleasant, words he spoke could literally change her feelings and emotions, drown out her self respect and kindle the chemical fires she needed to get horny again.

But, tonight, Catherine suddenly didn't feel so much like pretending. She didn't shrug or acknowledge him in any way, other than to simply go back to the table and fill herself up another glass of wine. She realized that she'd been loving him in secret, giving her body to him in total silence, a peace offering, white as the dove, and as clear as the sign of the olive branch. And Frank, Frank was the flood, the deluge Cat's friends and family saw still rising in spite of her best efforts. Catherine never asked for Hannah's advice, but she gave it, once, an honest, clear warning: "I don't like that look in his eye Cat. Use him and lose him." And that was that. It was rare for Hannah to give more than she thought she needed in the way of words. 

So there Catherine was; trudging through cluttered emotions, forced down by the weight of her guilt, never bringing Frank back around when she met up with her parents, sisters or when she used to meet up with Hannah. And even then, Frank was never a topic of conversation. Frank was nothing. He was unfit, and Catherine felt totally stupid for it. Another year of my life has been wasted. I'm done. 

The acid churning in Catherine's gut suddenly felt hotter, and seemed as if to rise. She thought the wine was coming back up, and then she thought again. She stepped out of the kitchen, and felt the heat rise higher, like molten lava, pass her throat, pause behind her eyes, tickle her tear ducts, and then crawl up into her mind. Catherine gulped her wine as the heat inside her head turned into a hive of wasps; a swarm of at least a thousand, busily working their scat into a big shit nursery of ten thousand safe little holes for their maggoty little babies and for their pampered and protected little queen.

Finished in the kitchen, Frank poured himself another glass of wine before finally heading into the living room. A moment later, Catherine came back down the hall. Stepping into the kitchen, she took the bottle of wine from the table, searched the drawers and cabinets for a few more items, and then made her way back down the hall. Ten minutes more and Frank was asleep on the couch, as was his Friday night protocol.

His routine was predictable: come home, eat, watch TV, drift off into sleep, wake up at around a quarter after ten, take a shower, get into bed, and start tapping determinately on Catherine's ass. Tonight though: Frank's schedule was thrown off. He woke up a little earlier, nearly a quarter to ten. Golf was still on. Catherine wasn't there to commandeer the remote during his sleep, to lower the volume like she always did and put on something about cooking, interior design or chicks who wanted to be loved unconditionally.

Then he noticed it, a rank undertone to the remnant odor of the stuffed chops and the roasted potatoes still emanating from the kitchen; their former fragrance fowled by some horrible odor. Had the toilet backed up again? Frank had tended to the repair the last time, no thanks to Cat's landlord, and he'd given her shit about it for two weeks straight. He had to keep calm this time. That was two weeks without head. He wasn't making that mistake twice.

"Uh, Cat!?!" called Frank, "What the Hell is that smell?"

Catherine didn't answer. Frank headed down the hall. He stopped in the bathroom, flipped on the light and stepped inside. Lifting the toilet's lid, he found nothing. Maybe Cat went and just didn't leave the fan on long enough. It wouldn't be out of character. She never left the fan on long enough. Frank stepped back out of the bathroom, and moved down the hall. Grimacing in response to the stench's sudden intensity, he knocked on Catherine's bedroom door. 

"Cat?" Frank repeated, starting to actually be concerned about her welfare, "Are you okay?"

Frank pushed the door open, and covered his mouth; not only because he'd hit a virtual wall of God awful stink, but because he was completely and utterly astonished. Catherine was laying, propped up, and on her side of the bed, entirely naked, with her ankles crossed as she casually flipped through one of her women's magazines. On Frank's side of the bed, spread parallel to Cat's hip, was a red and white vinyl table cloth, and folded neatly up in quarters. Upon the checked cloth was a clean white serving plate. Collected neatly on the plate, taking up most of its circumference, was an artful arrangement of a brown sauce drizzled, meat ball and sausage link presentation of Catherine's shit. Placed perpendicularly between Cat and her shit was an extremely large and pointy kitchen knife, and a dessert fork. 

Reaching for her glass of wine, Cat regarded Frank coolly. He's too surprised to yell. That's good, she thought as she set her drink back down. Cat then took her magazine, curled the pages she'd already read under the pages she had yet to read, and then tucked the magazine under her left hip.

"What the fuck Cat!" Frank exclaimed as Catherine reached for her knife and fork, "What are you thinking!?!"

"I was thinking you wanted dessert." Cat answered flatly as she plunged her fork into a particularly juicy end of log and proceeded to cut it away with the knife.

Frank stared in disbelief as Catherine raised the chunk of shit at the end of her fork, and held it before him.

"So here." She continued, "Come and get it."

"Cat!"

"Frank. I decided that I've taken yours long enough. So, here's the deal: you come over here and eat my shit for a change or..."

"You're out of your fucking mind Cat!" Frank shouted.

"Lower your voice mother fucker." Catherine hissed through clenched teeth as she raised the large knife in her other hand, "Or-"

Catherine paused, taking three breaths through flared nostrils. Frank stepped back, his hands over his nose.

"Or," Catherine went on, "You can take what you need right now, and go back to your mother's house. You will find the rest of your stuff in boxes on the front step tomorrow afternoon. Don't bother leaving the key. I'll be changing the locks.

"But Cat-"

"But Cat nothing mother fucker! You see this mouth?"

Catherine brought the chunk of shit toward her lips. Then, as Frank looked on in bewilderment and horror, Catherine poked the morsel into her mouth, chewed and swallowed.

"Don't ever think that your dick is ever getting back in here bitch. Now go."

It was another five minutes before Frank slammed the door to her apartment for the last time, and Catherine was alone with her scat. She knew the laxative would be effective, but didn't expect it to work as quickly as it had. She regarded her feces for a moment, lingering her gaze along the composition of its arrangement. Fork still in hand; Cat used it to cut another piece, just one more piece. Cat smiled to herself as she recalled the look on Frank's face. She suddenly felt very good, though the taste in her mouth was as awful as the smell in her bedroom. But, her effect on the man was priceless. Are you nuts? It's not the kind of meal that can ever be even half bad. 

She put her fork back down. Although; maybe, she mused, only to head off the thoughts before they got any darker. Again, Catherine looked at her shit and sighed as she ran a finger along one of her longer logs; pushing down the crinkles of it to make a lengthwise depression. She thought of Hannah again. Not that playing with shit or eating it reminded her of Hannah, but because being treated like it had. Catherine consulted the zodiac on her plate. Let me take this as a sign that I need to make a change. I think I'll start going to the gym myself.

2 

Dressed in only her watch and a stainless steel collar, Hannah lay in the plush carpet of Chase's sowing room. Otherwise, she was permitted a thick pillow for comfort and Chase's tablet for passing the time. Her mistress demanded total silence during the latter hour of their after care, so Hannah used the time to study. Chase sat in her sowing chair, an extra cushion between her bruised bottom and the seat; her pain dulled for the moment as she busied herself with the crafting of a new costume for her slave. 

She was a good dome, Hannah thought, though she had no comparison. But wasn't a bad doom or dome bad because they didn't dominate often enough or play hard enough? She was reading everything she could about the world of kink through her tablet, but she still didn't have an answer as to whether the pain was its sweetest through surrendering to it or through resisting it. She'd watched Chase climax under the effect of her weighted nipple and clit clamps. But still; seeing her tortured ecstasy didn't reveal anything about what sort of war raged inside her mind. 

Hannah would pose the question to Chase when the time came. As for herself, there was an element to her autism that caused pain, physical anyway, to be not so painful. Chase's open hand smacks to her bare ass, the whacks with the wooden ruler and even the pinches of the staple remover, were phantom like in their intensity to Hannah, like tepid drops of rain. Or was it more psychological: the dom or dome coming with the pain as they resisted it and the sub coming with the pain as they surrendered to it because it reflected their scene personalities?

Hannah listened to Chase breathe softly as she carefully fished fabric under her machine's needle plate and feed. She checked her watch. Ten silent minutes more and they could talk. Hannah focused her attention to her tablet's screen. She opened the attachment of an e-mail from Chase; a copy of the mistress and slave contract. "I, Slave, with a free mind and an open heart; do request of my mistress that she accept the submission of my will unto her and to take me into her care and guidance, that we may grow together in love, trust and mutual respect. The satisfaction of her wants, desires, and whims are consistent with my desire as a submissive to be found pleasing to her. To that end, I offer her use of my time, proclivities, and skills." 

It was a scene prop, of course, a toy to take as seriously through pretending as the two parties cared to. Once Hannah signed the document, it would still have no legal validity; unless of course it was submitted as evidence in a court of law, concerning some crime that occurred as a result of just such a relationship. Yet, it was a contract of consent, a signifying of a slave's commitment to the risk of scene play and the dangers of falling in love. If someone got hurt or killed, it wasn't because someone else played too hard; it was because they loved too hard or were hopelessly insane with jealousy or psychological hurt.

"Further, I ask, in sincere humility, that My mistress accept the keeping of my body for the fulfillment and enhancement of our sexual, spiritual, emotional, and intellectual needs. To achieve this, she may have unfettered use of my body any time, anyplace, in front of anyone; to keep or to give away, as she will determine." Hannah read her favorite part over twice. It was its fear factor that she found both tantalizing and repulsive. Yet she was perhaps more intrigued by the mystery than she was afraid of the consequences of future play, the unknown of it holding a certain appeal for her. Ultimately, it meant that Hannah would have to make her greatest leaps of faith; giving Chase the kind of trust she'd hadn't given anyone in a very long time.




Love's Wicked Craft Ch. 02



Suddenly, the grandfather clock in Chase's dining room struck the hour. Still reading, Hannah didn't hear the low, deep ring of the clock's chime. "This agreement may serve as a means to extend our relationship, in the spirit of loving and consensual dominance and submission, with the purpose of maintaining personal identity, advancing the exploration and dynamitization of our intimacy and promoting one another's health, trust and contentment."

"On your pretty little feet slave." Said Chase as she pushed back her chair, "Let's have you try this on."

Setting her pillow and tablet aside, Hannah rose and presented herself to her mistress. Chase regarded her slave coolly. Hannah looked away; her gaze crossing to the manacle on Chase's right wrist, and then to the thin coil of chain upon the far left corner of the sowing table.

"The play room: have you cleaned it to my specifications?"

"Yes Mistress."

"Step closer girl."

Hannah advanced a step. Chase leaned her face in close to her slave's mons, and drew deep breaths of it, taking in the scent of her sex as if it were that of a bakery's morning fresh bread.

"Take this dress." Chase Instructed; leaning back in her seat and extending the garment, "Go and put it on while I check your work in the play room."

Chase carefully rose from the chair.

"If I find even the slightest thing out of place, "Chase affirmed; holding Hannah by her chin, a blue fire of lust burning in her gaze, "You will be punished."

"Yes Mistress." Hannah answered.

As Chase left the room, Hannah held the costume before her. It was a little girl's bubble gum pink party dress, with puffy short sleeves, round collared bodice and a puffy skirt. 

Chase had sized her slave two weeks earlier, and as she fit herself into the outfit, Hannah admired the handy work of her mistress. She felt the fabric, and guessed it to be non-stretch cotton. Examining the skirt, she noticed two layers of sewn-in underskirts, the middle layer comprised of netting and the inner most made of satin. Amazed at Chase's craftsmanship, Hannah marveled at the lace edging around the sleeve and skirt hems. Considering her lover's time, attention and expertise, a professional tailor's commission for such a dress would have been four hundred dollars or more.

Hannah moved to the standing mirror, and watched herself twirl in the dress. Then, after mocking her reflected visage with a raspberry, she raised her arms in a playful pirouette and giggled at the sight of the raised hem of the mini skirt and her exposed vulva. She had to decide who she would be in the little pink dress, and what she wanted to get out of the scene she was expected to wear it in. She glanced at her gleaming steel collar, and thought of her expanding kink identity: a humiliation loving, urine guzzling, panty soiling, and ass munching, submissive with a growing penchant for dealing out her own sadomasochistic punishment. With Chase, Hannah manufactured no pretense beyond the role playing in their scenes. Her kink was genuine, and anything she incorporated into it, as much as it was for Chase's benefit, fell in sync with her already quite fertile depravity.

"You're lucky." Chase announced as she stepped back into the room, "It's immaculate. You should be proud of yourself slave."

Hannah turned, bowed and made a curtsey. Chase, dressed in her silk robe, paused to regard Hannah in her pink dress.

"My my," she remarked, "Don't you look pretty."

Hannah turned back toward the mirror, and smiled at Chase's reflection. She began to twist her hips and fold an arm behind her back, in the attitude of a shy toddler. Then, looking down at her bare feet, Hannah used the toes of one to caress the toes of the other. Chase stepped closer, and her sub glanced up to see that her cheeks had flushed. Hannah bat her eyes then, realizing her own fingers creeping past her slave collar, toward her lips, until a thumb soon found its way into her mouth. Now more visibly aroused, her hard nipples casting long shadows across the blue silk of her robe, Chase took the sowing chair and set it behind her slave.

"Sit." She instructed, "When I come back, you may be free to speak as yourself."

Upon Chase's departure, Hannah removed her watch, and then tossed it to the sowing table. Her lover returned seconds later; a hair brush, comb and elastic hair bands in hand. Setting the comb and the bands on the sowing table, Chase stood behind her lover, and proceeded to brush her hair. Hannah looked on, still sucking at the thumb in her mouth.

"Hey; time out I said." Chase intoned through a smile, "You can get out of character."

"Hmm, I know." Said Hannah after removing her thumb, "I jus taught you wiked to meet your witto giwl, Baby Dool."

"Baby Doll?" Chase repeated as she switched her brush for the comb, "Is that your name?"

"Yeah. Do you wike it?"

"I do. In fact, honey; she's making me very very horny all over again."

Hannah looked away from Chase's reflected gaze, and sighed.

"Honey is the only food that will not rot." Hannah stated as she stared blankly into the mirror, "A jar of honey may remain edible for over 3000 years."

"I knew that." Said Chase as she took her time combing Hannah's hair.

"You did not."

"I did too."

Hannah met Chase's playful eyes, and gave her a raspberry. A comfortable silence passed for a time; Chase enjoying the texture and length of her lover's hair, and Hannah contemplating the mysteries behind her groomer's thoughtful blue eyes. Handle with care, taking a share, hypnotic stare, play truth or dare- 

"Can you tell me about the altar downstairs," Hannah asked her expression suddenly serious, "Why Mary is its centerpiece?"

Chase paused, met Hannah's reflected gaze and sighed.

"When I was a little girl," she began, "I went to Saint Francis's Elementary school until the sixth grade. At the far west end of the main hallway of the second floor, stood what seemed like a very tall statue of the Virgin Mary. It might have even been six and a half feet tall, but I was little then, so just about everything seemed bigger than it really was. I used to stop and see her any chance I got. In fact, I used to get in trouble, because going to her meant I had to take the long way around when I had to bring something to the office or if I needed to use the bathroom."

Hannah watched her lover's hands as she gathered up the tresses covering the left back side of her head. Chase paused, reached behind her, and then returned with one of the hair bands.

"She was set before three tall windows," Chase continued, "And there never seemed to be enough light to really see her with. Yet, under the shadows cast by her veil and the folds of her robes, the gloom seemed to make her look so real, though I suppose it was a credit to the sculptor as well. But, this tall, majestic Mary seemed so real that I had to touch her. So I'd slowly reach out to her bare feet and her pretty toes, and I would stroke them, and I would feel happy that she was within my reach, in my little girl world, but I felt sad too; because she wasn't real. Then I'd see the snake's body coiled beneath her, and I don't remember if I understood at the time that it was supposed to represent the devil."

Though still listening, Hannah gazed sidelong and played with the lace hem of her dress.

"But then, I got older, and I studied and I learned that the image, the representative icon for Satan, sin and all things forbidden, had formerly been the visual symbol for the angels of certain eastern religions, and symbolic of a woman's fertility. As for the other, smaller, figures, and the candles; they are as much a tribute to the great women of antiquity as much as they are a means of adding to the mood; the sanctity as well as the sensuality of it."

Again, Chase paused to get a second hair band.

"The image of Mary," said Chase; gathering up the tresses on the high left side of Hannah's head, "The memory of her lingered in my mind for years, as I lived, studied and traveled. I learned about the power of women, the power in purity, motherhood and old age. The shrine is protection for my home as much as it is my fetish objectified; power, femininity, purity, miraculous fertility and sexuality. I celebrate and desire the virgin, the mother and the goddess. I admire and desire the sanctity of chaste saints as much as the holiness of temple prostitutes that were sacrosanct long before Mary and so many other women had to separate their feminine identities from their sexuality, and from the sanctuary between their legs."

As Chase secured Hannah's second pony tail, both women stared admiringly into the standing mirror.

"And the sadomasochism?" said Hannah, "You seem to be able to take a lot of pain. How and when had that become part of your sexual identity?"

Chase's fingers became suddenly still. Across a split second, Hannah saw the briefest shift in her lover's eyes; as if a great white shark had swum to the blue depth behind them and turned his dead black gaze on her before swimming away. Then, as a tiny tremor tingled across her shoulders, Hannah watched a smile creep into Chase's lips.

"Well;" Chase intoned as she resumed tying back Hannah's other pony, "That's another story for another time."

Hannah stuck a thumb back into her mouth, more for her own benefit than for Chase's.

"Now," Chase spoke with lustful finality, "What does my Baby Doll think about her hair?"

Hannah tilted her head this way and that, and from side to side, admiring the length and evenness of her two ponies.

"I think it's pwitty." She said; meeting her mistress's gaze, "And I think you vewey pwitty too; weally."

Hannah abruptly raised her knees to her chest, her bare feet riding the seat's edge, folded an arm around her legs, and then re-inserted a thumb into her mouth. Certain that her newly adopted position and attitude would kindle a new fire in her lover, Hannah leveled her innocent big brown eyes at Chase. Flushed, Chase slowly undid the knot of her robe's belt. Her belt loose, she then tugged the robe just enough so that the satin slowly fell down her shoulders and gathered around her elbows. 

"Oh Mommy," Baby Doll gasped; marveling at the magnificent, pale golden lobes and their glorious symmetry, "What ah doze?"

"These are Mommy's mams sweetie." Said Chase before her reflection exited stage right.

A second later, Hannah watched as Chase stepped between her and the mirror; the weight and momentum of her breasts setting her nipples to shake ever so slightly as they loomed before Baby's wide eyed stare.

"Have a taste of Mommy's mammies, won't you Baby?"

"Sure Mommy."

Like two beautiful golden delicious apples hanging on a low bow, Hannah caressed the tantalizing fruit, slipping her cheeks along one and then the other; gently flicking their hard purpled stems between her thumb and fore finger, sliding her tongue around their little rosy skirts, wanting so badly to chew them even just a little bit. But Baby knew she had to be careful with Mommy's mammies, so she continued to calmly kiss and lick them, until Mommy let her robe fall all the way to the floor.

"What's the mattu wif you pwivit pot Mommy?" asked Baby, reaching tentative fingers, "It's got a bush on it!"

"That's my secret Baby Doll."

"You secret Mommy?"

"Yes Baby, my secret, but we're not gonna touch it right now, cuz it hurts a little. Kay?"

"Kay Mommy." Sang Hannah, genuine disappointment ringing in her voice.

"That's a good girl. Now; why don't you get up and let Mommy have a seat?"

Baby Doll crept off of the chair, and then onto the floor.

"That's good Baby. Now get on your hands and knees, and turn around."

Hannah did so, and allowed Chase the barest vantage of the inward curving horizontal and vertical intersect of her upper thighs and buttocks.

"Very good Baby. Now put your head to the floor and spread your legs. That's right."

Chase joined Hannah on the carpet then; draping her body over her left leg and settling her face inside Baby Doll's ass to munch her a nice welcome back. Presently, she pulled Hannah's leg back just enough so that she could rub her sensitive clitoris against Baby's calf and heel. As Hannah felt her welcome back unfold into a wave pool, she reached long fingers inside her own secret and proceeded to rub slow circles around her own clitoris with her sucking thumb. Then, after a fashion, before the puddle of Chase's ass spit puddle in the carpet got too wide, Mommy instructed Baby Doll to go and stand on the sowing chair while she went to get a tub of wipes. 

So Baby did, though a bit confused and uncertain because she was sure Mommy wouldn't let her do anything that might make her fall and get hurt. But, Mommy came back, and there was Baby; still standing safe and tall. Chase set the tub, and the wipe she cleaned her face off with, on the sowing table, and approached Hannah. Lifting her skirts, Chase asked Hannah to hold them up against her tummy. Then, for the fourth time that day, Chase brought her face in close, mouth level, to Hannah's copper brown mons.

"Oh Mommy," Baby tittered, "Dat tickows! I wike dat. Hmm, I wike it awot."

"Hmm." Hummed Chase as she reached a hand behind Hannah's left knee, and lifted.

"Whoa!" yelled Hannah as she reached for the chair's backrest, "Hold up Mommy. Time out."

"What's the matter?" Chase laughed, "Afraid of a little penthouse? I just wanted to get your leg over my shoulder to; you know, get a deeper flavor. Come on Han. Don't you trust me?"

"I just don't want to break my leg." Hannah giggled, wobbling slightly as she made her way back up to standing as she lifted her hand from the back of the chair, "I think that would be a little much for the hospital room scene. I; I trust you."

"Really?" queried Chase; spotting Hannah as she tried to maintain balance while raising her left leg high over her lover's shoulder, "So you agree that one of our next manageable risks we take as a couple should be a tandom bungee jump from a bridge or maybe from an airplane?"

"Manageable risk?" Hannah chuckled nervously; the front of her skirt gathered up in her hands, her right leg braced, its foot set firmly on the chair, her left leg draped over Chase's right shoulder, Uh; Yeah. I think I'm going to have to give those possibilities some serious thought, if you don't mind."

"That's fine. But, in the mean time: I was hoping you'd be ready for me to show you off to my friends."

"Oh?" said Hannah, wanting Chase to just shut up and get back to eating her pussy already, "You mean like; college buddies or people at your school?"

"No." Chase answered; peering up into Hannah's eyes as she crept culprit fingers into her ass, "Those aren't the people that hold the truest significance in my life. You're very special to me Hannah, so I want you to meet my best friends: my munch buddies."

"Munch; buddies?" Hannah repeated warily, mesmerized by her lover's deep, dangerous, blues.

"Yes." Said Chase; a silver flicker of lust darting through her eyes depth, "You will be the prettiest little girl at the party."

3

Over two weeks into her gym membership, Catherine was still trying not to cower under the weight of strangers' stares. But, it was just as strenuous to feel comfortable being looked at as it was to put herself through the paces of her work out. The damage was done, long before Frank had pushed his prick into Cat's deflated sense of self. She felt ugly and ridiculous, and just plain didn't feel worthy of being looked at. But, she owed it to herself, and there was no going back.

Going in to it, a total stranger to moving her body through space in the manner the gym's exercise machines required, Catherine knew nothing. She knew how to eat less, remove the most criminal foods from her diet, but which exercises to do, for which portions of her body and for how long, mystified her. So, Catherine paid the extra money for a trainer. And, since she wasn't yet exactly comfortable with another guy's close scrutiny or even remotely practical or friendly physical contact, she was assigned a female fitness trainer. 

Bailey Brousseau stood on a pair of long, lean legs; about five foot nine in her white track shoes, white spandex tights and a white and gold fitness center staff T shirt. She was graced with a long and silky mane of light blonde straight cut hair, which she usually wore, bound in a flowing pony that hung from the top of her head. Her eyes were a fierce amber tinged gray, and, other than the vaguely hatchet blade like shape of her nose, Bailey's face held a soft harmony of features; high cheek bones, full lips and a pleasantly diminutive chin.

"Man alive soldier; my grandmother can give me better push ups than that!" shouted Bailey as she hunkered down beside Catherine, "Lower that bottom! Straighten those arms. That's it. There you go. You got it."

It wasn't until after the fact of her enlistment that Catherine learned Bailey's nick name, uttered only under the muttered breath of other trainers at the gym, was Sergeant Brusso. Either as a symptom of her personality or as a component of her coaching style, Bailey barked her orders, though less like a drill instructor and more like a casually excited TV weather girl. She would say things like "drop and give me twenty," "get a move on soldier," or "I love the smell of warm up muscle cream in the morning."

Cat had reflected after the first session that maybe a male trainer might go a little easier on her, and would be somewhat less annoying. But, as they spent more time together, and as she observed others being trained around her, Cat realized that Sergeant Brusso was the real deal. She was a work out fiend, doing her own muscle, cardio and pulmonary before and after her sessions with Cat. She knew her stuff. She was a wealth of information that had both practical application in the gym as well as at home, and she was conceivably the most genuinely supportive human being she ever met. 

In Cat's assessment, Bailey didn't have to care so much about her success. She would still get paid whether her trainees excelled or not. But Catherine recognized that Bailey saw the potential in her clients. She was like a master artist of body sculpting; gifted with an appreciation for and the ability to see, to draw out the hot body she saw hidden inside each of her clients. So, convinced, in spite of the woman's idiosyncrasies, Cat committed herself to Sergeant Brusso's boot camp.

That day's work out over, Catherine found that the women's locker room was unusually empty for a late Friday afternoon. So, she felt confident enough in its emptiness to let her guard down, and stroll to the showers unwrapped. It had been a great work out. She felt spectacular; totally invigorated, more self assured than she'd been in years and quite possibly; just a titch horny. The intensity of Cat's feelings were a bit heady in fact, so she thought the tingling inside her sex was just a manifestation of a muscle massing endorphin rush. Still, she found it pleasant; comforting enough to lead lingering finger tips against her rosy brown nipples and around the ample breasts behind them. 

She was scrubbing the warm up cream from her legs when, through the sound of the water's spray, she heard the echo of a solitary pair of flip flops advance into the shower room. A twinge of shame suddenly injected Cat's creature lust, and robbed her of its warmth. Mildly exasperated, as if she'd ever, even in a million years, try to masturbate in a public place, Catherine became soberly subdued as she resumed washing herself.

Eventually, she ended her shower and reached for the towel that hung from a hook in the opposite wall. Stepping out of the stall, unconcerned as to the presence of another in a nearby curtained shower, Catherine began to dry herself off. The dryer she became, the further she stepped from her stall. The further away she stepped from the stall, the more aimless her steps until she suddenly realized that Bailey stood naked in the stall next to hers. 




Love's Wicked Craft Ch. 02



Her hair was loose and clung to the back of her shoulders, but it was definitely Bailey. Her breasts, each a creamy white, smooth candy coated, California grapefruit, hung at attention, front and center, yet bounced at ease. Sergeant Brusso's attention was on, just as Cat's attention was on, the shaving of the sides of her soft, straight, yet darker blonde, pubic mound. The instant, mere seconds, seemed to extend or pause as Catherine looked up from Bailey's vulva to see her gaze met by the woman; her expression warm and without the slightest hint of offense or shame. Abruptly, Catherine put her back to her, and continued to dry herself off.

"Hey soldier!" Bailey said, "Mind if I start calling you Cat?"

"Uh, no; that's fine?"

Oh my God, that was awkward, Catherine groaned inside her head. Why didn't she close the freaking curtain? Cat suddenly thought she should dry the rest of herself somewhere else, but realized how stupid she might look if she stepped away, still dripping, only to come back for the things she'd left in her stall. So she stayed where she was, with her back toward Bailey, getting more self conscious by the second, in spite of herself. What the Hell! Brusso never showers after a work out, not here anyway. Oh please don't be staring at my ass. I'm not sure it's gotten any smaller at all!

"What's wrong with you Cat? Turn around."

Oh my God no, please.

"You've got nothin' to be shy about. You're making really significant gains. You should be proud of yourself."

Hello, thought Catherine as she fumbled with her towel. I can be proud of myself while you're not evaluating my naked body. 

"Uh; yeah, sure." Said Cat.

"Cat." Bailey stretched the word, "Come on now. It's okay. Being able to strut naked in front of other people can do great things for your self-confidence. Avoiding it will only serve to feul any hang-ups you might have, or reinforce the negative self perception you're here to try to break down."

Oh great; intuitive too. Catherine heaved a sigh and turned around; revealing her noticeably slimmer body and, regrettably, the major source of her shyness: the fact of her seventies style bush.

"That a girl soldier! Whoa, that's some serious camouflage you've got on your clam there."

"Oh my God Bailey!" Groaned Catherine as she turned back around.

"No no no, come on; I'm sorry Cat. I was just messing with you! Seriously; you look fantastic."

Bailey's laughter quickly faded into silence. Her back still directed toward her, Catherine didn't see that the other woman had moved on to shaving her legs. 

"If it's any consolation," offered Baily, "I've never had a client that showed such great results in such a short amount of time. And, I can tell by your skin that you're not taking any diet pills or doing stupid things with your food, if you know what I mean."

"I don't." said Catherine; willing herself to turn and face her trainer, "I mean; thank you. I get so few compliments that I guess I forgot how they sound."

"Well what's the deal Cat? Man in your life's got nothin' good to say?" 

"Not anymore; I mean, not for a long time." 

"Yeah right." Bailey agreed, a knowing look in her gray eyes, "Not until the next time one comes around beggin'. They're dogs I tell ya'; dogs."

Certain that she'd spent enough naked therapy time with Bailey, Catherine grabbed up her toiletries and moved off to where she could blow dry her hair. A matter of ten minutes past before she saw Brusso's advancing reflection in the mirror. Wrapped in her own towel, she went about drying her long blonde locks in the next mirror. A stream of members began to flow past them as Cat and Bailey dried their hair and applied their make up; passing their time with an exchange of innocuous inquiry and friendly banter. Finally dressed, Cat bid her trainer farewell and exited the locker room.

As she crossed the parking lot, Catherine wondered what Hannah might be up to. She thought of the garden she'd helped start in Hannah's huge back yard. Is she taking care of it? Probably not. She's too wrapped up. Hannah had never taken so long to call her back or stop by the apartment. Regret sunk like a stone in the pit of her stomach. There's someone for everyone, Cat mused; and sooner or later, we find them. Which to Cat meant that once Hannah finds that special someone, she'll have no reason to continue fostering their friendship.

A sudden, profound sadness came over Cat as she spotted her Omni. She'd devoted so much time to Hannah; stuck by her while others took off because they feared her Asperger's, like they'd catch it or as if some psycho lurked behind her eyes. What a waste, thought Cat as she arrived at her car. I'm just so sick of being disappointed in people. What the Hell does it take-

"Hey Cat." Came a whisper from behind.

Startled, Catherine turned to see Frank. He was standing very close ; looking good, fresh hair cut, shaved and dressed in his casual formal hit the bar clothes.

"Exercising, huh?" he spoke softly, "There you go. Drop a few pounds, pick up a few guys-"

"Leave me alone Frank."

Frank's expression turned suddenly to stone. Catherine held his gaze as she slowly crept her fingers along the tube of pepper spray attached to her key chain.

"Yeah, sure." He said, a harshness entering his voice, "I understand that's what you want. You made that very, very clear. That's cool. I'll just come back when you're not around, work out, you know, and; tell a few of the guys about how much you like to eat shit."

Ashamed, embarrassed, her cheeks suddenly very warm and certainly very red, Catherine still wouldn't look away. She knew she had taken a big risk, executing that odd tactic to dispel the man from her home. Cat knew that he'd tell his family, the guys at work and anyone else who'd listen. But, she'd felt so much hate for the man that night, she wanted to send the clearest message she possibly could or die trying. She didn't care. If he'd tried to touch her, Cat knew, because she'd made the decision, she'd have stabbed him as many times as it took. Of course, her plate of shit would have been sworn into evidence, and she would have been bound for one kind of institution or another, but she would still be free inside her own head.

"Just get the fuck away from me Frank. Cat said coolly, her words even, her gaze unwavering, her grip tight around the pepper spray.

"But Cat; don't I deserve some explanaition? What did I do that was so bad? "

"You deserve shit Frank. Now just; go away."

Frank advanced a step. Catherine moved her finger over the trigger button.

"What the Hell dude! Bailey shouted from her suddenly present black Prius, "I'm starving! Let's go already!"

Frank stepped back. Cat turned, somewhat astonished to see her one woman cavalry.

"Where we going?" she asked; turning away from Frank and unlocking her driver's side door.

"That Mexican place we talked about. Just follow me."

Cat, throwing her gym bag over the back seat, caught a glimpse of Frank's casual retreat before she finally got in her car and shut the door.

"So, that guy; is he anything you want to talk about?" asked Bailey as she cut a piece of chicken Quesadilla with her fork.

"What's to tell? I got tired of taking his crap, so I told him to hit the road." Answered Catherine; absently stirring the straw in her water glass, "The relationship, just like the others, had its spectacular take off, its flight into cloudless blue skies, then bam; the mission's aborted because the onboard computers say that a couple of the heat shield tiles blasted away during lift off."

Bailey paused, a look of confusion clouding her eyes as she swallowed her bite of food.

"Each affair was doomed at the start." Cat clarified.

"Oh." She nodded, "Could you pass me the ketchup?"

"Sure. Here." Said Catherine, handing over the bottle, "Let's talk about you instead. How's that?"

"Okay. What about me?"

"I don't know." Said Cat; comfortably resigned, "How about: What's with the military lingo during your sessions?"

Bailey laughed before popping a french fry into her mouth; indulging, like Cat, in the one meal during the week they could break the rules with. 

"Oh, my dad decided to become career Army after he'd done two tours at the end of Vietnam. The jargon just rubbed off after a while. It was how he talked whenever he was home. Strangely, it was when he'd be at his warmest, with me anyway. My brothers and I, we all wanted to be like him, and I would have gone into service myself, if he wasn't so dead against it."

"You let your dad stop you?"

Bailey nodded as she chewed another bite of Quesadilla.

"When I told him about the idea, I was seventeen. He just stared at me for a long time, and then I watched him cry for the first and last time, and he told me: Bailey, God damn it? Succeed, fail or die, do it on your terms. But, whatever you do; don't break my heart if you can help it."

"Wow. So you didn't go."

"Nope. I kept taking care of him and my younger brothers. Dad messed around on Mom twice, and then she caught him the third time and she took off. Then I went to school for sports medicine, failed, worked out, got really good at that, tried school again and became a certified trainer."

"How about your brothers?"

"Bobby's gone into the Marines, Bryce is going to school for civil engineering and last I knew, little Bill was caught installing cameras in the girl's bathrooms at his high school."

"Oh."

"Yeah, we all can't be all that we can be I guess. Now back to you. What's standing in your way Cat? Is it you; or your regret over some unresolved trouble in your past?"

Catherine sat back then, and started to drive her fork through the pile of brown rice on her plate. Bailey waited for her answer; using one of her fries to smear a smiley face in her puddle of ketchup. Eventually, Catherine told a fairly censored tale of the demise of her relationship with Hannah and the expulsion of Frank; choosing not to mention the gender of her friend's object of affection or the fact that she'd swallowed a chunk of her own fecal matter in order to ward off her ex-boyfriend's bad juju. 

"I don't know dude." Said Bailey after they'd quietly eaten for a time, "Relationships are hard. That's why you have to have ambition and independent thought. Too many women still think they need to depend on a man in order to support them or validate their identity. Bull shit. That's what I learned from both my mother and father. Men, the boys; they just don't think like we do." In our society, today, we don't need our men to be heros at war or in the movies. We need men who can rise up against their own idiocy and defeat it once and for all."

"Catherine raised her water glass, as if to toast in affirmation, and then took a drink. It was oddly pleasant, being at ease with Sergeant Brusso. Her perspective was certainly refreshing. Their dialogue was distinct from the exchanges she'd have with the ladies at the office or Hannah, though Bailey had a similar libertarian attitude and crassness that was certainly reminiscent of Hannah's. Cat knew that was the likeliest reason, other than being entertained by Bailey's unique experiences, anecdotes and peeves, that Cat was enjoying her company.

"But," Bailey continued; lowering her voice and looking conspiratorially at Cat while she pointed her fork at the roasted vegetables on her plate, "I'll tell you what. Those Chinese eggplants; those make great cock substitutes. If you get that one that's curved in that right way, it beats any cucumber out there."

"Ah, yes, Catherine mused, sex; the common denominator that always came up when discussing the tarnished virtues of men.

"Well", said Catherine, blushing slightly, "I've never actually thought of consuming anything from my garden in just; that way. Honestly, I don't think I have anything battery operated to depend on either. Wait, come to think of it; there was this back massager I had, but I forgot where I put it."

"God, that's so sad Cat."

"Come on. Really?" Whispered Catherine, "I think going auto pilot is a little over rated." 

Bailey stopped to stare intently at Cat; her expression vacillating between amusement and sadness. Catherine looked away, and took another mouthful of her brown rice.

"Oh, this is one of my favorites." Bailey confessed, "I have one of these at home. It's great for vaginal or anal stimulation."

Still somewhat shocked by the fact that Sergeant Brusso also sold Randy Romp products on the side, Bailey had decided, out of the kindness of her heart, to give Catherine an exclusive, impromptu, demo party for one. She'd proposed after dinner, since Frank might become in need of an order of restraint, that they should hang out for the night. Catherine agreed. So, from the restaurant, they followed each other to the nearest liquor store, purchased bottles of the whiskey and rum that had the lowest carb content, and then headed to Cat's place.

"It's got these ribs, see, for your G spot." Bailey continued; her second glass of whiskey and water set on the coffee table beside a large, shiney lavender colored suitcase styled card board box, "Let me ask you Cat. Do you reach climax through clitoral stimulation, friction on your g spot, clitoral and anal together or clitoral and vaginal together?"

Shocked, feeling tossed between the flames of two fires, the suddenly potentially real threat of Frank, and Bailey's sudden rise through the ranks of trainer, savior and finally intimacy consultant, made Catherine a little leary about drinking the rum as fast as she was. The problem was that she couldn't drink fast enough. Cat felt she needed to get ahead, to put a false sense of indifference in front of her mounting fear. And now, peering into Bailey's big box of sex toys, feeling suitably relaxed was going to require another glassful of courage.

"Well, I've evolved; a little," she heard herself say as she got up to refresh her drink, "And-"

"And; and what?"

Catherine went into the kitchen, poured herself more rum, and then returned to her seat on the couch. She sipped her drink, flit her gaze between Bailey and the vibrator in her hand, and shrugged. Then, she gestured until finally blushing and saying:

"I think I'm clitoral anal."

"Really? You naughty girl."

Cat laughed.

"Well."" Said Cat, shrugging and taking another sip of rum.

"You're a lying sack of shit."

"Hey now!" 

"No no no; no offense. I just don't believe you."

"Why not?" Catherine intoned, "Heterosexual anal sex is something 43% of women have experienced."

"Really?" said Bailey, raising her brow at Cat.

"Well, yeah; according to Hannah anyway. She stims on odd facts and statistics."

"Interesting, but that certainly doesn't substantiate your claim that you've ever been one of the 43%. I'm telling you, there ain't been nothin' that's seen the inside of that ass."

"And how would you know?" Cat asked; glowering at Bailey and crossing one arm under her breasts. 

"Simple." Bailey answered; playfully eyeing Cat, "You walk like an exit only girl."

"You can't be serious." Said Cat, laughing, "I walk like you walk."

"The Hell you do! Pay closer attention next time. My walk is that; yes, dare to dream when you watch this ass strut, walk. Tell me the last time you had a dick in your ass."

"Oh my God Bailey."

Cat paused, extended the pause, and then reddened.

"There you go. So why do you think your clitoral anal?"

"Because," Cat stammered; laughing shyly, "Because, I'm interested in finding out; if that's an option for me."

Bailey set the toy down; laughing a purring sort of lazy cartoon villainess laugh as she placed the thing back in its box. Finding her drink, she took two deep drafts before setting it back down again. Then, eyeing Cat squarely, she said: 

"Oh Cat; you're so cute. There's always options. Now take off your pants and undies."

"What? Why?"

"Because I am going to introduce you to what we all so very much deserve: independently securable bliss."

Hold on a minute, thought Cat. Is that what women did at sex toy demonstrations; try everything on? Suddenly, between sips of her rum, she felt a third burst of combustion. Or rather, it was the first one she'd felt that day; kindled earlier that afternoon, in the gym's shower, a little spark she'd blown on for only just a little while. Now, Catherine felt as if the fire had caught, setting flame to the wilderness inside her heart; threatening her exposure. She met Bailey's assessing gaze, her look of anticipation. Oh! You mean; she's- Really? Well; uh...

"Cat honey?" Bailey intoned, her stare unwavering, "Ask yourself, seriously: when was the last time you ever let yourself go really crazy; I mean like dirty, sexy, sweaty, so intoxicated you couldn't move for hours after?"

Cat heard a car door close outside the living room window. She stood and went to it. Presently, Bailey joined her. Together, they scrutinized the dimly lit street below. As Catherine searched for an answer to Bailey's question, realizing that Frank's car was nowhere to be seen, Cat conjoured images of those early days with Hannah, the first, uninterrupted orgasm she'd had on the washing machine that fateful day, and the moment she'd forced Frank's sheer astonishment. Nothing stood out otherwise; not her trists with George, her ex-husband, rebound Eddie or rebound Conner. It's my own fault, thought Cat. I never made anything happen for me, just for me.

"What if he shows up?" asked Cat as she took another drink.

"Well, we can call the cops," Bailey said, "Or; we can kick his fuckin ass. Don't worry soldier. I grew up with three brothers. You're safe with me."

They remained at the window for a time, peering into the night sky; Bailey's body becoming a closer presence while Cat remained, not moving or even shifting the slightest.

"Maybe you need a little something more to loosen up." Bailey suggested, dropping her voice one Smokey octave, "I mean, I just can't show you all my products without you being warmed up."

"Warmed; up?"

"Ma'am yes ma'am; warmed up. You see, i'm a believer in determinant factors and chaos theory."

"How cerebral." Said Catherine as she turned to face Bailey.

"Thank you. So I propose that you stop; and give me twenty."

"Twenty what?"

"Twenty kisses. That way, by the time you get to fifteen, you will be raring to take some of my bad girls for a ride."

"I already suck at sex with a man. What makes you think:"

"Whoa, ease up Cat! "You mean to tell me that you haven't made it with a girl not even once?"

"Does mutual masturbation during my tween years count?"

"Sort of, I guess. Seriously Cat; you've never tried by? That is so seriously gay."

Cat raised an eye brow as the already short space between them lessened further. 

"Besides;" Bailey continued, "Who said anything about sex? I just brought up kissing is all. If that doesn't go well, then;, I'll just have to pack my products back up and bring them back down to the car. So; how about it? Why don't we start with ten?"

Catherine and Bailey were close enough to close their eyes and let go. Cat leaned in, paused, and then placed one slow, gentle kiss on each of Bailey's cheeks.

"What the Sam Hill Catherine!" Bailey scolded, "This ain't the French Foreign Legion! Kiss me damn it!"

Catherine found herself trying to hush her own nervous giggling as Bailey took her hand, and led her back to the couch. Once settled in next to each other, Bailey took the initiative, taking an instructional leap; leaving a trail of kisses along the left side of Cat's neck, and then drawing a line along her jaw and ear lobe. In the next instant, as Catherine realized that there had been no forethought to kisses three, four, five and six, she felt a quickening in her heart, a mad flutter in her belly and the unmistakable throb of excitement inside her sex. Then, there was absolute silence in her mind, as if all knowing and apprehension had been swallowed up inside kisses seven, eight, nine and ten. There was one thought though, that had spoken itself, whispering into Catherine's consciousness as she established her groove, both women's tongues now tasting in tune, between kisses eleven and thirteen: What should I be doing with my hands?