0 comments/ 19240 views/ 3 favorites The Choice By: bradley_stoke Clarification: All characters in the sex scenes described in this work of fiction are above the legal age of consent in your state or country. The cool nylon sheets clung to Layla’s back and shoulders as underneath them she gently applied her tongue and lips to Marianne’s oh! so very beautiful crotch. The folds of her vulva, the labias minora and majora as she remembered them being named in her Biology classes, and, most of all, that little button, the clitoris. Although she’d never studied her own clitoris with nearly as much attention as she now could Marianne’s, she was sure hers wasn’t quite as perfect. How could anyone’s be? The “button of love” as she and Marianne christened it, but one so beautifully intricate and so delicious to lick with her tongue or nibble with her teeth. Despite the two girls having been so passionate through the night, their periods of sleep interrupted again and again by the re-arousal of their mutual lust, Marianne was still easily stimulated. Her crotch twitched and trembled with passion, while a trail of Layla’s saliva slid down the “tunnel of love” as the two girls had re-christened the vagina. Although Layla was under the sheet, it was thin enough to let through plenty of the early morning sunshine and even without her glasses Layla could see the details of Marianne’s crotch. And of course that contrast between the darkness, the near ebony blackness, of her skin, against the slightly golden, slightly brassy, brown of Marianne’s equally firm young flesh. She could hear, and almost feel, the sound of Marianne’s pleasure. That gasp she loved, rising up and up from inside the very depths of her, sometimes exploding in a suppressed and delightful squeak and sometimes a more full-throated bestial cry. Oh! She loved Marianne so much! And what was better, Marianne said that she loved her too. Despite all the men she’d fucked, far more than the single (and singularly uninspiring) one that marked the totality of Layla’s other sexual experience. But she was sure she could never miss having other lovers now she had Marianne. One who was so like herself: slender, slim, smallish breasts and even the same slightly sharp chin. Of course, there was no way they could have both inherited that pointed chin, although who was to say what was in the ancestral mix of Marianne’s muddled genes. “Shit!” suddenly cried Marianne, mid-gasp. “Someone’s at the door.” “That’s only Mum,” smiled Layla. She pulled herself up from under the sheets and wrapped an arm around her lover, pulling the sheet up to cover her nipples. Marianne sat next to her. The sheet was bundled onto her lap and her own small pointed nipples, still excited and stiff, stood out prominently on her bosom. “Hello, dears!” announced Layla’s mother, carrying in a tray with coffee, cereal and orange juice for two. “Don’t forget you’ve got school today!” She smiled at Marianne who warmly returned the smile. Layla was pleased that she and her mother got on so well. How would she have felt if the two people she loved most dearly in the world didn’t get on? She shuddered at the thought. “Thanks, Mum! We just got carried away!” “I can see that, Lay! But remember your studies come first,” Layla’s mother commented. She regarded Marianne, perhaps too obviously evading her gaze from the needle scars on her long thin arms and the zits that still discoloured her brow after all those months since she’d come out of rehab. “What are you doing today, Marianne?” Layla’s lover scratched her cheek perhaps a little too vigorously. “I don’t know, Mrs Lampton. I might go down the Job Centre. You know, look for a job.” “What happened to that other job, dear? The one in the fast food restaurant?” “The Lunchbox? I turned up late one day, only an hour or so, and they sacked me. Just like that!” “Well dear, that’s what they’re like with casual labour in these places. What about going to college? Have you thought more about that?” “Yes, Mrs Lampton,” Marianne said, idly scratching one of the pale scab-like scars on her arm. “I thought about it. After you talked to me and all. I dunno. I wasn’t too good at lessons and stuff when I was younger. But I’m thinking about it.” “Well, Layla dear,” continued Mrs Lampton. “Eat your breakfast and I’ll take you to school. But hurry! I don’t want to be late for work. Like Marianne was.” Layla nodded. She liked it when her mother gave her a lift to school. So, she was doing a morning shift today at the clinic where she worked. She should have guessed from the fact that her mother was wearing her black nurse’s outfit with the metal badge across her bosom. Less than half an hour later, Layla and her mother had descended the stairwell of the council flats where they lived and were getting into the battered old Focus which after all these years and all those miles was still reliable enough for Mrs Lampton. Not that she could easily afford a replacement. Layla kissed Marianne goodbye, but couldn’t resist a tighter hug and a more slobbery kiss while her mother watched with an indulgent smile. And then mother and daughter were in the car, as Layla’s lover strode away in her battered denim shorts and that top which showed off her navel-ring to its very best advantage, her shoulder bag slung over her shoulder. “Oh! I love her so much!” exclaimed Layla, watching her lover recede from sight in the rear-view mirror. “I know, dear!” grinned her mother. “I could hear you all night!” Layla blushed, her skin turning an even darker colour. “You heard? We didn’t make that much noise, did we?” Her mother nodded. “Ours is a pretty small flat. But it’s love, Lay. I’m happy for you. I’m sure I was just the same when I was your age. Only, of course, not with another girl. You and Marianne make a lovely couple.” “Oh! Mum!” said Layla with glee. “I love you too! After Marianne, you’re the most important thing in my life!” “But what about your exams, Lay sweetheart. You don’t want to end up working in the Lunchbox like Marianne, do you? You’ve got to concentrate on them. Especially if you want to go on to Medical school so much.” “I know. I know,” sighed Layla sadly, nervously adjusting her wire-framed spectacles. “I’ve got to study. I know I have to.” “You’ve done so well, so far. So very well. Soon you’ll be leaving the Leamington Heights Flats and go off with that scholarship that’s just a few exams away. You don’t want to jeopardise that. And if you love your old mother, please don’t risk it. I’d hate to see you not do as well as you ought.” “I know, Mum!” sighed Layla. “You’re really talking about Marianne, aren’t you? I’ve got to see less of her until my exams are over, haven’t I?” “Well, dear,” nodded her mother. “I know you’re both very much in love. But she’s not got examinations to do like you. I’m sure you can hold out a month or so till your studies are over. You don’t want her to think she ruined your future for you.” “Oh Mum!” Layla could see the school coming into sight. A large block, partly Victorian and partly, and rather dilapidated, more recent brutalist architecture. Not the most revered educational establishment, but Layla was almost the star pupil and her fellow students were so supportive of her. She couldn’t let down them. Or her mother. She gripped her satchel tightly to her corduroy lap and brushed some dust off her cotton sweatshirt. “I’ll never let you down, Mum! Never! I love you. I’ll tell Marianne we’re not to see each other until after it’s all over. I’m sure she’ll understand!” “I hope so,” Layla’s mother agreed. “I certainly hope so.” Unfortunately, Marianne wasn’t quite as understanding as mother and daughter had hoped. In fact, Layla’s mother probably had the more realistic view when she stressed to her daughter just how difficult it might be to persuade her. “Given her background, you know. It’s not as if she’s had a mother who’s supported her like I have you. It could be a tough call,” she advised her daughter. “What! A whole fucking month!” exclaimed Marianne angrily when she was told. “A whole fucking fucking fucking month?” “And then it’ll be over, Mari dearest! Than we can spend all our time together. Morning, afternoon, everything!” “But till then I can’t stop over. We can only kiss and only a little bit. I’ll fucking die. I love you, Lay! I fucking love you! I can’t be fucking fucking …” Layla could see real tears of anger and frustration in her lover’s eyes. She was so close to relenting. To see what she could do. Find some way they could continue to spend every night together. But she remembered her mother. And not just her mother. Only yesterday, the Maths teacher, Miss Anderton, had said she was probably the brightest student she’d ever had and was certain she’d get that scholarship she was hoping for. Straight As were just not going to be a problem for her. “I’ve got to, Mari. It’s important. We’ll be together after the exams. It’s not long!” “But what am I to do? I live in a fucking squat you know. Full of junkies and crackheads and tarts and the like. I’ve just got a fucking mattress to sleep on. And it’s not easy for me, either. I still want smack and stuff. You know, fags, booze and blow just ain’t enough when you’re coming off.” “I know. I know.” “I’m a fucking mess, Lay. You’re the only fucking thing in my life that holds me together.” “I know. I know. But I love you, Mari. You’ve got to believe me. Just a month or so. You managed before me. You can manage a little longer.” Marianne kissed Layla tenderly on the lips, wiping the tear from her cheek. “Oh! Layla. It’s only ‘cos I love you so much! Okay! Okay! You’re right! I can do it. It’ll be fucking hard. But I can do it. ‘Slong as we stay together tonight. I’m sure there’s a few things we haven’t tried out!” Layla sniffed and brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I don’t believe that’s possible!” she said with a sad laugh, happy that Marianne seemed to have come round to seeing sense. The following morning left Layla feeling wretched and guilty as she kissed Marianne’s lips one last time until the exams were over. She was inconsolable as her mother drove her to school, her face a vision of misery, her spectacles fogged by tears and her fingernails digging deep inside the stiff fabric of her satchel. Her mother was silent all the way, perhaps knowing that there was nothing she could say that could at all comfort her lovesick daughter. Even their lovemaking during the night had had an air of desperation about it. Whatever new thing it was that Marianne might have introduced to their love life was forgotten as the two girls cuddled each other tight and explored the favourite parts of each other’s bodies for the last time. At least for now. But Layla was wrong if she thought it would be as easy as that. Only two days later, sitting in her bedroom, her desk wedged tightly against the bed and the chair on which she stood her spectacles at night being what she was now sitting on, while a host of exercise and text books faced open up at her, the angle-poise lamp her mother had bought in a car boot sale shining on an illustration of a dissected rabbit and casting its shadow on a poster of a black four-girl R&B group, Layla’s attention was suddenly taken by a familiar tring on her mobile. It was the special tune she’d chosen for Marianne. The one the two of them had spent ages choosing on the Internet until they found the tune whose lyrics best captured the love they felt for each other. Layla picked up the phone instantly. “Hi!” She was disappointed to hear nothing much on the other end. Some kind of grunting breathing noise. Nothing. “Hello! Hello! Is that you, Mari?” She was about to put the phone down with disappointment when she heard Marianne’s voice, but it sounded distant and not really addressed to her. “It’s in, is it? All the fucking way in?” “Is that you, Marianne?” Layla asked. And what was that strange man’s voice that seemed to be saying “Yeah!” in the background. And then Layla heard Marianne’s voice more loudly. “That you, Lay? Just phoning to tell you I’m fucking Dave. That’s your fucking name, isn’t it? No. Sorry. Gav. I’m fucking Gav. Or he’s fucking me. You wanna hear it?” Layla flushed. “No! No! I don’t want to hear!” “Well! You’re fucking going to!” And then Layla heard strange sounds that could have been anything, but were probably the sound of a penis thrusting in and out of Marianne’s sweet vagina, the one that had been promised to only her. “Oh! Fucking stop that shit!” suddenly came a loud man’s voice. And the phone went dead. A few hours later, after Layla had at last regained her composure and was able once more to concentrate on the intricacies of mathematical integration, the phone rang again. “I just fucked Don!” came Marianne’s voice as soon as Layla had spoken. “I thought you said it was Gav?” queried Layla. Was this proof that Marianne was lying? “That was earlier. I just done Don. He’s fucking lush. And you know what, Lay?” Layla made no answer. What was Marianne doing to her? “Lay? You can fucking hear me. You know what? “ “No, I don’t,” said Layla, feeling quite angry now. “He fucked me up the arse.” “He did what?” “Up the fucking arse!” Despite herself, Layla’s nascent medical conscience clicked into place. “I hope he used a condom. For his sake.” “No fucking rubbers here, Lay!” laughed Marianne. “We done the whole lot. Fucking spunk everywhere.” “But… You know… It’s not as if…” “Relax, Lay! He’s positive and all. I’m not that bad. I don’t want everyone to get what I’ve got.” “What are you doing, Mari? Why are you doing this? Why are you calling me? Why are you fucking with all these… these… boys?” The phone was quiet. Layla wondered whether Marianne was still there. And then she heard a rather loud sob. A heartbreaking guttural sob that came from deep deep within Marianne’s chest. “I fucking love you, Lay. I just fucking miss you!” And then the phone clicked off. There were no more calls the rest of the evening. And none the following day. And then, Friday night, when there was still no respite from study for Layla, but the night that was a special night for Marianne and her as it was a Friday they first kissed. Indeed, it was a Friday night they’d first met when Marianne had been invited to the same teenage party as Layla and the two had got chatting over a can of cheap lager. And just didn’t stop chatting. And somehow both of them had known there was something special going on between them. It was a Friday when a very tearful Marianne phoned up again. And then for half an hour or more she went on and on and on about how much she loved and missed Layla, while her black lover got through one paper hanky after another as she wept over Marianne’s plight. And then Marianne paused. “What is it, Mari?” “I fucking shot up again last night!” Layla gasped. “You said you’d kicked the stuff.” “Well, it’s difficult. And anyway it was just going round. It’s not as if I had to fucking nick something to pay for it. ‘Sno big deal!” “But was the needle sterilised?” Marianne laughed in a hollow empty way. “What fucking difference would that make now?” There was an uneasy pause on the mobile. And then Marianne coughed. “Well, what I really phoned up to say, you know, what I meant to say was, it’s stupid I know, but just don’t fucking look at any mail you get tomorrow.” “What d’you mean?” “I was fucking high. It was stupid. And it weren’t fucking smack. It was before that. Bit of charlie. Bit of sulphate. Loads of booze. You know. I was fucking mongo!” “What mail?” “Just don’t fucking look at it, right!” And then the phone went dead. Of course, when the post landed on the mat in the tiny hallway that led to the two bedrooms and the cramped living room, there was nothing in the world that would have stopped Layla from grabbing all the post and rushing with it to her bedroom to see what had arrived. Thankfully, her mother was doing weekends again for the extra cash, so she wouldn’t see whatever it was that was in the envelope scrawled over in Marianne’s huge poorly educated hand. And when Layla opened the envelope she was even more pleased her mother wasn’t in. There were a number of digital camera shots all featuring Marianne, none of them remotely artistically composed and all fairly unambiguous. There was a picture of an erect penis halfway up (and Layla had to squint quite hard) what could only be Marianne’s anus from that angle. And two pictures of her with her face covered in gooey sticky mess that certainly looked like what Layla thought semen should look like. And a picture of a fat, grotesque, shiny penis hovering just over the thick bushy mass of Marianne’s crotch. And Layla knew it could only be Marianne’s. That small crude tattoo and the sheer hairiness of it could only belong to her. And the penis had a kind of pinkish, creamy, clear tear dripping out of the tip of its fat purplish glans. At least none of the men whose bits of anatomy she could see were black. That would be an act of treachery just a little too close to home after all Marianne had said about how much she loved Layla’s very skin colour. When Layla’s mother came home from work several hours later, she found her daughter still sitting on the sofa in the living room. Around her were scattered the obscene photographs and used damp paper tissues. She put a motherly arm around her daughter’s shoulder and listened patiently and with affection as Layla recounted how badly Marianne was taking her enforced separation from her lover. She nodded sympathetically and wiped away the tears that still ran down Layla’s cheeks and dampened her tee shirt. “Well, one thing’s for sure,” Layla’s mother announced, “and that is that this just can’t go on like this!” “But what are we going to do?” sobbed Layla. “It’s not just she’s having… having… making love… with these other men… it’s that she’s started taking drugs again. I’m terrified she’ll kill herself. She got pretty close to that once she told me.” “Yes,” agreed Mrs Lampton. “I can see those scars on her wrist. But she’s not really the suicidal type, you know. When she did that, she was really very very desperate indeed. But she’s not coping well at all with not seeing you, is she? And what’s worse, as far as I’m concerned, is what she’s doing to you.” Layla sighed. “I do so love her. And I know that when she lets those boys… well… you can see the photos… it’s not what she really feels…” “Don’t worry! I know exactly what she’s doing. And you’re a clever girl. You can see it just as much as I can. She’s just trying to make you feel bad. It’s not difficult for a girl like her to find a man who’ll… who will… do things like that. What she knows. And what you know. And what everyone knows. Is that it’s much more difficult for a girl like her, from her junkie background, surrounded by prostitution, vice, drugs and petty crime, what’s most difficult for her is finding someone as perfect as you, my darling daughter.” “I don’t love her because I feel sorry for her, Mum. I loved her before I knew she’d got… well, not actually got, but could get… full-blown… Or the drugs. Or her time in care. Or when she used to sell her body for heroin. That’s not the Marianne I love. She’s just a really beautiful, truly wonderful…” “I know. I know,” said Layla’s mother. “Well, this can’t go on. It’s affecting your studies for a start. I know the address of the squat she’s staying at. I’m going to go there this very minute and have it out with her. And if she’s not there… Well! I’ll just sit on the doorstep until she comes home. And if that’s not till tomorrow morning, I don’t care. It’s got to be done. I love you too much, Lay, to let your girlfriend ruin your life through her jealous temper tantrums!” The Choice Layla nodded her head and watched her mother change into her more casual clothes. She continued to sit on the sofa for another half an hour after she heard the front door close and her mother leave. Then, at last, perhaps just as a result of having shared the burden of her woes with someone else, she felt able to return to her studies. She needed to be sure she really understood exactly how the valency of carbohydrates differed from other organic molecules. It was very late indeed when Layla’s mother returned home. After midnight in fact. Layla was frightened to go to bed. She wanted so much to hear what her mother had said to Marianne. She’d long since finished her studies, where she’d somehow got comfort from the very abstract nature of the discipline, and was half watching and half not watching some late night film where the black hero had managed to single-handedly save the entire city of New York from destruction, even though his rather stupid white sidekick got equal billing in the television listings. “You still up, dear!” her mother shouted. “Yes, Mum!” said Layla pushing open the door to the living room and looking into the hallway. And she could see that there wasn’t just her mother there, but also, and surrounded by plastic bags and an extremely battered suitcase, was Marianne. She looked strangely shy and sheepish and smiled at Layla in a very weak way. “Mari! Why? What? I thought…” “Leave the bags in the hall, Marianne dear. Let’s go into the living room. And then we’ll discuss what’s going to be the way from now on.” And so Layla sat on the floor, one leg stretched out and the other beneath her, while Marianne sat on one chair and her mother held court on the sofa. Marianne had a packet of cigarettes and occasionally dipped in for a smoke, and Layla noticed that, for the first time, her mother did not object to there being smoke in the house. When Mrs Lampton had arrived at the squat, Marianne was indeed not in. But the other people in the house, a tall Iranian guy and his rather fat girlfriend, admitted her in and fed her cups of coffee while she waited for Marianne to return. They offered her some grass, but although Layla’s mother had no objection to the drug, - she’d smoked plenty when she was younger, - she didn’t want it to cloud her mind. Eventually, it must have been about seven, Marianne returned home. She was by herself and looked really dreadful. In fact, almost the first thing Layla’s mother did when she saw Marianne was rush her off to the bathroom and wash her. Her clothes smelt of vomit, she had dirt over her face, her hair was tangled with some disgusting oily muck, and she was still pretty high from whatever she’d been taking. “Cocktail!” Marianne clarified unhelpfully. At last, she and Layla’s mother had got talking. And talking. And eventually it was all decided. Clearly the two girls just couldn’t live apart. It simply wasn’t working. Marianne was falling apart and sliding back into her old ways. And Layla was worrying herself to death about her lover. So, the obvious solution was for Marianne to move permanently into the flat with Layla and her mother. “But what about my studies?” Well, obviously Marianne had a choice. She could either continue to live in squalor and almost certainly die fairly soon from some illness exacerbated by her… her condition. Or she could abide by the rules of the house. And really there was only one rule, apart from not taking drugs, - and Marianne could continue to smoke cigarettes for a while if it helped her get off hard drugs, - and that was that Layla should continue in her studies. Without interruption. It was more important than perhaps either girl really appreciated that Layla should pass her exams and go on to pursue a career as a doctor or whatever she might eventually decide to be. It was the way out of the life of poverty that was all any of them had ever known till now. Of course, the girls could continue to sleep together. But it would be appreciated if they made an effort to keep the noise down. “It’s not just me, sweetheart. Although these walls are paper-thin. It’s the neighbours too. You’re both very vocal lovers, you know!” And that was that. Marianne had been offered the choice. And she took it. More because of her love for Layla than anything else. And although Marianne clearly benefited from the security and comfort of a warm council flat and the attentive caresses of her lover, no one benefited more than Layla who with the assistance of the two people she loved more than anyone else in the world, studied especially hard for her exams and did even better than her teachers had expected. The Choice The night was haunting with its shades of dark shadows overlain with lacey patterns of moonlight filtering in through the ancient oak spread out like a canopy above me. Leaning against the rough trunk of the tree and feeling its hard scratchy surface against my back, I sat there, feeling the pulse of the Earth Mother beneath my hands I had pressed to her surface. Skin glowing creamy where the moon kissed it in dappled patterns I closed my eyes listening, straining for a sound that I was so desperate to hear. The light from the lantern I had brought with me flickered dimly. Without realizing it I clenched tufts of grass, leaves and deadfall in my palms, my breath shallow and as silent as I could make it. I began praying in earnest for his safe arrival. These were dark and dangerous times for anyone to be out at this time of night and worse to be caught within the ancient Sacred Circle of Oaks. To be caught here carried with it the penalty of death for those not introduced to the circle. He had told me long ago that he had been introduced, I on the other hand had as of yet not. Some yet among us carried on the ways of the Old Ones. He would come, I knew he would. How could he not? We had been meeting here for the past year now. Today would be the one-year anniversary of our weekly trysts here in the grove. No sound greeted my straining ears save for the chirping of crickets and an owl as it called out a greeting while passing over head in search of its supper. Opening my eyes I looked into the darkness above silently pleading. A chill kissed my skin as a breeze playfully passed over my naked body. I had chosen to honor this night and my lover in this manner, it seemed fitting. I had left my rough linen shift and kirtle just outside the circle where I had taken it off, folded it carefully and left it beneath an Ash tree. Standing up and walking around the inner perimeter of the circle of gnarled, twisting Oaks, I knew each trees shape and form now from coming here each week for a year. I had marked in my mind their growth, the texture of their bark beneath my trailing hands. They knew me even if the circle had not been made aware of my presence according to the ways of the Old Ones. Oh yes, they knew me and perhaps better than anyone save for my secret lover, their view of me very intimate indeed. A cool mist began to reach with tender tentacles into the grove. Pausing I watched its wraith like undulations. It would be foggy by the time I went home. This fact didn't concern me half as bad as possibly getting caught; I knew my way home in complete darkness even. A soft coughing sound behind me gave testament that he had arrived. Turning I watched him walk out of the gathering fog behind him, ropes of twisting pale mist yet clinging to him as he strode confidently into the grove. He had always reminded me of someone but I could never place who it was. It always gave me a start to see him, tall, very tall with a wild thatch of dark curling hair upon the most aristocratic and elegant face I had ever seen. He resembled me in so many ways, the same familiar dark Irish looks, piercing green eyes flecked with a bit of the Irish gold twinkled when the light was just right. Right now they did not twinkle so much as they glowed of some unearthly green smoky fires. I stepped towards him and stopped. He was a vision. My body so familiar with his touch was already responding just by the sight of him. He was staring at me, my choice of coming without clothing achieved a startled look from him and I could see the lusty fire leap into his eyes. "Even after a year" he breathed. "A year..." I echoed as he walked towards me, hands out before him, hands I knew so well, work worn, rough, tender. The fire in my body grew fanned by just the visage of him. Pulling me against him our bodies spooning neatly fit together as if one and not two. It felt so right to be here with him so normal. His dark head bent down to reach mine upturned to his. We kissed each other in greeting, as if more than but a week had past, as if our lives now depended on it. Tongues thrusting urgently tasting, tangled together they wove their own passionate dance. Pressing myself closer I felt his back beneath my hands, hard and well muscled, I could feel beneath his rough garments. Both of us were removing his garments not ceasing our kiss. They fell like discarded rags about our feet and then he was pulling me down to the mossy ground at the base of our tree. Neither of us speaking any words, only the language the most intimate of lovers know. His hands moved against my breast, teasing the puckered nipple, he was enjoying the feel of it rolling it back and forth beneath his thumb. Breaking our kiss and moving to the hollow of my throat he rained his kisses upon my skin, moving down lower slowly, his tongue like fire branding my skin. Squeezing my nipple elicited a gasp from me and a chuckle from him. I pushed my hips up towards his body showing my desperate need of him. He laughed slowly and squeezed again, harder this time. Gasping he chuckled, his other hand supporting him he looked down on me from where he lay upon me. "Hot... so hot you are my witch." I traced my hand along his stomach, its little pooch there well known to me, lower across the path of hair that lead in a direct line to his throbbing swelling member. Grasping it in my hand it was my turn to be rewarded by a sigh and a small moan of anticipation. My other hand cupped his heavy balls and gently teased him. "Woman... you're the death of me" He lowered himself slightly grasping my turgid nipple between his teeth and gently bit down grating his teeth against it softly at the same time his hand found my wet nectar between my legs. He rubbed against my clit with the side of a finger and then plunged one inside my slick wetness. Thrusting my hips up to meet him I wanted him to impale me. "Not so fast dear one..." he stopped doing what he was doing, shifted his weight so he was on his knees. He parted my legs with one of his knees and then knelt between them. With one large hand he grasped my two and pinned them above my head. "My turn my little witch. My turn to play. He reached back to the pile of clothes there and felt for something. Finding it he brought it up for me to see, his belt. He smiled down on me. I looked at it then met his eyes. "Like I said, my turn." Pulling my hands he drug me to a sitting position. "Put them behind you my love." I hesitated only a moment and then complied. "There's a good girl then." He quickly strapped my hands behind my back at my waist. With one hand behind my head he pushed against my chest gently. "Lie back, let me have my way with you..." I was laying upon my hands but I didn't mind. He was now bent over my dark moist slit his tongue gently probing, teasing my clit and my labia. His other hand was massaging and kneading my breast. Inserting first one, then two fingers into me vibrating them and twisting up and down I moved against his hand needing more, gods I needed more. He chuckled. "Not enough?" I shook my head. How could I convey how desperate my need was? No words could convey the ache that filled me so exquisitely with such sweet painful need. Three then four fingers he pushed into me and I craved more, I wanted to be lost in this feeling forever. I ached, I yearned, and I burned in my need for something elusive that was always just out of reach. He pinched my nipple then hard between his finger and thumb and with his other hand he began pushing his entire hand within me. I yelped in pain, such sweet pain and arched my back totally unaware now of neither my hands beneath me nor the hard ground beneath me. Slowly he pushed in deeper while never letting up on his nipple torture, twisting, pulling, squeezing. I moaned loosing myself in the moment, completely surrendering myself to him. My body now just a mass of needing, quaking nerves and desire incomplete and unsatisfied. Something deep within me stirred again to life. Slowly he curled his hand making a fist within me and started to move up and down twisting. Reaching down he bit my clit at the same time he pushed deeper into me and twisted my nipple while pulling it. I screamed my pain, my pleasure, and fell off the edge of something in my mind. Blackness filled me with only my body the only entity present, my mind had fled and all logical thought with it. Time had no meaning nothing did but his assault on my body and senses. I didn't want to go back to any sort of reality but wanted to stay here floating on this plane. Deeper he plunged into me harder his increasing tempo being met by my body thrusting upwards to meet his. I could no longer hear anything very clearly and I let go of anything holding me back and just became something that felt, that craved more, that would never ever again be satiated. I didn't know when I became aware of it but there were now more hands on me. I opened my eyes and was rewarded with a hand slapped over my eyes. "Blindfold her" someone unknown spoke above me. Logan, my dear lover whispered "Keep your eyes tightly closed dear one, I've a special treat for you tonight as well." I didn't want to obey but I did. I felt the hand go and then return to tie a thick bit of material around my eyes. Someone else lifted my head and someone tied it behind my head tightly. I was now blinded but I could count, that made six hands, three people were now here. "Shh... Trust me Nerissa. Enjoy my gift to you, to us, for our one-year anniversary." Logan began thrusting his hand into my pussy again and then returned to nibbling my clit. Someone else took over massaging my breasts, teasing and torturing both nipples at the same time. Someone else was pushing up my legs in the air and I gasped when I felt another person playing with the puckered hole of my ass. Four people were now here. Logan, someone torturing my breasts, someone holding both my legs up in the air and now someone pushing a finger against my asshole. I shook my head back and forth and Logan whispered again... "Relax Rissa, tonight is about you, I want you to finally get your wish and find that elusive spot always out of reach for you. I have so often wanted to take you there myself but decided that many hands make light the work. You will experience all you have every craved this night. Tonight we can become one again." He crooned softly, his voice husky with his lust. "Surrender, give yourself over to me completely small one." And then there were two fingers in my ass, stretching me wider, Logan was pumping my pussy with his fist, his fingers scraping the inside of the walls of my slick velvet tunnel softly as my breast were now being man handled masterfully. The pain became pleasure, the pleasure pain. It was getting mixed up and I couldn't think. Couldn't respond by any means other than moans and occasional yelps of pain. "Shh... relax pet, go deeper, feel... all you have to do is feel. Nothing else. Do not think, just... feel." "Easy now Rissa... trust me." He crooned again. Someone else a fifth person I questioned but a moment began to drip a fiery hot liquid on my stomach. Wax, my mind was able to at least filter that. Three fingers plunged into my ass now working deeper into me the same time Logans' fist never ceased in driving deeper into me twisting softly. My breasts were being twisted and pulled, and squeezed harder. I let go then. There was nowhere else to go. Giving myself over to the sensation I yielded every breath to him, he that was conquering me, my very soul. The person holding my legs pushed them further open stretching my slit wide open, I could feel the pulling sensation just short of tearing. I thrashed my head back and forth moaning softly. I didn't want this to end, wanted to stay right here forever. I wanted somehow, I craved more. What was wrong with me? The pain was intense, as too was the pleasure it wrought. "Give me that." I heard Logan faintly say as he pulled his hand out from inside my honey drenched pussy. With one hand he separated my labia further and then I felt acute pain like I had never felt before. My body leapt off the ground and someone's hand pushed me back down keeping a hand on my quivering stomach so I could not move. Hot wax was dripping down on to my clit. I screamed and a hand clamped over my mouth. "Shh... someone could hear you!" I heard a man's voice say. The fingers in my ass turned into a hand and were pushing up deeper in me, impaling me. My breasts were being bound by something that felt rough and scratchy, like rope. Tighter they were being tied. The pain was getting to be too much. "Let go Rissa! Let go... let it go..." Logan kept repeating. "Give in to me, surrender, let me have your pain, each of your tears, let me count them and hold them to my heart with joy." More wax spilled onto my bruised nipples and the searing pain was too much. I screamed into the hand. I felt a hand plunged back into my pussy alternating pace with the hand in my ass. I was being filled up and waves of pain and pleasure were alternating in my mind becoming one and the same, separate yet joined. "Let go Rissa, now!" I did and then things changed somehow. Pain was no more, it was all pleasure and I was riding the crest of it as it washed over me. My back arched off the ground and my body shuddered as wave after wave of pleasure sent me spiraling into an orgasm that ripped from my body anything of what was and replaced it with only the now, only this one moment in time. It was his gift to me and I yielded to the force of it. Orgasm rippled into orgasm. I couldn't think, couldn't respond, only my body could. It was responding to the hands that were guiding it from this plane to another. I forgot about my new husband at home, forgot about the witch hunt going on in our town and the eyes that glared at me suspiciously from behind each window as I walked by. There existed now only this moment. Now I surrendered to him and gave him all that was I, my final gift to him. Slowly I pulled out of the fog, I could hear Logan talking to me softly, coaxing me back from the elsewhere that I had been. I had the oddest sensation and not for the first time either that this was not real, that this was of another time, another place. I struggled to come out of the deep fog that was clouding my brain, logic and illogical became twisted up. Slowly though awareness seeped in. I could hear Logan, the crickets. The blind fold was gone and so too the ropes that had bound my breasts so torturously. My hands were free and unbound as well. I struggled to sit up and he restrained me. "Easy my little witch... slowly... there is but a little bit of time left for us here." I tried to comprehend what that meant and could only feel my used up body still tingling, still on fire, still bruised but so thoroughly ravished. I was spent but didn't want to return. I was able to see clearly now and Logans piercing green eyes looked at me in concern. "You okay my love?" I nodded, my throat too parched to speak yet. I noticed another man standing behind Logan, a big man with dark sandy blonde hair, blue eyes that looked at me strangely. A chill crept over me. I had never seen him before but I suddenly felt alarmed. "Shh Rissa, he's a friend, so too were the others but they have left now. This is my friend Gable. Gab... meet Rissa." The blonde man smiled a thin tight-lipped smile and bowed stiffly. I didn't like him. I had no cause but the way he was staring at me made me feel uncomfortable. "Gab and I go back a very... long way he and I, indeed, we all do." He looked pointedly at Gab and then at me. "Where are..." "The others?" I nodded. "They had to go back to where we come from. You don't know yet Rissa?" I stared at him puzzled thinking I must still be in a fog and not comprehending. "Rissa?" Looking up at him I waited for him to explain something that I knew I didn't want to hear. "Rissa... I am your astral lover you summoned a year ago. Don't you remember the spell you made, the one to rejoin you with a love of your past?" "You... you... you're not..." I stammered half from lack of voice, half from a sudden dread that washed over me like ice water on a fainted drunk. "Not real... yes and no. We are but we are not of your time. We are from a past, one of our pasts. We knew each other then as real as you and your husband Marcus do, we knew each other just as real Nerissa but we have not yet been able to join up at the same time again where we are both in the same plane. You summoned me, I came but now... now our time has ended. Our one-year and one day ends now. It became a year and a day after the high night hour. We can no longer meet like this. A time has come where you have to join me or remain here with your time, with your husband, your life. You will shortly be given a choice. With that he began to fade and so too did the portly man Gab. My vision of them wavered, flickering in and out and then Gab was gone entirely. Only Logan remained a slight shimmering image superimposed against the backdrop of trees. "Don't go Logan..." I pleaded. "I... need you!" "It can not be helped Nerissa, it has to be this way my love. Join me if you like or yet remain. Perhaps another time if you decide to stay. I will understand and always love you..." his voiced faded long after his body. I was now alone in the forest. I sat up fully now hugging my knees to my bruised body. I was sore, sore in a good way but heart sore now too. I didn't want him to go. I couldn't understand how all this could have been real. I bore testament to my body that it had been real. My pussy ached, my ass, my breasts. I closed my eyes and could feel a flutter in my stomach. I wanted more but was thoroughly satisfied. I wanted to feel Logan's arms around me again. Silent tears slid down my cheeks. I sat there until I could feel the pulse of the Earth Mother once again beneath me. The chill of the night started to lie heavily upon my skin and I knew I could sit here no longer wondering, pondering, and trying to make any sense of it. Shakily I got up and walked out of the grove of trees slowly. I went to the place where my clothes were and laying upon it was heavy chain with a heavy oval medallion about the size of the span of a circle made with finger and thumb. In the center of it lay within heavy prongs a moonstone, the stone of female power. I put it on first above anything else of mine and felt its coldness between my breasts. I was sure it was a gift from my astral lover Logan. Who else would have left it there for me? I smiled and touched it feeling its weight heavy around my neck. I put back on my shift and kirtle and slid my feet into my deer hide boots that a man had made for me in town and started to walk back home. The moon was yet bright enough for me to see my way back clearly. I judged it to be around 2 hours past the high night so I had plenty of time to get home, sneak in and drop into bed much as I had been doing for the past year. The fog had been only around the outside of the grove and had not seeped nearer to town unfortunately. It would have been nice to use it for cover. As I neared town I became stealthier in my footsteps, more aware of where I put each foot. It would do me no good to be caught walking through the woods at this hour of the early morning. I had a choice now to make, go through town sticking to the shadows or cut across Murthy's home into our own back yard. I chose Murthy's land to cut across rather then risk being seen in town. Some of those women had nothing better to do at night then peer from their windows watching, waiting, and they called me a witch! The land was easier to walk as it had been well tended. Old man Murthy grew most of the local produce through the year. I liked him well enough, but his wife was one viperous gossip. Cautiously I kept my eyes on their house ready to bolt back into the woods if it looked as if anyone were yet awake. The house was dark. I walked across the field and made it safely to my own home, Marcus' and mine. I sighed in relief audibly. The back door looked friendly after traversing the Murthy's place. Gently I opened the door, the house all dark. Walking across our kitchen I was careful to not bump into a chair and wake up Marcus. Then suddenly lights were lit from the living room. Marcus was standing there looking at me sadly, shaking his head. The Choice Behind him I could see the massive girth of a man with sandy blonde hair. He was wearing the robes of the church, an enormous cross lay upon his expansive barrel chest. His blue eyes never wavered from mine, with a thin smile he bowed to me slightly. "This man has come from the church in Norwich Nerissa. He has had complaints of you consorting with the devil at nighttime. He says... His name is Father Michael Nerissa, he says..." he gulped looking at me in fear and apprehension. "He says you might have to come with him and his acolytes this night and be questioned by the Church as a heretic, as a ... as a witch." "A witch? Because I heal with herbs? Because when I see a need I help out?" "No, Nerissa, you've been seen in the woods." Father Michael added. "There is no proof of that!" I reached back and felt the table edge holding it for support. Father Michael stepped forward and reached my bodice before I could step back he yanked open the front of my kirtle and shift. It tore easily under his massive meaty hands. He grabbed the necklace from my chest and yanked hard, so hard the heavy chain snapped and he was holding it triumphantly. "My acolyte Devin followed you and placed this upon your clothing this night Nerissa. You wear your own proof upon your body." He shook the necklace back and forth in front of my eyes. I was struggling to comprehend. Gab... Father Michael. Astral, reality... nothing made sense I gripped the table tighter to keep the room from spinning. "Look Nerissa. We can work this out here, right now. Tell me. Do you proclaim your innocence? You're true faith in the One holy God of the Church? I have heard good things of you and know some of the women in this town are wagging their tongues to stir up the devils' pot, as if he needs help! I am not an unlearned man Nerissa. Tell me what of goes on at the night times in the forest?" "I am but walking... I cannot always sleep at night and enjoy the solitude and peace that the forest brings me." "That is all?" "No... There is no other God than the most Holy Father. I attend church Father, always." Marcus nodded his head looking bewildered. I clenched the front of my shift tightly closed over my bosom. Fear was a cold lead weight in the bottom of my stomach. "Why were you clothes in a pile there?" "I went to bath in the stream there near the sacred Oak." Father Michael looked at Devin in question. "It is possible Father. I saw no one in that ancient pagan grove of trees. I always thought myself they should have been hewn down." He silenced himself quickly seeing the dark look that passed over Father Michael's face. "Nerissa? Your hair is dry." "It was a goodly time ago that I bathed. Then I sat down under an Ash tree near the stream and fell asleep so relaxed was I." I looked at him innocently and then remembered the words of Logan. A choice... was this the choice? I was being offered leniency or acceptance of a fate that would bring about speedily my death. My death... could that be the way back to Logan? I looked at Marcus and though I liked him, an arranged marriage not based on love was not the happiest of things to endure. I wanted Logan, needed him. I could feel him and stifled back a soft moan. Father Michael looked at me quizzically and then a strange look came over him. "Your choice madam Nerissa, I will have it now." He demanded with the power of the Church behind his words. He was both Father Michael and the long dead Gable, friend of my soul mate and long lost love of long ago. I waited but the shortest of breaths, the pause spanning a lifetime. I made my choice. The Choice "So how long has it been? Ten years? God, you've hardly changed at all!" She laughed, taking another sip of wine. "Thanks. But we both know that's not true. You've changed though. You never used to care what you were wearing." And it was true, he had changed. He looked even better than she remembered him, although it had been years since she had thought back to her college days. Now, there was undoubtedly something about the tailored jacket, the tight white t-shirt, the cut of his jeans, which really suited him. He had never been exactly handsome in the conventional sense, but there was no doubt that age had added something extra to the mischievous smile and the way his slouched casually beside her, arms sprawled over the edge of the booth at the back of the Soho pub. But had it really been ten years? Where had the time gone? And, when he had suddenly stepped into her field of vision and greeted her enthusiastically, she thought back and wondered. Had she forgotten something about herself? She had known The Friend with Benefits during her first year at one of London's universities. She had been twenty then, a castaway in the big city, and he had been five years older and had seemed to be everywhere, involved in everything, an old hand in his final year. There had been something about his confidence that had first attracted her to him, as she knew it had to others in her year, but it was his vulnerability in her company, the fact that he clearly wanted her, that had excited her more. So one night at the end of the first term, drunk on cheap shots that gave her the courage she never thought she possessed, she had seduced him. And it had started a friendship that was radically different to any other she had experienced before or since. He had always been an early riser, she remembered that clearly. In the time she had known him, he had never stayed the night with her. They lived in the same campus block and he would come to her flat in the morning, sometimes in the week but always on a Sunday, sometimes bringing warm croissants and the Sunday Times, and they would talk and flirt and always end up in bed. At night or around the college buildings, they were just like any other friends, but those mornings were always different. And very quickly they had discovered something in common, something they felt that they alone shared. They both liked to experiment. No, they loved to experiment. In that respect they were perfectly matched. She was James Watson to his Francis Crick, he was Robert Oppenheimer to her Edward Teller, and they thirsted for knowledge without fear of consequences or any notion of propriety. When they heard of something that was new, they tried it out to see whether it worked, to see whether their experiments deserved to be repeated. What she had loved more than anything was that even though he was older than her, he never pretended to be more knowledgeable or adept than she was. They had both been explorers, hesitantly probing together the limits of what aroused them. Tying each other up. Different positions in different parts of her flat. Investigating the cold thrill of ice cubes on the most sensitive areas of each other's bodies. Role-play. They had tried it all. One morning, she had masturbated him with her feet and he had erupted over her painted toenails, only to reciprocate by bringing her to an intense orgasm with his big toe. Even now, after all these years, he was still regrettably the only man she had ever trusted enough to allow to fist her. But now, how long ago that brief period seemed! She realised she had lost something in the decade that had passed. What had happened in the intervening years? After he had left university, they had lost contact, and once she had graduated and immersed herself in her job and her career, she had changed. God, she had become normal, embracing the values of her colleagues, dating men who failed to excite her just because any girl without a steady boyfriend or a regular date had nothing to talk about over coffee on a Monday morning. But it had never quite worked out in same way it had for the other women in the office, who had started to marry and breed and seemed so joyful in their coupledom. Why was she so different? She felt a loneliness she had never felt before, a failure to fit in that sometimes frightened and despaired her. And now suddenly he had appeared, looking fit, comfortable, happy and full of surprise and pleasure to see her. And he was sitting down beside her. And she had drunk two glasses of wine and could feel the deadening of the alcohol lowering her self-consciousness They talked briefly, politely, about the intervening years since they had last spoken. She felt she had little to say but breezily recounted her life. "Men?" he said. "Some" she replied. "Now?" "Not at the moment." "Anyone special along the way?" There hadn't been. She wasn't sure how to respond. "You know, it's been up and down." "Isn't it always..." He smiled, wanting to share a joke. If only he knew. "What about you?" she said. "Oh, I've branched out, diversified," he said. "In what way?" "Both ways." She shook her head. "I'm bisexual," he said. She looked at him without knowing what to say. Was she surprised? It fitted with what she knew about him. She knew he never flinched from trying something new. "Really?" "Yep." "Often." "No, not often. I'm basically a straight guy. Who happens to like cock every now and then." Suddenly she felt relaxed. She stifled a laugh. ""And the most recent?" "Yesterday," he said, smiling. "And did you do, you know, penetrative sex?" "Oh no," he replied. "That's not really my thing." She giggled. She couldn't help herself. Emboldened, she said, "So when was the first time?" "About five years ago." "And what happened?" "You want details?" "Of course!" she replied. "Well, this guy starts hitting on me after a campaign meeting in Bethnal Green, and I couldn't help but notice how fit he was. And I loved it, the attention and everything." "OK, so what happened?" "So a couple of weeks later, he rings me and invites me over to his place, and one thing leads to another and before I know it I'm kneeling down in the shower in front of him and he's coming over my face." She shook her head, She tried to picture the scene but at that moment all she can think about is a mental image of something else, from long ago, when it is her kneeling before him in the shower in her flat, her hands massaging his cock, and the sensation of closing her eyes and feeling his cum hitting her mouth and nose and her cheeks, before the hot jet of water washed it down her chin and onto her breasts. That was great, she thought. I loved it when he came all over me. Jesus, where did that thought come from? His cock. She remembered what she loved about it. It wasn't that it was really massive but that it was so thick, as thick as her wrist when it was hard. It felt so totally amazing inside her. She felt the warmth in the pit of her stomach sink like treacle trickling downward, pooling slowly into a dull ache in her pussy. After all these years, he still managed to make her wet, even when he was talking about sucking off another man. She slowly crossed her legs, the tops of her hold-ups rasping as she did so. It had been ages since she had felt this horny. "In the process I've discovered a whole new vocabulary," he said. He grinned, as if unsure whether to continue. "Tea bagging, for instance. I love tea bagging." "What the fuck is tea bagging?" she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. Whatever it was, she was sure it would be horny as hell. "Licking a guy's balls. Sucking them." "Sounds... fun," she finally replied, trying not to betray how turned on she had become. She couldn't help glancing down at his crotch and seeing that he was hard. A pleasant bulge. It was all she could do to resist reaching forward and running a fingernail over it. After a moment when neither of them spoke, when all she could hear was the clatter of glasses and the music from the fruit machine babbling in the background, she said, "So, you've not given up on women entirely though, have you?" "Oh no," he replied with a wry smile. "I could never do that. Women are so much more... interesting." "So," she said quickly, "what's the story there? Have there been many?" She wondered how many and then tried to push the thought from her mind. What he had done with them. She felt a sudden knot of regret in her abdomen. If only they had stayed in touch. "Well, not so many," he said slowly. "You know me, honey, I've always been picky. But I have to say, this old dog has learned some new tricks over the last ten years." He leaned in towards her. As he did, she tried to hide how aroused she already was by brushing back her hair so her hand covered her face, but she knew her cheeks were flushed. Did he know? Did she hope he did? "Really?" she said casually. "Like what?" "Well, there was this woman I was seeing for a while, and she introduced me to the Alphabet Game." She thought, so do I want to know what this is? Damn right I do! "Which is?" "One of the best lessons I have ever learnt about women," he said. He waited, looking at her as though debating whether she was ready for the story. "OK. Basically it goes like this," he said finally. "Most men, if they deign to go down on their partners at all, lap away like a thirsty puppy without thinking what they are doing, because all they are really thinking about is doing what is required of them before they get to the main event, right? "I guess so," she replied. "So why shouldn't it be fun?" he said. "That's what sex is supposed to be, right? Fun as in a good laugh, as in shits and giggles." "OK, I agree," she said, rather too quickly. "So what's the Alphabet Game then?" "Well it's basically this. When you go down on your lover, instead of charging in like you want to get it over with as quickly as possible, you use your tongue like a writing instrument, and you spell out what you are thinking, word by word, on her cunt." She thought, I wonder who else he has told this story to before? Fuck it. She wanted to know more. "Maybe I'd start by writing 'you are so fucking hot', stopping between each word to say what I have written," he said. "And then I'd ask for requests." "Like what?" "Like anything. It depends on the moment. Maybe 'I want you to eat me until I cum', or perhaps 'lick me until I beg for your cock'. I'm always open to suggestions." He smiled mischievously again. She thought, he knows where he is going with this. "But that's not the end of the game, definitely not. Then comes the really fun part. The icing on the cake. Everyone who's played the Alphabet Game has a different version, but it's always something long that they know off by heart." He leaned in towards her so he could whisper in her ear. In a low voice he said, "For me it's my favourite piece of Shakespeare. The Prologue to Romeo and Juliet." Her eyes met his. "I know it off by heart. One hundred and eight words of the most wonderful prose in the English language." He paused again, taking a deep breath, "'Two households, both alike, in dignity, fair Verona, where we lay our scene'. Spelled out, letter by agonising letter." He stopped, leaning closer. "Without a pause or break," he said, his voice husky and low. "On a lover's clitoris." She realised that she hadn't taken a breath for a minute and inhaled sharply. "By the time I get to 'now, be the two hours passage of our stage', he said, "Things have usually got very, very special." She tried to imagine it. Her thighs spread wide, his mouth on her cunt, his tongue lapping away, spelling out whatever she asked him to write. She imagined the liberation of forgetting the safety of her life since she had last seen him, of surrendering to the horniness she felt at that moment. That year with him had been the best she could remember. If she wanted it again, it was obvious from his voice that she could have it again. It was like that first year at college. He clearly wanted her and that had excited her more than anything else. "So?" he said. "Doesn't that sound like fun?" She looked at him. She had to make a choice. "I think you are just trying to get into my knickers," she said nervously. He stared at her, smiling. "Listen," he said. "There's something I remember from college. There's something that the Roman philosopher Cicero said about friendship. We choose our friends because we see a reflection of ourselves in them. He leaned back, smiling. "And I know you, don't forget that. I know we are the same. So do you really think I am just trying to get into your knickers?" He paused. "Just getting into your knickers would be such a failure of imagination." Another pause. He had that look in his eye, one she remembered from so many Sunday mornings. "Do you really think," he said, "that I'd try to manipulate my way into your knickers? Anymore than if I would want to be manipulated by someone else myself? If I were to get into your knickers, it would be for one reason. One reason alone." She looked at him. It was almost like a script, lines in a film She knew what she had to say. "And what would that reason be?" "Because I had been invited to," he said, leaning back and grinning. And finally the choice had been laid before her. She could say no, be respectable, do what he work colleagues would do. Or find out what the Alphabet Game was like. She smiled. It wasn't exactly a difficult choice, not now. The only problem was, after all these years, she wondered what the answer would be to the first question that popped into her head. Which one of them got to be tied up first? "So," she said, leaning close to him. "What are you doing later tonight?"