Sick Day, Part Three

She tried to push the panties out of her mouth to answer him, but he reached forward to push them back in, grabbing her chin and pulling back to make her arch. Then he touched the buzzing vibrator to the side of the thermometer, just above where it was pushed inside her.

She couldn’t control herself at that sensation, bucking and jerking as he held her tight to keep her from wriggling away. Her hands scrabbled at the sheets. Muffled sounds of outrage escaped her; it wasn’t painful, but not exactly pleasant either. It was sure as hell stimulating.

Then she felt him release her chin, reach back, and undo his belt.

She stilled, even as he continued to toy with the vibrator: the learned response to the slithering sound of leather through loops overrode her urge to squirm. He doubled it and let it brush slowly across her lower back, then the tops of her thighs, the places she knew he could make it hurt worse if he wanted to. Then he gave her one sharp snap on her left cheek.

She bit down on the sodden wad of fabric in her mouth and slowly exhaled, a little helpless mewl, but he didn’t spank her again. He just took her wrists, one by one, and crossed them on her back once more. Then he let the dangling end of the belt tap her on the shoulder.

She lifted her head. He tucked the belt under her, around her throat, and looped it through the buckle. He wrapped it around his fist, and she slid back on her elbows, presenting herself. Slick and swollen, dark pink, ready.

The angle of it made her gasp, when he pushed inside. It wasn’t the first time he’d fucked her while teasing her ass, but it was definitely the first time he’d fucked her from behind with a glass rod buried inside her while obstructing her breathing with her own underwear and a convenient choke-leash. When he sat back on his heels, pulling her hips into him, and pressed the vibrator up against the top of her slit, she more or less lost the ability to think.

It was a nice position for him; he could make her fuck back against him by tugging the belt, and adjust her vertically to his preference via upward pressure on the vibe. The way this combination made her strain and struggle, gasping and trying to find her balance, was all that kept her from coming. She wanted him deep, wanted him to just plunge all the way into her, but he liked to keep it shallow sometimes: the head of his cock popping just in and out of her lips, teasing her needy cunt.

“Do you feel,” he panted, “any better?” But her only answer was a stuttered groan.

He made her come first. She could feel herself clenching tight around the thermometer. Distantly, she wondered if he was watching, if he could see it moving with each involuntary contraction–not that it would have been easy, given the way the rest of her was thrashing around. Just as she was coming down, he pulled out the glass plug and his cock, flipped her over on her back with one scoop of his arm, and jacked off onto her belly and chest.

Feeling his warmth spatter on her skin gave her a startling aftershock; she did spit out her gag, finally, chest heaving for air as the rush went through her and she collapsed out of her orgasmic arch.

He flopped down next to her, eyes barely open, grin very self-satisfied. “Are we sorry?”

“Yeah,” she said, after a couple of tries.

“Are we well?”


His hand was between her legs again, lightly testing the feel of her closed lips with all his fingers. She shivered; usually she was capable of revving right back up afterwards, but then usually she didn’t come quite that hard. He dipped a finger into her and then out, wetly slipping over her clit, which–well. Huh. Apparently she was ready to rev back up after all.

“I’m going to ask you to take over on this for me in a moment,” he murmured, “while I go get the laptop. And then, to make sure today’s lesson sticks, you’re going to walk me through every tab you have open. Every post you liked. Every line of conversation that made you this wet.”

“Now?” she said, startled.

“I took the afternoon off to take care of you,” he said, with that smug and sleepy smile. “And I intend to. As many times as necessary.”

She bit her lip. “Um. Okay.”

“That’s right, okay.”

“Some of it might just be… a little… weird to you,” she admitted.

“I certainly hope so,” he laughed, and kissed her temple. “My little sicko.”


Sick Day, Part Two

She didn’t even know what that meant, but she was shivering a little as he took her wrist and pulled her to her feet. Guilt, her old companion. Shame and embarrassment and feeling very small. She had been Bad. She was In Trouble.

(And yet, deep down, the little secret core of her was warm and safe and unafraid, the way only he could make her feel.)

In the bedroom, he tapped the footboard with his open hand. “Belly down, please.” She squirmed up onto it and felt him tug her t-shirt up, her panties down. She didn’t even realize she’d automatically parted her thighs until she felt him having to tug harder to get them past her knees. She could hear his little chuckle at that.

He crossed her wrists behind her back, his grip reminding her–as always–that he could easily twist them to control her if she wriggled. He touched the back of her neck, and she could feel the heat under her skin as he brushed away a stray curl. Then the bed creaked as he climbed off and left her lying there.

She lifted her chin and tried to peer back out of the corner of her eye to guess where he’d gone, but she didn’t quite dare turn around. She could almost feel his hands still on her wrists. He returned quickly, anyway, holding something she couldn’t quite make out…

“When a girl can’t be trusted to confess her symptoms honestly,” he said, “it becomes suspect whether she can be trusted to even take her own temperature. Do you know how one checks for a fever in subjects who can’t be trusted to keep their hands where they belong?”

… Wait. He wasn’t really going to–

She heard a drawer slide open and shut, and the tiny click of a plastic bottle opening. Next to her face, burning scarlet against the bedspread, she saw the little plastic tab of a disposable sterile wrapper flutter down.

Then he started pushing the thermometer into her ass.

She squealed. There was no other word for it, and she certainly didn’t feel articulate enough to express herself with words at the startling, slender penetration. He’d lubricated it–which, a detached part of her thought, probably interfered with its actual function–and it didn’t hurt, not exactly. It just felt…

Well, it felt fucking humiliating, and pretty hot.

“Now, we’re going to have to leave it there for a moment to make sure it’s got a good read,” he said, and she could hear the fucking grin in his words. She took a deep breath to tell him exactly what she thought about this disproportionate response, but just as she did, he fucking moved it. Twisted it. Made her indrawn breath burst out of her in another little squeak and made her body react, helplessly, trying to wriggle away or aside or… something. She and her body never could reason with each other.

He had his hand at the base of her neck again, tangling in her hair, pulling back and up to make her arch. Her mouth dropped open, and that was when he stuffed her damn traitorous underwear between her teeth.

She could still feel her own cooling wetness there, and taste the evidence of her lazy, blissful, disobedient morning. She’d been so relaxed and confident that she had all day that she hadn’t bothered to get herself off the whole time. If only she’d fucking known…

“Three infractions. Is that what I said, girl?” he asked, leaning in close to her ear. She had to nod, still blushing so hard her cheeks had gone past red and into white. “So. Three demerits. One in your ass. One in your mouth. I have a couple ideas for the last one. Where do you think it should go?”

She heard him pick up the vibrator he’d taken from the closet drawer. And she heard him unzip.


Sick Day, Part One

She jumped a little when she heard his key in the lock, yanking her hand out of her panties and leaning forward to click the tabs closed as quickly and quietly as she could. It hadn’t been that long already, had it? She checked the clock–12:30. No, he must have just come home for lunch. Since when did he come home for lunch? She grabbed the quilt off the back of the couch, pulled it over herself, and tried to look tired.

“Still asleep?” he called softly from the entryway, but before she answered he was rounding the corner from the entryway and smiling when he saw her face. She offered a little wan smile of her own and stretched out her arm. “I was trying to nap on the couch,” she improvised, “but I wasn’t sleepy enough. You didn’t have to come home!”

“What, and leave you to suffer through a sick day all alone?” He walked over and squeezed her hand, just as she glanced down at the computer screen and noticed that–oh shit–she’d forgotten she had a window minimized. A window she’d intended to come back to. With evidence that would definitely, definitely give her away.

He kissed the part in her hair and touched her forehead. “Hmm, you do still feel a little feverish,” he murmured, and looked carefully at her face. “And flushed. But you’re damp, too.” She tried to control her reaction to that word as he brushed his thumb over her cheeks and temples. “See? So maybe your fever is breaking.”

“Yeah, I feel a little better,” she managed, trying to keep her eyes off the incriminating laptop screen. Why hadn’t she just shut it? Dumb!

“Did you take an Advil already?” He said. “I can fix you something to eat. Comfort food. Peanut butter and banana sandwich, maybe.” He smiled again, and she nodded, attempting to express frailty, innocence, affection and exhaustion at the same time. When he went in the kitchen she could close the window and be home free. Any second now.

But when he got up, he reached down and picked up the laptop, and she swallowed a sound of startled protest.

“No wonder you couldn’t sleep, if you were staring at a screen,” he chuckled. “Checking your email, huh? I know it’s hard to control that impulse.” He started to lean down and set it on the coffee table. She held her breath. “Hmm.” He paused; she bit her lip. “And… checking tumblr too, I see.”

FUCK. How did he always know what she was trying to hide? “Oh, is that still open?” she mumbled. “I must have forgotten…”

“Still open and still quite active,” he said dryly. “As is this chat room, I see. And a couple of your favorite stories.” He turned back, his mouth quirked, a tiny glint of dangerous amusement dancing in his eyes. “Well. So not feeling too sick to play after all, are we?”

She couldn’t meet his gaze.

“So now I begin to understand your flush,” he said thoughtfully. “And the dampness of your brow. And elsewhere…?” He gathered her blanket and pulled it down her body; embarrassed, she drew herself up into a little ball, but his strong, cool fingers pulled her legs down and open, exposing the evidence of her morning activities. “Yes. I see.”

“I was just–” she started to protest, but couldn’t actually think of what she wanted to follow that up with. “Trying to doze off?”

“Mm hmm. I count at least three infractions. First: shirking, taking a sick day when in fact I don’t think you were ever feeling sick at all.” He watched for a sign of protest; everything she thought of to say sounded so weak and transparent, and the blush was creeping up her ears to her hairline. “Second: playing with yourself without permission. Third: lying to me about both of the above. Am I wrong?”

Pulse pounding, throat tight, she said “I really did feel bad. This morning. I wasn’t lying.”

“But you’re better now, yes? And you lied about it after the fact, which renders that irrelevant.” He stood, pulling off his blazer, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves. “I think, young lady, that we’re going to have to establish how you feel in a more concrete manner…”


He kept a Band-Aid and a tiny sterile wipe on him; she’d found them the first time she’d ever sat on top of him and pulled his wallet from his pocket to go through it (smirk on her face, pulse wild in her throat). “What’s this for?” she’d said, wrinkling her nose.

“Accidents,” he’d replied.

“I think most guys carry a condom for that reason.”

“When I do,” he’d said, “there’s nothing accidental about it.”

Now here she was with her legs across his lap, hands behind her on the bench, remembering that afternoon and watching ruefully as he cleaned and bandaged her scrape.

“Ouch!” she said.

“Don’t flinch,” he murmured. “If you’re very brave you’ll get a reward.”

“Fine,” she grumbled. There was a brief cold sting to it as the alcohol evaporated, but the the thing that made her wince was the thought of being seen like this. She’d indulged herself with the mismatched knee socks and pigtails that morning; she hadn’t expected to find herself in this position, her little skater skirt riding up, getting her skinned knee tended to as if… well.

He wasn’t technically old enough to be her father.

“I did tell you to tie your shoe,” he said.

“I know!” she said defensively. “But this girl walked by with a puppy, and–” she swallowed the rest of the sentence before she could dig herself any deeper.

He looked up, eyebrow raised, and offered a smile to someone behind her. She twisted around to see: oh. The woman she’d mentioned, smiling in sympathy, walking up while her dog raced happily around the off-leash park behind them.

“I saw you take a spill there!” she said as she approached. “Everything okay?”

“No permanent injuries,” he said, extending a hand over to shake. “I’m Drew. Fine-looking dog you have there.”

“Thanks!” she said. “I’m Natalie. And this is…”

“And this,” he said amiably, rubbing her leg, “is my little girl.”

She froze, mouth halfway open to introduce herself, suddenly uncertain. She took a breath to say something–but what?

“Fine-looking one you have there yourself,” said Natalie, eyes sparkling. They nodded at each other, very slightly. Then Natalie took a seat behind her on the bench.

What was going on? She still couldn’t seem to find the breath to say anything, but the flush of nerves she’d felt while he was tending to her had graduated to a full-on burning face. She automatically made room, twisting to pull her legs off his lap and sit down between them.

Natalie only moved closer, and casually ran one hand up her back, thumb brushing the nape of her neck over and over in a gentle, soothing motion. It didn’t actually soothe her at all, of course; she sat bolt upright and gripped her Daddy’s arm, mouth half open, unable to think of what to even say to this.

“She seems very sweet-natured,” Natalie smiled, and moved her thumb up to rub lightly under her ear, behind her jaw.

“She is,” he said. He could definitely see what Natalie was doing, but he didn’t seem to mind, and certainly didn’t object. “Doesn’t bite. Except when she’s playing.”

He started scratching the back of her head himself, doing it exactly the way he knew she liked–pushing outward with the backs of his nails, making her instinctively press against them with her head, tingling. Her hands gripped her skirt. Her face was still so hot, but they weren’t doing anything that was actually weird or embarrassing.


Natalie moved the hand at her jaw back to her throat, then ran it down her flank, stroking the thin shirt and making goosebumps rise on her skin. “She do okay with strangers?”

“We’re working on that. Why don’t you try her and see if she behaves?”

Natalie’s lips pressed against her hear, breath warm, lips soft. “Can you present for me, girl?”

She felt that hand drift to the side of her skirt and undo the tab, then to the back, and slide down underneath it. So. Okay. Now they were doing something a little more embarrassing.

But she felt her back arch and her hips push up a little anyway. Doing tricks for a stranger.

He had his hand on her neck now, slowly squeezing, almost holding her by the scruff. His other hand reached across her body and picked up the blue nylon leash from Natalie’s lap. He held it up, examining the clip at the end. “Do you know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about getting one of these?”

“I say stick with a simple one,” smirked Natalie. “Works just as well as the fancy versions.” That cool, careful hand was slipping down into her the back of her panties, one fingertip teasing between her cheeks and making her breath hitch. She was rolled so far forward on her hips now that she was almost off balance, back a shaky arch, shirt tight against her breasts.

She started to say “Daddy, is this something you–”

She started to say “Daddy–I’m all blushy–”

She started to say “Daddy, I’m not a–”

She started to say “Daddy please–”

But all that came out of her throat was a tiny, high-pitched little whine.

Natalie’s hand was underneath her now, cupping her, finding her lips warm and her panties sopping. Natalie’s grin was a bitten lip and a searching expression, looking off in the middle distance with careful, probing fingers that easily wet themselves inside her. Natalie found her clit, and let out a little satisfied “ah.”

Her fists had twisted the skirt into themselves so thoroughly that she was vaguely surprised it hadn’t torn yet. There was no mistaking what was happening now: anyone who glanced across the path from the park would see a girl trapped between a man and a woman, held very still by the neck, while one of them quite obviously worked her pussy as if she were polishing a plaque.

Her face was so hot and she couldn’t seem to breathe all the way in. She felt paralyzed, shaky, helpless, used. She felt so fucking turned on she couldn’t think.

It didn’t take long at all.

When she came it was almost a surprise, and she couldn’t quite contain an embarrassing little grunt as her breath burst out of her. Her belly contracted and she nearly raised her fists to her mouth before she had the presence of mind to force them back into her lap. She felt herself dropping her face to her knees instead, legs shaking, Natalie slowly and carefully pushing her all the way to the end before that wicked hand finally withdrew.

Natalie popped her fingers in her mouth, a deceptively sweet little smile on her face. “Well,” she chuckled, meeting his eyes across her crouched body. “She is just a lovely little thing, isn’t she?”

“As sweet as they come,” he agreed.

Natalie stood and stretched, looking across the park to where her goofy retriever was bounding toward her, stick in his mouth. “Snickers and I should get going,” she said, “but any time you want to meet up for a playdate…”

“Oh, I think I know where to find you,” he said. Natalie grinned, and waved, and was gone.

“Oh my God,” she finally managed to say into her damp and wrinkled skirt.

“Shhhh,” he said, still rubbing the back of her neck. “You did so well, darling girl. Here, let me see your knee.”

She pushed herself up again, not yet steady, feeling as if her face must still be puffy and red from the exertion of… well, holding still. “Did you–was that–do you two–”

“Not something you need to worry about, princess,” he soothed. “Here. I told you if you were very brave you’d get a reward, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” she said, fighting to keep her voice in its normal register.

He leaned down, kissed her bandaged knee, and produced a tiny heart sticker from his pocket to stick next to it. “Such a good girl,” he said. “And only getting better.”



I was thinking about this earlier. It legitimately terrifies me and I want to say I don’t want to do this because it’s so frightening or too dangerous. I look at this and start to get a taste of the sort of things I would experience in this situation, a hint of that primal flight response, the struggling, the panic. And I get turned on. Of course I want to do this. It’s frightening and dangerous.

The interesting thing is that from the other side, it’s not about the fear, not about the danger—at least for me. You’re completely safe. There’s no way I’m going to let anything serious happen to you, no matter that you’re naked, bound and completely helpless. If you didn’t trust me, after all, there’s no way this scene would even have started.

The water and the ropes serve the same purpose: they constrain you, remove your options and your ability to choose what happens to your body. They reduce you to reactions. They make you an instrument, to be stimulated or denied, no matter how you fight. (They also make you wet.)

You can always go limp, when I make you fight me. You can always refuse to react, or at least muffle your reactions. Not when I drop you into the tub, though. The reason I put you in there is because I can make you panic. You’re back to a thrashing, panicked thing beneath me, your body struggling even though it will make you run out of oxygen faster.

In a moment I’ll haul you out, turn you over to cough, watch your chest and back heave with your frantic breathing. And then maybe I’ll play with you, in your dripping, helpless state, before I drop you in again. It’s a shortcut way to create a specific behavior. The struggle is what I want from you, and right now, it’s what you’re going to give me.




I blush just thinking about this. It’s the examining that gets to me, I think. The closeness, the intimacy, the inspection – the fact that this is a man merely looking at what he owns and doing with it as he sees fit. The fact that I damn well better sit still no matter what his fingertips do because he expects me to be good and let him explore.

So. Mean.

Every inch of you, smooth as velvet, groomed just as he instructed. Your pose picture perfect, legs apart for him, wrists crossed behind your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The slow, calm, methodical humiliation of your naked vulva.

He’s had to wipe you down several times, using the wadded wreck of your own panties to sop up your wetness as the heavy clamp stand keeps the Hitachi in place against you. There’s a dimmer switch on it, of course–you can’t decide whether that’s for kindness or cruelty–which he adjusts occasionally, always a microsecond before you think you’re about to go over the edge. Or lose it.

He likes to keep you here, almost delirious with need, where he can watch you pulse and throb under the gentle brush of his probing finger. It’s almost dissociative. It reminds you that the cunt in question just happens to be attached to you: his property in your helpless, trembling body, to be tested and explored at his leisure. To be subject to pleasure or punishment in precise increments. To come, or not to come, only when he decides as much.

Of course, realistically, you know this is the easy part. Eventually he’s going to get bored and spin that dimmer all the way up. He’s going to paddle that pussy with his hand until it splashes, as is his usual manner. And he’s going to wait for you to start begging, between squeals and gasps, for your orgasm.

Then he’s going to turn on the camera and make you repeat yourself.

You think you’re blushing now?


“But it’s just four days. And two of them are the weekend!”

“Not all of us get a summer break, college girl,” he said, smiling a little. “There are disadvantages to pursuing older men.”

She hated that, hated knowing it. It had been hard enough being away from him at school; their time together in these few months was precious, and thinking about spending it without him made her anxious, needy and fretful. Some part of her needed more than just his body, it needed the sense of trust they’d built, the certainty of his guiding hand. Without it, she could feel the old patterns creeping up: bad habits, sleepless nights, the dark fog and the worry of being unable to trust herself…

“But Andrea and Charlotte are going to be there!” She poked his leg with her toe. “Come on. All three of us in a beach house, running around in our bathing suits, drinking margaritas…” She worked her toe a little farther up his leg. “And you know how, um, flexible Andi gets when she’s drunk. That doesn’t tempt you?”

“You’re trying to persuade me to neglect my job by promising your friends’ impaired consent,” he said dryly.

“And tits,” she said.

“Go put on the bathing suit,” he said. “See if that affects my judgment.”

She came prancing back into the room in the stripy black and orange bikini, grinning, quite certain he wouldn’t be able to say no much longer. He leaned back on the couch and made a little stirring gesture with one finger, and she twirled for him, indulging herself in the thrill of it, the sure power her body could give her.

“Convincing,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d bought a halter top.”

She turned again and lifted the mass of her hair to show him the knot. “I saved up my allowance,” she teased him, just before she felt his hand grip the cord behind her neck.

“Do you know what a halter is?” he said quietly, his lips close to her ear.

Her body had gone still but trembling, responding to his shift in tone, the feel of his starched cotton shirt on her bare back. “It’s–it’s for horses.”

“It’s for animals. Animals who need to be led. Animals who need to be controlled.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not what I’m wearing,” she said, squirming a little impatiently as she let her hair drop.

It worked. He took the back of her bikini bottoms in his other fist and swung her easily to one side, making her yelp as the fabric cinched up against her crotch. She stumbled and caught herself with her hands against the top of the couch back, knees half-bent just at the edge of the cushion, her hair falling around her face.

“Stay,” he said.

She froze.

“Was it expensive?” he asked, running his thumb slowly down her spine and watching her skin prickle.

“They always are,” she said. “Sir.”

“So you wouldn’t want it to get stretched out–much less absolutely torn apart–by having me rip it off, wrap it around your head like a real halter, and use it to hold you in place while I fuck you out of your mind,” he said. “Would you.”

She bit her lip. There was absolutely no right answer.

He fished in his pocket and pulled something out. “I suppose it would be reparable, on a temporary basis.” The tiny sound of metal being pinched, then released. He slid his hand familiarly inside the left cup, pushing it out of the way and letting her soft breast spill out. “Do you think–if I tore it–we could fix it with this?”

The point of the safety pin dragged a little circle around her areola, and she gasped as she felt her skin contract against it–then held her breath, barely daring to breathe. He didn’t break her skin at all. He was far too careful. But she could feel the little scraping sharpness of it tracing around her, angled to make her prickle but not bleed.

Two circles, and then over the inner slope of her breast before he started drawing a thin line down her trembling skin to her belly. “You’re a sensitive beast,” he murmured, as goosebumps followed his hand. “Not one used to burdens. A soft one, and one prone to arching and mewling. A kitten? But kittens don’t take so well to the halter… and they certainly don’t take orders.” He brought his knee between her legs and pushed up, putting a little of her weight onto the shifting muscle of his thigh. “For instance, if I said: grind.”

“Y-yes,” she managed, and tried to move her hips without flexing her abdomen against the warning point of the pin. It was fucking hard. He was teaching her a lesson, she realized: she’d forced him to react with her body, and now he was forcing her body to react to the smallest possible point of pressure. She was swollen and throbbing, wet against the pressure as she started to soak through the flimsy scrap of fabric.

“This is what my good girl does,” he whispered to her, and the catch in his voice made it clear that he wasn’t as self-possessed as he wanted to sound. “Do you want to be my good girl even while you’re away?”


He pulled his knee away and tugged the fabric aside to expose her, and then the sharp little pin was there, pressing its flat against her trembling clit. She couldn’t contain a cry of something, fear and lust and sheer pounding abandon–

He took it away. “Don’t,” he said, “move.”

She didn’t.

When he returned he had something in his hand, a soft silver cord that he fastened around her neck; she felt a small metal shape bump against her throat. “There are eight cards in here,” he said as he clasped it, “and each morning and each night you’re away, you’ll find a moment to yourself and draw one out. You’ll obey it, and you’ll think of me, and that’s how I’ll be with you: my hand will be your hand on your body, your mirror will be my eyes. You’ll like that, won’t you, my little animal, my little girl?”

Something in her relaxed, finally, and she sagged back against him. His hand. His eyes. His sharpness, keeping her aware of every nerve in her skin.

“Of course,” she said.

He let her keep the pin too.


It started as a harmless game, when they were girls: bet I can hold an ice cube longer than you. Bet you you’re more ticklish. Bet you I give a better back rub. Bet I’m a better kisser.

As they got older, it became a more serious rivalry–and more focused on their growing awareness of their bodies. Bet you I can win at strip poker. Bet I can pin you down. Bet you can’t keep quiet. Bet I can make you wet.

They only see each other over the summer and on breaks, now, but she braces herself every time, a mixture of pride, fear and burning anticipation. She’s not going to lose this year. There are more consequences at stake than just a momentary triumph. Whoever loses the stakes loses the day: she’ll have to do whatever her best friend says, anything her best friend says, until the next morning.

It’s how she lost her last two boyfriends. It’s how she got that belly button ring. It’s how she got that speeding ticket, and those rope burns, and that constant nagging need.

They don’t have to say the wager aloud anymore. It’s always the same. One of them stares at the other across the room, cold challenge in her flushed face, and starts to undress. The other hastens to catch up. They slide onto the bed, bodies just barely touching, not showing a sign of weakness even though they tremble every time.

Bet you come first.

It’s hard to want to win.