By the time I paid and picked up my laminated student ID I was exhausted. I hadn't slept well the night before. I've suffered from insomnia most of my life, aggravated by the need to be alert to a call in the night from my mother or father for so many years. I'd managed to doze fitfully for a few hours before dawn, but I hadn't gotten any real rest. If I waited to buy my text books till classes began, or even till tomorrow, there was a chance I wouldn't get what I needed.

The college bookstore was on the other side of the campus. I trudged toward the walkway, debating whether or not I had enough energy to walk there when I would then have to walk back the way I'd come to return home.

The parking lot was almost empty, only a couple of dozen widely scattered cars were left. There was a small, meticulously maintained forest green Jaguar parked at the curb in front of the steps, and I admired it as I approached. The driver was half turned toward the passenger side, attending to something on the seat, but I recognized the back--Professor Thomas Landley.

He must have heard my feet crunching on the gravel because he looked around. I read recognition in the slight downward turn of his mouth. *I'm not thrilled and overjoyed to see you either*, I thought. I was a little surprised when he got out of the car and waited for me to approach. I could tell he was waiting for some form of acknowledgment or greeting. Instead I let my eyes slide past him as I swerved around the car.

"Excuse me!" The tone of voice didn't go with the polite semantics of the words. It wasn't an inquiry, it was a demand for attention.

I stopped and looked at him across the car. I made my voice syrupy polite. "Yes?"

"You're in two of my classes."

"I know that."

"I was just wondering if you knew what you were getting into. I have very high standards for my students. You might be better off with a more lenient professor."

"Maybe so. All things are possible, but there weren't any other openings, so I guess we're stuck with each other." I waited a beat. "Who are you, anyway?"

He scowled in obvious disbelief of my ignorance. "I'm Professor Thomas Langely."

"Oh, THE Professor Thomas Langley. Well, Professor, I'm afraid I'm not hooked into the college grapevine. I didn't have anyone to tell me what instructors to avoid."

"You're not earning any points here."

"I wasn't aware anyone was keeping score. Look, from what little I heard back there you pride yourself on your ability to teach. If that's the case you aren't going to let a little personality clash influence how you grade. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go fight for some textbooks."

"The bookstore is a long way off. Where's your car?"

Was it any of this man's business? "At home."

"And you're going to try to walk all that way with your limp?" He indicated my right foot. The ankle was swollen, puffy and tender. I'd need to soak it when I got home. "Not very sensible."

"Unless you can teach me how to fly real quick, that's how it has to be."

"I'll drive you over." He opened his door.

I leaned back a little in surprise. "Don't insult me!" I snapped.

His frown deepened. "What are you on about?"

"You just called me stupid." He gave me a disbelieving stare. "You indicated that I was dumb enough to get into a car with a man I'd just met."

"It's broad daylight and a half dozen people saw us talking. You're infinitely safer with me than you would be walking cross-campus, now that it's getting dark. What would be stupid would be to turn down a safe ride when you obviously could use some help, just because you find the company less than congenial."

I couldn't argue with that. Campus security tried, but there were occasional muggings, and one girl had been raped when she was practicing in a music room late at night.

"Come on, I don't have all night." He got in and closed his door, calling. "It's unlocked." I was tempted to keep walking, but my aching feet won out and I got in. I'd hardly shut the door when the engine revved to life and he took off, spraying gravel.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he drove. The leather interior of the car almost matched the brown-gold of his hair. He didn't speak, and I certainly didn't feel obligated to make conversation. He was the most consistently rude man I'd ever met. Langely was an aggressive driver, but not too reckless. When we were halfway there he said abruptly. "What's your name?"

It was on the tip of my tongue to say 'Puddin' and Tame, ask me again and I'll tell you the same.' "Emily Benoit." I could be just as terse as he.

"You're a little old for a freshman. How old are you?"

The man's lack of tact was stunning in it's magnitude. "Tell me, do you get slapped very often?"

We'd stopped at a light, and he looked over at me. He seemed more startled than I would have thought the comment deserved. "What do you mean?"

"That's the classic rude question--asking a woman her age. I don't mind telling, because I'm proud I survived every one of those years but it's still as rude as hell. I'm forty-two."

Again there was that quick, assessing look. The light changed, and he pulled out. "You don't look that old." Talk about backhand compliments.

When we pulled into the campus bookstore lot I could see customers milling behind the windows. This wasn't going to be any more pleasant than registration. We'd stopped with a jerk, and the papers I'd set on the seat beside me slid off onto the floor. I stifled a swear and bent down to get them. I'd left the top button of my shirt undone, as usual. As I bent over, the second one slipped out of the button hole, and the front of my blouse gaped at the top.

Nothing more was exposed than what could be seen every day at the swimming pool, or even in some of the more liberal classes. I'd worn my bra, of course. It was sturdy, but the white nylon was satiny, and there was a tiny, pert red bow between the cups. I kind of liked that bow. I take a 44D, most of it unfortunately in broad back and deep chest. I don't tan, and the tops of my breasts were almost as white as the nylon that encased them.

I sat back up, pulling the edges together, trying to button it with one hand, then I noticed that Langely was watching me. His gaze was, for the first time, interested. I realized that he'd had a clear look down my cleavage. I shoved the buttons home, pretending that I hadn't noticed, and got out without saying thank you.

As I started toward the store, I heard him say, probably to himself, "This may be an interesting year after all."

Chapter Three: Classes Begin

I managed to get the books I needed. I'm ashamed to say that I got my Elemental English text by tripping another freshman before he could get to it, but all's fair in love, war, and academics. The Help a Gimp program got me a part time job in the library, which I adored. I've always loved books, and to actually be paid to handle them was a dream come true.

I'd managed to put together an easily managed schedule. English and Literature were Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, Number Theory and Poetry Workshop were Tuesday and Thursday evenings, four to ten. I worked eight hours Saturday and Sunday each. With my small income and what was left of my assistance allotment, I managed without too much strain, though there wasn't a lot of cash for extras.

I've never been much of a morning person. At seven o' clock that first Monday, I was huddled in my seat halfway down the aisle in Elemental English, reflecting that perhaps I hadn't learned as much as I'd thought my first go round in college if I was dumb enough to take a crack of dawn class. Langely strode in five minutes before the bell rang, dressed in a natty charcoal grey suit with a shirt that almost matched his eyes and a silvery tie.

Without a word or look at the class, he began to chalk his name, and the class title on the board. He used the full name and title, Professor Thomas Langely. The bell rang, and he turned to the class, putting down the chalk. He said briskly. "This is Elemental English 101. If you're looking for anything else, you're in the wrong room. My name is Professor Thomas Langely. You will refer to me as Professor Langely. Not Mr. Langely, not Professor." A straggler came in, and he said sharply. "You will be on time. If you are tardy, you will be counted absent. More than three unexcused absences will result in a failing grade. While in this class, you will be silent except for answering or asking questions, or mandatory class discussions. All material and assignments not turned in on time will automatically be lowered one grade for each day late. Abide by these rules and give me one hundred percent of your ability, and you'll get a grade that will mean something. I don't care how much other instructors may simplify their curriculum, this is not a gut course the way I teach it."

He opened his briefcase and removed an attendance book, opening it. "You will take your seats in alphabetical order." He looked at the page. "Benoit, Emily." He pronounced it Bee-note.

Bastard, I thought, as I gathered up my books. I told you my name. As I went to the front, I said, "That's Ben-wah, Professor Lang-lay."

He stiffened slightly, and called, "Bergan, Allen. Billings, Loraine..."

I sat in the front desk, only a few feet away from where he stood. When he had us seated to his satisfaction, we were informed that if we sat in another seat, it would count as an absence. Roll would be checked by the seating chart, so that no one could answer and cover for an absent friend.

Langely picked up a thick pile of pages stapled together in thin sheaves, and handed them to me. "This is the course syllabus. Pass it back." There were groans as the papers were distributed. Langely had laid out a heavy course. "In the highly unlikely event that I cannot teach a class, that does not mean that you have a free period. I will expect you to spend the time in the library. I've provided them with a sign in and out sheet." There were general groans, and Langely said, "Anyone who can't handle this is advised to drop right now, and not waste my time, or your own. This is college, people, not grade school."

"Really?" I murmured. "I thought perhaps it was Paris Island."

He'd been turning away to get his text book, and he snapped back around, eyes probing for whoever had made the remark. The class was silent, except for a nervous, half smothered giggle from someone in the back. I gazed back at him in wide eyed innocense. He couldn't prove who'd said it. His reluctance was clear, but he let it go.

"We'll start with a quiz to judge how much you already know." I just knew he was relishing the groans that went up at this declaration. I shook my head as I uncapped my pen. It was going to be a long semester.

The test seemed pathetically simple to me. Reading paragraphs, then answering questions about them. Stating the difference between a noun, a verb, and an adjective. Bonus point if we could explain an adverb. Conjugating a series of verbs. All around me there were stifled grunts of concentration or dismay, and the furious squeak of erasers. I finished quickly and sat back, arms folded and eyelids at half mast, waiting for Langely to call time.

He was writing something at his desk, glancing up now and then. When he noticed that I was sitting still, he looked displeased. He pointed silently at my paper, then motioned for me to bring it up. I did so.

As I stood beside him, he said, "You should use all the time available. If you aren't sure about an answer, at least try. I might give partial credit for a good effort, this time."

"Well, I'll tell you, Professor Lang-lay. I tried my best, but I just couldn't make that thing last the entire time."

"Give me that."

He took my paper and uncapped a red felt tip pen, staring at me in a 'now you're gonna get it' manner. He began to go down the page, touching the nib to the paper at each answer. As he read, his pen moved more and more slowly. Dot, dot, dot. At last he laid the page down. The only red marks on it were the spots he'd used to tick off each answer. He looked at me again. I didn't say anything, I didn't smile. I just raised my eyebrows a fraction. He angrily slashed a big red 100 at the top of the page.

I said, "Shouldn't that be 101? I believe I got the bonus point."

For a moment he just stared at me. Then he drew a line through the second 0, converting it to a 1. His pen almost ripped through the page. He motioned me to go back to my seat.

Score. At least, that's how it must have seemed to the rest of the class. When the bell rang, several of them paused to introduce themselves. I could take the time, since my lit class was just next door, and I didn't need to be flying across campus.

Langely, briefcase in hand, paused as he passed the little knot of people gathered around my desk. "Nice performance, Benoit." There wasn't anything really complimentary in his tone, and you could sense he wasn't referring just to my test score. He gave the small assembly of student's a tight, cold smile. "Guess they'll be able to thank you if the grading curve is ruined." He strode away.

"That SOB!" said little Loraine Billings. "He's trying to get us mad at you!"

"He must be," agreed a boy with a Moe Fine, soup bowl haircut. "Langely doesn't grade on a curve, never. I know because my brother had him last year, and my sister had him the year before. The classes begged him, both times. His response was 'Tough shit'." I looked at him skeptically, and he shrugged. "Or words to that effect."

"I'm glad to hear that's the case. 'Cause I'm sorry, kids, but I'm not going to pull back on this course. I have to keep my grade point up to keep getting my assistance, and I need to kick some butt where I can in case I hit a tough course. But if any of you need any help, maybe with tutoring or advice, I'm happy to oblige." I knew from listening to conversations during registration that peer tutoring was heavy on campus. Sometimes it was paid for, sometimes it was mutual, students swapping help in the subjects they knew best. I hadn't even been to Numbers Theory yet, but I knew I was going to need a tutor.

Children's Literature looked like it was going to be a fun class, but, again, a busy one. We were expected to read and summarize at least a hundred children's and young adults books by the end of the semester, along with storytelling and craft projects. I began to be glad that I was only working part time.

I was through with classes by noon, and decided to go to the cafeteria in the student center, rather than walking home to fix lunch. Now that both my parents were gone, I found myself feeling lonely. I was used to having someone else in the apartment. I'd insisted that the new owners allow me to keep my two cats, and they helped. But there just wasn't much opportunity for conversation.

There was a good selection of food, everything from salads and burgers to a set plate lunch. I had skipped breakfast. I hadn't eaten breakfast on a regular basis since my mother had stopped fixing it for me, back when I was in junior high. I just wasn't capable of the effort that early in the morning. Now I was starved.

I got a cheeseburger from the grill, and an order of french fries. I added a soda and a chunk of sinful looking chocolate cake, paid for my food, and made my way into the noisy, crowded eating area. I stopped at the entrance, surveying the scene doubtfully. There didn't seem to be an unoccupied table anywhere, not even a dirty one.

Then a table of students from my EE class, near one walls, spotted me, and waved me over. I was pleased. Even back in grade school, I hadn't always had someone to sit with at lunch.

There were four of them, including Loraine Bergan and the boy with the Three Stooges haircut, who turned out to be named Larry ("I know," he grinned. "Wrong 'do. But I hate perms, so it was this or get a Curly Cueball."). They made room for me at the tabletop, helping me unload my tray.

Larry looked past me and said, "Hey, Professor Langely. Mind if we borrow one of your chairs?"

I turned to see Langely sitting at a two person table against a pillar off to the side. He had the lunch special on the table before him, a newspaper in one hand, and a fork in the other. He was wearing a pair of wire rimmed reading glasses, the half lens type that always made me think of accountants in green eye shades and sleeve garters, sitting on tall stools. Instead of looking ridiculous, they went well with his grim good looks.

He looked at Larry, looked at me, then pushed the chair out with his foot, shook his paper, and went back to reading. Ever gracious. Larry, in a fit of chivalry he'd probably never expressed to anyone under fifty, got the chair and held it for me, as ceremoniously as an Edwardian footman seating a duchess.

I was the only female at the table who wasn't nibbling rabbit food and sipping mineral water or diet soda. When Tibbie Nelson, a blonde perhaps one step up from anorexic, lamented not being able to lose that last half pound, I magnanimously refrained from strangling her with my purse strap. Instead, I ate my lunch with good appetite, and we got acquainted.

They were more interested in me than I would have imagined. It seemed that I was something of a novelty. There were almost no students over thirty enrolled. Wonderful, I thought, squirting ketchup on my fries. They're casting me as den mother already. I talked about my history, and my plans for the future, telling them more about myself than I'd told anyone outside of Mrs. Kaplan.

I finished my cake, mashing the crumbs with my fork to get them all. I noticed a smear of chocolate icing on one finger. Miss Manners be damned, I was not going to lose a perfectly good taste of chocolate. I licked my finger clean, and was startled by the sudden screech of a chair being shoved back from a table with considerable force.

Langely was getting up. He shoved the chair back in with the same vehemence tossing the paper on the table. He removed his glasses with one hand and jammed them into his breast pocket, then strode off.

Larry released a gusty breath. "Whew! Glad he's gone. Emmie, did you two kill each other in a past life or something? He was giving you the hairy eyeball the entire time you were eating."

"I don't know what his problem is. Scratch that. He has so many problems that I can't single out just one that would explain it."

"Well, maybe you ought to kiss up, just a little. For your grade's sake."

I shook my head. "He'd loath a kiss up."

"How do you know that?"

"ESP."

"She's right," volunteered Loraine. "He shoots down any attempts to get close to him. You know, last year a girl I know made the mistake of trying to seduce him."

"What was she, a masochist?" I asked.

"No, she was one of those kids who's never had to work for anything. You know, kept a B average by bull shitting the female teachers and flirting with the males. Then she got to college and tried the same thing here. It worked pretty well till she tried it on Langely. He was as responsive as a pumpkin. When she found out she was getting a failing grade, the stupid bimbo tried to bribe him by offering a blowjob in his office. When he got up, she thought he was going to lock the door. Instead he went out, got the Dean of Students, and turned her in. She was suspended."

"There must be something wrong with him," declared the second boy. "It's not natural to turn down head." This statement was met with general agreement.

I was tired, but in good spirits, when I got home. The good spirits vanished when I opened the mail. My quarterly statement from my investment firm showed earnings far below the modest amount I had been expecting. If I didn't get some extra income soon, I was going to be in serious financial trouble.

What could I do? If I earned too much, my grant would be forfeited. Besides, I really didn't want to work more hours, at least not until I knew for sure I was going to be able to handle my course load without my grades suffering. I found the answer in the Student Daily, a tiny campus produced paper that listed events and ran classified ads. The ads offered used text books, guitars, second hand autos, and tutorial services. There was also a 'roommates Wanted' section.

That was the solution. I had a two bedroom apartment, and the extra space was just going to waste. Besides, it would be nice to have someone else around. If they turned out to be the roommate from hell, I wouldn't have any trouble replacing them. Space near the collage was at a premium.

I dialed the number given, and asked to submit the ad. I was informed that it would be ten dollars for ten words. I could give them the copy over the phone, then bring in the payment. I gave them the address, and was trying to word my message as efficiently as possible when the clerk said, "Say, are you offering this right away?"

"Sure, I don't see why not."

"Maybe I can save you ten bucks, and do a friend a favor. I know someone who needs a place close by, fast."

"Send them on over, and we'll see. If it doesn't work out, I'll call back."

"Great! Won't be but a few minutes."

I did a fast run through the apartment, picking up a few things and spraying freshener over the cats' litter box. I shut the cats, yelling in protest, in the bathroom as the doorbell rang.

I opened the door, and found myself eye to chest with a very tall young man. I craned my head up and found myself looking at a GQ model who had somehow escaped the glossy magazine cover. He gave me an open smile, hazel eyes bright and friendly. When he spoke, his accent was richly Teutonic, reminding me of every 'Ve haf vays uf making you talk, ja?" scene I'd ever seen. "Good afternoon, Miss Benoit? I am Kurt Bremin. You spoke with my friend at the newspaper. You have a room?"

"Oh. But... I wasn't expecting anyone so... so..."

He cocked his head. "So?"

"So male." I finished lamely.

He looked anxious. "Would this be a problem? Your landlord wouldn't allow?"

"My landlord doesn't have any say in this."

"Please consider, Miss Benoit. At least talk to me? I really need a place to stay."

I hesitated, but he looked so hopeful. It wouldn't hurt to at least find out a little about him, I decided. I could always say no. "Come on in."

He entered, brushing past me. Damn, this was a big man. He had to be at least 6'4", And there was around 220 pounds of sheer muscle and sinew packed on that frame. He was wearing a thin, sleeveless black T-shirt and a pair of painted on, washed out blue jeans. He was sleekly muscled, without the surreal proportions some bodybuilders get.

He had the most beautiful hair I've ever seen on a man, or a woman, for that matter. It was a heavy, wavy black mass that fell well past his shoulders, and he occasionally had to brush a strand out of his face and tuck it back behind his ear. His skin was pale, but not with the unhealthy pallor of someone who never sees the sun. In contrast, there was a faint, dark stubble of beard just sprouting on his jaw. I learned later that the term 'five o' clock shadow' was not just figurative where he was concerned.

I took him in the kitchen and offered tea or soda. He accepted a Dr. Pepper. When he opened it there was the familiar metallic click of a pop top being opened. The cat's in the bathroom, ever alert to kitchen noises, began howling again. His face lit up. "You have kitties?"

"Two. Would that be a problem?"

"No! Not at all. In fact... I was hoping I could bring one. I volunteer at the animal shelter, and they have the nicest little kitten there. He's the only one left of his litter, and they're going to put him down if he doesn't get a home soon."

A man who liked cats. At his urging, I let my beasts out. They surprised me by making a beeline for our visitor, and flirting shamelessly. He responded with gentle words and caresses. His stock went up in my eyes.

"Tell me about yourself, Kurt. Tell me anything that might be significant, if you're going to live here."

"All right." He sipped his drink and started. He was an amazingly candid person, not at all secretive about his personal life.

"I'm twenty one. My family immigrated from Germany four years ago. My parents live in Dallas. I'm a drama major, and I'll be moving to New York when I graduate. I don't smoke, don't do drugs, don't drink much. But I am German, and I need my beer."

"No problem, as long as you don't let it make you stupid or destructive."

"I don't have a steady girlfriend right now, but I'm not a monk. Would I be able to bring friends here?"

"As long as you don't expect me to vacate so you can be alone with them. You'll have your room for that. And as long as it doesn't involve kids, critters, or the dearly departed, I don't mind."

"That was the next question. I'm bi." He looked for my reaction.

I shrugged. "Gives you better odds on finding a date on weekends."

He smiled. Kurt smiled a lot. "Then it wouldn't bother you if my guests and I..." He hesitated.

I said, "Go on and tell me. It's better I know right away. I might resent it if you tried to sneak something past on me."

"Oh, it's not like that. I'm not ashamed of my appetites. It's just that they're not... mainstream."

"Less mainstream than being bisexual?"

"I'm a Dom. Do you know what that is?"

I frowned. "You mean like Marlon Brando in The Godfather?"

"No, no. Dom, not don. A Dominant."

Came the dawn. "Yes, Kurt. I read books. That's the controlling partner in bondage and discipline, or S and M, right? Though I don't believe I've ever actually run into someone who was into that."

"Don't be too sure. Not everyone is open about it. Anyway, I'm not into the more extreme end. It's mostly role playing, some bondage and discipline, perhaps a little spanking now and then."

I was fascinated. I'd never met anyone who was so up front about their sexuality, and I could tell that he wasn't doing it simply to shock me. "If you don't mind my saying so, Kurt. It's kind of hard to picture you 'forcing', and notice I put that in quotation marks, someone else. You just seem too... nice."

He put down the soda, stood up, and walked around to my side of the table. He towered over me. Reaching down, he planted his hands on the chair back, trapping me between his arms, and leaned down till his face was close to mine. I leaned back, startled into immobility.

His eyes were no longer friendly, they were molten gold, boring into my own. He slowly licked his lips, and I felt a deep, unexpected shiver. His voice lashed me, low and rough, like someone stroking my bare skin with a towel. "You think I'm too nice? Oh, I can be very nice." He gave the word a twisting emphasis. "I could make you scream, for all kinds of reasons."

My breath started to get short. Then he stepped back with a sheepish shrug, the dangerous expression gone. "It's acting, you know? I'm good at it." It wasn't bragging. It was a simple statement of undeniable fact.

"Yes, you are." I wanted to fan myself, but resisted the urge. "So far, I don't see any problems. We could try it out for awhile. If it doesn't work, you'll at least have a chance to find somewhere else. Want to see the room?"

He was enthusiastic about the room, happy to share the bathroom and kitchen. He promised to contribute to the groceries as well as paying rent, and cook for us occasionally. "My father runs a restaurant. I make strudel to die for."

He was getting ready to go collect his things, when he stopped at the door, his face darkening. He seemed to be arguing with himself, then said reluctantly, "There's one more thing you should know. If you don't want me after you learn this, no hard feelings. I'll understand."

"What is it?"

"It's how I've been supporting myself."

I felt my heart sink. "Tell me you don't deal drugs."

He looked mildly offended. "I told you, no drugs."

"Are you hooking?" That seemed like a possibility, given his free attitudes about sex in general. I liked him already, but I couldn't have him turning tricks around my place.

"Hooking?" He looked puzzled, then his expression cleared. "Oh, prostitution. No, no, not that. I'm starring in videos. About two a month."

"Videos? What would be the problem with... Oh. Oh, those kind of videos."

"Yes. Would you mind?"

"No. It's your business, not mine. Just don't throw any cast parties without asking first, okay?"

Again the sunny grin. "Okay. You are one cold lady."

"Cold?"

"Um, wrong word. I still haven't got the American slang. That would be... frigid?"

"No, I don't think so." I knew where he was going now, and was tickled. "Could you mean 'cool'?"

"Yes! Cool. And I can bring the cat?"

"Happy to have him. My brats can use some company."

And that was how I got my roommate. I reflected that it was just as well that Mom and Dad had passed on, because this would have most certainly killed them.

Chapter Four: Student Relations

Kurt moved in that evening. He arrived with boxes, bags, and a squirming kitten tucked under one big arm. Mika was a dark grey tabby, barely old enough to leave his mother. Kurt introduced us. Holding him up to me, he said, "Mika, this is Miss Emily, our new friend. You be good, so she doesn't want to kick us out." Mika regarded me calmly with large, golden eyes, completely rimmed with pale gray fur. It looked like someone had put eye shadow on him.

"Kurt, he has your eyes. The truth comes out, you're rescuing your illegitimate son. He is a son?" I peeked rudely between the tiny, dangling legs, up under the tail, and there wasn't anything there.

"The vet says so. He has a willie, but no balls yet. Still haven't descended. Reminds me of a fellow I did a video with once. He billed himself as 'No Nuts Nick'. Comic relief."

I was worried at first that Puddin' and Princess might bully him, but that notion was quashed quickly. They sniffed him thoroughly, then double teamed him for a thorough washing, their thwarted mother instinct taking over. Kurt and I laughed ourselves sick watching the tiny bundle of damp fur staggering and tripping under the determined licking. "He's your boy, all right. Has females crawling all over him already. When those dangles do show up, you have to have them nipped."

Kurt sighed. "Yes. I had to agree to that when I adopted him. I hate to do it, though," he complained.

"He'll be healthier," I argued. "And the girls are fixed, too, so it's not like he'll have the opportunity to get any."

"It's just that I'm so fond of my own balls. I'd hate to have to lose them..."

"Yeah, but that won't be an issue unless you start shredding my drapes and peeing on my furniture."

"I don't get that drunk." He took a swallow of one of the dark, thick looking beers he'd brought along. ("No, I won't clutter up your refrigerator. I drink them room temperature, like in the fatherland.")

He'd quickly stored away most of his things, and we were already feeling at home together. All that was left was a good sized cardboard box that was packed with videotapes. I had a spacious cabinet under my television that held my own meager collection. I pointed at it. "Do you want to put those in the cabinet?"

He pulled the box up onto the couch between us. "I was going to store them in my closet."

"It's pretty crowded in there already."

"Well, if you wouldn't mind."

"Why should I mind?"

"These are my work tapes."

I looked in the box. It all looked pretty bland. They were all in plain paper jackets. "All... um..."

"Pornography." He picked Mika off his pants' leg and set him on the floor, giving him a gentle swat on the butt to make him scurry away. "I get a copy of each one. You know, like authors get copies of their books. I always have something to watch, and I can study my technique. Refine it."

"Is it okay if I look through these?"

"Of course. I have the other box under my bed. There's... oh, I don't know. A hundred, a hundred and ten or so."

Jesus please us, I thought. But he'd been doing this since he was eighteen, on a regular basis. I began to sort through the tapes.

They were all neatly labeled. Necessary Roughness, Pricking Peter's Pride, The Ties that Bind ("Incest," he explained), Tender Flesh. Kurt reached in and rummaged around. "Here's my first one, The Young Master. I did it the day after my eighteenth birthday." He moved a few more. "They like to do them like popular movies, yes? Here... Educating Rina, White Men Can Pump." He groaned. "The titles! As if the cover art weren't enough to let the customer know what they were. Here's an obvious one. Tittanic."

I burst out laughing, and he gave me a questioning glance. "I'm sorry, I just had an image of you dragging Leonardo DiCapprio into that motorcar below deck and shagging his skinny butt."

Kurt answered my laughter. "I don't know which I'd rather have fucked: him, Rose, or Billy Zane. For Billy..." he sighed. "For Billy, I'd be bottom, any time."

"You really are equal opportunity sexy, aren't you?"

He gave me a parody of a seductive smile and suggestively licked the neck of his bottle, before sucking in a mouthful of beer. "It's all good, Emmie." We'd gotten to first names very quickly. "As long as I like someone, it's all good."

He zeroed in on one tape, extracting it from the box. "Double Team. This is good. I'm a baseball player in it, a very good one. And there are twins, brother and sister, who each own teams, and they both want to sign me up. I've run into a few sister teams in the industry, but this was the only brother-sister couple I've ever met. I don't think they were really twins, though. That was just their publicity. There was one or two years age difference. They do all sorts of naughty things to get me. At the end, I fuck them both. Good locker room scene, too." He turned the tape over in his hands. "Could I watch this?"

"Are you going to complain if I watch gory, head rolling, gut splattering horror movies?"

"No."

"Then go ahead." I started to get up.

"You don't have to go. Why don't you stay and watch it with me?" He shifted the box back to the floor, then got up and went to the television, turning it on.

"It wouldn't embarrass you to have me here?"

He popped the tape into the machine and pressed play, shaking his head. "For someone so tolerant, you're pretty naive. I fuck men and women on tape for a living, Emmie. Why should I be embarrassed if you watch?"

To be honest, I was curious. I'd rented a couple of 'adult' tapes before, but they were only hard R. The zoning restrictions in the area didn't allow X rated rentals, and I wasn't about to shell out the kind of cash it took to purchase the tapes.

I could tell the production values were pretty good, for a porn movie. The editing of the credits was smooth, the music was only slightly cheesy, Velveeta instead of Limburger, and the sound was clear. The first cast name on screen was 'MASTER BREMIN'. I pointed. "That's you?" He flexed his muscles, mock scowling.

I settled in to watch. There was actual character development. A love-hate competitive relationship was shown between the brother and sister. And I'll be damned if they didn't actually screw, doing a very enthusiastic shag on an office desk. I was more astonished than offended by the fact that I was watching literal, and not just cinematic, incest. They were both of age, no one was being forced, so I suppose that's why I didn't find it particularly offensive. I didn't find it particularly stimulating, though, either.

Kurt looked yummy in his tight baseball uniform. I'd noticed before that those clinging uniforms seemed to accentuate the players' crotches. Kurt looked like he had at least two rolled up pairs of socks stuffed in his jock strap. But when the jock came off in the locker room, everything inside it proved to be nature's bounty. Kurt went into the shower on the tape, and washed himself slowly and sensually.

The water sheeted on his body. He was completely smooth except for a short, wiry patch at his groin. He told me later that he waxed regularly, part of his professional regime. He even deducted the sessions as business expenses when he did his taxes.

I could tell what was coming when the second man joined him under the spray. They joked around, then started playing grab ass, like guys do sometimes. Kurt was a lot bigger than the other guy. He pinned one of the other man's arms behind him, and pushed him up against the tiled shower wall.

The second actor squirmed and laughed, even when Kurt bent down and started kissing him on the neck. But when Kurt's soap lathered fingers reached around and encompassed his cock, the man stopped laughing and started protesting.

Kurt, the on screen ballplayer, ignored his complaints, jerking him off. After a little while, the guy quieted down and began to pump into Kurt's fist. He started protesting again when Kurt abandoned his task, reached back between their bodies, and began to pry his butt cheeks apart.

Again he was ignored. Controlling him with one hand (and I really believed he was capable of this, the dude looked so strong), Kurt got a bottle of hair conditioner off a ledge, squeezed some out onto his mammoth, straining erection, and rammed it home. The poor sodomizee screamed like it had been a red hot railroad spike driven up his rectum. But as Kurt pushed against him, he began to buck back against the invading probe.

I couldn't stop staring, fascinated. If that guy wasn't actually getting off on being reamed out, he deserved the damn Oscar. I jumped when Kurt spoke, his voice anxious, "That really didn't hurt him that much. We needed that kind of reaction for the scene."

"It's pretty damn effective."

"I just wanted to be sure you understood, and didn't think badly of me. I'm always very careful with my submissives."

"I believe you." I did. Despite the momentary thrill of danger I'd felt earlier in the kitchen, I knew that Kurt was really more of a pussycat than little Mika.

On screen positions had changed, and now the second ballplayer was on his knees, eagerly suckling at Kurt's crotch. He'd been won over pretty quickly.

"Miss Emmie?"

"Huh?" Kurt had his hands in the man's wet hair, jerking his head back and forth.

"Miss Emmie, I need to relieve myself."

"You know where the toilet is," I said absently. Now Kurt was having his balls licked. He seemed to like that. It was a surreal sensation, watching someone I knew screwing their brains out on screen.

"It's more comfortable here. Can't I do it here?"

"Kurt, I told you about peeing on the furniture. I don't want you denutted, but..."

"Not that, silly. I need to jerk off."

That got my attention. My head jerked toward him, and I reflexively looked at his fly. There was a huge bulge along the inside of his left thigh. Forget socks, this looked like he was carrying a flashlight in there. He'd changed into shorts, and I saw a tiny rim of pink flesh peeping from under the hem. My entire body, respiration, circulation, thought, seemed to seize up at once.

"Sure, sorry. Silly me. I'll just go to my room now..."

His hand on my arm almost made me scream. "Oh, don't do that! It won't bother you, will it?"

I stared at him in astonishment. But his gaze was open, almost childishly frank. He trusted me not to be offended by what he saw as a purely natural urge acted upon.

"But Kurt... isn't that something you'd rather do in private?"

"I told you. I fuck people in front of other people for a living. I like being watched. It gets me even hotter." He stroked my arm. My skin crawled, but it was in a most pleasant manner. "I like you. I'd like you to watch me come. Pretty please?"

"I can't..." I cleared my throat. "You can't... touch me, Kurt. And I won't touch you."

WhatamIdoingwhatamIdoingwhatamIdoing?

He sat back. "That's all right. Just watch." He took the remote, and shut off the tv. The room was suddenly very quiet. "And maybe we could talk to each other a little, yes?" He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

"I don't know how good I'd be at this."

"You never know until you try. Wait here a second." He went to the bathroom and was back a moment later with two towels and a bottle of baby oil. He spread one towel on the couch, and sat on it. "I hope you don't mind, but I locked the babies in the bathroom. I wouldn't feel safe with my cock and balls dangling with Mika about." I winced sympathetically at the image he'd conjured up.

Then he reached over and touched my cheek gently, questioningly. "You're sure? You should be sure, if this is the first time you've done something like this."

"I'm okay."

"Good. I was hoping you would be." He popped the snap on his shorts and pulled the zipper down slowly. He wasn't wearing any underwear. I saw a tidy bush of very dark pubic hair. He lifted his ass off the couch and slid the shorts down his legs, kicking them aside. Then he sighed and spread his legs slightly, as if relishing the feel of air on his no longer confined penis.

Friends... words have never failed me, but if ever there was a sight to induce speechlessness... I wasn’t entirely ignorant of male anatomy. I'd changed babies. I'd looked at statues, even a few quick peeks at a Playgirl centerfold at the corner store. And I'd seen Kurt on tape. But it was nothing to compare with Kurt in the flesh. And oh, there was a lot of flesh there.

Freed from it's imprisonment, it... Would hovered be a good word? I'm guessing it was a good eight inches long or more, and he wasn't fully erect yet. Kurt gave it an almost friendly tap, which set it bobbing, and reached for the baby oil.

"The oil makes it better. You can chafe yourself it you get too enthusiastic," he explained. He dribbled some of the clear fluid into his palm, then rubbed his hands together, working the oil all over them. He examined them critically. Unsatisfied, he used a little more oil, then nodded his approval.

He rubbed his hands over his chest and said conversationally, "I like to start like this. Women aren't the only one's who want foreplay, you know?" His pale skin began to glisten in the lamplight. "And my nipples are very sensitive." His fingers traced around the flat copper coins of his areole, and the nipples began to rise. He brushed them with his fingertips, and the skin puckered.

He sighed. "I always have my slaves pay particular attention to them. Nothing like a warm, wet tongue teasing you." He pinched the nipples, hard.

I couldn't hold back a sympathetic squeak, and he looked at me questioningly. "Doesn't that hurt?" I asked.

He shrugged, stretching the pebbly nubs. "Sure. But that's part of it. It's a sexy pain. It feels good." His hand slid sensuously down his rib cage to his flat abdomen, and began circling his navel. "Keep talking to me."

"I can't believe I'm doing this. You're the first man outside a couple of maintenance men I've ever even been alone with in this place, and I'm doing this."

"And you're very sweet to do this for me. I've done a few vids about housewives and repairmen. It's a popular theme. You have a very, very pretty mouth, Emmie. Would you mind if I thought about you sucking my cock?" His hands slid down and began sliding through the short thatch of his pubic hair.

"I... me? Kurt, I'm old enough to be your mother."

"My mother's a sexy woman. And no, nothing like that ever happened. We all have our limits, though some of us set them back farther than others. I won't touch you. I just want to think about you."

His hands circled firmly around the base of his penis, and he gave it a long, smooth upward stroke.

"Wouldn't you rather think about Pamela Anderson?"

"I don't much like the fake titties, and that's pretty much all I see these days. I like you, Emmie. You're real, and funny, and nice. And very sexy." He stroked himself slowly again. "It would give me much pleasure."

"All right." I had truly fallen down the rabbit hole. But when you're in Wonderland... Hey, you might as well join the tea party. right? "I suppose... I'd take your scrotum in my hand first."

Kurt smiled at that. He's the smilingest man I've ever known, then or now. He followed my suggestion, mirroring the action. "What would you do then?"

"Well..." I thought. This was like the improvisation I'd liked in high school, carried to extreme lengths. "I wouldn't just hold you like that, like you were a tomato I was considering for a salad. I'd give you a leetle squeeze."

Kurt copied the action. "You know, you don't have to be all that gentle. I like it rough, too."

"Maybe later, but I wouldn't start out that way," I said decisively. "I'd just kind of... roll your balls around." He did it, his expression blissful and dreamy. During what followed, any action I spoke of, he acted on.

"That feels nice. Are you going to touch my cock?"

"Don't be so impatient, brat. I'd do that for a little while longer. It looks like you're enjoying it."

"Oh, yes." He was thickening and elongating as I watched. "It's very nice. You have a good touch."

"I could use a better view of what I'm doing."

Kurt turned to face me on the couch. He left his left foot flat on the floor, and lifted his right till it rested, knee bent, on the back of the couch. He was totally open to me.

His cock rose from his pubes, a thick, proud staff that was so erect that it quivered close to parallel with his flat belly. He was circumcised, and the glans was a slick, satiny deep pink knob at the end. "What would you do next?" he said hoarsely.

"I'd wrap my hands around it. I think it would take both hands. That's really something you have there." The look he turned on his penis was almost affectionate, like it was a good friend.

"Then you'd stroke me, right?" he said hopefully.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'd do. Very slowly, all the way up, all the way down. And I'd keep doing it, because I'll be damned but I think you're getting bigger."

His face was flushed now, his eyes sparking. "I go over ten inches when I'm hard."

"Kurt! You stick that thing in people?"

A breathless laugh. "As much as I can, and they like it as much as I do." Kurt continued to piston his fists up and down, slowing when I told him to, speeding up when I said faster.

I could see long muscles rippling in his thighs, across his belly. There were tiny crackling sounds as the baby oil worked between his hands and the swollen flesh of his hard-on.

He leaned back wantonly on the sofa, closing his eyes, his hands never stopping their rapid rhythm. "Let me speak. I want to fuck you some day, Emmie. Someday when you're ready. It will be delicious. You're so sweet, and you're so curious. I know you're older than me, but you're just like a naughty little girl. I want to make you feel good. I want to lick you till you get as soft and creamy as I know you will..."

I found myself squeezing my thighs together hard. There was that hot, liquid sensation deep in my belly that I'd never felt except in the privacy of my room, in the deep pit of the night. Now, in bright lamplight, I felt the slickness that heralded arousal.

"Kurt, " I said quietly. "No, Kurt. You mustn't do that. I told you, you mustn't touch me."

He craned his head to look at me through slitted eyes, seeing that I had entered fully into his game. "Yes, Emmie." he purred. "Ooh, I have to. You're just too sweet to resist. I'm touching your breasts now. Mm, the nipples are as hard as mine..." Damned it they weren't, too. Was the man psychic? "I'm going to pinch, just a little..."

I swear, I could almost feel it. It made me groan. "It's not too much?" he said anxiously, as if he might really have hurt me.

"No. Do it again." Again that low purr rumbled in his chest. Kurt didn't deny himself any sensual pleasure, but one of his greatest turn ons was giving pleasure to others.

"Now I'm reaching between your legs. I've just got to get my hands on your pussy, it's driving me wild. But first I rub your thighs a little." I pictured those big, strong hands resting on the white flesh of my inner thighs, sliding upward, and shivered.

"I'm putting my hand on you now. I'm rubbing." I fisted my hands, jamming them hard into my lap. "Ahh, you're so wet, so ready. I'm going to push one finger into your cunt, very gently. Don't worry, I won't hurt..."

I shoved my fist down between my legs, trapping and squeezing it. What was he doing to me? He wasn't even touching me, I was fully clothed.

"I'm going to move it in and out now. Like that, long and slow. Do you like that?"

"Yes." I didn't recognize my own voice.

"Good. Then we'll try one more. Tell me if it's too much. I'm pushing harder now, up past my second knuckle. You're tight, Miss Emily. Very tight and wet. How does it feel?"

"Huhngh." I was incapable of speech, but it didn't seem to faze him. "I knew you'd like it. I'm going to start finger fucking you good, now. Like that. I'm going faster and harder and deeper, because you want that, don't you?"

This is so crazy. A scrap of horrified resistance reared up briefly. "No."

"Liar. Your body says different. You feel like you're full of melted honey."

The slit in his glans was drooling a clear fluid, mingling with the baby oil. For a moment he stopped his rapid frigging, and slowly and sensually rubbed the very tip, spreading the pre seminal fluid.

All I can say is that I went temporarily insane. Before I knew what I was doing, I'd leaned forward and bestowed one lavish, admiring lick to his cock head. Hmm. Salty.

The reaction startled the hell out of me. Kurt's whole body went rigid, and he cried out loudly. Hips lifting, his come spurted strongly from his cock, spattering his thighs and belly. I felt a burning hot droplet on my cheek as I jerked my head back.

He spasmed again, then a third time, each jet a little less forceful. He was still except for a quivering in his thighs for a moment, then he went completely limp. Except his cock, that is. It was still semi-hard.

Eyes shut, he gulped, "Miss Emily..."

"Geez, Kurt! I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me."

"Sorry?!" He laughed raggedly, and sat up. "Don't you dare apologize for giving me the best orgasm I've had in ages."

"Oh. I was afraid I'd messed things up somehow."

He took the towel and wiped himself clean, studying me. "You really haven't done this before, have you?" I shook my head. "Nothing? Why?" I shrugged. I wasn't entirely sure myself, so how could I tell him. He was shaking his head. "But it's such a waste! You have a natural talent for sex play. You knew just what to do."

I blushed. Amazing. After what I'd just done, talking dirty to a man two decades my junior while he jerked off, a little compliment like that made me blush.

"Your face is dirty." He reached over with the towel and dabbed away the pearl of come. Then he took my chin in his hand, looking deep into my eyes, and frowning. "Emily, you didn't come." Another statement of fact. How the hell did he do it?

I pulled away from his touch, turning. I felt his hands on my back, big and gentle. "Let me take care of you."

I slapped back at him weakly. "No. I'm all right."

"Emily...no. You're burning up." His arms went around my waist, and I felt him pressing against my back.

"I said no, Kurt!" I tried to pry his hands loose, but they were locked.

"Don't be afraid. It won't take much, you're very close to the edge. I won't even take any of your clothes off. Sort of a dry diddling."

Now one hand lay over my forehead, and my head was pressed back to rest on his shoulder. The other hand wedged down between my legs.

"Stop it." The words were automatic.

"I would, if you really meant it. Hush and enjoy." He pressed firmly into my crotch. The pressure came to rest right above my clitoris, and he began to rub with strong, probing motions.

I twisted, making a mewling noise and my hands fluttered helplessly before me. He kept up the steady pace, turning his head to bite me lightly on the neck.

The bubble of hot liquid inside me burst, and I bucked against his hand. making noises in the back of my throat.

"That's right," Kurt encouraged. "You deserved that one, you worked for it." He held me for another moment or two while the quaking passed out of my body, his touch now light, soothing more than sexual. He whispered in my ear, German words I couldn't understand, but knew were meant to be assuring.

At last I disengaged myself, turned around, and kissed his cheek, almost chastely. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. Literally. Emily, was that your first orgasm?"

I hesitated. There had been familiar aspects, of course, but it had also been very different from what I was used to, much more intense. He grunted. "If you have to stop and think about it, the answer is yes."

"I thought I'd had those before."

"Mm. Well," his hands cupped the still aching fullness of my breasts. "Nature meant it to be a shared experience."

I pushed his hands away, firmly but without anger. He peered around into my face, and shrugged again, accepting. I stood up. My legs were still shaky, but I couldn't repress a long, luxurious stretch. "We're friends, right?"

"Good friends." He agreed. The pact was made, but unspoken. We might share our bodies again, and we would most certainly care about each other, even love each other. But we would never be in love. with each other.

Kurt turned the television back on. The tape must have run past the scene I remembered. On screen, Kurt was plowing into a petit blonde, while the brother actor thrust into his humping ass. "Don't forget to turn that off when you're through." I warned him as I walked toward my room. "We need to watch the electricity."

"Yah, sure." he mumbled, reaching again for the baby oil.

Chapter Five: Teacher/Pupil Interaction

"He hates me, and I can't figure out why." It was two weeks after Kurt had moved in. He'd done one of his twice-a-month shoots, and was ragged out. Even a twenty-one year old physically superb sexual dynamo could get tuckered by the schedule needed to finish shooting a porno in one day. I was cooking dinner for us both while he sipped another of those dark, warm beers, Mika cuddled on his lap.

"I can't believe that. You're one of the most unhatable people in the world, Emmie."

"Sweet talker. But Langely does hate me. I mean, he's cold and hard with everyone in class, but with me he's sub-arctic granite. Everyone in class has noticed."

"Sometimes it's just chemistry. Two people either click, or explode, for no apparent reason."

"I suppose it doesn't help that... Well, sometimes I accidentally push his buttons." There was a questioning hum from Kurt. "Oh, all right, accidentally on purpose. Today I used Steven King to illustrate foreshadowing. He turned green. I know the very thought of Stevie makes him gag."

Mika climbed up Kurt's shirtfront and balanced shakily on his shoulder. Kurt cupped one hand over him to steady him, completely engulfing the tiny body. "Why did you do it, then?"

"Oh, I don't know." I viciously stabbed a defenseless pork chop that was simmering in a mushroom gravy. "He's always so superior, like he's looking down from the lofty heights on us poor, swarming insects. I just want to rub his face in the real world a little."

Kurt plucked Mika off his shoulder, the kitten's claws making a brief velcro sound as they pulled loose from the fabric. He set the kitten back in his lap, which the frustrated little creature immediately abandoned. Mika went to sulk between Puddin' and Princess, and receive another ear washing. "Emmie, I'm going to put a suggestion to you, and I don't want you to get offended. I want you to consider it carefully."

I covered the pan, lowered the heat, and regarded him cautiously, giving him my full attention. "What's on your mind, Kurt?"

"I want you to consider the possibility that you're a Dominant."

"Me?" I laughed. "Come on, Kurt. I can just see me in a crotch less corset and black boots, wielding a whip like Wanda, the Wicked Warden."

He smiled slightly, but didn't seem deterred from his idea. "There are as many sorts of Dominants as there are people, Emmie. You'd fit the role very nicely. You have a lot of experience with caring for others, taking care of their needs on many levels, don't you? After your parents."

"Ye-es. I pretty much ran their lives. They gave up all responsibility to me when they got sick."

"It isn't a strictly sexual thing. Doms care for their submissives in many ways, physically and emotionally."

"I'm just not into that, Kurt."

"No? You enjoyed telling me what to do that first evening, didn't you?"

I hastily stirred the peas, hoping he'd think the blush was caused by the heat of the stove. "Wasn't it a turn on," he insisted. "Watching me obey your commands?"

It had been. It had been thrilling knowing that this big, sexy man had put himself under my instruction, and would obey my every direction. "Yeah, but there at the end, when I... you know... I didn't really want you to stop, but..."

"So you switched over for a little submission. That isn't uncommon . Hell, I like to be fucked as well as do the fucking. You're flexible. But you've got what it really takes, Emmie. You've got the game playing mind. You can make it fun, instead of just grunt, sweat, bleed, squirt."

"I don't think we should... you know..."

"That's all right. I'm not suggesting you become my lover." He gave me his best leer. "I wouldn't object, mind you. I'm just saying... leave yourself open to the possibilities. If you come into a situation, don't be afraid to react to it. There are more opportunities out there than you'd imagine."

I spent a few moments fluffing rice, setting out plates and flatware, and filling glasses, buying time. As I put the food on the table, I said slowly, "How do you make sure things don't... get out of hand?"

Kurt helped himself to two chops. "Ever practical Emily. That's a very important part of the scene, something a lot of Mundanes wouldn't think of. You have a 'safe' word. It's a word that means enough, stop. If either submissive or Dom uses it, the session's over. No recriminations, no hard feelings."

"What's the word?"

"Lord, Emmie, there isn't a universal one." He loaded his plate with rice and gravy and peas. I tried not to be jealous of the fact that he could devour whatever he wanted, and it never seemed to settle on him. He munched, looking thoughtful.

"'Mercy' is popular. So is 'basta', Italian for 'enough'. Some Doms or submissives have one they use in every relation, no matter who they go with. I, personally, like 'crystal'. It's a pretty word, yes? And it isn't likely to crop up in the heat of a fuck bout on it's own, so you'll always recognize it."

"You're a crude dude, Kurt."

He picked up a denuded bone and began to strip away the last scraps of meat. "I don't see any point in using five dollar words when quarter ones will do, and make things plainer. Besides, submissives usually like it. Verbal abuse is very popular, but it isn't as easy as you might think to do it properly."

"You mean, don't get like a dialogue loop in a sex movie, same thing over and over down to the grunts and groans?"

"Exactly." He shook the bone at me. "A natural, that's what you are. Really, Emmie, it's going to be a horrid loss to the B and D community if you don't at least consider it."

"Why are you pushing this, Kurt? If we're not going to be hot and heavy, what do you get out of it?"

"Where would the world be if someone hadn't recognized Michelangelo's talent, and encouraged him? Just consider me a patron of the sexual arts."

I thought about what Kurt had said later, turning it over in my mind. Me... a Dominatrix? I considered it, as he'd asked. I thought of myself speaking sternly to someone, berating them for some trivial offense. I thought of them cringing in dismay at having displeased me, offering to do whatever I desired to soothe my anger. I imagined the judicious use of pain, not too much, to enhance someone's erotic stimulation. I began to get very, very interested.

Langely and I clashed again the next morning. We'd been assigned to outline a character's development to share with the class. "From Harry Potter, Miss Benoit? HARRY POTTER?!"

"I happen to like Harry Potter."

"And so do several million other gormless children. That's no excuse for you. Have something else by next class."

"You didn't say we couldn't use children's literature." The rest of the class was following this exchange with interest, their heads swiveling back and forth like spectators at a tennis match.

"No, I didn't. But I assumed that if you did it, you'd have the sense to choose a real writer. Even Laura Ingles-Wilder would have been a better choice."

"I like her, too."

A martyred sigh. "Why am I not surprised? From now on, clear these sort of choices with me before you present them and waste my time."

I'm afraid I gaped. "But no one else has to do that. It's unfair."

"Life is unfair. If you want fair, stay home and play Monopoly. I'll expect you by my office before the end of the day with another choice for this assignment."

Son of a bitching bastard! I had to go back to the library, when I'd been planning on going home for a long soak in the tub. I may have disconcerted a few patrons with my grumbling as I stalked the stacks that afternoon, grabbing books off the shelves.

Langely's office hours were from two to five on M,W,F. I made it to his office at five till five. I knocked once, and went in. He was at his desk, and he looked up with a startled expression. His ever present briefcase was open on the desk before him. He shoveled a sheaf of papers and a cell phone into it before hastily snapping it shut. But he didn't move fast enough to keep me from glimpsing the open, glossy magazine inside. Hm, the professor was indulging in a skin mag at the office.

"One generally waits till one is invited in after knocking," he snapped.

"Unless one was raised in a barn, I know."

"Did you find something else for the character study?"

I placed a paperback book on the desk. "Can we get this over with quickly? There's a tub of hot water at home with my name on it."

"Yes. Wonderful thing, hydrotherapy. Do you use aromatic oils? It makes it much more relaxing and refreshing." I only had a second to contemplate the oddness of this observation. He picked up the book, getting out his reading glasses and donning them. "I Know What You Did Last Summer." He dropped it as if it were used toilet tissue. "Emily, this is intolerable!"

"No one said you could call me by my first name." His eyebrows rose. "I don't like you well enough to grant you that privilege."

"I see." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers before his face, gazing at me. At last he said, "Sit down, Miss Benoit." I crossed my arms. He sighed. "Please sit down."

Like most faculty offices, it was incredibly crowded. The desk, a bookcase and an uncomfortable looking straight back chair took up most of the room. Somehow or other, he'd managed to cram a tatty love seat along one wall. It almost blocked the door. I sat there.

"So, you think that I'm being unfair." I didn't answer, just looked at him. "I suppose I am, from your point of view. But there's a reason for it." I said nothing. His tone told me that he was going to explain himself.

"I am teaching Elemental English. Do you know what that means? It means that I am teaching the dregs. My students are the ones who barely scraped by on their admissions, and this college frankly is not all that choosey to begin with. I don't like stupid people, Miss Benoit. They make me hostile."

I could feel my temperature rising. It took a lot of gall to be so blatantly insulting.

"I can see by your expression that you've misread me. I wasn't speaking about you. On the contrary. You are the one ray of sunshine I've had since I started that damn course four years ago. The single daffodil on the dung heap, if you will."

"Then why are you...pushing me if I'm doing so well?"

"Because it also makes me hostile to see someone with intelligence, and even a gift for learning, squandering themselves the way you do. Honestly, the crap you read." He shoved the book disdainfully with the tip of one finger.

"That's your opinion, Professor. My opinion is that a good, trashy read never hurt anyone. I can read Melville and Faulkner and Hemingway any time, too. I happen to like an occasional dose of Jackie Collins."

He actually winced, like he'd gotten one of those sudden ice-pick headaches. "I can see this discussion is going nowhere. You'll continue to get my approval for your course materials."

"What if I make a complaint of unfair treatment to the Dean?"

He smiled. "Then I'll just make it a requirement for the whole class. Won't they love you for that?"

I could scarcely keep my voice from trembling with rage. "You... are... a... horrid man."

The smile broadened. "Good word choice. I'll give you till tomorrow to choose an acceptable alternative. You know what I want, so just give in and do it."

As I stood up, he said quietly, "Enjoy your bath." I slammed the door on the way out. I was in a fury. He'd basically told me that he was pissing me off for my own good. Condescending, pompous, smug little brat. Somebody ought to paddle his ass good.

Whoa, where had that come from?

At home the cats sensed my mood and scattered, hiding. Mika tried to worm his was under a sofa cushion, and ended up trapped. I had to haul him out. I'd never hurt my animals, but my anger made them nervous, and they felt it better to be out of my way. Perhaps they were right.

Kurt was at the kitchen table, studying. I slammed my books down on the table so hard that they fell over the edge. I swore, and bent to snatch them up. Papers that had been tucked inside one scattered over the floor. I screamed and threw the offending book against the wall.

Kurt watched me, round eyed. When I dropped into the chair opposite him, breathing heavily, he said cautiously. "Bad day?"

"The man," I said slowly and deliberately, "is trying to give me a heart attack. That's all I can figure. He seems to have adopted making my life hell as his own, personal crusade."

"Ooh," Kurt's voice was almost falsetto, and simpering. "He likes you."

"Idiot." I said shortly.

He clucked. "Temper, temper, Miss Emily. Remember, control. You need control if you're going to be a Domme."

"Who said I was going to? Kurt, this whole idea of yours is so... so..."

"Emily," he said patiently. "You have a Dominant nature. You need to control and nurture. The instincts were satisfied while you were caring for your parents. You managed to closet the sexual side of it, but now that they're gone, your true self is raging to get out. Really, if you don't accept it, you're going to become quite neurotic."

"Since when did you become a psych major, stud boy?"

"It's my minor, but I'm thinking of completing the degree. I'll need something to fall back on eventually, when my stamina starts to fail."

I snorted. "Probably sometime around the next millennium." I got up and headed for the door. "I'm going to take a long, steamy, bubbly bath. I'm going to keep refilling the tub with hot water, and soak till I'm a prune, damn the gas bill."

"I'm going out in a bit." Kurt called after me.

I stripped and put on my robe, then started the bath. I poured in a generous portion of rose scented foaming bath oil. I don't know why, I hadn't been planning on it before. I'd bought the stuff ages ago in a fit of self indulgence, and had never used it.

I shut off the taps, testing the water. Perfect. I was about to shed my robe, when there was a knock at the door. Crap. Kurt was probably already gone. The knock came again, and I knew it was true. I looked longingly at the tub again, then went out to the living room. Maybe Kurt had forgotten his key again.

I tried to retie my sash as I walked, but the damn thing had slipped a loop and kept swinging out of my reach. The knocking became a pounding, setting my teeth on edge. All I wanted to do was stop the noise. I clutched the front of the robe shut and jerked open the door. "WHAT?!"

Thomas Langley stood on my front step, fist upraised as if to continue knocking. When he saw me, his eyes widened. Oh lord, of all the people in the world who could have come knocking on my door. "What are you doing here, Professor? How did you find me? What do you want?"

For once, the normally cool Langely seemed flustered. "It wasn't hard to find you. Your address and phone are listed in the freshman guide."

"That's explained. On to the second mystery. Why the hell are you bothering me at home?"

"You left your trashy novel in my office."

"You could have given it to me in class."

He was staring at me. I found myself standing straighter, glaring back. How did he expect a woman to look when she was surprised at home?

His attention seemed to be focused on my chest, and I looked down.

The robe was old, ratty, and as comfortable as sin. I either hadn't noticed the hole, or had willfully ignored it. The terrycloth had long ago lost most of its pile, and had almost disintegrated in places. One of them was right over my right breast. My skin showed milky white through the hole, with a thin rim of brown aureole.

I jerked the flap of the robe farther, covering the spot, and held out my hand for the book. He offered it. When I took hold of it, though, he didn't release it. I tugged, my irritation rising, and he at last let go.

"You're ready for your bath."

"I have a nice, steamy tub of rose scented bubbles waiting for me, Professor. I'd like to get to it before it gets cold. Was there anything else.?"

He licked his lips, almost nervously, and seemed about to speak. Then he turned abruptly and walked to the street. I banged the door shut, and went to the bathroom again. Aggravating man.

I stripped off the robe and eased into the water, an inch at a time. It was hot enough to sting a little at first. Then the heat began to make it's way into my body, and I started to relax. Langely had been right, I thought grudgingly. The scented oil made a big difference.

I felt the hot water working its magic, loosening the tensed knots in my muscles. I played with the bubbles a little, drawing patterns on my skin with the foam. Then the phone rang.

I blessed it heartily. I didn't want to answer it. It had almost never rung when I was living alone. Now there were occasional calls for Kurt, and I assumed this was one of those. He's out, I thought, sinking a little deeper into the steamy comfort. Give it up.

But the phone kept ringing. Five rings, eight. Whoever you are, I thought, you're a persistent bugger. Ten, twelve...Damn it! It looked like they were willing to let it ring all night.

I couldn't stand it any more. I hauled myself dripping out of the tub. I was alone, so I saw no point in bothering with the robe, and strode naked into the living room.

I snatched up the receiver and said ungraciously, "Hello?" There was no answer. "Hello?! Who's there?" There hadn't been a hang up, there was no dial tine. What was this, a crank call?

I remembered Dabney. Dabney was the son of one of the newer tenants, who'd moved in when the agent bought me out. He was a gangly kid, tall for his age. Dabney was fourteen, and pretty much a walking hormone. Everything seemed to get him excited. He walked around with a boner those fashionably baggy pants couldn't entirely conceal.

There'd been some trouble with the other female residents. Every woman in the building, including old Mrs. Tuttle, who looked like Margaret Hamilton as the Wicked Witch of the West, had gotten obscene phone calls. I hadn't escaped, either. But after a few incidents of moaning and panting, I'd recognized his voice and reported him to his parents. Some might not have believed me, but since they'd just found out that Dabney had run up close to five hundred dollars on sex phone services, my accusations were taken seriously. Dabney was threatened with military school, and the calls stopped. Was Dabney up to his old tricks?

"Dabney, is that you?" No answer. "You little twat, I said is that you?" Still no answer, but I heard faint breathing on the other end. "Listen, motherfucker, I'm not in the mood for your games. I was in the bathtub. I'm standing here dripping all over my carpet."

I could have been mistaken, but I thought the breathing speeded up. "I'm serious, Dabney. It pisses me off when I have to go mother naked to answer the damn phone just to find out it's some little pervert like you, getting his jollies."

Still no answer, and my anger grew. I should have just hung up, but I'd spent so much of my life being tactful and oblique that I was ready to bite someone's head off, and if he didn't have enough sense of self preservation to draw back in time, that was his problem.

My voice was low and venomous. I hardly recognized myself speaking. "Listen, you pathetic piece of shit! You need to have you little round butt switched good. If your mama and daddy had laid the belt across your bare ass a couple of times, maybe you wouldn't have grown up to be such a prick."

The breathing was definitely faster now, approaching a pant. I heard a rhythmic, rustling sound, and was struck by a sudden conviction that almost floored me.

"You little bastard, you're beating off, aren't you?" My voice rose in outrage. "You're listening to me and rubbing yourself." I heard a moan, and my amazement increased. "Dammit, I know you are. I can hear your hand moving on your cock." Another moan, almost desperate.

"You fucking degenerate! I wish I could get my hands on you right now. Do you have any idea what I'd do to you?"

I hadn't expected a reply. I was shocked when a rough male voice answered eagerly. "Tell me."

I slammed the receiver down into the cradle, and stared at it. After a moment, the phone began to ring again. Oh, no, I thought. I don't want to deal with you. I unplugged the jack, and the device fell silent.

I went back to the bathroom, and tried to recapture the serenity I'd felt before. It hadn't been Dabney. Despite the hormones flooding his body, causing him to sprout hair and other, larger items, his voice hadn't dropped yet. That had been a grown man on the other end of the line. Just a random caller? Langely had said that my address and number were in the freshman guide. I shuddered. That was pretty much a stalker's menu, then. Maybe I'd better get an unlisted number.

I told Kurt about it when he got back. "It seems I'm not the only one who thinks you have potential. From the sounds of it, you made him pretty happy for a few moments. Poor bastard."

"Poor bastard?"

"Yes. You didn't let him finish up. It's no fun to be left with aching balls, let me tell you."

I snorted. "When was the last time someone cock teased you, and didn't go through with it?"

"It's been awhile, granted. But it happens to everyone. Next time why don't you play with him? Enjoy it."

"What on earth would I get out of it?"

"Find out."

"It was probably random. He must've just punched buttons till someone answered."

"I think he'll call again."

"Why?"

"Because you're good, Emmie."

Chapter Six: Audio/Visual Club

Things were, if possible, even more strained between Langely and myself. We began snapping at each other in class. The other students watched with wide eyed fascination as we chipped away at each other. I always swore I wasn't going to let him get a rise out of me, but he did it every time. Somehow the man had located all my buttons, and he pushed them with ruthless abandon.

My grade in math was improving slowly, thanks to Langely's stubborn refusal to allow me to quit. But the price of this success was counted in stress. My nerves were constantly jangled by my enforced contact with Langely. And I'd been such a good natured person before.

It didn't help that my finances were still in trouble. My investor assured me that it was just a market slump, and the profit would pick up after Christmas. All I had to do was hang tough till then. But things were pretty tight, and I had cats to feed.

Still, I can't blame that for what happened with Kurt and the video production company. I'd be lying to everyone involved if I did. And the more I've thought about it, the less inclined I am to assign blame at all.

"We lost our set," Kurt said gloomily one morning. He was picking at a plate of pancakes I'd just set before him. Mr. and Mrs. Mundane might consider a lot of things about Kurt unnatural, but I can assure you that Kurt picking at his food was downright disturbing for anyone who knew him.

"What happened?" I nudged a pitcher of warmed maple syrup toward him. He ignored it. Ooo, he was upset.

"We were set up to film in the house of the director's parents. They were going on vacation. Her father decided to stay home instead, and buy bonds with the cash."

"You shouldn't have a problem finding somewhere else, should you? Don't you just need somewhere private?"

"We can't risk a motel. Real nasty business if some of the guests complain."

"How about the rest of the crew? Don't they have houses?"

"Most of them still live at home. Or they're in trailers. We need a nice house or apartment. This one is supposed to take place in a middle class home. Mother/son thing. We have to find somewhere soon. We're supposed to shoot tomorrow."

He poked his stack of cakes dispiritedly. I hated to see him so worried. So I decided that one more insane act in my life couldn't hurt. "Would this apartment fit the bill?"

His yellowish eyes flashed up at me. "You wouldn't mind?" he said hopefully.

"You'd keep them from tearing up the place, wouldn't you? Mrs. Tuttle wouldn't mind babysitting the brat cats for a day, so they'd be out of the way. As long as they give me a couple of bucks to cover electrical expenses from any equipment used, and I don't end up scrubbing come stains off my furniture or ceiling."

"No problem!" He leaned over and gave me an enthusiastic, smacking kiss. Being Kurt, that included a little tongue. Then he happily emptied the syrup over his flapjacks and plowed into them with the same relish that he showed appeasing all his appetites.

I took the cats over to Mrs. Tuttle's that evening, giving her a story about a group project going on at my place Saturday. It wasn't much of a fib.

Kurt notified his director by phone that night. She asked to speak to me. She was a forceful sounding woman named Clymentta, and she thanked me profusely. "A lot's riding on this one, Miss Emily." Apparently Kurt talked about me at work. "I've already spent the advance on better equipment. If we don't produce, not only will we not get paid, but they'll want the dough back, and I'll be up the proverbial creek without a paddle. You're saving my ass on this, and I'm grateful."

I demurred from further thanks, and was invited to hang around and watch filming. I had the day off from my weekend library job, and I considered it. If it got too wild and woolly, I could always leave and go to a show till the shoot was over.

That night, Kurt took even more care with his regime, preparing himself for the cameras. He trimmed his nails, and his pubic bush. He carefully worked lotion into every inch of his body, making the already smooth skin even more supple. He washed and conditioned his glorious hair, and talked me into snipping off a few split ends. When he went to bed, he was a vision of sensual male beauty that had to rival any that had ever been sought out and presented to royalty, male or female.

At first it looked like things were going to be all right. The crew arrived a little after seven the next morning. I was introduced to everyone. There were six in all: two cameramen, the director, the sound man, the lighting man, and the girl who was to play the 'date' of Kurt's character. The only one missing was 'Mother'.

One of the men went out and returned with a large box of pastries. I made coffee. Everyone sipped and munched as they began to set up their cameras and sound and lighting equipment. This was going to be a short, simple tape, taking place on only one 'set', the living room. They would pick up a few other brief scenes in other rooms using the hand held camera.

Clymentta turned out to be just as forceful as she'd sounded over the phone. She was a tiny Latina, very pretty. The term 'spitfire' seemed to have been invented for her. As she supervised the set up, she explained what would happen.

They weren't working with a fixed script, just an outline. A lot would depend on the actors and the director. This was to be an incest tale, as Kurt had said. The plot ran that the mother and son had been separated for more than a decade, after the boy's father took him to Germany. They lost touch. Now the father was dead, the son had sought out his mother. Broken by the failed relationship with her ex husband, the mother had isolated herself, refusing to become involved again for fear of another painful loss.

There was a little alcohol involved, and after the son's bitchy 'date' left, he and the mother sort of stumbled into a sexual encounter. It didn't sound much worse than some 'artistic' movies I'd seen at local film festivals.

By eight-fifteen, they were ready. By nine, the last actress still hadn't arrived. By nine-thirty they were calling her, and getting no answer. The sound man knew where she lived, and went to check on her. He returned a half hour later, grim faced. "She's not coming."

"WHAT?!" I was glad I'd sent the cats away. Clymentta's shriek would have had them climbing the walls and hanging from the ceiling.

"She's not coming. She's in the hospital with food poisoning. The silly bitch had homemade sushi last night. She's been alternately upchucking and shitting for the past twelve hours. Believe me, the kind of video you would make with her right now would be too specialized to make much of a profit."

Clymentta grabbed the pages of the outline and began ripping them apart, cursing violently in Spanish and English. One language just wasn't enough for the occasion. "We're fucked! We're all fucked! Where the hell am I gonna get a replacement at this hour?"

One of the cameramen suggested timidly, "Maybe Dwana?"

"The bitch is fresh out of high school. She couldn't be Kurt's mama, not even if we used a time machine and had a virgin birth."

"Hey, cool down, Clymentta! This is fantasy, right?"

"But it's not fucking science fiction!" she screamed.

"How about you, Clymentta?" suggested Berke, the actress. "You're not too far off the right age."

"I ain't that good an actress, honey. No offense, Kurt. You're damn cute for a white boy, but you got no tits. I don't screw anyone who got no tits. Oh, piss!" She dropped down on the couch and put her head in her hands. "I was gonna put my little boy in a private school with this cash. Someone brought a fucking gun to class last month..."

Kurt tugged me back into the kitchen, while Berke tried to soothe Clymentta, and the other men shifted around awkwardly. "Emily..."

"Yeah, Kurt."

"Emily, we could really use some help here."

"Look, she's welcome to come back when everything straightens out. I don't mind."

"No, we have to do this today. She isn't the only one with obligations. My dad's freezer went out at the restaurant, and I promised to help him get a new one. He needs it to run the business."

"Damn, that's rough. I'd help if I could, Kurt, but you know how my budget is right now."

"All it would take would be some of your time, and you have the rest of the day free anyway, don't you?"

I peered at him closely. "Kurt, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"It'd be fun, Emily. And you'd be good at it, I know."

"No Kurt."

"Pleeease." His voice was wheedling. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you'd like it. And you wouldn't have to worry, no one in North America ever sees these. Unless you know people who regularly buy porn from Europe or the near East."

"I couldn't strip off in front of those people."

"You wouldn't have to. Partially clothed is very sexy."

"Kurt, dammit, I'm a virgin! I told you that."

"I wouldn't have to screw you, Emily. By now you ought to know that there are a great many ways to have sex without you losing your maidenhead. No penetration, okay?"

"Shit." I rubbed my face.

"Come on, Emmie. You'd be helping all of us. Yourself included. You'd get the acting fee."

I peered at him from under my hand. "How much?" He named a figure. I bit my lip. That sum would ensure that I didn't have to worry about bills or groceries for a month, and would even be able to pay my insurance premium. "What makes you think she'd agree?"

Kurt brightened, sensing capitulation. "She's good at her job. She'll see that you'll be right for the part."

"Well... You promise you won't stick that club into me when I'm distracted?" He crossed his heart. "I suppose I could offer.."

Kurt grabbed my hand and dragged me over to Clymentta, who was still muttering, head in hands. "Clem, how about Emmie as my mom?"

The room went quiet. Clymentta slowly lifted her head and looked at me. She stood up and took a walk around me, examining me from all angles. At last she smiled brilliantly. "We're not fucked! Hallelujah!"

That fast. Startled, I said, "Are you sure? I'm not exactly a Cosmo model."

Clymentta waved her hands impatiently. "You're better'n the one we had lined up. She looked like a going to seed porn star. You look like a nice middle class lady. Squeaky clean. The stiffs will love to see you get dirty."

Kurt nudged me. "Tell her your rules, Emily."

"My rules?"

Clymentta nodded expectantly. "Most of the talent have rules about what they will and won't do. What's yours?"

"Uh...eep. Kurt?"

"No kids, critters, or the dearly departed, right? And no food in it's biologically processed forms."

"Huh?" I inquired intelligently.

"No pee or scat."

"Oh. Definitely."

Clymentta nodded, not at all disturbed. These must be pretty standard requirements. "What else?" I shrugged. "Would you be willing to get it on with Berke?"

I looked at the little actress. She grinned impishly and wiggled her fingers at me. "No offense, but no. I don't think so."

Clymentta sighed. "Oh well, I wasn't sure how to work that in, anyway."

"And I won't do full intercourse."

"Oh, now wait a minute..."

"Come on, Clem," Kurt interrupted. "We'll give you the best show you've done so far without it. I promise you something so hot that you'll have to cool down the cameras to keep the tape from melting."

Clymentta tapped her foot rapidly, obviously displeased, then said grudgingly. "All right, Kurt. But if I don't get what I need, you explain it to the money men."

That's how I became a porn actress. That fast, that simple. You'll notice that I didn't say 'star'. I've never done it again, and don't intend to. The only time I might consent to get jiggy in front of a camera would be if a certain someone requested it, and it was kept strictly private. Still, I'm glad I had the experience.

I won't describe exactly how we filmed it. There would be a lot of dry stuff about setting up shots and adjusting lights, figuring camera angles and hashing out action.

I won't go into the plot, either. Let's just say that the son ends up dumping the slut bunny he met at the airport, and the mom ends up with neck strain.

But if you're ever in Amsterdam or Hamburg, or possibly Bangkok, and happen to run into a video called 'Mother and Child Reunion'...

Chapter Seven: Surprise Test

I wasn't changing that much. At least, I didn't think so. I suppose the fact that I could still believe this after taking a leading role in a pornographic video that featured semi-coerced incest showed just how much I had changed.

Life was close to comfortable. Kurt was a fantastic roommate and companion. After the video, he didn't try to change our relationship. A lot of other guys who had mock half raped you on camera might have thought they had free reign, but he was still a sweetheart. He liked his cuddles, and the occasional grope, but if I pushed him away, he took it with good humor. And I didn't always push him away.

I learned more about the B and D subculture each day. What interested me was the importance of role playing. Kurt knew some couples who had been together for decades. To all outside observers they were typical couples. No one knew that one might wear a dog collar in the bedroom, or the other was on orders to wear an anal plug to work.

"There may be some pain going on in the sex," Kurt expounded, "but there's no doubt that there's love on both sides."

"Of course, this area isn't the easiest one if you're new to the life. It's pretty conventional. There's no activities, you have to go to the city for action." Larmont College is in a suburb of a major southern city, I won't say which one (Go 'boys).

Yeah, you pretty much had to go into the city for anything. We had the multiplex at the local mall, but independent film fans were pretty well screwed for selection there. If it didn't have a major Hollywood distributor or producer, it didn't get play

I am a horror film buff, and these days the hope of the horror industry seems to rest with independent film makers. If I wanted my gore fix without glossy production and air head 'stars', I had to venture into the grittier sections of town and seek out the small theaters, the dollar shows.

I was willing. The problem was that a middle class white girl was a bull’s-eye target in those areas. I'd had my purse snatched once, and spent a nerve wracking quarter of an hour listening to sucking noises and comments in languages I couldn’t understand while waiting for a tow truck when my car stalled.

Kurt suggested that I try dressing to fit the neighborhood, and the local attitude. I tried it, and it worked better than I had hoped.

By the third time I went, I had created a character. I wore heavy blue jeans, a sleeveless black undershirt with no bra (That took some persuading from Kurt, but he was right. Foundation garments just didn't go with 'the look'), and an old denim jacket that had belonged to my father. Instead of a purse, I would carry a leather wallet, chained to a thick belt. The heavy steel toed work boots had also belonged to Dad. I enjoyed walking in them.

I refused makeup, except for a thick scarlet slash of lipstick. I'm normally fair skinned. The vivid red was startling, making my mouth look sulky.

I hadn't worn earrings for years. Kurt presented me with a mismatched set, actually two that had been sold separately. When I was ready for my trip to the cinema, a tiny skull dangle from my left ear lobe, and a minuscule set of handcuffs dangled from the other. Kurt pronounced me 'hot' before I left home.

"Just remember, Emmie," he told me. "Attitude. Show no fear, no doubt. But if confronted by a genuine bad ass, run like hell." Sound advice.

I went to the evening double feature at a tiny, grimy cinema on 'Sin Street'. That was the local street that housed the thickest concentration of adult stores, nude bars, tattoo parlors, hookers, and pimps. It was also the last local bastion of the dollar cinema, and they were showing 'I Drink Your Blood' and 'I Eat Your Skin' back to back.

I took the bus from campus into town, not wanting to have my car out that late in that section. God alone knew what there would be left.

I could tell the difference the moment I stepped off the bus. When I hit the curb, I hit it with authority. The hard heels of my boots rapped the pavement in clocking sounds, the chain at my belt jingled. I had sound effects to go with the visuals. I didn't smoke, so I chewed a large wad of gum the entire evening. I even cracked it occasionally, an action that had always made me want to force the gum chewer to inhale their wad. But it fit.

And it worked. The ticket taker didn't bother to warn me to sit near the back, where it was more secure. The tattooed guy sitting behind me stopped kicking my seat after I turned around and glared at him. The concession stand clerk didn't try to screw me out of my change.

I enjoyed the shows, both cheesier than an all the way pizza in Wisconsin. It was close to midnight when I left the theater, but the street was still alive. There was a constant flow of traffic between clubs, hookers patrolled under the watchful eyes of pimps. The bus stop was several blocks down from the theater, and I took my time, enjoying the show.

Halfway down there was a little place called the Pandemonium Emporium, and I stopped to window shop. There was a latex cat suit on a well endowed female dummy. The suit had cut outs over the nipple and crotch area. In order to keep it legal, someone had pasted sunflower stickers over the exposed areas. Cute. There was also a dainty whip, little more than suede thongs attached to a polished wooden handle. I looked closer, and saw that the handle was designed for... other uses as well.

There was a trio of very drunk underage boys weaving their way down the sidewalk, and they stopped to look in the window, too. Two of them nudged each other, giggling over the suit, while the third simply swayed stuporously. One of them glanced at me, and whispered to his companion, who looked also, and giggled. I raised my eyebrow? *Yes, little boy?*

The first one pointed at the dummy. "You like that?"

I discarded all the hours of English I'd ever taken, thinking of how Langley would react to my grammar. "I ain't gay, bo. It don't do a thing for me."

Another giggling fit. "No, you like to wear stuff like that? You shoppin'?"

"Shit, no. Couldn't breath in a sausage skin like that." I demonstrated with a deep breath. Their eyes focused on my unfettered chest. "Gotta keep the lungs healthy."

"Your lungs look pretty healthy."

*Jail bait,* I thought. *But cute.*

The door of the shop opened, and a customer stepped out. That was when number three decided to lose balance. He pitched into the man like he was trying to make a tackle. Whether it was intentional or not, the effect was the same. They both went down.

The impact somewhat sobered the kid. He scrambled to his feet, shoving the other man back down at the same time, slurring, "Motherfucker run into me!" He kicked, missing his target, and hitting a shopping bag instead. The cheap paper split, scattering a number of items on the sidewalk. His companions laughed. He started to try to find his balance for another, more accurate kick.

Okay, it was stupid. I wouldn't have tried it if he hadn't been falling down drunk and about half my size. But shrieking and running for help would have just wasted time. I grabbed him by the back of his baggy sweatshirt and jerked hard, throwing all my weight into it. He lost his footing again and landed on his ass.

I put the sole of Dad's big steel toed engineer boot across his throat before he could move, and things got real still and quiet. His companions were watching me with eyes roughly the size of salad plates.

I said quietly, "You have three choices. I can put this boot down your throat, up your ass, or you can get up and leave." He gargled, and I pressed a fraction. *Careful, Emily,* I thought. *If your ankle gives way now, you'll be up on assault charges.*

"I'll leave." He was too drunk to even be angry. I stepped off him, and his companions helped him up. They all three hurried off, casting backward glances. I had a feeling that he was going to take a lot of hell from his friends about being faced off by a woman old enough to be his mother.

I turned my attention to the sex shop customer, a little concerned that he hadn't gotten up yet. He was sitting up, head down, rubbing his jaw. If that had hit the pavement, he was lucky it wasn't dislocated. He was dressed nicely for this area, in what had been well pressed slacks and a button down shirt. His purchases were scattered around him.

I went to him and asked, "You okay?"

He looked up at me slowly. A clean cut, handsome face, remarkable blue-green eyes... It was like one of those moments in movies where they focus in on one character by having the background suddenly zoom out of focus. Thomas Langely.

I saw the same shocked recognition in his eyes that must have been in mine. His mouth dropped open, but he didn't say anything. I looked at a spill of magazines, a length of silvery chain, and a braided leather riding crop. Huh.

Well, this makes sense, I thought. He's such a control freak it doesn't surprise me at all that he wants to call the shots in the sack. So those magazines he'd been stashing in his briefcase were...I craned my head and read the titles. 'Stern', 'Tender Flesh', and 'Dominion'. High class looking publications--not cheap, anyway.

*Who are you planning on doing up with that chain, Thomas?* I thought. I looked into his face again, amused now. *Got your secret, Thomas. I know what shakes your tree.*

He still didn't speak. His incredulous gaze moved slowly down my body. He took in the handcuff earing, the gash of lipstick. His eyes lingered a moment on the unbound swell of my breasts, then dropped to the belt and chain, then down to the boots. At last he looked up at me again. And THEN I knew Thomas Langely's secret.

Because there was something comfortable in his posture, something right. He looked at home there, on the ground at my feet. His eyes met mine again, and quickly fell away as blood swept up his cheeks in a pink tide.

*Well, now, Thomas,* I thought. *You're into B and D all right, but you're not a Dom, are you? You're a submissive.*

Chapter Eight: Answers

I studied Thomas Langely with a new eye now. I wasn't looking at him as a pupil looks at a teacher, or even as a woman looks at a man. I was looking at him as a dominant looks at a submissive. And I liked what I saw.

I was used to seeing him in suits, but the more casual clothes looked good on him. The usually neatly combed hair was disheveled by his fall, lying across his forehead and down into his eyes. He peered up at me through the strands. I remembered what Kurt had told me about the importance of a submissive begging permission before being allowed to make eye contact. Just to yank his crank, I scowled at him.

The effect was startling. His shoulders tensed, and he looked down quickly, with a murmured, "Sorry."

Experimentally, I said quietly, "Sit up straight, Langely. Don't slouch like that."

His spine straightened, but he kept his head bent down, looking at the pavement. He didn't speak.

Oh my, oh my. Wasn't this bizarre and perfectly delicious? It occurred to me that I had it in my power to cause a scene and heartily embarrass him.

Instead I said, "Are you all right?"

"Yes." It was almost a whisper.

*If I were in a relationship with him,* I thought, *I'd probably slap him for that bald reply. No name, no title.* I wasn't in a relationship with him, but I could have a little fun teasing him, now that he was in a vulnerable position. Nothing mean. Just let him know that maybe he wasn't as superior and set off as he seemed to think. "Tell me, little boy, does your mama know you're out here all alone, about to get your round little butt kicked? "

"I... there's never been any trouble before..."

*Which means you're a regular, and this isn't a one time thing.* I snorted. "Your goodies have gotten knocked to hell and gone. I'll help you get them up."

"No, please. I can manage."

I ignored him, scraping the magazines into a pile. I flipped through Tender Flesh. Yes, the photo layouts featured men being bound, whipped, and molested by women, and other men. *Ooo, naughty boy, Thomas.* I caught him looking at me again, and smirked as I dropped the magazines in the damaged bag.

I picked up the riding crop, and suddenly smacked it down on the pavement beside him. It made a pop like a firecracker going off, and he flinched. "Looks like your play pretty is still in working order." I dumped it in the sack.

Then I picked up the length of chain. I let it trickle from one palm to the other, listening to the muted chink of its links. He watched it, eyes riveted on the silvery strand. At last I dropped it, too, into the sack. Then I held out my hand.

He took it tentatively, and I helped him to his feet. I picked up the torn sack, holding the ragged edges together so the contents wouldn't spill out again. I shoved it into his arms, and he took it.

Then I reached out and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. It was soft and silky. His eyes flickered, but he didn't look at my face.

"You go home, Langely." I started to walk toward my bus stop, calling back over my shoulder. "Go home where you'll be safe." Grinning, I turned and walked a couple of steps backward, calling, "Before a big bad wolf comes along and eats you right up!" I turned, and made it to the bus stop just as my ride was pulling up.

Kurt was in bed when I got home. I suppose I should have waited for morning, but I didn't. He'd wanted to be kept abreast of any development in the Langely/Benoit situation.

I had enough courtesy not to snap on the overhead and blind him. I just left the door open, so the hall light could stream in. I made out the spill of his dark hair over pale shoulders as he lay on his stomach amid the lumps and folds of the bed sheets. There was a gently rasping snore.

I sat on the bed and shook his shoulder gently. "Kurt."

"Mmm? Wha..?" He blinked sleepily, turning on his side to face me. "Emmie?" He smiled, reaching up to touch my breasts. "Change your mind?"

I pushed his hands down. "No, sweetie, sorry."

He shrugged, yawning. "Thas okay. What's up?"

I told him what had happened. Somewhere along the line I realized that the snoring hadn't stopped. I peeked over and saw a petit, bosomy blonde cuddled up against Kurt's back. But she wasn't snoring, either. It seemed to be coming from the foot of the bed. There were a pair of masculine feet resting on the pillow on her other side, strong hairy legs disappearing under the covers toward the bottom. I had to shake my head. "He's a submissive, Kurt." I finished. "He couldn't not be. I mean, everything about him right then was just screaming..." I waved my hands, confused at how to put it, "Hurt me, don't hurt me."

Kurt nodded, propping himself up more comfortably on the pillows. "I know. It's the look a really good submissive gets when he runs into a really good dominant unexpectedly. Their first instinct is to respond, but they don't dare if it's too public. And it goes against their grain to resist it, so they get really confused."

"I can't believe this. Langely, of all people."

"You said there was something about him."

"Yeah, but the way he acts I assumed he'd be on the giving rather than the receiving end."

"And I'm sure there are a lot of people in your life who'd say, Emily? Controlling? Dominant? Don't be silly. She's the sweetest, meekest thing around." I growled. "And they'd be wrong, too. Sometimes Mundanes can't see what's right in front of their noses. You're just coming out of the Kingdom of the Mundanes, so it took you a little while to see it."

There were sleepy murmurings on the other side of the bed. One lump moved on top of the other, and began to rise and fall in a slow, grinding rhythm. A hand, I couldn't tell in the dark if it were male or female, wandered over Kurt's hip and started skating up and down my arm. I heard someone coo.

"You'd better decide how you're going to handle Langely from now on."

"Same as ever, I suppose. Keep my head down, avoid kicks, and pray for the end of the semester."

"No, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Well..." He scratched his chest. "Langely isn't with anyone right now. Sacristy left him last year. A submissive without a Dominant is a lonely, miserable person, Emmie. He's got to be looking. And you like him..."

"Stop it right there Kurt. I do not like the man. He drives me crazy. I could just... just..."

"Beat him?"

"Yeah."

"On his bare ass... with a belt, maybe?" I felt a sudden jolt of heat. Kurt laughed softly. "You should see your face. I don't know if anything substantial will come of it, but you two have each other's scent. Now, I don't want to be rude, Emmie," Another hand had scrabbled over Kurt's hip, and was gently stroking his penis "But I have guests to entertain. And if you're not going to do more than watch, I need the bed space. So scoot or strip." He rolled over and plunged under the sheets, greeted by giggles and chuckles. I peeked under the sheet for a moment, marveling at such a complex configuration. Then I left, shutting the door.

Chapter Nine: Sophomore Slump

It got worse. So help me, it got worse. I'd discovered Langely's little secret on a Saturday. The next Monday I was in class as usual at seven. Drowsy, I was drinking a Coke, hoping that the caffeine and sugar would jump start me. Around me, the rest of the class chatted idly. Most of the other's sipped the muddy coffee available from the vending machine down the hall.

Langely came in just before the bell rang, as usual. As usual, he was impeccable: pants creased, shirt pristine, tie straight, pocket handkerchief crisply folded. His hair was getting longer, I noted, remembering how it had fallen into his eyes Saturday.

The coffee drinkers began to make their way to the front to dump their cups before class started. Langely zeroed in on me and said loudly, "Miss Benoit, I believe you know that there is to be no food or drink in class."

The quiet buzz of conversation died. He quickly glanced at the others, saying as almost an after thought. "You all know that. I've been too lax in enforcing the rule." He spoke to everyone, but his eyes went back to me. "I'm surprised at you, Miss Benoit. I would have thought you'd have more discipline."

I was thinking it was an odd choice of words even as I protested. "I'm not the only one, Pro-fessor Lang-lay." I hadn't used the sarcastic pronunciation since he'd started tutoring me, but I was stung.

"No, but you're the eldest here. You might want to set a good example. Dispose of that."

As I think I've said before, the man makes me crazy. That has to account for what I did next. I wasn't even thinking. At least not anything except, I'll show you, you pompous, condescending prick. I drained the last of the sweet fizzy liquid in one long swallow. Then, the rush of caffiene and carbonation making my head buzz, I crumpled the can and heaved it. I was sitting right in front. The crushed can made a neat arc and landed in the desk side wastebasket with a hollow clang. "Two points, my score."

The bell rang, and the other students hastened back to their seats. They huddled silently, waiting for the explosion.

It only showed in his eyes, and the whiteness of his knuckles as he pressed his hands flat on the desk. I stared back at him, meeting those hot turquoise eyes dead on, not flinching. *We'll see who blinks first, Thomas,* I thought. I wondered if the class knew that they were witnessing a pissing contest.

The bitch won this round. Langely didn't drop his eyes, but he turned away and began to write something totally unnecessary on the board. He was quieter in class than usual, letting the students spend most of the time discussing word origins. He spent most of the time staring at me. It made me nervosa, but I did my damndest not to show it.

The bell finally rang, and I was past ready to go. I wanted to make a quick escape, but I had a stack of materials to move to my next class, and it slowed me down. Before I could get it gathered up, Langely was beside my desk.

"We need to talk." His voice was low. Other students passed without interest. They assumed he was chastising me for my earlier actions.

I finished stacking books. "No, we don't"

"Miss Benoit, Saturday night..."

"I saw a movie. Whatever it was, I have an alibi. Excuse me." I brushed past him. He was wearing some sort of spicy aftershave. I resisted the impulse to lean over and nip him on the neck.

Dear God, Benoit!

I hurried away, putting distance between us.

I ate lunch off campus, unwilling to risk meeting him in the cafeteria. Okay, it looked like the was feeling threatened because I knew about his kinky extracurricular activities. It had been stupid to tease him, I suppose. The best thing to do would be to keep contact to a minimum and hope he'd cool down. I really didn't need to be on this man's bad side.

I still needed approval for the book I was going to be reviewing next, but I didn't want to have to speak to him in his office, alone. Since a teacher couldn't be available around the clock, each office had a cork note board on the outer door. I tacked a note on Langely's door when I knew he was consulting with another student, then got off campus.

It wasn't easy dodging him the rest of the week. I didn't go to Tuesday night class. There weren't enough people around in the evening for me to be sure of a proper buffer between us. I didn't go to class Wednesday till the last possible moment. I hid up a stairwell till I saw him enter the class, and went in just as the bell rang.

He glared at me as he checked roll. He was awful in class, snapping and snarling at the most innocuous remarks. I felt a little guilty. I knew the class was suffering because he was pissed with me. When the bell finally rang, I grabbed my books and almost ran.

He left his things on his desk and followed me out into the hall. Langely never left his briefcase unattended. You would have thought that it was genetically attached. "Miss Benoit." I kept walking. "Emily!" His voice was sharp, almost desperate.

I stopped, turning back to face him. The early morning students, most still half asleep, swirled around us. It was like we were on a tiny island, isolated from them. "What?"

He fidgeted. "Not here. Come back to my office."

"No. I have a class."

"You didn't get my approval for your book review."

"I left a note on your door. You were busy. It wasn't a best seller, so I assumed you'd approve."

"And you missed your tutoring session." He paused. "I waited."

"I'm caught up, and I'm staying with it. Thanks for the help, but I don't need it anymore."

His voice was raw. "Did you stop and think about what I need?"

Alarm bells went off in my mind. No, I thought. No, I'm not having that. I turned and walked away without replying. I was grateful that he didn't follow. I had no idea what I would have said or done.

I stayed away from campus till it was time for the evening workshop Thursday. Then I wheedled Kurt into going with me by premising to read some of the domination themed poems I'd been writing. Our last assignment had been poetry about a lover's relationship. When Langely walked in and saw Kurt sitting next to me I felt the temperature in the room drop, but he couldn't say anything without contradicting himself. He'd told us at the beginning of the semester to encourage family and friends to come to classes to hear the nightly reading of assignments.

But he said stiffly, "Class, this has gotten too disorganized. I'll have to ask all visitors to sit in the back of the room." The visitors shifted, and I fumed as Kurt went to sit at the far end of my row.

Langely discussed sonnets for the next hour. I took notes. It was a fascinating poetic form, and I resolved to try some outside my class assignments. Creativity inside strict boundaries and controls, a fascinating concept. At last it was time to share the poems we'd written for class.

There was some good stuff. Lots of sweetness and sunshine, you are the love of my life, you are my inspiration stuff. A few oh, you bitch, oh you bastard rants. I didn't volunteer, but waited till the others had done their pieces and sat down.

At last, Langely said, "Well, Miss Benoit? Or didn't you have enough practical experience to write about a lover's relationship?"

There were gasps I heard a desk scrape, and knew that Kurt was getting up, preparing to knock Langely through the wall. "Sit back down, Kurt." I said clearly, not looking around.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." I heard him take his seat again, and the class released a collective breath.

I got up and went to the front, standing beside his desk, like the other's had. "Where are your poems, Benoit? You're not wasting my time again, are you?"

I gritted my teeth, but kept my voice gentle. "I have copies. I'll turn them in before I leave. But I'm going to recite these."

"We wait with bated breath."

I stared at him a moment, then turned to the class and recited. I put my performing effort into that recitation, making my voice wistful and pained.

"Different Love. My existence was so empty, spending my life alone. Was I the only one with no one to call my own? I knew that I was different, that I had special needs. I kept them safely hidden. I know where frankness leads. Until that night when we first met and I could feel your heat. Eyes dark, hair full of shadows, crimson lips cruel, yet sweet. I spoke my fondest wishes, then waited for my fall. Laughter? Rage, or pity? Scorn? I have had them all. How could I know you'd understand and give my love your seal? But then you turned and locked the door, and slowly whispered, "Kneel."

The last word was a whisper, and it was very quiet in the room. Someone cleared their throat. One of the boys, the one who fancied himself the second coming of beat poetry, said, "That's fucking performance art. I know, I've seen people get paid to do shit, and that's art."

"Interesting." Langely's voice was hushed also. "You have another, Miss Benoit?" I studied him. I had been intending to recite 'Semantics', a humorous treatment of an obsessed stalker who sees himself as a dedicated lover. Instead, I decided to go with one that was much stronger.

This time, I didn't look away from Thomas Langely as I recited the poem. "It's called 'Seducer.' No one understands you, baby, do they now? No one tries to see the you that's real, that's deep inside. You could have the love you need so easily if you'd just give up your foolish pride and let me in. Because I know you..."

My voice was soft, persuasive. I was every seducer who'd ever offered understanding and acceptance, for a little price.

"I know your pain. I know your hopes and your dreams. I know the deep and the dark of your soul. I know you're not what your seem and I want you..."

*Sure, Thomas. I know what you're keeping hidden from all these other people. I know what you want. I know what you need. Scary, isn't it?*

"People gonna tell you what you want is wrong, try to make and mold you into what they think they need. Cut you with their scorn if you dare to break away. Beat you with their guilt till your soul is bruised and bleeding, but..."

Langely's fists were clenched in his lap. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he didn't look away.

"I know your pain. I know your hopes and desires, their like mine. Walk with me now through the fire to a place where love can be free. Let go the world and give in to me... You know you want to give in to me..."

The young man who'd called my first poem performance art spoke up, sounding dazed. "Mother fucker, that was beautiful. I got a hard on." I saw Kurt nodding agreement in the back row. Well, everything gave Kurt a hard on. The question was...

*Damn,* I thought. *I miscalculated.* He looked sick. His voice was ragged, "Class is dismissed." There was a moment of stunned stillness. Langely never dismissed early, not by a nanosecond. And if the bell rang while he was making a point, you'd damn sure better stay seated and attentive till he was done. Everyone rose and started out.

Kurt came up the aisle to meet me, as Langely stepped around the desk. Again he said, "We need to talk."

"Maybe you need to talk, Langely. I'm not so sure I do." Kurt was behind me, and I felt his hand on my shoulder.

Langely looked down at Kurt's hand. He went paper white, I actually saw the color drain out of his face. When he looked up at me, his gaze was a confusion of pain, rage, and heat. "Please."

I'd never heard him use the word except as sarcasm. I felt Kurt's hand tighten on my shoulder, and the pain in Langely's eyes kicked up a notch. Kurt whispered to me, "Possibilities, Emmie. Possibilities."

I've always heard that there are pivotal moments in everyone's life. I'd never thought of that in regards to myself.

I put my hand over Kurt's patting it. "Kurt, go on home. The professor wants a word with me. I expect he'll be willing to drive me home later."

"Have fun." Kurt winked at Langely and sauntered out. He was ambushed in the hall by a giggling redhead, and he had his arm around her waist as they left. The class room was empty, and we were alone.