The room was on the Upper East Side, about a fifteen-minute walk from Hunter.

That was the important part.

If I lived here, I could actually go to campus every day. No excuses about the train. No deciding that forty minutes each way wasn't worth it for one lecture. I could leave home at eight forty and still make a nine o'clock class.

The room itself was about the same size as the one I had now. I'd be sharing with five other people, all students, which was apparently a requirement for renting it.

Six people sounded like a lot.

Then again, three had somehow been complicated enough.

The building was six stories of dark red brick, with a black fire escape running down the front and enough window air conditioners to make the whole thing look slightly improvised.

The entrance sat three steps above the sidewalk beneath a stone arch that had probably looked impressive when it was built. Now it mostly made the building look old.

I could see myself living here.

The front door was propped open, so I went inside and climbed to the second floor.

Apartment 203 had enough names beside the doorbell that I had to check the number again.

Five names.

Right.

I was supposed to meet someone named Ethan.

I knocked.

A tan guy with dark hair opened the door. T-shirt, pants, sandals. He looked about my age.

“Hi. I'm Lillian. I'm here to see the room?”

“Ah, sure. Come in.”

He stepped aside, then turned toward the hallway.

“Ethan! Someone's here about the room.”

A Black man's head appeared around one of the doorways.

He looked at me and smiled.

Ethan came the rest of the way out of the room. He was wearing a shirt, pants, and a pair of very nice-looking sneakers. His hair was cropped short, and when he shook my hand, I caught the smell of vanilla.

His handshake was warm.

“Lillian. Perfect timing. Let me show you the room.”

He led me farther down the hallway and stopped at an open door.

The room was empty. Four walls, a window, and, somewhat unexpectedly, a small sink in one corner.

“Every room has its own sink. Bathrooms and showers are shared. We've got three toilets and two showers, and the hot water is tankless, so you don't have to worry about being last and getting a cold shower.”

He said that with the enthusiasm of someone who had apparently experienced the alternative.

“My mom had the place forever, and I took over the lease. Rent's stupid cheap by Manhattan standards, so we just split it. It's twelve hundred a month, paid on the fifteenth. Does that work for you?”

Six hundred dollars less than I was paying now.

“Yes.”

“Oh, and you're a student, right? We only accept students.”

“Registered and everything.”

I pulled my student ID from my wallet and handed it to him.

“Nice. So based on what you said in the email, you can move in on the first?”

“Yes. I'm paid up through November fifteenth at my other place, so unless I can get some of that back, this is going to be a little expensive. But I think it'll be worth it.”

“Cool. You need any help moving?”

“Thanks, but I'll hire people. Most of my stuff is going into storage. I'll bring the necessities, but not much else.”

He nodded.

“Okay then. Shake on it, and I'll see you next Thursday?”

That was apparently all it took.

I smiled and held out my hand.

“See you Thursday.”

The moving company had dropped off boxes yesterday, and I'd given myself the day to pack before they came at five to pick everything up.

Everything in the living room was going into storage.

Everything in my room was going to the new place.

Simple enough.

I was about halfway done when I heard the front door unlock.

Could it be Dan? He should be at work.

I went into the hallway and found Mia standing there with bubble tea and a bag that looked like it had food in it.

Crud.

This was not how this was supposed to happen.

Okay. Smile. There was no reason this had to be awful.

“Mia!”

I went straight over and hugged her.

“Should have said you were coming over,” I said in my best attempt at sounding warm.

Mia didn't smell like Mia anymore.

She used to smell of laundry detergent and cheap strawberry body wash. Now she smelled dry and woody, like wood shavings and forest air.

She smelled like Leah.

“Eh, I live here,” she said.

“No you don't.”

It came out with more bite than I intended.

“Oh my God, you brought food? I am starving.”

I wasn't really. I'd eaten a wrap about an hour earlier, but I couldn't reject Mia's food at the same time as I was rejecting her.

“Huh?”

Mia looked confused.

Just act normal. We can get through this.

She lifted the food and drinks. “Oh, right, yeah. I have banh mi and some bubble tea.”

“Oh, my favorite. Thank you.”

I took the bag from her and walked into the kitchen.

Favorite.

Wrong flavor of bubble tea and pork instead of beef.

Favorite adjacent.

Mia followed me into the kitchen.

“You’re moving? When were you planning to tell me?”

I bit my tongue and went with the lines I'd rehearsed.

“Our lease ends November fifteenth. I’m paying my part until then. After that, we would have had to negotiate something new with the landlord anyway.”

I let out a sigh. This was not going to plan.

“I was planning to tell you once I had all my stuff out of here.”

Mia looked shocked.

“What is happening, Lin? Where are you going?”

I sat down at the table, unwrapped my food, and took a bite. 

Remember the lines.

“I’ve been feeling different since we came back from Shelly’s wedding. I think you unlocked something in me. A new passion, or want. The video with Anna, the stuff at the school. It... refreshed me. Made the fog go away. Then the way you spoke to my friends and family about me made me realize I wasn't trying to be the person you saw me as. I wasn't working hard at school. I wasn't planning for the future. I was just... hanging around.”

I took another bite.

Eat. Chew. Swallow. Keep going.

“I’ve decided to focus on school. I want to attend more classes in person. I want to focus on my degree. I want to get this done, and I want to do it well.”

If I stopped, she'd start asking questions.

Mia looked around the room, pointing at all the boxes. “But why are you moving?”

“I found a room closer to Hunter. If I'm going to actually attend classes instead of doing everything I can online, I don't want an hour of my day disappearing on the train.”

Another bite. Keep going.

Mia looked puzzled. “Isn’t that more expensive than here?”

“I’m sharing with five other people. It’s twelve hundred a month, so I’m saving about six hundred.”

“Five other people?” Mia said, sounding shocked.

“It’s fine. They’re all students, so everyone is focused on school. Cutting out distractions. Really getting this done.”

Mia gave me a look.

“What distractions?”

Crud.

That wasn't one of the lines.

I looked down at my food.

There probably wasn't a nice way to answer that.

“I’m cutting things off with Dan, and...” I took a deep breath. “I want to create some distance between us.”

I didn't look her in the eye when I said it.

“I want you to stop texting me. No more sex, no more spending the night. I don’t want you visiting me or pulling me into anything. I want a clean break. Maybe once I get my footing, we can reconnect.”

I expected Mia to slap me. Or shout.

Instead, she was quiet.

I looked up. She was sitting across from me.

“Was I stopping you from studying?” she asked softly.

I closed my eyes.

Please don't ask the next question.

“No,” I said.

“Did I tell you not to get a job?”

“No.”

“Am I a burden?”

I opened my eyes and looked at her.

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then why do you have to get rid of me to become a better person?”

I sank down in my chair and tilted my head back, staring at the ceiling.

This was why I'd wanted to be gone before I told her.

“It’s not like that.”

“You are running away, Lin. You are not doing this because you suddenly care about your fucking GPA. You are doing this because I said I love you, and you decided that was too scary when you started feeling something for me.”

Okay, that hurt.

Mia stood up from her chair.

“You left Iowa, not because you wanted to move to New York, but because you wanted out of Iowa. You settled in here, and then you found me. But when I tell you I love you, you start feeling the same way, and Leah makes everything complicated, suddenly you need another fresh start. You can’t pick complicated, so you choose to run.”

I stood up and moved toward her.

This was getting worse.

Hug her. Calm her down. Get her out the door.

“I know you are angry, Mia, but... I want this. I need this.”

She started toward the door, avoiding my hug.

“I guess I’ll see you around,” she said as she touched the door handle. 

“Mia, wait.”

She looked back at me.

Her eyes were red. She was close to crying.

“What!?”

Damn. 

“I’m... sorry.”

It was all I had.

Mia turned back toward the door.

“Fuck you, Lin.”

She slammed it behind her.

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

Okay.

That could have gone worse.

At least it was over.

I went back to packing.

When I showed up, all my new roommates helped with the move.

Boxes were quickly moved into my room and stacked neatly against the walls. My bed was set up in no time, and the whole thing was over in less than thirty minutes.

Amazing what five guys could accomplish when they all decided to do something at the same time.

I was unpacking when Ethan knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to join them for dinner.

“Mateo's cooking, and not to be racist, but his Mexican is superior in basically every way.”

I accepted and joined everyone in the dining room.

They explained the system to me over dinner.

There was a shared food budget, and every day you could opt in for dinner. Cooking rotated between everyone who opted in. It was cheaper than everyone buying and cooking their own food. It meant you didn't end up with six versions of the same thing taking up the refrigerator, and it guaranteed at least one point during the day when everyone had a reason to be in the same room. 

Efficient, social, and designed to avoid arguments.

I liked it immediately.

Introductions happened somewhere between Mateo putting food on the table and everyone starting to eat.

Mateo Alvarez was twenty-five, Mexican-American, and studying architecture. He was also apparently responsible for dinner and most of the conversation.

“This is Noah Kim,” Mateo said, pointing across the table. “He does computers and judges us silently.”

Noah gave him a look.

“Computer Science.”

“See?”

Noah was twenty-four, Korean-American, with short black hair and glasses. He gave me a small wave.

“Hi, Lillian.”

“Hi.”

Next to him was Oliver Bennett, although everyone called him Ollie. He was twenty-seven, making him the oldest of us, and was doing his JD. He had light brown hair that was cut short and neatly styled.

“Ollie handles legal complaints,” Mateo said.

“I absolutely do not.”

“He'll tell you why your complaint isn't legally actionable.”

“That I might do.”

I smiled.

Dev Patel was twenty-three, Indian-American, and studying Film and Media Studies. He had thick black hair that curled slightly around his ears and a short beard.

The woman sitting beside him was Sophie Chen, his girlfriend. She was Chinese-American, also twenty-three, with long black hair and round glasses. She was studying Psychology.

“She doesn't live here,” Ethan explained.

“But I pay into the food fund,” Sophie added immediately.

“Very important distinction,” Mateo said.

“I eat here three or four nights a week. I'm not freeloading off you people.”

“She has her own shelf in the fridge,” Dev said.

“I pay for that too.”

I liked Sophie immediately.

That left Ethan Brooks, who I already knew. He was twenty-six, Black, had short-cropped hair, and was doing his master's in Mechanical Engineering.

Five roommates, one regular girlfriend, and me.

I repeated the names in my head.

Ethan. Mateo. Noah. Ollie. Dev. Sophie.

That wasn't too difficult.

“Alcohol budget isn't shared, by the way,” Ethan said as he opened a beer. “But I can spot you if you don't have anything with you.”

“I can trade you half a bottle of Jägermeister for a few beers if that feels fair?”

“More than fair. My crappy beer against proper German hard liquor. I like how that sounds.”

I laughed as he handed me a beer.

We had a good meal together. Mateo really did make some great Mexican food.

I got to know everyone a little better and gave them the safe-for-work version of my own history. I was from Iowa, had moved to New York four years ago, was studying History and Arts at Hunter, and had recently decided I should probably take the studying part more seriously.

There were several other details that didn't seem necessary on the first night.

After dinner, people slowly started filing out, either disappearing into their rooms or saying good night.

“Any lectures tomorrow?” Ethan asked.

“Nothing until two. Fridays are fairly quiet. I've got some chapters I need to catch up on, though.”

“Cool. Wanna watch something?”

I shrugged, grabbed my beer, and followed him into the living room. 

The couch was a huge U-shape, with several large chairs scattered around it. You could probably fit ten people in there comfortably.

The TV was enormous.

Eighty inches? Maybe more.

It took up almost the entire wall.

Ethan picked up the remote and turned on the TV.

“What do you want to watch?”

“What do you have?”

“Everything.”

“That seems unlikely.”

He opened an app with a yellow chevron that looked like half a play button.

There were a lot of movies and a lot of TV shows.

“Dev runs a server for the house. Movies, shows, whatever. If there's something you want and it isn't there, search for it, add it to the watchlist, and it'll mysteriously appear.” 

I looked through the library.

“So we don't need Netflix or anything?”

“Nope. Cancel all of it.”

That was another fifty dollars or so a month I could stop spending.

I was starting to like this place.

Ethan pointed the remote at me.

“Don't ask how.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“Good. If the FBI raids us, you have no idea what Dev was doing.”

“I don't know what Dev is doing now.”

“Perfect.” 

He browsed around in the movie section.

“You seen The Mummy?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I don’t trust people who haven’t.”

I had forgotten how good Brendan Fraser looked in this movie.

That was somewhat distracting.

We talked as the movie played. I learned a little about Ethan's family, and he learned a carefully edited version of mine.

By the time Imhotep was back at full power, Ethan had stretched his arm along the back of the couch.

I could have stayed where I was.

Instead, I leaned a little closer.

His arm dropped from the back of the couch and settled around my shoulders.

I smiled.

Okay.

I leaned closer again.

Ethan still smelled of vanilla. It had to be his shampoo or something. I took a deep breath, and he looked down at me.

“Something wrong?”

“No. Just smelling you.”

“Bad?”

“No, quite good, actually.”

He smiled at that and pulled me a little closer.

His arm was around my shoulders now, his hand resting directly over my left breast.

Okay.

That was fast, but not exactly wrong.

Maybe just some playing around tonight.

No sex.

I adjusted how I was sitting, bringing his hand closer against me.

He started moving it casually, and I could feel my nipple stiffening.

I looked up at him. He looked down at me and gave my boob a squeeze.

Smiling, I started running my hand along his leg.

Let's see who folds first.

He slipped his hand beneath my shirt.

Okay. Maybe I could fold first.

Handjob?

No. I am not a girl. I am a woman, and we give blowjobs.

But nothing more tonight.

Third base and done.

I undid his belt and opened his pants.

Size-wise, he wasn't as big as Dan.

Good. Nothing to fear, then.

I pulled him out of his underwear and discovered that he was clean-shaven. Not a look I was familiar with on guys, but nothing I objected to.

He stroked my head, and I sort of leaned into his hand before opening my mouth and sucking on his head.

A soft moan escaped him, and I felt him buck against me. I lifted my head with him.

I was giving head here, not getting facefucked.

He moved his hand away from my head and down to my butt. He gave it a squeeze and a light slap.

I shook my butt a little to show that I'd noticed, but kept working his dick.

Then I felt his hand slip beneath my pants and underwear and grab my butt cheek.

“Can you take off your pants? I want to see that ass.”

Sure, why not.

I was blowing him. He could look at my ass.

I got up and removed my pants, leaving my underwear on, then got back on the couch and continued the blowjob.

He went back to grabbing my butt cheek, and not long after that, I felt a finger slip into me.

A moan came out before I expected it.

Okay.

That did feel good.

Ethan clearly took that as encouragement and kept going. It made the blowjob considerably harder to perform, but I was no quitter.

Then another finger.

Another moan.

Fuck, Ethan. Why are you making this blowjob so difficult?

While I was still trying to recover, he used his other hand to lift my face toward his and kissed me, still fingering me.

When he pulled back, his voice was soft.

“It’s really hard for me to come from head. Are you on any contraception?”

I nodded.

“The pill.”

“Can I put it in you for a bit? I'll pull out. It’ll help me come.”

I looked at him for a second.

Third base and done.

Apparently that rule had lasted almost ten minutes.

I nodded, one hand still against his face while his fingers moved inside me.

“Okay.”

A tiny bit of sex, then.

He pulled my underwear to the side and slid his cock up and down between my lips a few times before entering me.

“Mmm, that feels good,” I said.

“God, you are so tight...”

I blushed.

I didn't think anyone had ever told me my pussy was tight before. It felt like a weird thing to be proud of, but I was.

We stayed like that for a while, with me straddling him as he pushed into me on the couch.

Then he moved me and stood up.

I thought he was about to come, so I started blowing him again. I'd rather swallow everything than get cum on my clothes.

He stood while I knelt on the couch, and I could taste myself on his dick.

It turned out Ethan wasn't ready to come just yet.

He moved behind me and entered me again, much deeper this time.

“Oh... I thought you were about to come for me,” I said.

“Not yet. Lean forward. Let me see your ass.”

I did, bending forward and putting my head down against the couch, lifting my ass for his inspection.

“Oh, that's nice. You have a very nice ass, Lillian.”

I smiled into the couch.

I was tight. I had a nice ass.

I really liked this sort of talk.

I felt his thumb circle my asshole.

Well, it was a really nice ass.

I pushed back against his thumb, feeling it slip in.

Ethan started to increase his pace, and I reached back between my legs and cupped his balls.

He suddenly stiffened, and I felt him twitch inside me.

Okay.

So he came inside me.

It was fine. I was on the pill.

He slid out and leaned back against the couch.

“That was amazing, Lillian. I'm sorry I came inside you, but when you grabbed my balls, I just couldn't control myself.”

I bit my lip.

Okay, this had gone a little further than I'd expected.

But I'd made him lose control.

That wasn't bad, right?

I leaned forward and kissed him.

“It was. We should do it again sometime.”

I gave him a wink, got up, and walked back to my room.

As the door closed, I felt cum running down my leg.

Okay, new goal. Ethan needs to be converted to a boyfriend. No more just sleeping around.

We are gonna be better here.

Chapter 2

Sophie was nineteen, and she carried her beauty like a secret she had never been allowed to tell.
She had grown up in a house where her father's word was law and her mother's obedience was the measure of a woman's worth. School meant religious instruction and the Bible. Clothes meant high-necked blouses buttoned to the throat, skirts that brushed her ankles, and undergarments meant only to conceal.

She had never been on a date. She had never been kissed by a boy who wasn't family. The world beyond her parents' faith had been something spoken of in warnings, not invitations.

Her body had not waited for permission.
She was twelve the first time her fingers found what prayer could not touch. For years after that it was only her own hand—under the covers late at night, behind a locked bathroom door, in the barn when the yard was empty.

She learned to be silent. She learned to leave no evidence. The shame never stopped the hunger. It only made the hunger sharper, more private, more difficult to pray away. By the time she was old enough to understand what she was reaching for, she had already been reaching for it a long time.

Uncle Frank did not happen until she was eighteen. Afterward she replayed him until the memory felt worn smooth—the weight of him, the taste of him, the way he had taken her and shown her what her body was for.

Other faces slipped in behind his: boys from church whose glances lasted too long, the neighbor who smiled at her as if he already knew, strangers glimpsed on the rare shopping trips into the city.

She would close her eyes and picture their hands, their mouths, the press of a body using her the way she craved to be used. She came with her hand between her thighs and her mouth crushed to the pillow, pleasure and disgrace knotted so tightly she could no longer tell them apart.

By nineteen the life laid out for her felt like a long hallway with no doors. Every sermon sounded like a lock turning. So she ran.
She went to her cousin Elena.

Elena was in her late thirties—attractive in the unapologetic way of a woman who knew it—twice divorced and financially settled. Men moved through her townhouse the way seasons did. She had always looked at Sophie with a glint that said she already knew what lived under the modest clothes and the careful voice.

She took her in without sermon and without surprise, as if Sophie's arrival had only been a matter of time.

A week passed with coffee and long talks, afternoons by the pool, evenings that taught Sophie the small grammar of Elena's world—wine, idle flirtation, the easy way a woman could watch a man walk through a room. Then one day Elena set down her glass and said it was time Sophie saw a doctor.

"You're coming along," she said, tapping a nail against the stem. "You're also starting to look at men like you mean it. Don't bother denying it. We need to get you on birth control. And I know just the doctor.."

Dr. Harlan was Elena's occasional companion: silver-haired, discreet, mid-fifties, with steady hands and a reputation for discretion. She had recently spent a long weekend with him at a ski resort—his flights, his suite, his nights, her body.

She owed him something in return. When Sophie arrived, the shape of that repayment became obvious. A thorough introduction to her young, beautiful cousin would more than settle the account.

They were the last appointment of the day. The waiting room was empty. The receptionist was already gone. Fluorescent lights hummed over unused chairs in the waiting room with a sterile kind of intimacy.

He met them in a wood-paneled office that smelled faintly of leather and antiseptic. Diplomas lined the wall. His eyes stayed a half-second too long on Sophie's bare shoulders and the short hem of the sundress Elena had given her.

Elena made the introductions with theatrical warmth. "This is my dear cousin Sophie. The one I told you about. She needs a full examination—and probably some form of birth control."
His hand was warm and dry. The handshake lasted a beat past polite.

"A pleasure," he said. "Elena mentioned you. But she failed to mention how striking you are."
Sophie looked down at her sandals, heat already climbing her throat.

Elena settled into a leather chair with a novel and waved them off. "Go on, then. I'll wait here. Don't be too thorough, Doctor. She's delicate."

His mouth curved. "I'm always professional."

He led Sophie down a short hallway to the examining room—white tile, a cushioned table with a paper roll, cabinets of gleaming instruments. The door clicked shut behind them.

The air was cool and smelled of alcohol wipes.

"Have a seat," he said.

She perched on the edge of the table. The sundress rode up just above her knees. She tugged at the hem, but the cotton was thin, and the afternoon light from the window traced the line of her thighs anyway.

The doctor rolled a stool in close enough that she caught his cologne—woody, expensive—and did not rush. His gaze moved from her face to her collarbones to the smooth length of her legs, and he let it stay there long enough to be counted.

"You really are quite pretty, Sophie," he said, unhurried. "Elena undersold you. And you have beautiful legs—long, smooth. A lot of women would envy that."

She tugged the hem again. "Thank you, Doctor."

"I'm not being polite. I'm stating a fact. You're a beautiful young woman. Men are going to notice you. They already do."

She didn't know what to do with praise delivered that slowly. It felt like being looked at with the lights on.

"Now," he said, "I need to ask you some personal questions. Please understand—these are nothing we don't ask all our patients."

He pulled a clipboard onto his lap and clicked a pen, but he didn't look down at it. He watched her fidget instead.

"Let's start simply. Have you ever had sexual intercourse?"

Her throat tightened. She stared at a crack in the ceiling tile. "Yes," she whispered. "Once. When I was eighteen."

"Who was the boy?"

"My uncle. Uncle Frank."

His eyebrows rose a fraction. His face stayed composed.

"Was it against your will?"

She twisted her fingers in her lap. "No. I wanted it. I'm embarrassed to say it, but I encouraged him. I was raised to believe sex was a sin—that you could be punished even for touching yourself. I knew it was wrong. I knew a cousin who was sexually active, and I wanted to know what that felt like too."

She looked up, eyes wet. "Was I wrong to do it, Doctor?"

He held her gaze, then shook his head. "No Sophie. Desire lives on a spectrum. From what you're telling me, you may sit toward the high end of it. That's all right."

He glanced at the clipboard, then back at her.
"Did your uncle engage in foreplay?"

The word itself made her flinch. "I think I know what you mean. He kissed me. He put his hands under my clothes. He—touched me until I was wet. Then he pushed my skirt up."

He made a small note.

"What position were you in when he entered you?"

Sophie blinked, caught off guard. The air in the room felt suddenly thinner.

"Doctor," she said, her voice small, "do we have to do this? These questions—they're so personal. I don't understand why you need to know all of it."

Dr. Harlan's expression did not change, but something behind his eyes hardened. He set the clipboard down and leaned forward.

"Sophie, I understand this is uncomfortable. But I need you to understand something in return. These questions are not optional. They are a necessary part of your examination. Your sexual history—your habits, your desires, your experiences—all of it is relevant to your health. I cannot treat you properly if I don't understand you."

He paused, letting that sit.

"I have been patient. I have been kind. But I will not tolerate being challenged in my own office. When I ask you a question, you will answer it. Clearly and honestly. Do you understand?"

She felt like a child being scolded—small, ashamed, and left with no room to move. She nodded, eyes on her lap.

"Yes, Doctor. I'm sorry. I understand. I'll answer."

"Good girl," he said, the edge leaving his voice only slightly. "Now, what position?"

"On, on my back. On the sofa. He was on top of me."

As she spoke she saw Dr. Harlan shift. He uncrossed his legs and crossed them again. The fabric of his trousers pulled tight across his lap.
Her eyes flicked down before she could stop them.

The bulge was unmistakable—thick, distinct, straining against the cloth. He had just dressed her down for questioning him, made her feel foolish for even asking—and he was hard. He was not even trying to hide it.

He noticed the glance. He did not adjust himself. He did not cover himself. He let the moment stretch until she understood that he meant her to see it.

"Is something wrong, Sophie?" he asked, calm as ever.

She shook her head quickly. "No, Doctor. I'm sorry."

"Good. Now let's continue."

"Did he ejaculate inside you?"

"No. He pulled out and—spilled on my stomach."

"And did you perform oral sex on him?"

Her cheeks burned. She looked at the floor, then at his hands, then away again.

"I'm sorry. I understand why you need this. I do. It's only—those words were never spoken in my house. Not ever. I can tell you. It may take me a moment."

He waited. He did not help her.

"Yes," she said at last. "Afterwards. He made me use my mouth."

"I understand. How long was his penis?"

She stared at him. "I—I don't—"

"Estimate, Sophie. I need it for your history."

She swallowed. "It was big. Long. Thick. I couldn't fit all of it in my mouth."

He made a note. "Did you enjoy it? Did you like having him inside you?"

Shame flooded her face. "Yes," she said, barely audible. "I came. It hurt at first, and then it didn't. I wanted it. I still think about it all the time."
"Should I not have enjoyed it? Does that make me a bad person?"

"Enjoying sex doesn't make you a bad person. It makes you human. You were taught that wanting was a failing. That is not the same thing as the truth about your body."

He let the words settle, then went on.
"Most girls, once they begin, tend to continue. You've only done it once. Why is that?"

"Because I lived in such a restrictive environment I had no chance. After it happened I felt so guilty I prayed for forgiveness and scrubbed my skin raw. I tried to forget it. I couldn't. I just—couldn't stop wanting it. And I didn't know how to get it without becoming the girl my parents warned me about."

"So you ran to Elena."

"Yes."

"And now you're here. Still wanting. Still confused."

She nodded.

He tapped the pen once against the clipboard.

"Next subject. When you touch yourself—and I know you do—how often would you say you do it?"

"Three or four times a week," she whispered. "Sometimes more."

"How long does it usually take you to reach climax?"

"Five to ten minutes. Sometimes less if I'm already turned on."

"And what turns you on?"

Shame and honesty pulled in opposite directions. "Thinking about Uncle Frank. Thinking about being watched. Men watching me touch myself."

"Do you ever fantasize about being forced?"

She looked away. "Sometimes."

"And when you have that fantasy, what does it look like?"

"Always the same," she said. "Two men. At a party. At a big house. They take me into a bedroom. They use me. I can't stop them. I don't want to stop them."

"What are you wearing?"

She hesitated, embarrassed. "Things I've only seen in magazines. A pretty party dress—short, so men will look. Stockings. Nice lingerie. Lace panties. Things I don't have. Things I think I'd like."

"And that excites you."

"Yes. It makes me come faster."

He set the pen down and studied her for a long moment.

"Do you know the average frequency of masturbation is for a woman your age?"

She shook her head.

"About once or twice a week. Sometimes less. Three or four times a week—more, as you described—is on the higher end. That isn't wrong. It tells me your libido is stronger than average."

He let her absorb it.

"You have had sex once, and you think about it constantly. You fantasize about being taken, watched, used. Most women that driven would have sought more by now. You haven't."
"You said the house stopped you. What's stopping you now that you're out of it?"

"Because I'm scared," she said. "Scared of what it means. Scared of becoming the girl my parents warned me about. A bad girl."

He shook his head slowly. "You're not a bad girl, Sophie. You may be a very sexual girl who was never given room to find out what that meant. That isn't a sin. It's a hunger. And hunger, when it isn't fed, becomes overwhelming. It can make you feel as if you're out of control."

She looked at him, eyes glistening. "Is that what I am?"

"Not yet," he said. "But I think you're close."
He let the silence sit.

"One more thing," he said. "When you sat down on that table—were you already damp, or did that happen while we were talking?"

Sophie stared at him. The question was so bald it left her with nowhere to look but her own lap.

He didn't wait long. "I need you to be specific. Are your panties wet, Sophie?"

Her face burned. She could feel it now that he had named it—the thin, unmistakable cling of cotton against her. Her knees pressed together beneath the hem of the sundress, a reflex she couldn't stop, and the paper crinkled faintly under her thighs.

"I—" Her voice thinned. "They are. It happened while we were talking."

He nodded once, as if she had confirmed a note he had already written.

"And did it happen when we were talking about your history or your fantasy?"

"I, I don't remember. I guess it was my fantasy. The thought of being forced really turns me on."

"Thank you. That concludes the interview section of your exam. If it's alright with you, now we'll move to the physical."

Sophie could not get the bulge in his trousers out of her mind, or the look in his eye. She could not stop picturing his hands on the paper, on the table, on her. Her heart was loud in her throat.

She no longer knew if she was sitting across from a doctor or a predator.

He rose and crossed to a cabinet, his back to her for a moment. When he turned, he was holding a pair of gloves.

Sophie swallowed. "Yes, Doctor."

The first one comes through and I'm already hard before I open it.

You, in the red lace I picked, in a mirror I don't recognize. You're biting your lip; you're nervous. I can see it in the way you hold your hips that you're wanting it. You didn't send a caption. You didn't need to.

I save it. I look at it. I wait.

The second one is you from behind, bent over a bed I've never seen, the lace pulled aside; you're reaching back, and I can see how slick you are. I feel my cock strain against my jeans.

The third one comes through. His hand on your hip, his cock invisible in you, and your mouth open in a sound I can almost hear. I stare at it and I feel something dark and hot twist in my chest.

The fourth image dings. Him still buried in you, your ass against his hips, your eyes shut. Your hand is gripping the headboard. I stare at it. At you. I wait.

The fifth is your face. Eyes half closed with black tears. Mouth open. You look gone, and I know that look and I know it's not for me. I feel my cock throb.

The sixth is the worst. You're looking straight at the camera and your eyes are wet and your lip is trembling and there's his cum running down your chin from your lips, You're looking up at him. The caption is two words:
Not yours.

I close the phone. I put my head back. I breathe.

The door opens.

You're there, in the doorway, the red wet lace hanging off you, his cum dripping to your chest. You look at me and you don't say anything.

"Get over here."

You cross to me and I don't stand and I pull you down onto my lap facing me and I rip the lace off. I feel how wrecked and wet you are as I slide into you. Your hands fly to my shoulders and I grip your hips to fuck you harder. I make you look at me.

I feel your walls clench and I push deeper. I feel you cum around me and I don't pull out.

"I saved all six. You're going to show me them again, one by one, while I'm inside you. You're going to tell me how you felt."

"Yes, Sir."

I reach for the phone and I open the first photo and turn your head to look at it.

You start to tell me.

"Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger, This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die."

The chalk scraped against the blackboard, but Brock wasn't listening to the lesson. He was admiring the curves of Helena's back, the way her tailored waist skirt struggled gloriously to contain the generous swell of that ass. Her voice was a mere background hum to accompany the grace of her shifting hips… He was tracing that line with his tongue.

"So, can anyone tell me why Romeo. In his despair, chooses the potion?”

Ms. Helena is a potion, I wonder what she smells like. No, tastes like after a workout. Mmmmmm 

A warm, familiar breath tickled his ear from the seat next to him. "Wake up, sweetie," a whispered voice that belonged anywhere else but a lecture hall.

“How about you, Brock? Do you have anything other than my scent?”

His eyes jolted, his mind went blank. Brock opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked around the class for an answer, only to see his mom sitting next to him, her eyes full of warm amusement. "Mom? What are you doing in my class?" And damn! Does dad know about this schoolgirl uniform?! Lucky bastard!

Mom just giggled and leaned closer. "Of course he doesn't know, silly-boy. Now wake up, Brocky."

The room dissolves. A gigantic pair of breasts cast a shadow over the classroom. 

CRASHHH!

A ruler smashes down, destroying his desk. “Brock Daniels–” Ms. Helena roared, looming over the class. 

WAKE UP!

------------------------

Brock's eyes cracked open. The first thing he felt was a shocking, biting cold of his comforter's absence on his groins, and the heavy, pinning weight of a body directly on his rock-hard morning wood. A low, guttural growl vibrated through his shaft and down to his balls. He blinked, the contest of Ms. Helena vs mother in schoolgirl uniform faded like smoke. Dammmn… A blurry shape loomed above him. 

The growl came again, a wet, hungry sound that was anything but… Human. Mmmmmmm… Mom, is that you? A woman was standing over him, she had a beautiful drooling smile with a slack jaw open. Smooth green skin covered in scars. And the most delightful scent of lavender and rotten meat… Opaque white eyes? Brock’s vision sharpened, and his blood turned cold. It was mom. wearing the tattered, blood-stained silk nightgown he'd last photographed her in.

ZOMBIE! MOM'S A FREAKING ZOMBIE!

He screamed. His arms shot up, palms flat against her shoulders, shoving with all his might. But, it was useless. She was an immovable body of dead weight, her strength was horrifying. As she snarled and pushed down, her face descending toward his throat, her body shifted. The torn neckline of her nightgown gaped, and her massive, heavy breasts swung free, spilling across his chest. A jolt, electric and wrong, shot through him. The weight was immense, a terrifying pressure that stole his breath, but it was a pressure he had fantasized about for years. 

Dammit. I dreamed about this moment so differently. 

He felt the pebbled texture of her cold nipple drag across his skin, and a sick thrill cut through his panic. In his fantasies, her flesh was warm, alive. This was a perversion of that dream, it was better. The sheer weight of her, the object of a thousand secret jerk-off sessions, was now the thing threatening to crush him. His cock throbbed in ecstasy. 

But something was in the way.

As she forced her body down, her stomach pressed against the rigid, fleshy barricade of his own cock. It was the only thing holding her back. Her dead, unyielding flesh was no match for the sheer, unyielding length of his big-cock. She grunted in frustration, a mindless beast confused by the obstacle between her and her meal. She couldn't get close enough to bite. She couldn't shift her weight to get past it. His erection was the only thing keeping him alive.

He was losing. Her strength was overwhelming, her weight and the suffocating softness of her breasts slowly pushing the air from his lungs. And then, just as her cold breath ghosted across his face, the fight drained out of him. The world without her... what was the point? He stopped struggling, his arms falling limp at his sides. He looked into the hungry growling face of the woman he loved.

"Mom," he whispered, a tear rolling down his cheek. With a ragged breath, he spoke. "Mom, I love you. Not just... not just like a son. I love your cooking. I love your hugs. I love your smile. And I... I love your massive boobs. Your humongous butt. Watching your hips when you walk. Your feet, and the way you paint your toenails. God, I love the smell of your dirty panties too..." His voice cracked in his throat. "A world without you... Is not a world worth living!"

He closed his eyes, a final, broken smile on his face. "So just do it, eat me, or whatever. I love you Brenda..."

But his mother, the zombie, didn't bite. With a frustrated snarl, she shifted her weight, trying to lunge past the fleshy barricade pinning her to his chest. Her body slid up, and Brock felt the slick tip of his cock drag down the soft plane of her stomach. She grunted, a mindless beast and pushed up one last time to get at his face. 

It was the opening she needed. The opening his big-dick needed.

SQUELCH

Her body came crashing down. But her teeth never found his throat. There was a wet, tight, impossible heat engulfing his cock. A sound ripped from her throat, not a growl, but a long, shuddering moan. An identical sound, a virgin's gasp of shock and pleasure, tore from Brock's lips.

His eyes squeezed shut, bracing for the end. But this... this wasn't death. A wave of warmth, more intense than anything he'd ever felt, on his cock. Is this what dying feels like? he thought, his mind reeling. Shit, why did nobody ever tell me this? Or is it just the feeling of getting eaten up by your own mother? It kinda feels like... Jerking-off… But better…

His zombie mom was a beast of conflicting instincts. Her target was denied, replaced by a new, more potent sensation. As she moved, something was changing. A searing heat bloomed from his cock, a life-giving fire that was forcing its way into her dead core. Her movements, initially jerky and mechanical, became more fluid, more purposeful. She was no longer just trying to escape; she was trying to consume. He heard her breathing change from the guttural growls to something resembling human gasps as she began to ride him in earnest. Her massive ass slammed down, taking every inch of his monstrous cock until, with a wet, percussive thump, the head speared through the tight barrier of her cervix and sank deep into the waiting channel of her womb. 

PLAP-PLOP-PLAP

Her dead limbs trembled not with weakness but with reawakening nerves. With each downward plunge, he felt her internal muscles clench around him, not with zombie strength but with a desperate, involuntary human response. Her humongous ass, a thing he had only ever dreamed of, rose and fell with increasing rhythm, the flesh becoming warmer, softer, more alive with each wet slap against his thighs. The frame groaned in protest with every punishing impact. 

SHLAP-PLOP-SHLAP

A jolt of electric pleasure shot through Brock. Mmmmmm Yeahhh Mooommmm

The zombie instinct flickered. The hunger was a dull thrum, drowned out by a new directive. The slick fluid leaking from the boy inside her was rewriting her impulses. Eat... her brain moaned. ...FUCK... her body answered. She was riding him, a desperate pursuit of the feeling his big cock forced into her.  

THWAPPP-SQUEEELCH 

Brock's eyes were still shut, his hands gripping her thick thighs. He was instinctively thrusting his hips up to meet hers, matching the rhythm as she dropped her wide hips down his huge cock. He wasn't thinking, he was just feeling. The wet heat, the rhythmic pressure, the sounds she was making. It was the most exhilarating moment of his life. He could feel something building deep inside him, a pressure he'd coaxed out himself countless times, but this was a tidal wave. With a final, soul-crushing downward thrust of her huge ass, the pressure burst. 

Uwaaah! “Mom!" he cried out, his eyes flying open for a second as he blew his load deep inside his mother's convulsing pussy.

She collapsed beside him, her entire body going rigid, then limp. A long, shuddering sigh escaped her lips, ghosting across his cheek before... silence. Brock, panting and covered in sweat, lay there, a blissful, stupid smile on his face. He had died. I think? And it was amazing.

Brock's eyes fluttered open. He wasn't dead. A familiar ceiling of glowing star stickers he'd put up as a kid was still there. He turned his head, and his breath caught. His mom was lying beside him, not a monster, but just... Mom. Her chest rose and fell with the soft, steady rhythm of deep sleep. He reached out, his fingers trembling, and when they made contact with her arm, it wasn't cold, but warm and pulsing. The sickly green was gone, replaced by the peachy tone he knew from childhood. She was cured.

His eyes traveled down to her massive, bare breast right next to his head, a warm, soft mountain of flesh. A wave of pure, exciting joy washed over him. It was a miracle. A dream come true. He didn't hesitate. With a triumphant whoop, he dove face-first into the valley of her cleavage, motorboating with the giddy excitement of a kid on Christmas morning. Mmmph-Mmmph! he cheered into her soft skin, his hands coming up to fondle the incredible weight of her M-cup breasts. He was still alive! This was the best day of his life. 

But after a few minutes of heaven, a familiar sensation drew him away. The post-nut-clarity. He pulled away, panting, and looked down. His cock was still hard and a mess. It was covered in a thick, sticky sheen of his own cum, mixed with something else... His eyes followed the single, glistening strand that connected his tip to his mom's pussy, which was peeking out from the torn ruin of her nightgown. Her cunt was oozing with his cum, a thick steady river of it flowed from her and onto the sheets.

It finally clicked. The moan. The bouncing. The heat.

Oh my god, I fucked mom. Hell yeah! Take that dad!

Brock grinned and scrambled over the side of the bed. He fished out a locked metal box containing his: his Ultra-Secret, Not-Girly-At-All Diary. He flipped to the bucket list and wrote:

"MAJOR LIFE GOAL REACHED: FUCKING MOM AND LOSING MY VIRGINITY. TAKE THAT DAD, I’M GONNA MAKE HER ADDICTED TO MY COCK!"

He was so consumed by his triumphant entry that he didn't hear the low guttural groan behind him. He didn't see the shadow fall over him. A cold, dead hand grabbed his shoulder, and Brock let out a high-pitched squeal of pure terror.

------------------------

He looked up into the face of his mother, Brenda. There was no violence in her eyes, only a soul-deep horror as she stared at her own hands. "Brock! Oh my god, what was I about to do to my poor baby?" she cried, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug, smothering his face against her chest and surrounding him with the soft, overwhelming weight of her ample breasts.

"Don't worry, I'm fine," Brock said, his voice muffled against her skin as he shamelessly nuzzled deeper into her cleavage, melting into her warmth. "But... do you remember anything?"

Brenda's shuddering calmed, and she placed a soft, trembling kiss on his head. "Only... only that I had to get in here to eat my sweet little bear," she whispered, her voice cracking. A deep, burning blush spread across her cheeks as the memories flooded back, every depraved confession, every detail he'd whispered, including the part about her stolen underwear. 

Brock pulled away, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face as he rose to his feet. He puffed out his chest. "Well, I saved you, Mom. With my cock." He looked her naked body up and down, his gaze possessive. "I guess that makes me the man-of-the-house now."

Brenda gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "I... I thought that was my imagination." Her eyes drifted down, past his stomach, and landed on his huge semi-erect cock. Her eyes widened even further. It wasn't just big; it was a monster.

That's when Beatrix, with a feral snarl, burst through the bedroom doorway. She lunged, but her foot slipped on a discarded t-shirt, sending her tumbling forward. Her mouth opened in a zombie snarl as she fell, and instead of biting his thigh, she impaled her face directly onto his massive cock, taking a third of it down her throat in one go. 

AHHHHHH! “MY DICK! SHE'S GONNA BITE IT OFF! HOW AM I GONNA FUCK MOM AGAIN!" Brock shrieked in terror. 

SHLURRP-GRK-GLURRK 

But the bite never came. Instead, a strange sound filled the room. It started as a wet, choking noise, then transformed into a low, rhythmic gurgle. Brock's shrieks of terror began to melt into guttural moans. His hands, which had been raised in defense, slowly came to rest on the back of his sister's head. His eyes rolled back into his head.

Brenda crept forward in horrified disbelief, pressing her massive, soft breasts firmly against his back. Her hands gripped his shoulders as she leaned her head over, her cheek touching his, trying to make sense of the sight. Her warm breath tickled his ear as she stared, utterly confused. Her sweet Beatrix, her zombie daughter... she was deepthroating her brother. And from this close, she could see everything: the way her daughter's throat bulged and worked around his shaft, the blissful look on her son's face, the impossible size of him stretching her esophagus. 

GURRG-GURRG-GLUP-PLOP

The sound of the final pop echoed in the sudden silence. Brock's eyes, which had been rolled back in bliss, slowly focused. He looked down at his sister, who was smiling a vacant, blissful smile before slumping sideways onto the floor, asleep and cured. A wave of triumph washed over him. He had done it again. He then felt a presence at his side, a familiar warmth and the soft tickle of breath on his ear. 

He turned his head to see his mom, Brenda. Her expression was of awe, a raw, undisguised hunger that had nothing to do with brains. But everything to do with big-dicks. She had seen her daughter take a horse size cock down her throat and drink a copious amount of his cum, and she wanted next. 

As Beatrix slumped to the floor, Brenda's hand shot out, completely ignoring her daughter, to wrap her fingers around the massive, glistening girth of his shaft. Her fingers couldn't even meet. She leaned in, kissed his cheek, and her hungry whisper. "I hear you fantasize about me, Brock. Show mommy what you do to me." 

A slow, lazy grin spread across his face. He didn't answer with words. He spun his mom around, gripping her wide hips, and bent her over the side of his bed. She spread her legs apart with eager anticipation, reaching between her thighs to guide his massive cock inside. He was already rock-hard again. He lined the slick head up with her entrance as she stroked the tip, her own hips rocking back, desperate for him. 

He was about to ruin his mother when a new sensation made him freeze. A warm, wet pressure was bathing his balls. He looked down. Beatrix was awake, her eyes clear and full of adoration. She was lovingly kissing and sucking his testicles, her tongue swirling in a way that made his entire body clench and a fresh drop of pre-cum bead on the tip of his cock. 

Brenda looked back over her shoulder, a devious smile on her face. "What's the matter, Brocky? Scared of Mommy's pussy?" she purred, reaching back to spread her cheeks wide, exposing her slick entrance as she wiggled her ass.

That was all the invitation Brock needed. With a guttural groan, he slammed deep, burying every inch of his monstrous cock in his mother's hungry cunt. He began a hard, pounding that shook the entire bed. He gripped her love-handles, his fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh of her waist, and watched her humongous ass rippled with every powerful thrust, then clenched tight as if to keep him from pulling back. 

PLOP-PLOP-PLOP

The sight, the feel, the sheer reality of it all was too much. He was a virgin, after all. With a loud, desperate cry, he slammed in one last time and emptied himself inside her, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm.

Brock pulled out, his cock still rock-hard and glistening with their combined fluids. Before Brenda could even catch her breath, Beatrix was there, her eager mouth sealing over his tip, sucking away the last drops of his cum. Brock let out a groan, then, with a swift, decisive movement, he pulled free from his sister's lips and slammed back into his mother's waiting cunt. He leaned over her, his voice a low growl against her ear.

"I'm only getting started."

Brenda screamed, a mix of shock and pure ecstasy, as he immediately set a punishing pace. Beatrix mewled. "Soooo, what about dad?"

Brenda was lost in a haze of pleasure, her son's thick cock stretching her in ways she'd never imagined. Between moans, she managed to gasp out, "Yeah... him?" Then, as a particularly hard thrust made her eyes roll back, he panted the final, definitive words. 

"Sorry Mom, but I'm not saving Dad."

CW: Added a dubcon tag as the woman is surprised by the additional men but does consent to it

Link to Part 1: The Visitor [M40s/F30s] [gentle dom] [praise] [straight] [oral] [anal] : r/EroticWriting

Connie awoke to a cock being pressed against her lips. It took her a moment to remember where she was and whose cock it was. Rick, she thought to herself as she opened her mouth and took his member inside of her. It tasted funny, but then she remembered he’d fucked her pussy and her ass the night before, he must not have showered yet. She looked up into his cool blue eyes as he slid more of himself into her willing mouth. Gagging on his dick, she did her best to take it all; Rick was the perfect man for her and she knew she only had a couple of nights with him.

Her pussy dampened as he patted her head and said, “Good girl.” She bobbed up and down faster and harder, the wet sounds of oral sex filling the room. Connie got more into it, positioning herself so she could cup his balls as she sucked his member. Working her tongue over the head and shaft as she took every inch of him into her mouth she relished his moans and gasps.

Rick started thrusting his hips, plunging his cock as deep into Connie’s mouth as it would go. He had woken up next to her, aching and rock hard. Seeing her beautiful nude body next to his he couldn’t help but have some fun before work, he didn’t have a lot of time so a face fuck was on the menu for breakfast. It would have to do for now, he knew they’d have more fun tonight. Her talented tongue combined with his fucking caused him to cum quicker than he had expected; he didn’t warn her but simply grunted as he filled her mouth with cum.

Connie gagged as his cum flooded her mouth; the now familiar salty taste turning her on even more. She wanted, needed him to fuck her. Swallowing as quickly as she could, she managed to take it all without spilling a single drop. 

Rick smiled down at her and she felt herself blush, “I have to shower head to the office,” he told her, “I left a copy of the room key for you and if you want to stay for a while and order room service, feel free.” Connie felt a slight sense of disappointment that all he wanted was a blow job. Seeing the look on her face, Rick smiled, “I’ll be back by 5, and I expect you to be here. I’ll have some… surprises.” He leaned in and gave Connie a kiss, he could taste the remnants of his own cum on her lips.

***

Connie enjoyed the free room service before heading to her own job at a coffee shop downtown, not far from the hotel. The entire day all she could think about was Rick; the way he felt, the way he smelled, the way he tasted. Her pussy was damp her whole shift; she even spent part of her lunch break on the toilet stroking herself to a light orgasm. She texted a picture of the mess she’d made to Rick, only for him to reply, Naughty girl, you’re going to need to be punished for that. The words made her want to masturbate again, but she knew she had to save herself.

After work, she walked to the hotel Rick was staying at; it was only 10 minutes from her work. She arrived in the lobby a few minutes before 5, but waited until her phone read 4:59 before heading up to his room. As the elevator doors opened and she walked towards his room, she felt nervous again; she deeply wanted him but worried about what her punishment might be.

Pressing the keycard against the lock, it beeped and turned green and she entered his hotel room once more. Rick stood by the bed, smartly dressed in a polo shirt, sports coat, and black jeans; Connie was disappointed he wasn’t naked. She noticed that the bed now had restraints attached to each of the four bed posts and Rick was holding a blindfold. “Strip, slut.” He ordered her.

Connie obeyed, pulling off the loose fitting white shirt revealing her sensible grey bra which she unhooked and dropped to the floor, allowing her large tits to drop free from the restraint. They sagged slightly and Connie could see Rick lick his lips as she started to pull down her black pants. She had taken her panties off earlier when she masturbated and hadn’t put them back on, so her pussy was on full display as she kicked her pants off her legs. 

“On your hands and knees,” Rick ordered as soon as she was naked. Connie got on the bed and Rick strapped her wrists and ankles to the bed, leaving her vulnerable and on display. Then the world went dark as he tied the blindfold around her eyes. The straps were padded and comfortable despite restricting her movement. As she sat there, prone and on display, Rick started caressing and kneading her pale, round ass.

“How was your day?” He asked as casually as if they were colleagues meeting in a break room instead of virtual strangers with her tied up in a hotel room.

G…good,” she gasped, moaning slightly as he spread her ass cheeks, “It was slow at the coffee shop today.”

Leaning in close, he enjoyed the scent of her desire, but resisted the urge to lick her; that would come later. “I’m glad,” he said before suddenly getting off the bed, “Well, I have to meet a couple of clients for drinks down in the lobby, I’ll be back later.”

“Wh… what?” Connie gasped, realizing he intended to leave her here alone all tied up.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, she could hear the smugness in his voice, “I’ll be back soon and I’ll leave you some company.”

Wondering what he meant, Connie heard a low buzz and felt a vibrator enter her soaking pussy. “AHHHHHH!” She cried out. Rick held the u-shaped WeVibe for a moment, making sure it would stay in place. He had set it on its lowest setting which would tease her, but hopefully not cause too many orgasms. Connie heard the door close as he left, the feeling of the small vibrator on her clit causing her to pant and moan.

She didn’t really know how long Rick had been gone for when she heard the sound of the door opening and she was a quivering, soaking mess. The vibrator had brought her to an orgasm at one point, but slipped out afterwards and teased her by buzzing uselessly on the bed. “Rick, please I need cock!” Connie cried out into the void around her.

“You’re a cock hungry slut, aren’t you?” He replied, asking her a question to which he already knew the answer.

“Yes!” She cried, “I need to be fucked!”

“Beg, beg for any cock to fuck you.” He commanded.

“Please,” she said, her body quivering, “I need to be fucked, any one right now, I’m so desperate and needy.” 

She heard the sound of a belt and pants falling to the ground and felt the weight of Rick getting on the bed behind her. Wiggling her ass, she was inviting him to fuck her, his strong hands grasped her hips and thrusted in; filling her in one motion. “AHHHHHH!” She cried out, he felt different than the times they had fucked last night but she couldn’t tell why. Maybe a little smaller? Maybe the drinks weakened his erection? Whatever the difference she didn’t care, she had a cock inside of her and that’s all she needed at the moment.

He started thrusting, short, deep strokes, barely pulling out before thrusting back in. His hands caressed and kneaded her ass, spreading her cheeks as he fucked her. “Ohhhh yessss,” she hissed as her pussy flooded, coating his cock with her juices. The feeling of him being inside of her made her convulse, thrashing against the restraints which held her in place. He started fucking her harder, her ass jiggling with every thrust inside. 

“Oh god, oh god, yes fuck my slutty cunt!” Connie cried out, her heavy tits swaying with every jab of his cock into her. “I’m… I’m… AHHHHHHHHH!” She cried out as she came again, her pussy gripping the cock causing him to explode inside of her.

“You’re right Rick, she is a hot piece of ass,” a strange voice called out as a hand slapped her ass.

“What… what’s going on, where’s Rick?” Connie asked in a panic, he was here before.

“It’s okay, I’m right here.” She felt his hand pat her head, comforting her, “Remember that fantasy we had about me bringing friends over to fuck you?” Connie nodded, listening, “Well, when I told my friends here that I had to leave drinks to go back to my room they asked why and I invited them up.”

“B… but I didn’t know,” Connie cried out in the dark, blindfold still covering her eyes.

“Shhhh,” Rick said and patted her head again, “You had fun, didn’t you? This is something you’ve always wanted, always craved.”

Connie thought for a moment, she did love it, and knowing it was a stranger was causing a tingling sensation deep in her loins. Seeing her reaction, Rick continued, “Now, would you like my other friend to have a turn? Or should I send them away?”

Connie could only nod, her needy little pussy wanted more. She felt the other man climb on top of the bed behind her and slowly fill her; his friend’s cum acting as lube as his cock stretched her. This man felt slightly bigger than Rick, almost but not quite uncomfortably so. 

“AHHHHHH,” She gasped loudly as the man started slowly rocking back and forth, letting her stretch to accommodate him. She felt a sting as his hand came down hard on her ass, he was being gentle with her cunt but hard on her ass.

Knowing that Rick’s ruse was over, the man’s deep voice talked dirty to her as he worked her pussy. “Mmmm, been a while since I had a whore this tight,” He laughed as he started really fucking her.

“I’m… not… a… whore!” Connie gasped as he worked her tight cunt, but the man’s crude talk was turning her on even more and he knew it.

Reaching over, he grabbed her hair and pulled on it as he fucked her, “That’s right, you’re a slut who’s not getting paid for this.”

She gasped and moaned as his thrusting got more and more intense; her pussy barely able to handle it after her previous orgasms. The pleasure was overwhelming as the stranger mauled her ass and took her pussy. “Such a tight cunt,” he moaned, “Damn girl.”

“Own my little pussy!” She cried out, “Fuuuuuuuck!” She felt the man lean over her, reach around and grab her tits, pinching her nipples. Being used like this felt so good, she had never even come close to this fantasy and now it was coming true and she couldn’t help but cum once more. “AHHHHHHHH!” She cried, “P… please stop!” Her pussy was overwhelmed from the multiple orgasms and teasing she’d endured. 

The man pulled out and she heard the telltale sounds of someone jerking their hard cock. “Yes, cum for me,” she said, “Cum all over my ass!” A moment later she was rewarded by feeling globs of his warm cum coat her ass. She quivered in place and collapsed to the mattress, moments later she felt her restraints being untied and the blindfold taken off. She saw Rick’s smiling face as well as the two men who were with him; one was a younger Asian man, lean body, handsome face with short cropped black hair, the other was another white man, maybe a little older than Rick with slightly long gray hair and a goatee. Both of their soft cocks were slick with her juices and their cum.

Leaning in, Rick kissed her deeply on the lips, before whispering, “You did great.” 

Connie gave him a smile, “Thanks, sir.”

“Think you can clean them up before they go?” Rick asked.

Connie got off the bed and approached the men, smiling at them. Dropping to her knees, she took the Asian man’s uncut cock into her mouth first, he stiffened and filled her mouth as she sucked her juices off of him. The man definitely broke any stereotypes she might have had about Asian men, as he was clearly the largest of the three. “Oh yes, suck my cock girl.” He moaned as she worked her mouth up and down him.

Reaching over, she stroked the other man’s slippery cock; the cum coating her hand as he, too, stiffened for her. She moaned around the stranger’s dick, realizing she still didn’t know anyone’s name except Rick as she worked the two men back into erection. Taking her mouth off of the Asian man’s cock with a loud pop, she moved to the other man, whose slightly smaller circumcised cock she easily took into her mouth. It tasted different, she realized, because this man had cum inside of her, she was tasting both of them. She stroked the other cock while she sucked off this one, her tongue swirling around the head of his penis.

After a few minutes, she pulled her mouth off of him, and leaned back, bearing her tits in their direction. Gripping both cocks, she stroked them, “Come on boys, cover my big tits!” The men moaned and grunted as she jerked them off, their second orgasms of the night approaching. The Asian man came first, shooting his cum all over Connie’s chest, much as he had covered her ass earlier. Thick globs of white cum dripped off of her body onto the hotel’s carpeted floor. With one down, she put her mouth back on the other’s cock, bobbing up and down furiously almost demanding he cum for her. 

“Mmmmm yessss,” he moaned and she felt his cum start to fill her mouth; she gulped and swallowed, the load was manageable and she got it all down without making a mess before collapsing back on her ass on the floor. She giggled as Rick approached her with a wet cloth to clean herself. As she wiped up, the two men got dressed and he escorted them to the door. Connie went to the bed and collapsed on it, laying on her back, sore and satisfied; that’s when she noticed Rick approaching, having stripped himself down.

“Baby, my pussy is so sore.” Connie said with a sigh.

“What about your ass?” Rick said with a smile.

Lifting her legs, she replied, “All yours.”

Approaching the bed, Rick hooked Connie’s legs onto his shoulders and pressed the throbbing head of his cock against her puckered asshole. “Ahhhhhh, fuck.” She gasped as she felt his cock head stretch her ass and press into her rear channel. Staring up at him, she saw the look of gentle determination as he slowly pressed himself inside of her; she had never been ass fucked in missionary before, it made things feel romantic. 

“Good girl,” he comforted her as she took every inch of him inside of her, “You’re my little butt slut aren’t you?”

“Ahhhhhh, yes sir.” She quietly moaned.

He slowly started withdrawing his cock until only the head remained, then slowly pushed back in. Rick knew he wouldn’t last long, seeing Connie get fucked by his two clients had him aching, so going slow was not just to go easy on her but to help him last. He found a rhythm; slow strokes out followed by quick ones into her ass, making her curvy body jiggle each time he filled her. 

Connie thrashed about under him, moaning and gasping, “Oooooooh sirrrrrr, you feel so good in my ass!”

Rick reached down and strummed her clit with his thumb as he fucked her ass; making her moan even harder. Despite being sore and exhausted, Connie felt one last orgasm welling up in her body. “Ohhhhh goddddddd!” She cried out, “I’m cummmmmiiiinnnggggg!” Her body convulsed and thrashed as she came one last time; as she came she felt the flood of Rick’s hot cum filling her asshole and felt satisfied that she was able to get him off.

Rick collapsed on the bed next to Connie and grabbed her, pulling her body tight to his. She moaned weakly as he did so, loving the feel of being wrapped in his arms. They held each other close as Rick planted gentle kisses along her neck before whispering, “You did so good.”

Connie smiled and started drifting off to sleep, slightly saddened that they only had one more night together…

The End

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A Half Truth — Chapter One

Chapter One

Briar has decided that today he's going to be beautiful at me.

He's stretched along the low branch of the white birch as if the tree grew him, one bare foot swinging, his shirt open to the waist because it's the second frost and he wants me to know the cold can't touch him. His hair is the colour of wet bark and falls in his eyes on purpose. His eyes are green going gold at the edges, and they've been on me since I stepped out of the alders.

"Wren," he says, rolling my name around his mouth like something sweet. "You came all this way to see me."

"I came all this way for the salt."

"Cruel."

"Accurate." I hold up the bowl. It's a good bowl. My mother threw it on her wheel the year before I was born, and the chip in the rim is from the winter the roof came in. "You borrowed a full measure in spring. You swore on your name to repay it by first frost. First frost was ten days ago."

"I've been busy."

"You've been lying in a tree."

"Lying in a tree is very demanding." He slides off the branch and lands without a sound. One moment he's above me. The next he's close enough that I have to tip my head back, and the air between us has gone warm.

That's the glamour. Every one of the fair folk carries some. It comes off them the way heat comes off a hearth, and it works on you whether you like it or not. My mother taught me that before she taught me my letters. You'll feel it. Feeling it isn't the same as obeying it.

I feel it. My skin goes tight and too aware of itself. He smells of crushed mint and wild honey, and under that something darker, like earth after rain, and my body has opinions about that smell that nobody asked it for.

"I don't have your salt," Briar murmurs. He lifts a hand and runs one knuckle along my jaw, slowly, ear to chin. "But I could pay you in something warmer."

"Salt is warm. It keeps the meat through winter. People live on it."

"People live on other things too." His thumb settles under my chin and tilts my face up. His mouth is very close. "One kiss, little witch. Freely given. I'll call the debt clear, and I'll make it worth more than a bowl of salt. You know I would."

The worst of it is that I do know. Every girl in the hollow has heard about the ones who went into the birch wood on a dare and came out three days later smiling, with leaves in their hair and no idea where the time went. My heart is going too fast. My lips have parted without my permission. He sees it, and his smile goes slow and pleased.

I reach up to my braid, pull out the sprig of rowan I keep woven there, and press one red berry to the inside of his wrist.

He hisses and snatches his hand back. The warmth cuts off like a door slamming, and suddenly he's only a very handsome, very annoyed man standing too close to me in the cold. Something stings high up in my nose, sharp as a sniff of pepper. Breaking glamour always does that.

"That," he says, shaking out his wrist, "was rude."

"So was that." I hold the bowl out again. "Salt. Full measure. By moonrise. Or I tell the birch who's been sleeping in her branches all autumn without asking."

He stares at me. Then he laughs, delighted, the way the fair folk always laugh when you beat them, because losing to someone clever is almost as good as winning.

"Every year you're harder to charm."

"Every year you get lazier at it."

He takes the bowl, and his fingers brush mine on purpose. Even without the glamour it sends a small, stupid shiver up my arm. He sees that too. Then he tilts his head and studies me like a bird he's thinking of catching.

"You're restless today."

"I'm cold."

"You're restless. You've got road in your feet." He leans in and breathes, just beside my throat, not quite touching. "I can smell it on you. All that wanting to be somewhere else."

Down in the hollow, the bell on our gate starts to ring. Three hard pulls, a pause, three more: someone with a child.

Briar smiles at me with every one of his teeth.

"Salt by moonrise," he says. "Go on. They need you."

When I come over the last rise, my mother is already at the gate with her sleeves rolled to the elbow and her hair tied up in a scarf, kneeling in the mud.

Runa is standing over her. Runa is hulder, which means she's tall and lovely and keeps a cow's tail braided up under her skirts. Her daughter is six, and she's standing in front of my mother perfectly still.

The child is grey.

Not pale. Grey, like a coin that's been in a pocket too long.

"Nine days," Runa says, before I can ask. Her voice is very steady, which is how I know she's terrified. "She eats. She sleeps. She's stopped singing."

Hulder children sing all the time, the same four notes over and over, at nothing, the way human children talk to themselves. A silent hulder child is like a bird that's forgotten how to fly.

My mother doesn't look up. "Hands."

I kneel beside her. The girl's hand in mine is cool and dry. The nails are flat and pale, with no moons at the base.

"Not fever," I say. "Not chill."

"No."

"Sick goes pale. This is something being taken from her." I turn the little hand over. "Slowly. Like a leak."

My mother's mouth twitches, which is as close as she comes to praise in front of other people. "So?"

"So there's a hole somewhere." I look up at Runa. "What did she start doing nine days ago that she's never done before?"

Runa blinks. "She's six. She does a hundred things."

"Something new," my mother says gently. "The newest thing she's ever seen."

Runa's face changes. "The road. The lowland men cut a road at the bottom of the east slope this summer. She keeps sneaking off to look at it. I've caught her twice."

My mother and I look at each other.

"A road's just dirt," I say slowly. "Dirt doesn't do this."

"No," my mother agrees. "Something on it does." She takes a length of red thread from her apron, knots it three times round the girl's thin wrist, and murmurs the holding word over it. It won't fix anything. It will slow the leak until we know where it is.

Then she stands up, and her left hip catches.

It's nothing. A hitch, halfway up, as if a step had been a little higher than she expected. Her mouth goes thin for half a breath. Then she straightens all the way, smooths her apron, and turns to Runa as if nothing has happened at all.

I saw it. She knows I saw it. Neither of us says a word.

"Runa, bring her inside and keep her warm. The thread will hold till dark," she says. "Wren."

"I'm going." I'm already on my feet.

"Take your shawl."

"I'm not cold."

"You will be," says my mother, and holds it out until I take it.

The quickest way to the east slope is over the south ridge, past the big rowan. I always go that way. Even in a hurry. Especially in a hurry.

There's a hollow in the bank under the rowan where wrens nest. The birds, not me. My mother named me after them, because they're small and loud and they sing in winter when nothing else bothers.

The nest is empty now, at the end of the season, but the air over it still shivers faintly, like heat over a summer stone. It always does. I slow down as I pass and touch the bark of the branch, the way you'd touch the doorframe of a house you grew up in.

I was ten the summer the cuckoo came.

The first year I was allowed to walk this far alone, I found the nest. The next year a cuckoo got in and threw out the chicks, and I sat under this tree and cried as if the world had ended.

A stranger came up the slope.

Everyone in the hollow knew there was a visitor, because there never are any, and the whole valley had talked about nothing else for days. He was young and tall, in a wide-brimmed hat that hid most of his face, and he'd spent four days walking the rim of the ridge, doing something to the air that made the hares nervous. He stopped a little way off and looked at me for a while without saying anything. Then he crouched down.

He didn't say poor thing, or don't cry. He looked at the empty nest and said, "Ah. That's a bad design."

I was so surprised I stopped crying.

"The opening faces the sun," he said. "Cuckoos come in from the light. Your wrens have built a house with the door toward the thieves." He tipped his hat back, and I saw his face for the first time. He was handsome in a narrow, serious way, younger than his voice, and his eyes were older than the rest of him. Tired, and dark, and kind. "Would you like to see something?"

He held out his hand and lit a flame in it.

It was blue, but not the blue at the bottom of a candle. It was the blue of the sky at noon in high summer, clear all the way through. It made no sound and gave no smoke, and when he tipped it into my cupped hands it didn't burn. It sat in my palms as warm as a sleeping kitten, and I forgot all about the cuckoo.

"There's no use for that," he said. "It's the same heat as any fire. It just happens to be beautiful. Most of the best things haven't any use."

Then he turned to the nest and touched its rim in three places, and threads of light came out of his fingertips, thin as spider silk. They wrapped the branch and the nest and the air around them, and the whole bough turned a quarter-turn without one leaf falling. The threads sank into the bark and vanished, and the air over the nest went slick and strange.

He explained what he'd done in four sentences. I understood none of it. I've remembered every word.

Then he stood and looked down at me.

"It'll hold," he said, "until you can make a better one."

He left the next morning. The flame in my hands lasted until sunset. That was the week my mother sent me to sleep at Tansy's burrow, and wouldn't tell me why.

A year later, a book came in with my mother's twice-yearly delivery of salt and wool. It was wrapped in oilcloth, with no letter. The Ninefold Path: second-hand, water-stained on the first dozen pages, and the most expensive thing ever to come into our house. On the inside cover, in small, fast, ugly handwriting pressed hard enough to ridge the paper, someone had written:

Wren. Page ninety. You've seen it once. Now learn it. — Aldric

That was the first time I knew his name. I said it out loud to myself in the dark that night, to see how it felt.

Page ninety was the flame. It took me a year to make one. It took two more to make it blue all the way through. I've tried twice to improve his seal on the nest, and both times I made it worse and had to put it back exactly as he left it.

Eight years. I still can't make a better one.

I take my hand off the rowan and keep walking.

The path down the east side of the ridge passes the long pond, and I hear laughing before I see anything. I know that laugh. I've known it since we were five.

I stop behind the alders and look through the reeds.

Tansy is in the pond up to her waist, and Briar is with her.

Tansy is hare-folk, from the east warren, with long brown ears and a laugh you can hear across the hollow. We learned to swim in this pond. We stole plums off Kettle's tree together and blamed the badgers. When I was fifteen and crying over nothing, she sat on my bed, ate an entire honeycomb, and told me about every boy in the valley she'd kissed. There were a great many of them.

Now her ears are slicked back with water and her arms are round Briar's neck, and he's kissing her.

Not the way he tried to kiss me this morning, with tricks and glamour. Slowly. His hands frame her face as if she's something he's waited all day to hold, and he takes his time about it. Her ears go straight up. She laughs into his mouth, and he laughs back, and doesn't stop.

Neither of them sees me.

My face goes hot. Hot all over. I should keep walking, and I don't.

Something low in my stomach pulls tight and stays there. I don't try to name it. I stand in the cold with one hand on an alder branch and just feel it, warm and aching and wanting, and for a long moment I don't think anything at all.

It isn't him I want. I'm almost sure of that. It's the ease of it. Tansy sees something she wants and wades into the cold water after it, laughing, and nothing terrible happens to her. She doesn't keep rowan in her braid. She doesn't count the cost of a thing before she lets herself have it.

I do. I always have. I'm the one with the ledger. The sensible one. The one who pressed a berry to his wrist this morning and felt proud of herself the whole way down the hill.

Watching them, I'm not sure any more what I was proud of.

Briar murmurs something against her throat, and Tansy's laugh goes low and soft, a sound I've never once heard her make.

I turn away before I hear any more, and walk on down the slope with my face burning and that sound following me all the way to the road.

The road is exactly where Runa said it would be.

I've walked the east slope all my life, and it still takes my breath away to come down through the trees and find it there. A raw strip of packed earth, wide enough for a cart, cut straight through the forest like a ribbon snipped with shears. It runs down to the creek and over a new bridge, timber still pale and sweet with sap.

I step out of the trees, and my teeth start to ache.

It's a sour feeling, like biting tinfoil, and it comes from everywhere at once. I've felt it before, faintly, from the hinges on the lowland carts that come twice a year. Never like this.

I kneel at the end of the bridge. Every plank is fastened with nails. Fat, dark, new nails, dozens of them, hammered in neat rows.

Iron.

Grown hulder keep away from iron without even thinking about it. A six-year-old who'd never seen anything new in her life would walk right up to the shiniest thing in the forest and stand beside it, day after day, while her whole nature strained to hold itself together.

I sit back on my heels. A leak, and here's the hole.

Then I look up, and my stomach turns over.

Along the road, on both sides, every big tree has been marked. A square of bark hacked away at shoulder height, pale wood bleeding sap underneath. Oak after oak after beech, as far down the road as I can see.

Everyone in the hollow knows what that means. The lowlands were forest once, all the way to the sea. The lowland men mark the trees they want for timber and cut those first. Then they burn the rest. The ash makes the soil rich enough to grow wheat for three or four summers, and when the ground is spent they move on to the next stand of trees and do it again. Some years, when the wind comes from the west, our sky goes brown for a week, and the hares won't come out of their burrows.

The road isn't for getting through the forest. It's for getting the forest out.

I press my thumb to the nearest blaze. The sap is still wet.

On the far side, the road keeps going, straight as a sentence, until the trees close over it.

That's the way out.

I've known about the world on the other side of the ridge my whole life. Every book in our house came from out there. There are cities with libraries holding more than four hundred books. There are colleges where people do nothing all day but study why things work. My mother has told me about the city of Varn, where the streets are lit by lamps that never need oil. She's never been there. I've never asked how she knows.

I love the hollow the way you love a person, all the way down. The light on the south slope in the last hour of the day. Tansy on the creek wall with her mouth full of Kettle's plums. The weight of the ledger in my lap, nine generations of women, and since this spring, my hand writing the newest line.

And there's a road in front of me, and every part of me wants to walk down it.

I put one foot on the packed dirt. Then I take it off again.

Then I run home.

On the way back over the ridge I pass the alder stand, and the ward on the boundary post has slipped again.

There are nine wards round the rim of the hollow, knots tied in the air to keep out what shouldn't wander in: sickness, bad weather, the hungrier kinds of folk. They've never had to keep out men with axes. Five of the nine are ours. My mother tied three, her mother two, and since I was twelve, keeping them tied has been my job.

The one by the alder stand slips every six weeks, regular as the moon. I've never worked out why. I put my knuckle to the post, breathe out three times and say the word, and the air above the post goes thick and quiet. My fingers go dark to the first knuckle, grey-black as if I'd dipped them in soot. They always do. By the time I've walked ten paces the colour has drained away, all but the very tips. The tips take a day or two to come back. They always come back. Grey is ordinary. My mother says she's only ever seen fingers go black once, and she won't tell me on whom.

Ten paces to the left there's another post with another ward on it.

Mine is a knot. That one is lace. It hums very faintly if you stand close enough, a note right at the edge of hearing, like a wet finger run round the rim of a glass. Aldric tied it the same summer he fixed the nest, along with three others round the rim of the hollow. Four days on the ridge, making the hares nervous.

Eight years, and none of his have slipped once.

I've studied them until my eyes burned. I've drawn them from memory in the back of a book where nobody looks. I understand perhaps half of what he did. He can't have been much older than twenty-five.

I stand there a moment longer than I've got time for, listening to his ward sing. Then I go home.

I hear them before I reach the gate.

"—a perfectly good tincture, Kettle, it's the same bottle—"

"It's not the same hands."

"They're my hands. I taught her."

"Then you taught her wrong, because hers work."

Kettle is standing on our doorstep with his arms folded and his beard tucked into his belt, which means he's furious. Kettle is a gnome, a little over four hundred years old, about as tall as my hip, and he's had a toothache in his third tooth every autumn since before I could walk. There has never been anything wrong with the tooth.

My mother is in the doorway with a clove tincture in one hand and an expression I've only ever seen her use on the badgers.

"Wren," she says, without turning round. "Your patient."

"I'm her patient," Kettle tells her, and turns his back on my mother entirely to beam at me. "Good. You're here. The tooth."

"Which tooth?"

"The tooth."

"You have nine teeth, Kettle."

"The ninth one."

It's the third one. I take the tincture from my mother's hand, uncork it, and give Kettle exactly the same three drops she was about to give him. He drinks it, makes a face, and sighs with enormous relief.

"There," he says to my mother. "You see? Different."

"It's the same—"

"Good evening, Maren," says Kettle with great dignity, and stumps off down the path.

My mother watches him go. Then she looks at me.

"Four hundred years old," she says. "I've been treating that tooth since before you were born."

"I know."

"He used to bring me plums."

"He brings me plums now."

"I know," says my mother, very dry, and some of the fear goes out of my chest, because if she can be annoyed about Kettle, Runa's girl hasn't got worse.

"It's iron," I say. "The bridge. Nails in every plank."

She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them she's already moving.

What follows is the part I love best. Nobody writes books about it.

My mother fills the copper tub with water from the rain barrel, never the well, because the pump handle is iron. I strip birch bark off the kindling pile and burn it to ash in the hearth, and she counts under her breath, and when she gets to forty I tip the ash into the water without being told. She pours in the cream Runa brought. I stir with a rowan spoon, sunwise. The water turns the soft grey-white of a winter sky.

"Sing," my mother tells Runa. "The four notes. Hers."

Runa hesitates. Hulder don't sing in front of humans. Then she kneels by the tub and does it, in a low, cracked voice, while my mother cuts the red thread off the girl's wrist and lowers her into the water.

My mother's hands under the child's head. Mine on her back. The air in the kitchen thickens and settles, like a held breath. My mother says the long word. I say the short one after it, exactly on the beat, the way we've done it a thousand times.

Something in the water lets go.

Pain blooms behind my eyes, tight and bright, the price of any working longer than a breath. I don't let go of her.

The grey doesn't leave her. It won't, not for weeks. But a faint pink creeps into her fingertips, like the first light on the ridge, and her lips move. No sound comes out. But her lips move, four times, on four notes.

Runa makes a noise I've never heard a grown person make.

"Every morning for a fortnight," my mother says, wrapping the girl in a blanket. "Keep her off the east slope. Wren will speak to the lowland men about the bridge." She waits until Runa looks at her. "She'll be singing by the third week."

Runa sits down on our kitchen floor, presses her forehead to her knees, and stays like that for a long time.

Afterward we wash the tub together, and my mother is quiet in the particular way that means she's about to be awful.

"You smell like pond weed," she says.

"I walked past the long pond."

"Was Briar in it?"

I scrub harder. "With Tansy."

"Tansy?" My mother sounds delighted. "Good for Tansy. Well. He's very pretty."

"Mother."

"I'm only saying. He's been after you since your sixteenth summer, and you've never let him further than your chin." She wrings out a cloth. "I let a birch-wood boy kiss me once, when I was about your age. Under the big oak by the creek. Your grandmother found out and put rowan in my porridge every morning for a month."

I nearly drop the bowl. "You did not."

"Lovely mouth," says my mother reflectively. "No sense at all. Worth the porridge." She shrugs at my face, hangs the cloth on the rail and smooths it flat with both hands. "You're eighteen. Bodies aren't shameful, Wren. They're just hungry, like everything else alive. Somebody ought to tell you before you learn it the hard way."

My mother has delivered babies and laid out the dead, and nothing about a body has ever embarrassed her. Sometimes I envy her for it. Sometimes I wish she'd at least pretend.

There's a tap at the window.

A raven is sitting on the sill outside, too big and too glossy to be one of ours, watching us through the glass with flat black eyes. A slip of paper is tied to its leg with black thread.

My mother dries her hands, unhurried. Her hand goes to her hair, absently, tucking a loose strand back under her scarf. Then she opens the window. The raven holds out its leg like a lord expecting to be served. She unties the paper, and the bird drops off the sill and is gone over the ridge before I've put down the bowl.

She reads it standing at the window with her back to me. It can't be more than a few lines. She reads it twice.

Her face doesn't change. That's what I notice. My mother's face always changes a little when she reads a letter: a twitch at a bad joke, a frown at a debt. This time it stays perfectly still, the way it does when she's setting a bone and doesn't want the patient to know how bad the break is.

"Who's it from?"

"A patient." She folds it once.

Then she drags the stool over to the kitchen cupboard and climbs up, slowly, favouring her left side, and takes down the box from the top shelf. It's dark wood with brass corners, and there's no lock on it. There's a ward instead, a knot tied in the air over the lid, so close to the wood that you'd only see it if you knew to look. My mother's letters live in that box. I've never once seen inside it.

She touches the knot and it loosens for her like a ribbon. She puts the letter in, closes the lid, and ties the ward again: three turns and a tuck, quick and absent, without even looking. Then she slides the box back onto the shelf and climbs down.

"Set the table," she says.

Supper is turnip stew and the end of yesterday's bread, and for a while the only sound is spoons.

"The lowland men will need talking to," my mother says. "About the nails."

"About the trees," I say. "They've blazed every oak along the road."

Her spoon stops halfway to her mouth. For a moment she looks older than I've ever seen her.

"Then they'll be back in spring," she says, "with more than nails."

"I'll go."

"You'll go down the road."

"I'll go to the bridge. To talk to them. You just said."

"I know what I said." She tears her bread in half. "You stood on it today."

I look down. There's pale lowland dirt on my hem. I didn't even notice.

"For one step."

"How did it feel?"

"Like dirt."

"Wren."

"It felt like dirt, and then I came home, because Runa's girl was dying in our kitchen." I put my spoon down too hard. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say it."

"Say what?"

"That you want to go."

The fire pops. Neither of us looks away.

"Who would do the afternoons?" I say. "Who'd do the wards? You can't get up the ridge in winter, your hip's—"

"My hip is my business."

"It is not your business. It's mine. It's the hollow's. Who'd hold Runa's girl in the tub? Who would Kettle let near his tooth? Who's going to stand on that bridge in spring when they come back with axes?"

"Kettle would survive."

"Kettle would starve himself out of spite and you know it." My voice is going up and I can't stop it. "You can't just— this isn't a thing where I want something and then I get it. There are ninety folk on this side of the ridge and four families and one ledger, and you, and that's not a cage, that's my life—"

"It's my life," says my mother, very quietly. "It doesn't have to be yours."

"It already is!"

"Then you're a fool."

It's like being slapped. I stare at her.

She's gone white around the mouth. Her hands are flat on the table. She looks at me like I'm something she's watching fall from a great height.

"You think it's love," she says. "Staying. You think it's what good daughters do. You'll stay one more year, because of my hip, and one more after that, because of Runa's girl, and one more, and one more, and every one of them will be a good reason, and one day you'll be forty-four and standing in this kitchen and you'll look at that road and you won't even remember what you wanted to find at the end of it."

"You don't know that."

"I know exactly that."

"How?"

She doesn't answer. She stands up. Her hip catches, hard, and this time she doesn't hide it.

"Bank the fire," she says, and goes upstairs.

I sit alone with two bowls of stew going cold, shaking, and I don't know which of us I'm angriest at.

I can't sleep.

I lie in the dark under the eaves and stare at the beams, and every time I close my eyes I see her face across the table, white around the mouth. Then you're a fool.

After a while I give up and get up. It isn't the first night this year I've been awake. Since spring I've woken more than once to lamplight under the kitchen door and the scratch of my mother's pen. I always thought it was the ledger.

The library is one room with four hundred and six books in it, and I've read every one. I light the lamp and pull down the ledger. If I'm going to lie awake, I might as well be useful.

I write, my fingertips still grey from the alder ward: Runa's girl. Iron nails at the east bridge. Watch the other children.

Then I sit there with the pen in my hand, and my mother's voice in my head. I know exactly that.

How?

I turn back through the pages. Past my own handwriting. Past my mother's tidy middle years, past the winter I was born, past the year of the roof. Her writing at nineteen was rounder than it is now and less sure of itself. Births, debts, a bad winter, a hare with a broken leg.

Mother's chest worse. Sat up with her.

Mother's chest worse.

Mother's chest worse.

And halfway down one page, in that young, round hand:

Letter from the college at Varn. Place offered.

And under it, in the same ink, pressed so hard the nib tore the paper:

Declined.

I sit there for a very long time.

She knows about the lamps in Varn because someone wrote to tell her. She knows which road a cart would take. She's always known. She just didn't go, and then she was forty-four, standing in this kitchen, telling her daughter not to be a fool.

I put my hand flat on the torn word, as if I could smooth it out.

My eyes sting. I don't try to stop it. I sit there in the lamplight with my hand on her torn word and cry, quietly, so she won't hear, for a girl of nineteen I never met and a road she never took, and for a while I don't think anything at all.

The box is still on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, where I watched her put it.

I've never opened it. It's hers.

I stand at the bottom of the stairs with the lamp turned down to almost nothing and listen until I hear her breathing slow and deepen. Then I go into the kitchen, very quietly.

Moonlight falls through the window onto the back step, and there's something sitting on it.

I ease the door open. My mother's good bowl is on the doorstone, the one with the chip in the rim, filled to the brim with salt. A single yellow birch leaf lies on top like a signature.

A full measure. By moonrise.

I bring it in and set it back on the shelf where it belongs, and for a moment I stand in the dark kitchen smiling like a fool.

Then I climb up on the stool.

The ward on the box is her knot. I'd know it anywhere. Three turns and a tuck, the same as the wards on the ridge, the same as the one by the alder stand.

The one that slips every six weeks.

I've reset that ward every six weeks since I was twelve and never understood why it fails. I look at this knot now, a hand's width from my face, small and close, lit by a lamp instead of daylight, and I see it. On the third turn, my mother rolls her thumb. A tiny habit, a flick, like folding a cloth the same lazy way every time. It leaves the tuck a hair too loose. Everything she ties has it. Everything she taught me to tie has it.

That's why the alder ward slips. It's us. It's always been us.

I put my fingertip on the loose tuck and pull.

The knot unravels like wool. The lid lifts.

Dozens of letters, tied in bundles with string. Some I've seen. Most I haven't. On top, folded once, exactly where I watched her put it, is the one the raven brought this afternoon.

I lift it out, and my breath stops.

I know this writing. Small and fast and ugly, pressed so hard the ink has ridged the paper and I can feel the letters through the back of the page with my thumb. I've seen it a thousand times, on the inside cover of the most precious thing I own.

Wren. Page ninety. You've seen it once. Now learn it.

I climb down off the stool without really deciding to. I carry the letter back into the library and sit down in the lamplight with it in both hands, still folded.

He held this. A few days ago, somewhere out past the ridge, he sat down and pressed this pen into this paper hard enough to dent it, the way he does everything, as if it's a nuisance that has to be done properly or not at all.

I wonder what his hands look like now.

I remember them careful. Quick and long-fingered, not wasting a movement, laying spider-silk light over a bird's nest. But that was eight years ago, and I was a child, and he was barely more than a young man in a wide hat. He'd be in his thirties now. I try to picture it, and the picture comes too easily, the way it always does when I'm alone and can't sleep.

A hall in Varn, full of scholars who've come to hear what I know. I'm making the flame, and it's perfect. And he's at the back, leaning against a pillar with his arms folded.

He isn't impressed. He's paying attention, which is worse. Which is so much better.

When I finish, he crosses the room. He doesn't hurry. He stands close behind me, so close I can feel the heat of him all down my back, and he takes my wrist in one long, cool hand and moves it the barest fraction to correct the shape of the working.

"Again," he says, low, right against my ear.

I do it again. His thumb rests on the inside of my wrist, where my pulse is hammering, and he doesn't move it. His other hand settles on my hip, just to hold me steady, and the flame in my palm goes white at the heart.

"Better," he murmurs, and his mouth is so close to my throat that I feel the word more than I hear it.

I realize my thumb is moving over the ridged ink on the back of the letter, slowly, back and forth, and I stop.

My face is burning. My heart is going like a hare's.

He saw me once when I was ten. He sent me a book. He's probably forgotten my name.

I unfold the letter.

Maren —

The usual has turned. Worse than spring, and earlier. I'll be with you before the frost turns, roads permitting.

Have the back room ready. Don't fuss.

As to your other matter: fine. If I must. Have the child ready to travel.

— A.

I read it three times. My hands are shaking so badly the paper rattles.

The usual. Whatever it is, it's worse. Have the child ready. What child? For one stupid moment I think of myself, and almost laugh. Surely not. I'm eighteen, and nobody calls me a child. Runa's daughter, then? Some other patient my mother hasn't told me about?

None of that matters. Not really. Not right now.

Before the frost turns.

The frost turns in nine days.

He's coming.

The last class of the night ended at nine and the studio smelled like incense and sweat. Four of us were left. Three girls headed to the showers and I stayed on my mat because my husband was texting me and I was in no rush.

I fell asleep for twenty minutes and I woke up and rushed to catch up. I grabbed my towel and my bag and I walked toward the showers and the bathroom door was still running water. I was next.

I glanced into the office on my way and Coach was sitting at his desk with the door half open.

He had three pairs of leggings spread out in front of him.

I stopped in the doorway.

He didnt know I was there. He picked up the black pair first, the ones from the girl who always sat in the front, and he folded them once and pressed them to his nose and breathed in. Slow. Eyes closed. Then the blue ones. Then the grey ones.

He saved the grey ones for last. They belonged to the girl who made the biggest mess on her mat.

He brought them to his face and his shoulders dropped like he had been holding them up all night. He breathed in deep and his whole body went still.

I should have walked in. Instead, I raised my phone instead and hit record

He was not even trying to hide it anymore. He turned them over in his hands and found the inside, the dark mark at the inner thigh, and he pressed his mouth to it. His tongue went out and he licked it once, slow, and I felt that in my stomach.

My legs were closed under my towel and I was so wet it was embarrassing

He picked up the black pair again. He was going through them all a second time like he couldnt help himself and I was recording every second.

I moved in the doorway to get a better angle and my elbow hit the metal cabinet beside the door frame.

It rang out loud.

He dropped the leggings and spun around.

"Shit" he said

My heart was going so hard I could hear it. I should have said something. I did not say anything.

He stood up from his chair and took a step toward the door and looked left and looked right and then I stepped into the light.

"Coach" I said.

He froze.

His face went white and then red and his hands went to the leggings on the desk and then dropped to his sides and he looked at the floor.

"Oh god" he said. "Jhen. I am so sorry. Please dont tell anyone"

He was still staring at the floor and his hands were shaking and he looked like he might throw up.

"I have never done that before" he said. "I dont know what is wrong with me"

I raised the phone and showed him the screen.

The video was playing. It was him. It was the leggings. It was his tongue.

"You recorded it" he said and his voice broke.

"Yeah" I said.

He looked at the phone and then at me and then at the desk and his face went red again and he opened his mouth and nothing came out.

"You wanna see it again" I asked.

He swallowed hard and his voice was barely there.

"What?"

"You wanna see it again" I said. "Or should I delete it?"

He stared at me and then at the phone and then at the leggings on the desk and his chest was going up and down and his eyes were wet.

"I am so sorry" he said again.

"I know" I said.

He nodded and wiped his face with the back of his hand and looked at me and then looked away.

"Delete it" he said. "Please"

I put the phone on the desk and I walked over to him and gathered all three pairs of leggings and held them against my chest.

"You sure about that" I asked.

He was staring at the phone and his voice was shaking.

"Yes" he said. "Please. I will replace the leggings. I will quit. Just please delete it."

I looked at him and didnt move. He was standing there and his chest was going up and down and his hands were clenched at his sides and his eyes were wet.

"You know that is not what it looked like" he said.

I raised an eyebrow.

"I went through the leggings to find the owner" he said. "I was gonna put them back"

"You licked them" I said.

"I was checking for......damage" he said.

"You went through three pairs and you licked all of them" I said.

He opened his mouth and closed it and his jaw tightened and he looked away.

"It is not like that" he said.

"Then what is it like" I asked.

He was quiet for a long time and his hands were clenched at his sides and his chest was going up and down and he would not look at me.

"I dont know" he said finally. "I saw them and I just. I lost my head. I know that is not an excuse. I shouldnt have done it"

"So you licked them" I said.

"Yeah" he said and his voice was low.

"And you want me to delete the video" I said.

He looked at me and his eyes were desperate and his jaw was tight and he nodded.

"Please" he said. "Im begging you. Delete it. I'll do anything"

I walked over to him and stood in front of him and he was standing and I was standing and I reached down and put my hand on his chest and he was warm and his heart was going so hard I could feel it.

"You really want it gone" I asked.

"Yes" he said. "Please"

"Then you work for it" I said. "You ask. You wait. You say thank you when I am done. Understood?"

He looked down at me and his breath caught and his hands hung at his sides and he was shaking his head and his eyes were wet and he would not move.

"I cant" he said. "Im sorry. I'll replace the leggings. Just please dont tell anyone."

"You dont get to quit" I said. "And you dont get to decide what happens to that video."

His face went white.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I already told you" I said.

He closed his eyes and his jaw tightened and his hands dropped from his sides and he stepped back and looked at the desk and then at me and then at the door.

"You're gonna make me beg" he said.

"Yeah" I said.

He stood there and his hands were clenched and his chest was going up and down and his eyes were wet and he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room.

"Please" he said.

"Please what" I said.

"Please let me" he said and his voice broke.

"Let you what" I said.

"Just let me prove it" he said. "Please. I will do anything. Just tell me what to do"

I reached down and undid his shorts and pulled his cock out and he was hard and his whole body went tight and he made a sound that he tried to hold in.

"Quiet" I said. "You wouldn't wantt us to get caught"

I sank to my knees in front of him and he looked down at me and his hands gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles went white and I took him in my mouth and he was already leaking and I could taste him and I went slow at first, dragging my tongue flat along the underside of his cock and then faster and his thighs were shaking and his head fell back and his breath was coming in short gasps.

"Fuck" he said and his voice was wrecked. "Your mouth feels so good"

I pulled back and looked up at him and his eyes were on me and his jaw was open.

"Be quiet. Behave" I said

I took him back in and went deeper and spit ran down his cock onto my tongue and I didnt care and his hand went to the back of my head and he held it there and his fingers curled into my hair.

"Jhen" he said. "Im so close"

I didnt answer him . I just kept going and swallowed around him and his whole body went tight and his hand in my hair pulled me closer and he came in my mouth with a groan that he could not hold back and I swallowed every drop and I kept swallowing until he was done and I sat back on my heels and looked up at him and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Say thank you" I said.

"Thank you" he said and his voice was wrecked.