Dani made no answer. There was no point, and she wasn’t sure if she really wanted him to stop. Methodically, he frisked her, taking his time. His hands alternately burned or chilled her; she couldn’t tell if his touch was abnormally hot, or her skin was. His hands slid under the curve of her breasts, then up; cupping, squeezing, stroking her through the lace of her bra. Her back arched before she knew it, pressed her ass and her cuffed hands back against him as he stepped forward. Her fingers traced the hard ridge of his cock through the thin fabric of his trousers, then squeezed once before he stepped back.

There were other artists. Some were men, some were women, and she didn't sleep with all of them. Just most of them. The labyrinth's path extended out, twined around her body, all pieces of a path towards an unknown destination. Her own path now traveled over the southwest, as convoluted as her tattoo, from place to place, from person to person. Each of them added something to her, and she took it in, made it her own. A different woman might have lost herself on her travels, forgotten why she'd left, and why she was going. But not her.

“Yes,” he says, and I can tell by the huskiness in his throat that he means it. “It’s nasty. A girl isn’t supposed to have a cock. She isn’t supposed to get turned on watching me suck it. But baby, I can tell you’d get turned on. You like to watch me, and I want to do it for you.”

I take a step toward him. One more step, and my little purple dick will be right in his face.

My eyes drift down to his dick. I can tell that my attention on him is arousing him. I count eleven scrotum rings, my finger almost but not quite touching them as I rattle off the numbers. This is years of stretching, the sign of a real. My pussy moistens. I reach out and tug at his homemade chain mail. It rattles. He shudders. I feel better. I whisper to him that he looks fabulous.

His face blossoms red, his hands move in agitated delight. Dyke lifts my elbow, dismay at my fascination. Just a stupid man, her face tells me emphatically. I wink at him.

I came out of it doing a shoulder shimmy—and violated everything I’d learned about good taste by shaking my cleavage and about ten pounds of beaded fringe directly at Tony before I spun back to the audience. Although the highly structured bra top held my breasts firmly in place, my heated nipples brushed slightly against the soft flannel lining, galvanizing my attention.

Jenna doesn’t call it love. However, she did feel a prescient twinge between her legs when he came up to her at the reception and said, Very impressive talk, Ms. Wallace.

Several chance meetings and a few planned ones later, she got herself invited back to his place, because they both agreed she could hardly show him the tattoo on her butt in the middle of Café Milano. She imagined he’d offer her sherry and try to seduce her. No sherry . . . but by evening’s end he did make love to her on his bed with the Indian print spread, surrounded by trophies of his many travels.

“I like reenactment,” she said, spreading her legs, showing me neatly trimmed blonde pubic hair.

“So what is this?” I asked her, thinking of her Italianate gown and my hose and doublet. “Paolo and Francesca?”

“No,” she replied. “This is fucking.”

Not like I thought it would be so easy—I accepted everything that could go wrong, irate family members, lawsuits, offspring, being fired—but I was there to give comfort, to help belay fear and prepare the way. I took his hands and guided them to my breasts as I swung my leg over his and straddled him and let him call me Lisa.

“Holy shit,” Melody said, suddenly understanding. “You think you’re real?” This was new. “Sweetie. You’re a sexual fantasy. Tits that big with a waist that narrow? Doesn’t happen in nature without some surgical intervention. The Master made you up, just like he did all the rest of us. You’re in the mansion of his mind. It’s not a bad life. Good food, lavish apartments, all the naked volleyball you want to play. He reads a lot, so there’s a big library. You’ll —”

It’s harder for Colin to get up, what with the seat in front of him all the way back, but he manages somehow, and then he’s hurrying down the aisle after Tom. When he gets to the toilets, Tom is just stepping inside. He leaves the door unlocked and Colin waits a few minutes for a passing stewardess to leave, then joins him.

The toilet is even more crowded than their seats had been. Reaching around Colin, Tom slides the lock into place, grins at him as he grinds his cock into Colin’s hip. There’s not even room for anythingother than this, but that’s more than okay with Colin.

He could smell her musk, almost like the mushrooms mortals ate in worship. He grasped her hips in his hands and lifted her sex to his mouth, for a few moments allowing himself to devour her melliferous petals with his tongue, sucking her tiny stamen between his lips and pressing it between his shrouded teeth. She cried out, a tiny, broken sound, like a soul trapped in Tartarus, and he would have recoiled had her fingers not sunk deeply into his hair. Then he understood, and the next cry from her tore his heart with hope.

Persephone sighed and fell limp. Hades lowered her slight form gently to the cushions and caressed her breast and her face. His hand curled softly around her cheek as he kissed her.

“I hate you,” she said.

They couldn’t fuck in the house; David got too loud and it felt strange to have Marcus on him and in him while they were in the bed where he’d spent his teenaged years. They arrived two days before Christmas. When they carried their bags upstairs, David’s mother Sara told them, “You boys take David’s old room. I made up the bunk beds for you.”

Oblivious. David wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

Relieved by the change of topic—and knowing she’d relish an opportunity for spontaneous sex while Brett was safely at a friend’s house for the afternoon—I turned around my chair so I could cup her breasts. “If I liked Barbie breasts, it was because I didn’t know how much fun real ones were. Especially yours.” Gail’s weren’t exactly Barbie-proportioned, but they were lovely and full on her otherwise small frame. That was nice, but what I adored about them was their sensitivity, how even a light caress would distract her and anything more serious would turn her brains to mush.

It was always fun, and sometimes it was damn convenient. Right now I really didn’t want to talk about Christmas with her family.

Find her gifs first. Remember that you had your cock in her ass, and not that long ago. There has to be something left of that attraction, that affection . . .no matter what she said. You were the one crying then. Your cock wilts, then you find the folder of those old pics. There she is, come on her face, eyes closed, tongue on lip. On her knees, tits cupped and presented, a smirk on her face. She was cooperative, if not always enthusiastic. You made her come though, and a lot, and she liked that. Was 2002 that long ago? No. Call her.

10:43 a.m. I’ve been emailing friends all morning asking for help, and so far, responses have included:

Abby: Just keep it in your mouth, look up, raise your finger and say, “Mmm mmm-mmm,” And then run run RUN to the bathroom.

PS: Balls. Get the balls.