“They always go after the little guys,” her friend Daphne explained, “waitresses, like me, or free-lancers, like you. They know you’re too poor to afford an expensive accountant and that you’ll probably be too scared to challenge anything that they say.” Daphne shot Nadine a sympathetic look. “You’ll be fine, hon. You’re so honest. I’m sure they won’t find anything out of place.”

“But I don’t have all my receipts,” Nadine confessed, impatiently brushing her dark hair out of her eyes. “I mean, I have a whole shoe box full of scraps of paper –”

“Give that to the auditor,” Daphne said righteously. “Make him work for it.”

“And some of my deductions might be a little –” Nadine’s voice trailed off.

“A little what?”

To answer the question, Nadine pulled open the doors to the closet where she kept her writing materials. Like a hostess on some X-rated game show, she pointed to a battery-powered vibrator with harness, a bone-handled crop, and a pair of high-heeled fuck-me pumps with tiny studded ankle straps that glistened in the light.

“You put those on your itemized return?”

Nadine nodded.

“Under what heading?” Daphne snorted, “‘Office supplies’?”

“Miscellaneous research items,” Nadine said, adding emphatically, “I used everything here for my latest book. Every single piece.”

“And I’ll bet Steven loved each minute of it,” Daphne said as she stood to take a closer peek, her green eyes wide in disbelief.

“Forget Steven,” Nadine said, “help me figure out how I’m going to explain what I do to a tax auditor.”

“You’re a writer. Tell him that you need a wide variety of experiences in order to get in touch with your characters.” Now Daphne was slipping into a pair of bright red feather-tipped mules and admiring the way they looked on her delicate feet. “Did you write these off, too?”

“Of course. They were for a story called ‘The Death of the Marabou Slippers.’”

“I wish I could be there,” Daphne said, looking longingly at the pink and black rubber coated paddle, the thick silver handcuffs, the ball gag. “I can just imagine the guy’s face when you show him what’s behind door number one.” She started to laugh. But Nadine didn’t think it was funny.

Was it really necessary to have bought all the different toys? Nadine debated the question, because it was one that the auditor would undoubtedly ask her. If she were a mystery novelist writing about a murder, would she go buy a gun? No, but she most definitely would hit the shooting range. Pump round after round of ammo into some defenseless piece of paper. To her way of thinking, that sort of quest for knowledge was the equivalent to slipping a plastic butt plug up her heart-shaped ass before trying to write about what that experience felt like.

Besides, her ex-boyfriend had loved it. At least, at first. As she prepared for the audit, she thought about the different kinky times they’d shared together. With Steven starring in the role of her personal sex slave, she’d experimented with a whole assortment of erotic toys. Acting the part of a dominant woman wasn’t unique for her. She had done that from time to time, anyway, taking charge, being on top. But pushing the limits of that fantasy, getting down and dirty without fear of reprisals — well, that’s where the real research came into play.

Closing her eyes, she remembered the time she’d fucked Steven with a massive black strap-on cock. Made to look anatomically correct, the tool was ribbed with veins and sported a rounded mushroom head. Just sliding the accompanying leather harness around her slender waist had turned her on. Having Steven on his hands and knees getting the head of the plastic prick all dripping with his mouth had made her knees weak. That was something she’d never have known if they hadn’t played the scene out together. She’d been forced to pull herself together, to act the tough, female dom. Telling him to get as much spit on her tool as he could, because she was going to ream his ass when he was finished. It had been difficult for her not to stop mid-scene and write down dialogue for her book, but she’d managed to wait until he’d come.

Extreme.

That’s what the experience had been. And it was why the two had ultimately broken up. She couldn’t shake the pleasure at being on top. No reason to go back to anything else. She wanted the power — and, oh, did she have it when she put on her slick, expensive boots, when she wielded the toys that Daphne had so tentatively pointed to.

Yet how was she going to explain all of that to a tax auditor?

“Ms. Daniels?” the man in the suit asked, arriving right on time on the dedicated day. The meeting was taking place at her beachfront condominium, because Nadine worked at home. “I’m Connor Monroe,” the man continued. “Your auditor.”

My auditor, Nadine thought, irritated by the man’s clean-cut good looks, the Boy Scout quality of his carefully pressed suit and polished leather shoes. She was especially irritated because she found him appealing. Connor Monroe seemed more like a male model than someone who served the government in its most hated capacity. If she were to create a character who worked for the IRS, she’d have made him heavy, balding, old. Not Connor. He had short dark hair, stone-colored eyes, and a sleek, athletic build that was apparent even with his suit on. In other circumstances, Nadine would definitely have flirted with him, batting her long eyelashes over her deep blue eyes, stroking one hand sensuously along the curve of her hip to give him ideas. She knew all of the ways to behave in order to make a man want her, but this wasn’t the time.

Holding open the front door to her apartment, Nadine tried to put a pleasant expression on her face. “This way,” she said, “I have my papers in the bedroom.”

Inwardly, she smirked at his obvious hesitation, letting him suffer for a moment in silence before continuing. “That’s where my office is. I’m not rich enough to afford a two-bedroom condo yet.” Why not let him know that she was angry? He couldn’t penalize her for a bad attitude, could he?

As the man followed after her down the hallway, he spoke, sounding as if he were repeating a memorized line from a script. “I know an audit is a frightening proposition for some people. But it’s just a regular practice at the bureau. Not any sort of punishment. Think of this as a routine, like an annual visit to the doctor.”

Nadine let herself smile since he couldn’t see her face. In her research closet, she had lots of toys for “doctor” visits. A box of regulation rubber gloves. A naughty nurse’s uniform. A real stethoscope. Playing doctor was something she knew a lot about. She thought about one of her last nights with Steven. How she’d examined him, spread his handsome rear cheeks open as if to take his temperature, and then tongue-fucked his ass until he’d shot his load on her mattress, creating a little lake of cum beneath his flat belly. No need to share that bit of information with Mr. Uptight IRS Man.

“Here we are,” she said, opening the door to her room and gesturing inside. In preparation for the meeting, Nadine had made her bed neatly, the black satin comforter hiding the evidence of her silk leopard-print sheets — another write-off. The room looked as utilitarian as it possibly could with her paperwork spread out on her writing desk. What receipts she did have were well-ordered, and the shoe box was there as well, lid on firmly to hide the mess contained inside. Wasn’t that an echo of every part of Nadine’s life? The surface looked one way — but take off the lid and see the inner turmoil within.

Regardless of her attempts to make the place look more official, it was obviously the bedroom of someone who liked sex. A dusky, romantic room, with flocked wallpaper and feminine touches in the prints on the walls and the rose-colored rug on the hardwood floor. The auditor, her auditor, looked around, taking in the intricate brass frame on her bed, the two candelabras that stood on small round tables nearby, perfect for wax play when she was in that sort of a mood. How she liked to tilt the candlestick, to let the hot liquid wax drip in pretty patterns along a naked chest –

She shook her head, trying to clear the image of doing such a dirty thing with the tax man. He was here to discuss her payments… not her panties. Still, she wondered whether he was feeling a pull between them, as well. Or did she just have sex on the brain because she’d been looking in her research closet prior to the audit?

“I’m not out to ruin your day, Ms. Daniels. We really had only a few questions,” the auditor said, sitting at Nadine’s antique desk and waiting while she perched on the edge of her bed. He opened his leather briefcase and pulled out a copy of her tax return, pointing to several lines that were highlighted in bright yellow ink. “And, honestly, the problem wasn’t that we didn’t agree with the deductions, it was that we didn’t understand them.”

He smiled again, and Nadine thought she saw something shimmer in his eyes. A look that didn’t match the Boy Scout image at all. His expression made her feel flushed, and she looked away.

“Vagueness is something the IRS can’t handle,” he continued, self-deprecatingly. “We expect things to fit into neat categories. Phone. Entertainment. Rent. Travel. So, this $6500 deducted for ‘Miscellaneous Research Supplies.’ That raised a red flag.”

Nadine sighed, her worst fears realized so quickly in the afternoon. She was going to have to open her toy chest and reveal the different items she’d used as the foundation for her latest X-rated sex novel. Might as well get it over with quickly. Without a word, she stood, walked to the closet, and pulled open both of the mirrored doors.

“I’m an author,” she explained, lifting the different implements and placing them on her comforter, one after another, as casually as if they were pens and paper, any other equipment of a serious writer. “I throw myself into my work, learning every aspect of my characters’ lives. My most recent novel took place in an S/M environment.” Carefully, she set out the high-end vinyl dress, the handcuffs she’d bought for the equivalent of a month’s rent, the shoes with heels so high they couldn’t possibly be walked in. But that was ok, since they weren’t created for walking. She noticed that the auditor’s eyes had opened wider, but he didn’t speak.

“If I were writing about pet care, I’d buy grooming materials. If I needed to learn about the art world, I’d have purchased books about Monet and Picasso. I hope you’re not going to judge me based on the content on my work.”

The auditor had stood and was now observing the growing pile of items on Nadine’s bed at closer range. She noticed that he had the same look on his face that Daphne’d had when she’d picked through the toys. Intrigue rather than disgust. She also thought she saw a bulge in his trousers that hadn’t been there before.

“Do you understand now, Mr. Monroe?” Nadine asked, her husky voice low. “I had to file everything under ‘miscellaneous,’ because the IRS doesn’t provide neat categories for whips and chains. For bondage gear. For handcuffs –” as she said the word, he hefted the pair, interrupting her.

“Connor,” he said softly.

“Excuse me?”

“My name’s Connor. You don’t have to call me Mr. Monroe.”

Connor. She liked that. And she also liked the way he was playing with her toys, riffling through them as if with a private purpose, stroking the shiny material of the vinyl dress — perfect for water sports — holding up her corset and then looking at her, as if picturing her in it. “This is all for a book?”

She nodded. “Paradise Lounge. It will be out next month.”

“And your character is –”

“A dominatrix,” she said, and again she noticed that flicker in his eyes. Was he getting turned on? She found that she was, and she shifted in her faded jeans, feeling suddenly too constrained. As she watched, Connor slid one of the cuffs around his wrist and closed it. Then he looked at her.

“I think I understand now,” he said, “but maybe you could explain what you do a little more in depth for me. So I get the full picture. I’m a bit anal that way. I like to possess all of the facts before I write up my reports.”

Nadine didn’t need any more encouragement. She felt the heat between them, and she recognized fully the looks he was giving her. “Strip,” she said sternly, without hesitation, “You don’t want me to mess with your nice, expensive suit.” Connor did as he was told, like a good boy, and the metal of the handcuff chain made music as he took off his jacket, shirt, and tie, then kicked off his slacks, socks, and shoes.

“Boxers, too,” she said, admiring him for a moment. My, but he had a fine body, even better than she’d expected. Tightly muscled legs, flat stomach, and, most importantly for Nadine’s particular fixation, a round firm ass. “You can’t really appreciate the image I’m going to create for you unless you give yourself over to it totally. That’s how it is for me, anyway. I lose myself in my characters. Plunge hard and deep until the rest of the world disappears.”

With his eyes locked on hers, Connor slid off his boxers and then stood, waiting. Oh, he was erect. So hard that Nadine felt a moment of weakness. What she would have liked to do was go on her knees in front of it. Meeting a new cock for the first time was always an exciting prospect. Nadine adored that initial taste, learning how the man’s bulbous head would fit into her mouth, stroking the underside with the tip of her tongue, gripping into his ass to pull him forward, harder, at her pace. But not yet, she reminded herself. Take your time. Play it out.

Steeling her inner yearnings, she took hold of the other handcuff, pulled the man forcefully onto her bed, threaded the chain through the headboard, and captured his free wrist. He allowed himself to be manipulated without a word, letting Nadine know that he understood she was in charge.

“Now,” she said, “you want a demonstration of my research equipment.”

“No,” he shook his head, then motioned to the rock-hard monument between his legs. “A demonstration of your mouth.”

That made Nadine smile, her cherry red lips curving upward at the corners. The man had attitude, which she appreciated. But she wasn’t about to reward him from the start. Where was the fun in that? No, she wanted to make him pay for the fear she’d had from the moment the IRS had contacted her. That starkly written letter sending panic through her. Nadine hated to feel panic.

“We don’t play that way,” she said. “Not by your rules. But by mine.”

“And they are?”

“That’s the fun part,” Nadine grinned, stripping out of her own clothes and sliding into the short vinyl dress and her favorite pair of leather boots, feeling the power start to build within her. She sensed that Connor was memorizing the look of her body nearly naked, but she didn’t give him a long time to observe her. “You get to figure out the rules as we go along.”

Connor tilted his head at her, as if he didn’t know what she meant.

“You ought to comprehend that concept,” she said snidely, “Isn’t it how the IRS works? Secret rules that you auditors get while the rest of us poor people are forced to guess what on earth will make you happy.”

But what would make Nadine happy?

She considered the question as she glanced over her implements of pleasure and pain. Her auditor continued to watch as she hefted the different devices. The strap-on cock. Yes, she’d had fun with that in the past. Steven liked to be taken, bent over the bed and thrust into, his ass cheeks spread wide, as Nadine worked up and down the rubber dildo with the palm of her hand, jerking the cock the way a man would.

“Was that one of the items on your tax return?” Connor asked meekly.

Nadine nodded. “Used it for research for chapter 12.”

Next, there was the wooden paddle, perfect for heating the ass of a naughty boy. This particular paddle had a satisfying weight in her hand, and she considered it with an almost loving expression, remembering the scene she had written with the paddle virtually the star of the chapter. She thought of the night she’d tested it on Steven, actually bringing him to tears before letting him come.

“And that was in the miscellaneous items, as well?” Connor asked. Nadine heard the note of fear in his voice, but gave him extra points for staying in control of himself. He didn’t ask whether she would use the paddle on him, didn’t beg her not to. She nodded in answer before moving on to an oily looking black leather belt, slipping it between her fingers and then leaning forward to use the very lip of it to tickle Connor’s balls. He arched his back at the move, and a bit of pre-cum made the tip of his cock seem to shine.

It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge, Nadine knew. She could do just about anything, and he would cream for her. Yet she wanted to have some fun, to make the experience worthwhile. Finally, she decided on one of her five-star toys: a vibrating wand shaped like a cock. Combined with a little of the lube she always kept in her bedside table, she would enjoy introducing this pinstriped man into the world of submission.

“Roll over,” she said.

He tilted his head at her and rattled the chains, indicating that he couldn’t.

“Don’t mess with me, Connor. There’s enough slack,” she said knowingly, “it might hurt a little bit, the chain rubbing into your wrists, but you can do it.”

Obediently, Connor followed the order, twisting his body onto his stomach, shifting as if to make room on the mattress for his erection. Then shifting again because it was obvious he liked the friction.

“None of that,” Nadine said fiercely, her open hand connecting with his ass in a stinging slap. “You get off when I tell you. If I tell you. Not before. Understand?”

Connor sighed but said nothing.

“Do you understand?” Nadine repeated slowly. “That’s rule number one. I’ll give that one to you for free. You answer when spoken to.”

“Yes, Ms. Daniels,” Connor said, voice slightly muffled. Mmm. He was learning already. Not calling her by her first name. Choosing ‘Ms.’ instead of ‘Miss.’ Nadine lifted the leather harness that went with this particular sex toy, and fit the large synthetic cock into its resting place. Then she fastened the harness around her slim hips. She did the work behind Connor, so he couldn’t see her, could only hear the metal of the buckle connecting. Having a cock on always made Nadine feel different inside. Gave her a little bit of a swagger. But there was still plenty of woman in her, and she wouldn’t start with poor Connor without giving him the foreplay he might need before she fucked him.

On hands and knees behind her auditor, she held open his firm bum cheeks and licked once up and down between them, then made a tight, hungry circle right around the velvety rim. Connor sighed and ground his hips again into the mattress, but this time, Nadine didn’t tell him to stop. Instead, making her tongue hard and long, she pointed it and drove it home.

“Oh, Christ,” Connor groaned, thrusting hard against the bed.

She didn’t have to ask whether he liked it. The way he moved made it obvious that he wanted her to fuck his ass and he wanted her to do it now. Sure, sometimes she would play longer, make the guy deep throat her massive hard-on before screwing him. But this afternoon Nadine couldn’t wait. She wanted the feeling of gripping into his shoulders and sliding the length of her cock deep inside of him. First, she reached over Connor’s body, opening the drawer on her bedside table and snagging the bottle of lube. Kindly, she spread it the length of her pinkish cock, her fingers working it and getting extra grease on the tips. To prepare him, she slid two fingers into his ass, opening him up. Teasing him a bit with the intrusion.

“Please –” he said, and she knew somehow that he meant to say “please stop.” This was all far too new for young Mr. Monroe. The fact that he didn’t continue with the request let her know that he didn’t want her to stop. Not really. And he didn’t have the balls yet to say, “Please fuck me.” So he left it just at that one word. Nadine didn’t mind. With both hands, she spread him even wider apart, then placed the huge, knobby head of her joy stick at the entrance of his ass.

An evil grin on her lovely face, she found herself repeating the same speech, altered only slightly, that he had given her upon his arrival. “I know an ass-fucking is a frightening proposition for some people. But it’s just a regular practice in my boudoir. Not any sort of punishment. Think of this as a routine, like a visit to the doctor.” Then she reached for the remote control device that went with the toy, holding it tightly in one hand. Now, she was ready.

As she slid the cock in, the power flooded through her. Jesus, but she loved taking a man. In the oval-shaped mirror over her bed, she saw the way she looked as she fucked him. Her glossy dark hair framed her pale face, and her eyes turned a smoldering blue of the ocean in turbulent weather. With one hand on his waist to keep herself steady, she made the ride last. Giving him a taste, then pulling back. Slamming in deeper, and holding it. Connor let her know the rhythm that he liked based on the sounds of his moans and the way he echoed her thrusts with his body against her comforter. He was going to come all over it, make a sticky white pool on the black satin, but she didn’t care. Because once he got off, she had other plans. Methods to make this afternoon last.

It had been way too long since her last fuck.

Taking Connor hard, she used her free hand to reach around her until she found the mess of toys still spread out on the bed. Her fingers brushed against the handle of the wooden paddle and she hefted it, such a nice weight, and then let the weapon connect with Connor’s right cheek, leaving a purplish blush there. Pretty color. She gave the left cheek a matching blow to even out the hue, and as Connor started to moan, she kept up the spanking. That sound was such a turn-on. The clapping noise, like applause, of a sturdy paddle meeting a naked bottom. She continued to both fuck and punish him until he said, “I’m going to come, Nadine–” a perfect time to switch to her first name. Made it seem that much more personal. “Now.”

With those words, Nadine hit the button on the remote, and the cock inside Connor’s asshole began to move, startling him as those sexy vibrations worked through his body. “Oh, fucking God,” he groaned. He arched and then shuddered, his whole body releasing, and Nadine threw herself against him, still inside deep, so that he felt the length of her body pressed into his skin. In this position, the base of the vibrator buzzed against her clit, sending her wet pussy into spasms that lasted as long as she kept her cunt pushed forward. Oh, yes, that was perfect, the pleasure that had kept her on edge as she was fucking him now spread throughout her body, making her skin tingle in waves that radiated outward from the hot zone between her legs.

Sealed deep into Connor’s ass, her hair spread out over his shoulders, her vinyl-clad breasts pressed into his back, she held him. This was the way she liked to be held when she came during anal sex. It was comforting, soothing, to be wrapped in another’s arms. But after a moment, she pulled out, tore off the harness, and stripped.

Out of breath, Connor rolled over on the bed, chains clinking, and watched her. Even lost in the post-climax bliss, it was obvious that he was admiring the curves of her body, her flushed perfect skin. Nadine felt his eyes on her, but didn’t pose for him. She was busy planning round number two. Naked, she stood in front of her closet, and then she found what she was looking for.

“What’s that?” Connor asked, pointing as Nadine lifted the bone-handled crop with the braided leather tip.

“This?” Nadine repeated softly as she approached him. “This is my last deduction.”

“I’ll cook,” she announced grandly. We can invite Joshua and Diva and have a picnic on the kitchen floor. Maybe the Pilgrims wouldn’t have approved, but I know that our friends won’t mind.”

“Do you know how to cook?” I asked, incredulously. In all of our time together, the most I’d seen Naomi cook was toast, and she usually burns it to a point that even she won’t eat. We’re big on ordering in or going out.

“Of course, I can cook.” She glared at me. “You handle the invitations. I’ll do the rest.”

I shrugged and picked up the phone. Joshua responded as I had, “What do you mean ‘Naomi’s cooking’? She can’t cook!” But I hushed him and told him to have a little faith. Maybe the meal wouldn’t consist of the stuffing and glazed bird we all remembered from old-fashioned dinners at home, but I knew that Naomi would surprise us all.

And she did.

On Thanksgiving, Naomi brought a present into the bedroom. “I want you to wear this tonight,” she said. I unwrapped the gift quickly, then pulled out a shiny black, vinyl apron.

“Over my dress?” I asked naively.

“That is your dress.”

I stared at her for a moment, to see if she was kidding. She wasn’t. Humbly, I put it on. When Joshua and Diva arrived, they couldn’t take their eyes off me. We sat on the kitchen floor, on a red-and-white checked picnic blanket, and drank the champagne Naomi opened. Then we waited — or I waited — expectantly, for the first course.

It was me.

Naomi came over to our threesome and nodded to Joshua and Diva. In a second they had hold of my wrists and ankles, and I was spread out on my back on the blanket. Joshua bound my wrists over my head with a length of cheesecloth. Diva coiled a dishtowel and tied it around my eyes.

While I was lying there, helpless, Naomi began wrapping me with plastic wrap. I could tell it was her, because I know the feel of her hands. I let Naomi go to work — what else could I do? — and within moments I was wrapped from under my arms on down, mummy-style.

“This is like some sort of perverted cooking show,” Joshua said, stepping back on the wood floor. “She’s divine.”

“Gorgeous,” Diva agreed. “Now what do we do with her?”

“Anything we want,” Naomi said. “It’s our party.”

I would have said that it was my party, but Naomi quickly gagged me with a bit of cheesecloth. She seemed to know what I was thinking, though. Naomi knows me extremely well.

“Start with her birthday spanking,” Naomi said. “Joshua, why don’t you give her the first 10.”

Joshua bent at my side and rolled me over onto my stomach. Diva cradled my head and stroked my hair while Joshua went to work on me with his bare hand. It smacked against the plastic wrap and made me instantly wet.

“My turn,” Diva said next, sounding excited. “What should I use, Naomi?”

“Coil up a towel,” Naomi suggested. “Wet it first. It’ll sting.”

Diva did as Naomi advised, and soon the sound of towel stinging ass echoed through our kitchen.

Naomi administered the last strokes herself, using our wooden pizza board (the utensil you use to lift a pizza off the stone). Naomi got into the spanking so much that she forgot I was only due five more blows and she gave me an additional 20. I was well-warmed by the time she’d finished.

“What do you say?” she hissed to me.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I murmured through the gag, thinking that Joshua was wrong. This wasn’t a kinky cooking show, it was an X-rated thanksgiving meal. But I, for one, was giving plenty of thanks that I was a part of it — or, really, the main course.

“Now what?” Joshua wanted to know when Naomi had completed my birthday spanking.

“We’re going to play a guessing game,” Naomi said. We’ll rub items on her skin until she guesses what they are.” She took the gag out of my mouth, as she spoke, and rolled me onto my back again. “You like games, don’t you, cutie?” she asked, teasing.

I shrugged. It sounded easy enough. Innocent enough. The first utensil was rough and Diva dragged it along my inner thighs, catching it against the plastic wrap and pulling. I knew exactly what it was in a few strokes, and though it felt deliciously dangerous, I guessed “meat tenderizer,” and she stopped.

The second item one was cold and it moved in an odd, crunchy way. Naomi placed the mystery item over my breasts. My nipples, already hard, became instantly pinpoint erect.

“What do you think?” Joshua asked softly.

“Something frozen… ice?”

They laughed and one of the partiers moved the object onto my stomach, making me tremble violently. “Not ice…. give me a clue.”

“If she can’t get an item, game’s over and we’ll wrap up Joshua,” Naomi said. I couldn’t guess, so Diva cut me out of the plastic wrap and I slid into my apron. I looked onto the counter and saw the bag of frozen cranberries — something I never would have thought of. So Naomi really had bought something Thanksgiving-related for the dinner. She just hadn’t cooked it.

“Should we wrap him up now?” Diva asked. It sounded as if she were looking forward to taking out some aggressions on Josh.

“Strip him and tie his hands, first,” Naomi suggested, coming toward us with a ball of kitchen twine and a new blindfold. Joshua was situated in the center of the blanket and then willingly bound.

It turned out that he was good at the game. I ran a baby’s teething ring, also frozen, along his inner thighs. He let me proceed for a few moments before guessing, but I think he just liked the way it felt. Diva took her turn with a ravioli rolling pin. Joshua instantly knew it was a roller, but couldn’t immediately figure out what the cut-away shapes were for. Next Naomi, knowing he’d guess but having fun anyway, pinched his nipples with metal tongs. When he didn’t cry out the answer, she gently gave his balls the same treatment. Joshua’s always in the mood for a bit of cock-and-ball torture.

“Tongs!” he finally said.

While Diva pressed into his skin with cookie cutters, Naomi took me by the hand and led me to the refrigerator. I know that the sound of the door opening and closing must have given Joshua a clue — but the wrong one. Naomi had deep-chilled some chocolate syrup and she handed the can to me. Suddenly, I decided the evening was going to be incredibly fun.

I stood over Joshua and asked, “Are you ready?”

He nodded.

I let him smell the can. It can be so confusing to have one of your senses removed. Joshua didn’t know what I was going to do to him and his body tensed. His lips pulled back from his mouth and he inhaled deeply.

“What?” he started, but I didn’t let him continue. I tilted the can and began to drip the cool syrup along his body, drizzling the pure chocolate over his skin. He shuddered, but I could tell he was into the feeling. And from that familiar smell, he must have known exactly what I was snaking along his thighs, reaching closer to the mammoth proportions his cock had grown to.

“I–” he said next, stuttering, arching his back and tensing his thighs. I was making a huge mess, and Diva couldn’t wait any longer to clean him up. As Joshua said, “Syrup… chocolate syrup,” Diva brought her warm mouth to his body and began to lap like a hungry kitten, cleaning his cock completely before she rolled on a condom, hiked up her skirt and climbed on top of him, rewarding him for being such a good boy. Joshua didn’t have to guess what was enveloping him now. He knew the warm, wet sweetness of his lover’s pussy, but when she pulled off and motioned for me, things got even more interesting.

Now, the game was “Fuck Joshua until he guesses your name.” He had a choice between me and Naomi and he knew, somehow, that it was me. We mixed it up for him, letting Diva back on briefly before Naomi took a ride, going through condoms like a box of dessert chocolates. Then we confused him further by placing one cunt over his mouth and another on his cock. He had to lick, fuck and think at the same time, and soon he couldn’t help but stop guessing and start coming.

It was Diva’s turn to be tied up next, but we didn’t bother. We were far too busy celebrating in ways our forefathers could never possibly have imagined. But that didn’t mean we had any less reasons for giving thanks.

I’ve been beautiful since, but never like that.

Never again.

Before those magical 10 minutes took place, I not only wasn’t beautiful, I was hardly noticeable. Simply put, I was just another lowly freshman at UCLA, one of 40,000 others who called the campus home. Shy, insecure, terrified — those three adjectives fit me perfectly. In a land of voluptuous vixens and bottle blondes, I had no idea that with my sleek build and darkly mysterious features, I was far more than pretty. It never occurred to me that men would — and did — find me attractive or that all of the things girls lay awake at night and hope will happen to them would eventually happen for me.

Rather than put myself in a position to be rejected, I didn’t give the guys a chance to approach. I kept my peers at a safe distance by creating a mood of constant motion. I hurried to class, spent hours studying in various libraries around campus, and used my free time cultivating miscellaneous interests as a deejay at the college station and a flunky on the student paper. I was a good girl all year long, until the end of spring finals, when I finally let down my guard and got drunk with the rest of the students on my dorm floor. With no prior drinking experience, I downed five beers in one hour, and wound up to the great surprise of my dorm mates making snow angels on the cool turquoise-and-white tiles of the bathroom floor. Five beers will knock out any lightweight. And at five-foot-three and 105 pounds, I was a lightweight.

In the morning, I experienced my first-ever hangover. For hours, I lay on the slim twin bed and stared at the ceiling, willing the rushing sound in my head to subside. When I eventually took a chance at walking upright, I realized that I’d missed the cafeteria’s sole Saturday daytime meal. If I wanted to eat, I’d have to wait until 6 pm, or fend for myself. Miserable, but yearning for sustenance, I took a taxi a mile off campus to the nearest grocery store. For a long time, I wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles, filled with an overpowering craving for something, anything, but not knowing precisely what. After choosing two items with the care that some women use when buying expensive jewelry, I took my place in line at the checkout. My self-prescribed day-after cure was a bottle of tomato juice and a can of Pringles (the only things in the whole store that seemed even mildly appealing).

It was while I was standing there with my red plastic basket in hand that I started to become beautiful.

I didn’t know the transformation was happening right away. All I knew was that the handsome, dark-haired, 40-something man next to me in line was staring at me, his head angled so that he could look at me over his shades. I felt myself flush, pale skin turning scarlet, embarrassed because I had on the clothes I’d worn during the festivities the evening before, the clothes I’d ultimately slept all night in: faded blue jeans, a rah-rah-style university T-shirt in Bruin colors, and a thin navy-blue hoodie. My turbulent raven curls had escaped from their standard ponytail style, falling well past my shoulders to reach the middle of my shoulder blades. Purple smudges of fatigue made my brown eyes look even darker than usual. I hadn’t bothered with makeup of any kind.

Nervousness made me bite into my bottom lip. I felt over-exposed beneath the fluorescent lighting and underprepared for a confrontation with a stranger. I tried to look extremely interested in the multitude of processed foods filling the fat woman’s cart in front of me, but I felt the man staring relentlessly, and so I slowly turned to face him. As if encouraged by my action, he took a step closer to me, and in a low, soft voice, he whispered, “You have a look.”

The way he said the words gave me an unexpected wave of confidence. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep talking. I don’t know precisely why, but I met him head on and said, “The drunken, slept in my clothes, barely post-hangover look?”

He shook his head. “That’s not it. Something else. Something special.”

I bit my lip again, harder this time. Here was a true Hollywood-style line, but I was no Hollywood starlet. Flustered and confused, I looked down at my white Keds, looked out the window at the half-filled parking lot, looked up at the bars of ugly lighting. Suddenly, it was my turn to pay for my groceries, and I fumbled in my pocket for my folded bills, then grabbed the change and my small paper bag of supplies and started to leave the store. The man abandoned his own few items on the gray conveyer belt and hurried after me.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t flinch away from him, but I pulled back, surprised by the power in his touch.

“Back to campus. I have a cab over there–” I gestured to the far corner of the parking lot. The blacktop glittered where shards of broken glass had melted into the oily asphalt.

“Tell him to go. I’ll take you.” He hesitated, as if he could sense the insecurity that had cloaked me for so many years, as if he could actually feel it. “Anywhere,” he promised, “I’ll take you. Wherever you need. Wherever you want to go.”

I looked at him carefully. Here was the exact situation my parents had spent my entire teenage life worrying about and doing their best to protect me from. I was going to take a ride with a man I didn’t know. And all their warding off of evil spirits did nothing to stop me. For some reason, I obeyed his command, paying off the cab and following him to the expensive, shiny silver sports car parked nearby. The car gleamed like foil in the bright sunlight.

“You should never accept a ride with a stranger,” he told me severely as he opened the passenger door. “Especially a stranger in Los Angeles.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you choosing to ride with me?”

I smiled. I had been given the perfect answer. “You have a look,” I said, and he laughed as he got into the driver’s side and then slid an unmarked cassette into the tape deck. “I’m a music producer,” he told me. “I just heard this tape for the first time. The boy’s going to be huge.”

It was Terence Trent D’Arby’s “Introducing the Hardline According to…” and that music is embedded in my mind as a soundtrack to what happened next. The man drove me to his house high up in the Hollywood Hills where the movie stars live. He led me through the huge, well-decorated rooms, all the way to the mammoth patio in back. There, he gently took my clothes off my body and had me touch myself while he watched. And I was beautiful. For 10 minutes in the ’80s, I was so beautiful it was hard to handle.

I’d never done something like this before. Technically, I was a virgin. I’d had some kissing experience in high school, some backseat petting at a local drive-in theater, but shyness had kept me pure. Now, in the heat of the day, I touched myself while a stranger watched. I ran my hands over my body. I let my fingertips graze my nipples until they stood up hard and erect. I kept my eyes on the man as I let one hand wander lower, reaching to touch my pussy while he watched. The pool behind him was a true, aqua blue. The sky above matched that technicolor brightness. Standing there on the tiled deck, looking out at his multi-million dollar view, I put on a show with my nakedness and my roving touch.

“That’s right,” he said, nodding, his voice hoarse as if he were as surprised by my actions as I was. “Do that.”

He was seated on a deck chair, with his hands on his thighs, his sunglasses low down on his nose so he could look at me over the rim. I felt power in being naked. Felt a power in the way he drank in every touch of my fingertips on my stripped-bare skin. It was as if he were touching me, as well. When my fingers found the wetness coating my lips, he sighed before I did. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, arching my slim hips forward, running my hands over my hipbones. The tiles were hot under my bare feet. The air was still and clear. My hair tickled against my naked back. My eyelashes fluttered against my cheeks.

I knew that he wouldn’t touch me. Not unless I invited him to. Not unless I asked. But I didn’t. I didn’t need anything from him except his gaze. Because the way he stared at me — that’s what did it. That was the magic that made me beautiful. I used my fingers to spread my nether lips wide apart. I ran my thumbs up and down over the ridge my clit, first my right thumb, then my left, then both together, vying for control, until I knew that I was seconds away from coming. I touched myself harder, my eyes closed tighter, my whole body flexed as I waited for the change to take me away.

My mind was filled to bursting with images. I saw myself relaxing with a beer the night before, letting my guard down for the first time ever. I saw myself the way this man must have seen me, unwound, let loose from the tight confines I’d kept myself in all my life. I saw myself opening up, from the split of my body, from the cages within. This picture of freedom brought me to the brink. For me, there was nothing more freeing than standing naked in front of a total stranger, a man whose name I didn’t even know, and letting him see everything.

He said, “Oh, god,” when I came. He said the words for me, so that I didn’t have to, and then, as if my pleasure had released him, he took off his sunglasses and came closer, on his knees on the patio, so very close to me, but he still didn’t touch me. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, as I brought my fingertips to my lips and slowly licked my own juices away.

“Don’t stop,” he said, and I knew from the sound of his voice that if I chose to, I could ask him for things. That he’d give me whatever I wanted. But all I wanted from him was his gaze. “Do it again,” he said, “please make yourself come again.”

With my fingers wet from my mouth, I parted my pussy lips for him, but this time, I slid two fingers deep inside myself. He was close now, his breath on my skin, and I pushed forward with my hips again, feeling his hair softly tickling against my naked thighs. I let him watch me from inches away as I fucked myself. I let him see everything, the way my clit grew so engorged with the heat from within. The way I worked myself hard with my fingers, thrusting my wrist upward against my body, slamming my hand inside me when the need grew stronger and then stronger still. I used only my right hand this time, my thumb rubbing back and forth over my clit, and when I felt the climax building, I put my left hand on his head and twined my fingers through his thick, dark hair, grabbing onto him, anchoring him as I came a second time.

“So beautiful,” he said in that same low, steady voice. “You have this look, this goddamn beautiful quality. I knew when I first saw you…”

I picked up my clothes from around me on the tiles, and I dressed carefully, not hurrying. I felt as if I’d never hurry again, never be nervous again. When I was ready, he drove me back to my dorm, as he’d promised he would. Delivered me back in perfect condition, unmarred and unhurt, although I wasn’t the same person. Not at all. I’d transformed under his gaze. I’d changed.

I guess, sometimes that’s all it takes, one person’s gaze, one person’s opinion, to make all the difference. Like the way he’d said that D’Arby would be big — a single person’s opinion, summing up a powerful truth. It happens all the time in the media, the way it happened for me that time in L.A. In fact, just this weekend, I read a five-star review of Trent D’Arby’s latest CD, and the reviewer wrote: “For 10 minutes in the ’80s, D’Arby was on top of the world.”

And for almost those same exact 10 minutes, I was beautiful. For the first time in my life, I was so fucking beautiful it was hard to handle. Yeah, I’ve been beautiful since. But never like that.

Never again.

Cliché, she thought as she stalked around the block, the heels of her glossy knee-high black boots click-clacking on the pavement. Such a fucking cliché. He couldn’t accept her fiery independence, so he chose to attack her rather than deal with his own insecurities. The thing of it was that she hadn’t ever cheated. Not on Raymond nor any one of her previous boyfriends. The concept didn’t fit her style. If a connection with a man faded, she ended the relationship before moving onto the next one.

Sure, she might have had a thought of cheating — but who didn’t? Once or twice when an interesting specimen looked her way, she lost herself in a decadent daydream involving a satisfying situation with someone new. Perhaps while on the subway, or at the grocery store or out on a morning run. But she’d never actually gone through with it.

Now, that Raymond claimed she had — and she was fuming at the false accusation — she thought that maybe she should. Why be blamed for something, be punished for it, really, without experiencing the pleasure of actually screwing someone else?

Someone else named Blake.

And someone else named Sam.

And even someone else named Nelson.

Yes, she had them all lined up in her mind, and as she turned the corner and entered her favorite English bar, All the King’s Horses, there they were, as if they’d been magically positioned there, waiting for her: all McQueen’s men.

In truth, they were her poker buddies. She loved the game, had been a pro for years, but she’d never had much luck playing cards with girls. Ladies didn’t seem to put as much thought into the mental warplay of poker. Generally speaking, most girls she’d played with had lost interest in their hands and started talking about clothes, or hair, or men. Julissa couldn’t stand that. When she played cards, she wanted serious adversaries, men who had no qualms about taking her money. She wanted poker faces.

Raymond wasn’t into cards. He liked playing the ponies. Or watching football on television. He didn’t understand why she felt the need to join her buddies in the smoke-filled private room at the bar, where Nelson, who owned the place, had a weekly game. Raymond was invited, but after going twice, he backed out permanently. Julissa came every week. Or, attended every week. Mentally, she came every once in awhile when thinking about what might take place with the three studly guys who joined her at the green felt-flocked table.

Tonight was the night she’d find out.

“There she is,” Blake grinned at her, motioning to the others that she’d arrived. “Let the games begin.”

Julissa just smiled as she brushed a lock of midnight hair out of her startling cat-shaped eyes, and then followed the trio to the back room. Before anyone could cut the deck of cards this evening, Julissa perched herself on the edge of the table and said, “Let’s raise the stakes tonight…”

Sam tilted his head at her as he waited for her to continue.

“What’s on your mind?” Nelson wanted to know.

“Strip poker,” Blake guessed, patting Julissa on the back with one of his large hands, touching her in an almost buddy-style that lingered just a beat too long for someone who wanted to be strictly friends.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. Her long, dark hair tickled against her cheeks. “Fuck-poker.”

“Fuck poker?” Sam repeated, shocked. “What do you mean. You don’t like playing with us anymore?”

“She’s leaving us, boys,” Blake said sadly, as if he’d always expected the sad day would eventually come, but he had hoped against hope that it wouldn’t arrive so soon.

“Not ‘fuck the game,’” she quickly explained, reaching for the deck of cards and shuffling expertly. The cards danced mesmerizingly between her fingers. “But a game played for the stakes of fucking –” Another hesitation. “Fucking me, that is.” One final pause, “If you’re interested.”

She watched the men carefully to see when they would get it. One by one, she saw the moment when they understood what she was saying — and one by one, they nodded in agreement, nodded as if they didn’t care if she were pulling their chains, they definitely wanted in. Julissa, herself, wasn’t entirely sure of what she was saying. She knew what she needed. Thought it about it enough, honestly, to have the scene entirely choreographed from start to finish. Handsome Sam would be in front of her, his faded blue jeans open, cock out, and she would lick from his balls to the tip of his shaft as Blake slid her soft skirt up to her hips and lowered her panties. Tonight, she had on a pair of pale lilac-colored ones made of lace-trimmed silk.

She wanted Nelson between her legs, fiercely lapping her pussy while Blake prepared her to receive his cock from behind, back-door style. And by back door, she really meant that she wanted Blake to take her ass. Raymond wouldn’t do that with her. Not that he hadn’t ass-fucked a girl before, because he had and she knew it. They’d teased each other with one of those “What have you done?” conversations early on in their relationship, in the playful stage before they’d gotten serious. So yeah, she knew he’d ass-fucked a French girl in New York one summer. But he didn’t do it that way with Julissa, and for some reason with him refusing, that only made her want to go that route even more.

So, she saw it all, had fantasized so often she felt as if she’d seen the image in a dirty movie, but that didn’t mean it was going to happen. The boys had to win first, and winning wouldn’t be easy. Julissa was an ace at poker. Nobody ever knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Really?” Sam asked now, and Julissa realized that her poker face was already in place. The guys truly didn’t know whether or not she was putting them on.

“Really,” Julissa said, dealing out the first hand.

“And Raymond?” Blake asked.

“Fuck Raymond,” Julissa spat. It was clear to all of them that “Fuck Raymond” was an entirely different statement from “Fuck-poker,” and none of the men commented further. They sat down, eyeing each other carefully, and lifted their cards.

Even though she wanted this fantasy to come true more than anything else she’d ever wanted, Julissa couldn’t lose on purpose. That wouldn’t be right. But the guys turned out to want the evening’s culmination even more than she did. For the first time ever, they created a three-man team, and they fought hard, all of them, to beat her down. Which they did. As soon as she started to lose, Julissa felt that the inevitable was happening. She couldn’t draw the cards she needed, couldn’t fake the boys out with any of her standard moves. Slowly, she began to accept that her fantasy was going to come true, and that made the cards shake in her hands.

“Nervous,” Sam asked, reaching out to stroke her knee gently under the table.

“No,” she said, folding her final hand, and she realized as she said the word that she wasn’t nervous at all. She was excited, desperately wet, and ready to get started. “Let me tell you how it’s going to be…”

They listened carefully to her precise instructions, and then they took their positions around her. Sam was in front, as he had to be, with his jeans splayed open, awaiting the first gentle lick of her tongue on his naked cock. He looked down at her in total awe, as she parted her full berry-slicked lips and let him in. And just as she surrounded Sam’s cock with her open mouth, Nelson lowered her panties and pressed his face against her pussy.

“Oh…” Julissa murmured, her mouth full of Sam. “Oh, yes.”

Blake didn’t jump in right away. He watched the action for several moments before wetting his fingers and tracing them around Julissa’s rear hole. He wanted her nice and wet before he plunged, and he wanted a signal from her that this was really what she needed.

Nelson continued to suckle on her clit, and Julissa, bent forward, had her mouth so full of Sam’s cock that she couldn’t talk at all. But she waggled her lovely ass a little, left and then right, to let Blake know that she was ready. He parted her cheeks wider and then pressed the head of his cock at her asshole. He waited a moment, and then slid in a little bit deeper. Julissa moaned ferociously around Sam’s cock, and Sam picked up the pace, sliding back and forth between her lips at a rapid rhythm. Julissa couldn’t get enough of him. She swallowed forcefully, and then reached forward to cradle his balls as she continued to work him. She was driven on by the pace of Nelson between her legs and Blake fucking her smoothly from behind. Being taken back there was as exciting as she’d dreamed of. The fact that Raymond had been denying her so long made the pleasure even greater.

The foursome were so self-contained that not one of them heard the knock on the private door, and none noticed the intrusion until they heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a “What the fuck is going on back here?!”

Then Blake looked over his shoulder, raised his eyebrows, and simply shrugged. He was too close to coming to be stopped at this point. Sam didn’t even bother with that much of a response, paying attention instead to the lovely Julissa, gently cradling her head as she sucked him to the root, swallowing every last drop. From his position, Nelson couldn’t really see Raymond very clearly, but he knew the man was there. Being watched had always thrilled Nelson, and he put one hand on his own bulging crotch as he continued to lick on Julissa’s pulsing clit. He was going to come at the moment she did, and that made his entire body feel alive with impending ecstasy.

As for Julissa, as she glanced over at Raymond’s face, she felt a wave of satisfaction beat through her — in the back room of All the King’s Horses, and in the midst of all McQueen’s men, it was obvious that this was one relationship that would never be put back together again.

But some stories are like that — for Julissa, it didn’t make her evening’s ending any less happy.
Alison Tyler is a Bay Area author whose most recent novels are Strictly Confidential and Learning to Love It (both published by Black Lace). Look for her short stories in books including Noirotica 3, Erotic Travel Tales, Wicked Words 4 and 5, Guilty Pleasures, Sweet Life, Best Women’s Erotica 2002 and The Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus.

Johnny shook his head. Together we were lost in a foreign world. Whenever our friends wanted to talk privately, they simply reverted to their native tongue of German, instantly plunging the two of us into helplessness. How could we get involved in a conversation that we didn’t understand? So we watched them bleakly, and waited in silence, knowing that eventually they would translate.

That evening, Birgit was the one who finally explained the situation. She wanted to take us out to her favorite restaurant. Wolf wanted to show us the red light district. The decision was up to us, and there was no way of guessing what had been lost in the translation. As could be expected, Johnny instantly voted for Wolf’s plan, squeezing my hand hopefully. I agreed, curious myself, and the four of us drove to the Reeperbahn.

Once there, we wandered along the sidewalks, glancing in shop windows and observing the erotic sights until the harsh throb of a foreign phrase caught my attention. Unlike the flurry of normal conversations floating around us, these words were different, a come-on directed at me.

“What did he say?” I asked Birgit, who had been designated as my perverted tour guide for the evening.

“The women in there,” she began, indicating the darkened doorway that led to a hidden strip club, “they’re all of legal age. But they’re shaved, so they look younger.” Then she pulled me along at a trot because we’d fallen behind the boys.

I glanced back at the heavyset barker, who winked at me before continuing his fast-talking German spiel, hawking his human wares to any passersby, even well-dressed girls like us. What use would we have for shaved strippers? I wondered, but the sinful gleam in his eyes made me feel instantly dirty, as if he knew all of my secrets. As if he might call them out to the next customer.

Swiftly, we fell into place behind our boyfriends, who were oblivious to the fact that we’d dropped back from them. Both men were fully captivated by the line of attractive prostitutes standing nonchalantly across the street from the police station. Our little foursome was clearly connected, but this didn’t stop the hustling women from approaching anyone with a cock. Each girl had a different move — a sensual head nod, seductive lower lip lick, an air kiss. Some were far bolder than that, stepping forward to actually speak to Johnny and Wolf, making pointed conversation in their lilting foreign tongue.

“What did she say?” I hissed to Birgit after a kitten-like blonde in sleek leopard-print slacks and a zipper-encrusted leather top spoke to my beau.

“She asked if he was interested,” Birgit told me, translating the words without hesitation. “She said that she’s the best — too good to pass up. Better then his wife.”

This last bit made Birgit’s eyes narrow, as if she couldn’t believe the nerve. I watched Johnny carefully for his response. While Wolf rephrased the proposition in English, Johnny looked the prostitute up and down, as if he were actually considering the offer. In my mind, I tried to imagine what Johnny could possibly whisper to me so that I’d let him go and experience “the best.”

“We’re only here for a few days,” he’d say. “And we did agree that we wanted to savor all of the international delights before returning home.”

Then I’d give him a kiss and tell him, “Sure, baby. Enjoy yourself. Here’s a handful of Deutschmarks. Have a blow job on me.”

As if reading my thoughts, Johnny turned around and gave me a sheepish smile, letting me know that he was simply a tourist on a sex-charged ride. No problems, honey, his expression said. No worries. On we went, heading toward the main drag of the Reeperbahn, where Birgit told us we could watch dirty movies, visit the erotic art museum, hear a late-night concert, buy a gun, fulfill any one of our decadent appetites. But before we reached the corner, Wolf stopped.

“No, Wilfried,” Birgit said immediately. She was calling him by his full name, which showed me how serious she was. “Don’t do it.”

“He’ll never get another chance,” Wolf told her.

Birgit shook her head fiercely. Once again, our German hosts engaged in a short, heated discussion in their own language. Johnny and I stood with raised eyebrows and listened to the friends we’d known since grad school. What wouldn’t Johnny get a chance to do? And why wouldn’t Birgit want him to have that opportunity? Birgit shrugged angrily, as if to say “do what you want,” and Wolf said in his perfect, unaccented English, “Leave it up to them, right?” and Birgit nodded, blue eyes blazing.

“There’s a street,” Wolf began. “Where the women are.”

I knew that he was leaving out something important, because as far as I could tell, the “women” were everywhere. Turning my head, I spotted several prostitutes moving in our direction. One statuesque brunette was wearing gold hot-pants and lace-up boots, not even shivering while the rest of us were bundled against the chill. Apparently, she had an internal heater. Johnny and I waited silently for further explanation.

“Down there,” Wolf said, indicating a glossy, scarlet-painted gate that towered over our heads. “Behind those doors, there is a street where only men can go.”

“Why?” I asked, my shoulders tightening automatically.

“They don’t want the competition,” Birgit explained. “Or simply curiosity-seekers. They want customers. Males mean sales.”

“Would you like to go?” Wolf asked. His tone made it apparent that he was the one who really wanted to take that stroll. “Just to look,” he continued. “They sit in the windows and you choose.”

“It’s nothing,” Birgit said, shaking her head. “Sluts under glass. That’s all.” But Johnny wanted a peek, I could tell, and so could Wolf. “I hate that we can’t go, too,” Birgit muttered, revealing genuine frustration. “If they’re so good, they should be able to handle another woman walking by.”

But they wouldn’t want to compete with a girl like Birgit — that was my instant thought. So lovely, with her long blonde hair fanning loose over her black cashmere sweater. Bright blue scarf tight around her throat. Pale blue gloves matching her suede slacks. She was far prettier than any of the stunners we’d seen so far, and she gave Wolf what he wanted for free. Although, from the furious expression on her face, I thought he might not be getting any tonight.

Johnny looked at me, a question beating in his deep green eyes, and I nodded. Who was I to keep him from a once-in-a-lifetime journey?

“How long will it take?” I asked.

“An hour,” Wolf promised. “Maybe less.”

He wouldn’t meet my gaze as he spoke. Was there something else in the plan, something that Wolf wasn’t telling me?

“We’ll see you back at home,” Birgit said suddenly, surprising me by how easily she was giving up. “I’m going to take our little one here out drinking. She’s never had a Hefeweizen, if you can believe it. Don’t worry. We’ll cab.” Wolf grinned like a kid, obviously thrilled that his girlfriend had acquiesced. Had he never been allowed down the street before? I didn’t have time to ponder that, because the boys were moving in speeded-up motion before we could change our minds. I watched Wolf open the red gate, saw the two men disappear behind the wall. Then Birgit was tugging my hand, pulling me toward a waiting taxi.

“Where’s the bar?” I asked as we settled ourselves in the plush leather interior.

“We’re not going to a bar. We’re going down that street,” Birgit said forcefully, her ice blue eyes gleaming. “It’ll just take a little doing.”

Back at their Hamburg apartment, Birgit riffled through Wolf’s wardrobe. “We need guy clothes,” she said, “and hats. We’re lucky it’s winter. Less exposed skin means less exposed features.” I stood, bottle of beer in hand, as I watched her gather what she wanted. Honestly, I wasn’t that interested in seeing women behind windows, but I was excited at the prospect of an adventure. Besides, I liked the way Birgit moved, telling me what to do and how to act. It meant that I didn’t have to make any decisions.

“You’ll need to tape those,” she told me, indicating my full chest with a casual motion as she tossed over a roll of bandages. I’m slim, but I have curves. “Get yourself as flat as you can.”

Now that it was really happening, my heart started to race. Go fast, I thought. Don’t think. Modestly, I faced away from her as I pulled off my shirt and sweater and started to roll the bandage around my breasts. But Birgit moved next to me, helping, her fingers cold on my warm skin as she tucked in the end of the bandage.

“Wipe off your make-up,” she told me. “No lipstick. No liner.” I retreated to the bathroom to follow her orders, then returned, clean-scrubbed and fresh-smelling, although feeling something like a mummy in the bandage.

“Perfect,” she said. “Now a button-up shirt, I think. Good that you’re so tall. Makes things easier.” She cocked her head, looking me over. “Keep on the jeans, but put on a pair of my Docs. Your boots are too femme.” I followed her commands, fingers trembling as I did the laces up on her heavy black shoes. “Leather jacket,” she said to herself, nodding. “And some hat. Baseball hat? Yes, Johnny’s got one, right?” As if on automatic pilot I found myself in the guest room, grabbing Johnny’s vintage baseball cap from the dresser and putting it on backwards.

“Your short hair is a godsend,” Birgit said, fussing impatiently with her own intense silky blonde mane. She wrapped it tightly, tucked the length down her turtleneck collar, and then grabbed a striped woolen hat. She’d dressed similarly to me, but without needing to wrap her small breasts. Standing side-by-side in front of the mirror, we looked like two young boys.

“If anything,” she said, “they’ll hassle us for being underage. We need something else.” She rummaged a bit more, and then ran into the kitchen, coming back with a pack of Wolf’s Marlboro Reds. Our friends smoke American brands, while we think we’re cool to buy the European ones.

“Smoking will keep our hands busy and give us something to cover our faces.”

Again, we stood in front of the mirror, staring. Then Birgit snapped her fingers and said, “I know. I know — ” and she reached into Wolf’s dresser and pulled out two socks. “Roll ‘em up and stick ‘em down,” she instructed, and soon there we stood: two insecure youths with smoking habits and serious hard-ons. “Let’s go.”

The cab ride was a tense five minutes as I tried to decide whether or not I could go through with this bizarre charade. “What happens,” I whispered, “if they realize we’re girls?”

“They’ll throw ice water on us,” she said matter-of-factly, “and bits of garbage.”

That sounded like a whole lot of no fun.

“Maybe we should just go to the bar,” I suggested softly, struggling to find a comfortable way to breathe with my chest so firmly wrapped. “We could have another heffer-whatever –”

“No,” Birgit had her mind set. “This is it,” she told the cab driver, and he murmured something back to her as he handed over the change. Birgit responded with a dark smoky chuckle that sounded nothing like her normal laugh.

“What did he say?” This was my mantra for the evening.

“He said, ‘Have a good night, gentlemen,’” Birgit grinned, pushing me out the door. Then there we were, back in front of the red gates.

“What if Johnny and Wolf find out?” I asked, my last ditch effort to talk sense into my friend.

“What can they possibly say?” she responded. “They’ve already done it, and who knows what else!”

She was right, and I took a deep breath and followed her through the gate and into another world. Instantly, I saw that we were in a sort of human sex mall. Lining both sides of the narrow street were tiny storefronts with floor-to-ceiling windows. Behind most windows sat a woman, waiting. I was surprised to see that the windows were actually lit with stark red light bulbs — hence the term ‘red light district.’ Each window held a comfortable-looking chair, like an old-fashioned recliner. The chairs were decorated in a variety of different styles. Some had flags draped lushly over the seats. Others featured more luxurious fabrics, comforters made of velvet and satin.

As we strolled by, I noticed that several windows were dark. These were the ones that had customers, Birgit explained. “It’s early,” she said, looking around at the light pedestrian traffic. “Men with their needs come out later in the evening.” But although this meant that there were many women for us to look at, this also meant that we were scrutinized as potential customers by each one. Some waved. Some stood in open doorways and beckoned. I could see their eyes, the red embers of their cigarettes, their bodies encased in shiny, revealing clothing.

“Hey, tall dark and handsome, come back –” one called. I wondered how she knew I spoke English, and then remembered my baseball cap with the SF Giants logo on it. A clever guess. As we wandered, I looked out for Wolf and Johnny, but there was no sight of our mates.

“The boys are long gone,” Birgit said. “They scurried down fast.”

Turning to look at her, I understood in a mental flash that she was smarter than Wolf, that when he played his little boy games with her, she was always the one in charge. “They’re all macho in front of us,” she continued. “But when women are offering sex for real, they get scared.”

Maybe, I thought, but maybe not. I peered into the hazy gray of one storefront as we strolled by. Maybe they’re each behind one of those darkened windows.

Because there are things that you can’t translate. Expressions. Wounds from old secrets. And there are some things that don’t require translation — like the fact that I knew Johnny would sleep with one of the prostitutes if he had the chance, that I knew he’d done so before. Nuances like the heat between me and Birgit, the questioning glances, sly smiles, accidental brushes up against one another. You don’t need a phrase book to understand certain concepts even if they are foreign as of yet. Even if you’ve never done them before.

At the end of the block, we turned around, walking faster down the other side until we reached the starting place. Now that we’d actually succeeded, there was no need to linger. Birgit smiled at me, and herded me through the gate.

“We did it,” she said, gripping onto my hand tightly.

My cigarette had burned down to the filter, becoming one long piece of silvery ash. Birgit plucked the butt from my fingers and crushed it out on the concrete sidewalk. Then she took a step closer to me. Her breath was icy. Puffs of wispy frozen air. Behind her, the barker called out to us.

“What did he say?” I asked, desperately.

“He said that his girls inside are young and pretty and shaved.” She paused before adding her own opinion in a different tone of voice, “But they’re not as pretty as you.” As she said the words, she kissed me. Her cold lips pressed to mine, and I felt her arms pull me forward. Wrapped in her tight embrace, her sock cock jammed into my side.

“Is that a tube sock in your pocket?” I whispered, “or are you happy to see me?”

She laughed hard, her real laugh, and then took my hand again, pulling me back to the taxi stand where a line of cabs waited. “They won’t be back yet,” she predicted. “If Wilfried thinks I took you drinking, then he knows he has a couple of hours to kick around town with Johnny. They’re probably in one of the kino houses.”

“Kino?”

“Movie. Dirty movies on this street. Two men, jacking off in the darkness.”

I didn’t have to ask what we were going to do. Her fingers played with mine on the ride home, squeezing. The cab driver kept his eyes intently on the rearview mirror, watching.

“He thinks we’re fags,” Birgit said, pulling her woolen cap off to reveal her long honey-blonde mane. The driver seemed to visibly relax. And then Birgit wrapped one arm around my neck and pulled me in for our second kiss. Sweet, at first, and then hot as her lips parted and her tongue met mine.

“Here –” she said, just when I was losing myself in the wonder of it all. “Right here.” She paid the driver and hurried me back up the four flights of steps to the apartment. There were no words then. Just Birgit unwrapping me as if I were a Christmas present. My hat off. Sweater on the floor. Long strand of bandages unwound and discarded. Shoes pulled free. Jeans in a faded denim puddle. Birgit took me on the bed, spread me out on the soft duvet, and started to speak German.

“What –?” I begged. “What did you say?” Now, I needed to know. I didn’t want to miss any words.

“Relax,” she told me, her body soft and warm on mine, curved and dipping in all the right places. She straddled my waist and looked down at me, then traced her fingertips along the line of my forehead, the bridge of my nose, before bringing them finally down to my mouth. Her fingertips rested on my lower lip and I drew them in, sucking on two, gently, softly.

I felt the place where our bodies were joined, felt the heat as it seemed to move from her to me. Felt the wetness when it started and I bucked up against her body, letting her know. But she knew. Easily, she moved down, kissing along the rise of my collarbones, down the hollow of my flat belly, making her way to the slicked wet split between my legs.

I thought of Johnny and wondered whether he was behind a smoked-glass door, making love to a stranger. I thought of the barker, offering nubile women for viewing pleasure, or more. And then I thought of nothing, as Birgit spread my nether lips wide open with her slippery fingers and brought her hot mouth against me. She touched my clit gingerly with the tip of her tongue, then ringed it with her parted lips. I felt the wealth of expertise in the way she touched me — she knew what she was doing. Her fingers came into play, holding my lips apart, dancing along the slick wet split. Then she moved her head down and her long hair tickled my inner thighs as she drew a line with her tongue from my pussy to my ass. I groaned and raised my hips, anxious to take whatever she would give.

Mouth glossy, she moved back and forth, licking and sliding, playing tricks and hide-and-seek games with her tongue deep inside of me. I turned my head and stared at the gold-painted wall, seeing our shadows there, growing and stretching with our movements. There were four of us in the room. Me and Birgit, and the two lovers on the wall. When I could take no more, I put my hands on her shoulders and made her look up at me. “Please –” I begged.

“What?” she asked, an echo, a murmur, “what did you say?”

“I want to taste you,” I told her, and quickly she swiveled her lithe body around, so that her sex was poised and ready above my waiting mouth. Then we were connected again. My tongue inside her pussy, her whole face against my cunt, pressing hard. I didn’t think. There was no need to. I only acted. Lips on her nether lips. Tongue flat to tickle her clit and then long and thin to thrust inside of her. I mimicked each move she made until we were in perfect rhythm. One beast, one being, riding together on that bed.

Nothing has ever felt that good, that right. The way we connected to one another. Skin sliding on skin. Fingers moving, caressing. Searching together to find the end — the answer.

With my eyes shut, I saw the women in the windows, the sluts under glass. With no sound but our hungry breaths, I heard the barker offer up his strippers, smooth and shaved, and then I was coming, and I heard only my heart in my ears as I drove hard against her mouth, sucked hard against her clit, taking her with me, taking her over.

Hours later, the boys found us curled in the bed together, me wearing one of Johnny’s shirts, Birgit in one of Wolf’s.

“Sleeping off a drunk,” chuckled Johnny knowingly as he and Wolf stumbled down the hall toward the tiny kitchen, where I could hear them trying, and failing, to be quiet as they looked for more alcohol. There was a loud bang and then Wolf groaned something in rapid-fire German.

“What did he say?” I asked Birgit, nuzzling my lips against her soft cheek.

“Nothing,” she assured me, “nothing important.” Her fingers once again found out the secret shaved skin of my bare pussy. Then quietly she spoke to me in German, and I closed my eyes and listened to the delicate murmurings of phrases that I knew meant promised pleasure, for once not worrying myself about the translation.

But Josh is different.

He searches me out, and he tells me things that men in L.A. don’t bother saying — at least, not to me. He says that I’m unlike anyone he knows (in Erie, Pennsylvania). With his arm around my waist and his head bent low to my ear, he whispers that I’ve got a quality, a mystery, an aura. From the moment he saw me, arranging the books in our booth, he knew he had to meet me.

“You’re different,” he says, and the pull of his accent makes him suddenly sexy. “I don’t know anyone like you.”

It’s as if he’s never seen a girl with dyed black hair before. Never seen pale skin or dark eyes, all of the things that make me an aberration in Hollywood where blonde and blue are the only colors in the crayon box. But I’ve seen people like Josh before: tall, lean, and handsome in a hick sort of way. He’s probably very suave (in Erie, Pennsylvania), but a little bit more earnest than the type I go for. Read between the lines: I’m just like Josh. I yearn for the ones who ignore me.

Josh says that he loves me.

And he says it even before I go down on him in the elevator.

When I meet Josh’s girlfriend at the trade show the following spring, I’m surprised by how much we look alike. We are both petite, fair-skinned brunettes. I’ve got an inch or two on her and she’s got about ten pounds on me. As we size each other up, I believe we come to the exact same conclusion: I am slightly prettier, a bit hipper, and much happier than Sarah is. The first two items on the list could be taken care of in a single afternoon. What she needs most is a good haircut and a much better dress. She could use a tattoo, or a hidden piercing, something to make her feel funky and confident that the rest of the world doesn’t know about. The happier aspect is more difficult to work with. I think that it’s got nothing to do with me and everything to do with Josh.

Winning at the attractiveness game gives me an odd upper hand. An air of queendom, like when you’re five years old and it’s your birthday party and you get to boss other people around all day long. Sure, it’s fun, but after everyone leaves, you feel sort of sick to your stomach.

As if she enjoys wallowing, Sarah befriends me. She drinks too much and puts her head on my shoulder. I feel her soft hair against my neck, her breath on my cheek when she speaks. “You’re so nice,” she slurs, “that’s what Josh told me.”

I wonder what else he told her. I’ve had crushes before, have gone loopy and started confessing unusual factoids about a person I liked to the one I was currently with. Did Josh talk that way about me? Or did he describe the way it felt to press me up against the elevator door, to ride me as the car traveled all the way up to the thirty-second floor?

My obvious queenliness draws other men to me while Sarah is ignored. The scruffy musician at the bar dedicates his set to the raven-haired beauty, and he nods in my direction. The waiter at our table brings me a round of free drinks. And then, of course, there’s Josh.

Josh. Josh. Josh.

His foot meets mine under the table. His fingertips linger when he hands me a fresh drink. Long glances over Sarah’s head make me feel as if he’s not only mentally undressing me, but mentally bending me over the shaky table and fucking me doggy-style. Poor Sarah pretends that everything is normal, and I do my best to pretend along with her. Until I get too drunk to care.

Josh’s brother lives in town, and when we meet him late in the evening at a club, an even more bizarre scene is waiting to unfold. Mark and Josh have their own competition going on, and when Mark sees that Josh likes me… then Mark likes me. And then suddenly it’s Mark. Mark. Mark.

Mark is married with a two-year-old daughter named Lucy. He isn’t as handsome as Josh, but he’s cooler in a nerdy, Buddy Holly sort of way. He knows stuff about music, and he’s not just feeding me a line when he says that he’s into hip-hop. He really is. We stay at the club in Baltimore until two in the morning and I dance the whole set with Mark. No cabs come to pick us up and we end up walking nearly two miles back to the hotel. Mark walks next to me, and Josh insists on walking right behind us, listening in on our conversation. Mark torments his younger brother, asking me sexy questions, making Josh jealous. And because Josh’s jealous, I sense that Sarah wants to crawl into a hole in the sidewalk and die.

“I’ll bet you’re not wearing any panties,” Mark says, just loud enough for Josh and Sarah to hear. I don’t answer because I don’t have to. Three sex-hungry people are now picturing me without panties. It doesn’t matter whether I have them on or not. To Mark and Josh and Sarah, I am totally naked beneath my skirt. But I’m picturing Sarah’s panties. I know she’s wearing them, and I’m sure that they are plain, white, and cotton.

At the hotel, Mark offers to come upstairs with me while Josh leads an extremely intoxicated Sarah back to her room. She shoots me a look over her shoulder that I read as ‘I won.’ Her drunken smile is lopsided and she winks.

“Be right back,” Josh says. “Just going to tuck her in.”

He does it, I know, because deep down he loves her. Not me. I am a fantasy creature flown in from L.A. to solve his problems and star in his daydreams. She is the woman he ought to be with.

“And I’ll tuck you in,” Mark says with a sly smile.

“You’re married.”

“That’s my problem.”

“Mine, too,” I say and leave him before he can grab me and hold me back. I don’t want him. I want Josh, and even though I shouldn’t be, I’m surprised when he doesn’t come to my room, when he doesn’t even ring after putting Sarah to bed. That is, at first, I’m surprised. Then I get mad. Finally, I get an idea. Although not as drunk as the rest of them, I feel my liquor as I reach for the phone. No answer at Josh’s room, so I try Sarah’s, not sure how I’m going to behave as she answers the phone. Turns out I don’t have to worry about anything. She says simply, “I was about to call you. Come on over.”

“Over” means up two floors to her room. Maybe she wants to talk. To ask me questions. To dis Josh. I don’t feel like being alone, so I grab my key and ride the elevator to her floor, thinking of my ride with Josh six months earlier.

Sarah opens the door naked. I see her clothes in a mess on the floor by the bed and realize that I was wrong. Not plain white underwear, but a pair of racy black panties. High-cut on the hips. Panties I’d wear myself. Slowly, I start to reconsider the situation.

“I was just having a drink,” Sarah says, shutting the door behind me and then walking across the room toward the balcony. Her haughty ass is a pleasure to watch, and I stare openly, considering my next move. I still feel the alcohol buzzing through my system, but that simply makes it easier for me to get naked myself and walk after her. It seems only fair for us to be at the same starting point. But even when I’m without clothes, I sense that she’s leading. Our roles of the evening have changed. This is her game.

Sarah hoists herself up so that she’s sitting on the cold concrete wall that rims the tiny area. That makes me nervous, but she doesn’t seem frightened at all. Behind her, the sky begins to lighten, still a deep blue, but no longer cobalt. Toward the east it gradually turns a faded denim color, like worn jeans.

“Look at me,” Sarah says softly, bringing my attention from the sky back to her face. I see suddenly that she’s very pretty. That she is different from me; it’s only the surface parts that are similar.

“Do you love him?” Sarah asks.

I shrug and shake my head at the same time, spending several moments drinking in her features. She has freckles, which I hadn’t noticed before. In the lights from the city, her skin takes on a golden glow, as if she’d been covered with sparkling confetti.

“Did you do it?” she asks next.

“What?” I murmur.

“Fuck. Did you fuck?”

It sounds harsh coming from her lips, and I squint at the way she says the word, then nod.

“Would you fuck me?”

I realize that I misread her cues all evening long. Sarah wasn’t playing the part of the left-out girlfriend, she was flirting with me. Her head on my shoulder. Her sweet compliments. The dirty looks she shot Josh whenever he made a forward move. While I was concocting a soap opera catfight over a guy, Sarah was letting me know that I’d turned her on. Thoughts of Josh slip away. Now, I want to play connect the dots of Sarah’s freckles with my tongue, start at a freckle on her chin and work down her neck, over her breasts, along the flat of her belly, to her cunt. I also don’t want her to fall off the railing, so I pull her down and then spin her around, so that she can look out at the slowly waking city while I work.

Of course, it isn’t really work. The feel of her soft skin under my fingertips, under my tongue, is the ultimate pleasure. I lean up against her, so that she can feel my skin on hers, and then I press my lips to the back of her neck and lick her, then bite her. She shivers against me, and makes a soft sighing noise to let me know she likes it.

Different lovers bring out different sides of your personality. Somewhere deep inside me, I know this. Josh put me in the role of the lady, a damsel, but it takes making love to Sarah to remind me that I have a range of facets. That I can be passive with one lover and dominant with another. And I am dominant with Sarah. I play her, sliding my hands up her arms, locking her wrists together in one hand as I bend to bite the nape of her neck the way a mama cat does when it lifts a kitten. Sarah coos and I bite harder, now releasing her wrists and using one hand to spank her ass.

The pre-dawn air flows over our naked skin, and this makes it even more spectacular as I work my way down her body, licking along the ridge of her spine, until I find the indents above her bottom. I kiss her here, waiting, forcing myself to take my time until she arches her back. Letting me know with that single move what she wants. And what she wants is exactly what I want. My tongue in her asshole: the warmth of it, the length of it. Pressing in and pulling out while she grips onto the concrete barrier and faces into the morning sky, as still as one of the gargoyles on the roof above us.

I do just as we both hoped I would, parting the cheeks of her ass, introducing her to the wetness of my tongue. I trick it in a circle around her hole before plunging inside. She makes that cooing noise again, like one of the doves on the window ledges in the room next to us. I adore that noise, want to hear it again, and I continue with my actions. Feeling her inside with my tongue, bringing one hand up the split of her body in front and tweaking her clit between my fingers. I want to make her scream, want to take her to places she’d only been in her mind.

As the sky continues to lighten, I work her, fucking her with my tongue and fingers. When I sense that she’s close to coming, I withdraw my tongue and turn her around, letting her feel the cold wall behind her while I spread her pussy lips and make love to her clit. Anyone can eat pussy, but it takes a truly special lover to focus. To do the things to your partner that you’d most like someone to do to you. I do everything to Sarah that I like the best. I take my time, which is always important, and I bring her repeatedly to the edge of climax without letting her reach it.

You never want your lover to get there too soon. Yes, it will feel good. Nobody has ever had a “bad” orgasm. But the best ones are those that you can almost taste in your mouth before they wash through your body. This is the kind I bring to Sarah, finally sealing my mouth to her cunt and letting my tongue flick over and over her clit. Repeatedly. Varying the intensity until she grips onto my shoulders and screams. The contractions rage through her, slamming through her body and leaving her both satisfied and drained, staring down at me with a look of total satisfaction in her lovely eyes. I don’t have to ask her how it was, and she doesn’t have to tell me. But she whispers one word, “Perfect,” and smiles.

In the morning, I stop by Josh’s hotel room to say goodbye.

“I love you,” Josh says softly. This time, there’s no oral sex involved. Just Josh, looking almost tearful as he stares at me from the rumpled mess of his white bed sheets. “I love you.”

And that’s the last I ever hear of him.

“Maybe he didn’t say that,” Sarah suggests when I tell her the story afterward on our flight to L.A.

“What do you mean?” I ask, looking over at my new girlfriend. She couldn’t be more different from Josh. She talks straight, doesn’t play games, and would never let a lover come between her and her brother.

“Maybe you misheard him.”

“Love… shove… dove…”

“Above,” she says with finality. “Maybe he said, ‘I’m above you,’” she pauses, considering the situation. “Was he?”

“Was he what?”

“Above you?”

I picture Josh’s long lean body sprawled among the wrinkled white sheets. In my head, I can still hear him whispering the words. “I love you.” That’s what he said. No doubt about it. But that statement becomes our private joke forever. When Sarah wants to kiss me, to touch me, to fuck me, she leans in close and says, “I’m above you.”

She’s not. We are on the exact same level.

Which, I might add, is way the fuck above Josh.

Sure, I understand the benefits of having such readily available pleasures. In the states, you have to search out the seedier sides if you’ve got a taste for trouble. So I realize how someone might enjoy being able to walk down an alley, point to a window, and buy the person behind it for an hour of frisky fun. Yet the type of free-wheeling environment found in Amsterdam poses a problem for girls like me. Girls who like the darker side of things.

The rush, I’ve always found, is in delving into that cloak and dagger ambiance and plunging down the steps into the unknown. What’s illegal in Amsterdam? You can walk into a coffee shop and buy your marijuana, walk into a pharmacy and purchase magic mushrooms. No need to skulk through alleys after your personal yearning. For some, it’s a fantasy come true. But I fucking hate it.

This is why I was sulking miserably through a rainy Amsterdam afternoon, a scowl on my face, my long black hair windswept, my eyes troubled. In each cozy cafe, college students sent fragrant plumes of smoke toward the lazily spiraling ceiling fans. Content and flush-cheeked, the smokers slipped deeper into their daydreams, looking as if they were right out of a painting — Norman Rockwell for the new millennium.

In the red light district, I knew I could find someone to take care of whatever I craved, which made me crave absolutely nothing. While others tightened their coats against the harsh, autumn storm, I rebelled in the only way I could, pushing back the hood of my heavy black jacket, pulling open the buttons, letting the water hit my skin.

The one thing I do love about Amsterdam is the set-up of the city, intricate circles and circuits of canals. Wet and pungent, filled with houseboats, fallen leaves from gold-flocked trees, ducks, and debris. I like the idea of the circles, one slipping inside of the other as they get closer to the center. Rings around rings, like the spiraling efforts of a lover’s tongue nearing the bull’s eye of a woman’s clit.

With thoughts like that on my mind, it was no wonder that I was aroused. But I felt as if I were on the verge of coming without ever being able to reach the climax. Searching for something unknown in a city where you can get anything as long as it has a name and you have the price.

“Wanna buy a bike?” a voice asked as I rounded a corner, breaking through my unhappy haze. Turning, I saw the first evidence of the Amsterdam underground. A scruffy looking youth, with tousled birch-colored hair and a dead-eyed green stare captured my attention. Handsome, but weathered about the edges, he had the look of someone who’d been up all night. It’s a look that I find seductive.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Pretty girl,” he beckoned, and I took a step further away from the crowds of tourists and into the mouth of the stone-cobbled alley where he stood. “Do you wanna buy a bike?”

And now I understood. Where, in any other city, this man would be offering me drugs or sex or something not easily found on the street, he was hawking bicycles instead. Good as gold in Amsterdam.

“Cheap,” he added in perfect English. “With a seat and handlebars. Everything.”

In Amsterdam, you have your choice of how to get around. You can walk — like I do — use a trolley, a boat, a car (if you have balls of steel), or a bicycle. The problem, in my opinion, is that everyone is stoned on something, and they drive as if to prove that you can handle a vehicle while your mind is flying. Trolleys split pedestrians and make them scurry for safety. Bicycles cut off cars. I might trust myself on two wheels, but I wouldn’t trust those around me. Still, the excitement of embarking upon something illicit made me shift in my wet jeans. Danger is my all-time favorite aphrodisiac.

“Where is it?” I asked, looking around.

“Don’t carry the product on me,” he said tersely, and I thought I saw a sneer on his attractive face, as if he was thinking, “What can you expect from a foreigner?”

“How much?”

He leaned forward to quote the price, and I saw the way his eyes looked at me. As if he’d suddenly noticed that my jacket was open, my lipstick red t-shirt wet and tight on my slim body. My jeans soaked through.

The price he quoted was high for a bicycle, but low to fulfill my need. I nodded, and he motioned for me to follow him, back down that alley to another. Quick-stepping as we made our way to some unknown destination, I heard the way my boots sounded on the walkway, that staccato beat, heard the echo of my beating heart in my ears. This was adventure, excitement, the reason I’d come to Amsterdam in the first place. And why was I getting all warm and aroused? Silly girl, silly girl. It was because I was about to buy a bike.

“This way,” he urged, “just down that street.”

I tried to keep up with him, but ended up walking behind, and that was okay. The rear view of this youthful dealer was something to be admired. Like me, he had no qualms about getting wet, and his Levi’s were a dark ocean blue, tight on his fine ass, slicked down on his lean legs. He had on a black sweater, also drenched, and that unruly white-blonde hair that seemed bed-rumpled instead of just plain wet.

When we got to our destination, he wanted the money. But I’ve made deals with street salesmen before. It’s important to see the merchandise before you put up the cash, regardless of the country you’re in.

“Don’t trust me?” he asked grinning, and I shook my head. “This way, then,” he said, and we continued on our route, around one of the comeliest canals of the city, where even the ducks were now hiding beneath the arched bridges to stay away from the cold, driving rain. What did they have to worry about? They lived in water.

“Just a bit further,” he said, and I wondered as I spotted a familiar-looking kiosk whether we were going in circles. Didn’t matter to me. I’d have followed as long as he led. But soon he stopped again, this time in front of one of the skinny gingerbread-colored houses that tour-leaders love to point out as the “charm” of Amsterdam. Chained to a railing was a shiny blue bicycle, just as he’d described. Two wheels. Handlebars. A seat. Everything.

“You believe me now?” he asked, and he took a step closer as he held out his hand for the money. His fingertips could have brushed my breasts through the tight, damp shirt, could have stroked the line of my chin, tilted my head up for a kiss. I felt my breath speed up, but I didn’t let on. I could play as streetwise as I need.

“The key?” I asked, pointing to the bike lock, and the corners of his eyes crinkled at me as he smiled again. He seemed to have more respect for me now, sensed that I was willing to play any game he named.

“A little further,” he said softly, turning on his heel and continuing the walk. Such a smart-ass, I thought. He’d have taken my money at the first place, then told me to wait while he got the bike, disappearing forever. At the second stop, where I could actually see a bike, he would have made more excuses — “I need to get the key” — and then vanished. Now, we were testing each other. Him to see if he could get the money from me. And me to see if he might sense something else that I wanted.

Once again, we were back down another alley. At the end, stood a long metal rack, with at least fifty cycles attached. The dealer nodded toward the mess of cycles. “You choose one,” he said, “tell me the color, and I’ll get it for you. Then you pay.”

“I’ll need a lock, too,” I said.

“Locks are no good. Watch what I do to one.”

I looked over the rack of bikes and found one that I liked. “The emerald green.”

He smiled. “Five minutes. Meet me back there,” and he pointed down the alley to a bridge. “On the other side.”

This was fine with me. If he didn’t show up, I wasn’t out anything. If he did, well, we’d just see. For the first time, I felt happy to be in Amsterdam. The city was lovely, even rain-streaked, and the abundance of drugs and easy sex made the people around me seem at peace. Who isn’t blissful when they’ve just gotten laid, or smoked a big fat one, or done both simultaneously?

At the meeting spot, I waited in the rain, shivering, and in less than five minutes, he was there, wheeling the bike ahead of him. Now, it was my turn to pull a fast one.

“I have to get the money,” I said. His eyebrows went up and he frowned at me, but I shook my head quickly to reassure him. “I have it, but it’s at my hotel,” I told him, naming the location. My smile must have let him know what I was offering. More than payment for a bike. “Don’t you trust me?”

“We’ll ride there,” he said, “it’s quicker.”

I found myself perched on the back wheel as we sped down the streets, cutting off taxis and trolleys, wreaking havoc with pedestrians, and then joining a sea of other cyclists until finally we were at my hotel. He carried the bike into the lobby for me, where the concierge promised to watch it. Then we headed up the stairs together, soaking wet, dripping little puddles on the carpet as we walked.

At my room, I paid him first, just in case that was really all he wanted. He took the money, folded it, and slid the bills into the side pocket of his jeans, just before he slid his jeans down his legs. Smiling, I stripped, as well, and soon we were naked together, pressed against the wall of my hotel room. Our bodies were wet and cold, at first, then wet and a little warmer as we created heat together.

I like sex — especially unexpected sex. And this beautiful boy seemed perfectly ready to give me what I needed. He took his time. Starting with a kiss, he parted my lips with his, met my tongue, moving slowly, carefully. Then he grabbed both of my wrists in one hand and held my arms over my head, pinning me to the wall. With my wrists captured, he brought his mouth along the undercurve of my neck, then kissed in a silky line to my breasts. I arched my back, speaking to him with my body alone, making silent, urgent requests. He didn’t fail me. First, he kissed my left nipple, then my right, then moved back and forth between them until I was all wet again; a different type of wetness from being soaked to the skin outdoors. Now, I was soaked within.

It was time for him to fuck me, and I wanted to say this, but I realized to my embarrassment that I didn’t know his name. I felt a moment of panic but then decided it didn’t matter. We had our agreement, our arrangement, and that bond of dealer to seller should have been all the information I needed. So I locked onto his clear green eyes and tilted my head toward the large bed in the center of the room. He grinned, lifted me in his arms, and carried me to it.

There was romance in the gesture that pulled at me deep inside, from the base of my stomach to the split between my legs. Even though I was the same girl who had gotten off in the past by being taken in public, being tied down with leather thongs, bound with cuffs, spanked with paddles, fucked with dildos. Kink has always tended to make me come. But this time was different.

The thrill, I have always found, lies in the unknown. Plunging down those steps into darkness has always been my favorite way to play. Yet, usually, the need for danger takes me into extreme situations. This time, I found myself on a normal bed in an average hotel room, doing something extraordinary with a stranger.

“Trust me,” he said, and I nodded.

The boy spread me out on the bed and continued with his kissing games, making his way to the intersection of my body, then tracing a map of Amsterdam’s canals around and around my clit. His tongue slid deep inside me, then pulled out, went back in to draw invisible designs on the inner walls of my cunt, and then out again, leaving me breathless and yearning.

“Now,” I murmured, and he nodded, understanding. But then he moved off the bed again, rummaging through his pile of wet clothes until he found the bicycle lock and chain that he’d removed from my new cycle. Back at my side, he used the heavy metal links to bind my arms together over my head. No lock needed, just the chain wrapped firmly around my slender wrists. That was perfect, divine, just the type of rush that I craved.

Then, sitting up on the bed, he used his hands to part the slicked-up lips of my pussy, and his fingers slipped in my wetness. I sensed it a second before his cock pressed into me, and I stared into his eyes as we were connected. And oh, Christ, that feeling was almost overpowering, the length of his rod as he thrust deep inside me, following the same route made by his tongue moments before. Only now, I basked in the fullness of it. Thick and long, his cock filled me up.

Before I could even think about what I might want next, his fingers came back into play. He kept my pussy lips spread apart, stretching me open, and then the tips of his fingers began to tap out a sweet and unexpected melody over my clit. I sighed and ground my hips against him, letting him know how much I liked what he was doing. Then I squeezed him, from deep within, and this time he was the one to sigh. Open mouthed, eyes wide and staring into mine, he watched me for the whole ride. Held me with a gaze so intense that I couldn’t look away.

This sent me over the edge. His fingers, his eyes, his cock, his tongue — all combining to take me there, to lift me up; to send me. My body closed in on his, and then opened up, squeezing and releasing, bringing him right up there with me. Pushing him over.

“Beauty,” he whispered, stroking my still-wet hair away from my face as I came.

When I went downstairs later in the afternoon, the bike was gone, of course.

“Your friend, he took it,” the concierge told me with a smile. “But he left you this.” The money was sealed in one of the cream-colored envelopes kindly provided by hotel. Fair trade. He knew I didn’t really have use for a bike in Amsterdam, and if he’d taken the cash, that would have made him a whore instead of simply a street dealer. It was a wholly complete transaction, and I knew that I should have been satisfied.

Still, the next day found me walking through the city with a mission, pausing at each darkened alleyway until I heard the words that made me wet.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispered, his voice low and seductive, “Wanna buy a bike?”

“What do you mean?” my friend asked, yelling to be heard over the music. We were at her annual pagan Halloween party, and the music was loud. I had on a toga and my black hair was loose down my back in my version of Aphrodite. A silly costume for me — the Goddess of Love? I don’t think so. Justine was dressed like a nurse, and from the glances she was receiving, it looked as if several partiers were desperate for their yearly examination.

“I need to know what it’s like first,” I said, “you just don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” she said, “I don’t understand at all.”

Closing my eyes, I tried to think of how to explain. When I was in junior high school, I’d amazingly been the first of my friends to go to a school-sponsored dance. Amazingly, because I was so shy I could barely raise my hand in class. Once at the dance, I stood with my back solidly pressed against the wall, petrified. Finally, a boy I’d known since kindergarten, sidled up to me and asked what was wrong.

“I don’t know how to dance,” I confessed.

“There’s nothing to it,” Kevin told me, leading me to a dark corner of the gym. “All you need is practice.” When the Police came on with “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic,” he moved me to help me find the beat. He taught me how to move, shimmying and swaying in that dimly lit corner. Boys I’d turned down earlier in the evening stared at us. Why had I said yes to Kevin and no to them? It was an easy answer. He’d let me work it out before taking me to the center of the room and dancing with all the other kids.

Now, squeezed on a sofa between my naughty nurse buddy and a friendly-looking Frankenstein, I told this story to Justine, trying to get her to comprehend what I wanted from her without having to actually spell it out. Justine took a sip of her drink and said, “You want me to dance with you? Should I search my CD collection for ‘Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic’?” I caught the sparkle in her eyes, though, and understood she was teasing me.

“Please,” I said, and Justine seemed to stand up slightly straighter at the way I said it. Her buoyant breasts continued in their gravity-defying lifestyle, pointing straight at me.

“You want me to spank you,” Justine said now, not asking, but telling. The Frankenstein looked my way and I blushed.

“It sounds ridiculous, I know. But I need to practice before I experience it with Antonia. That’s just the way I am. If I don’t know what it’s like, I won’t be able to let her do it to me. And she wants to spank me. She said so.”

Justine grinned. “If you tell her afterwards, she’ll probably punish you even more.” I got the sense that she was really enjoying the image of Antonia disciplining me.

“Once I know, it won’t be bad. It’s the not knowing that kills me.”

Justine shrugged. “I’ll meet you in your apartment in twenty minutes.” Justine lowered her voice, “You’re such a bad girl, Katrina. I never knew you had it in you.”

And then she was downing the rest of her martini, stalking across the apartment to the hallway, and disappearing around the corner. I finished my own drink, then left the party, walking across the hall to my own apartment. I was very aware of how wet I was growing in anticipation of my first paddling. I didn’t care if Antonia punished me worse. I had to know.

In my studio, I paced back and forth: from the bed to the window to the bed again. I stared at my reflection in the mirror on the back of the closet door. I saw my flushed cheeks, my trembling lower lip. I thought about how my father had taught me to drive, taking me anywhere I wanted to go ahead of time, so I could learn the route. Driving with me as the passenger first, then allowing me to take a turn behind the wheel. We drove in all kinds of weather: rain, wind, hail, until I was competent. This type of practice is ingrained into me. Try it out first. Test the waters. I’m the type of person who never just jumps into a swimming pool.

While waiting for my friend to arrive, I posed in front of the mirror. Then I turned around, lifted my dress, took my panties down, and observed my naked ass. I pictured handprints decorating the pale, tender skin. I wondered if Justine would only play with me, or if she’d give it to me hard. I wondered if she’d make me cry. I tried to imagine exactly how much I could take before that happened.

Where was Justine? I wondered. I thought about calling her to ask what was taking her so long. Then I thought about calling her to cancel the whole thing, to tell her it all had been a joke, a sick joke, that I was over it now. What the fuck was I doing? Who was I trying to kid? I didn’t have it in me, did I?

But even as that voice in my head tried to convince me to back out, I knew I wouldn’t. My mind took me on a quick trip, visualizing Justine striding in on her amazing heels, standing right at the door and looking at me. Her curves barely reigned in by the white nurse’s outfit; the stethoscope still around her neck like some piece of alien-looking jewelry. I heard her telling me in her lilting voice that I’d been naughty, awfully naughty, and I was going to have a hard time sitting in the future. Telling me to lie face down on the bed and hug the pillow, that she’d be more than happy to mete out a bit of seriously needed discipline to a wayward girl like me. That’s what friends are for, right? To help out pals in need.

A knock at the door announced that Justine was finally coming to join me. I walked to the door and opened it, revealing not my neighbor… but Antonia, dressed handsomely in a cowgirl’s costume, chaps over jeans, vest over a tight, ribbed white tank, handkerchief tied around her neck. Her hair was pulled back from her face. She looked like she’d stepped out of the wild West, and I scanned her body quickly to make sure she wasn’t holding a whip in her hand. What would I have done if she did have one? And why