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  myself over to his scrutiny. I push my hands over my body,

  al the curves that scared and annoyed me when they

  started forming but I'm grateful for now. Boys like boobs

  and ass and even a little bely is okay if you have the rest

  of it, too.

  He unzips his jeans, too, while he watches. Soon his prick

  is settled firmly in his fist and he pumps it slowly as he

  watches me caress my body with my hands acting like his.

  I have seen him do this before, stroke himself erect, give

  himself a few quick pumps now and then. I've never

  watched him finish this way. He's always done it in my

  mouth, or my hand, or in my body.

  "Take off your panties," he whispers in a voice rough-

  edged with need.

  I can't remember him ever saying that to me before.

  They've always just…come off. But now I slide the cotton

  and satin down to end up on the floor next to my jeans. I

  try not to think about the couch under my bare flesh, or

  wish we'd at least put down a blanket.

  When he groans, I'm no longer distracted. I can't focus on

  When he groans, I'm no longer distracted. I can't focus on

  anything but my hand moving between my legs and his

  moving on his cock. I'm wet and my fingers slip and slide.

  I push two inside myself, echoing the motion he's making.

  It's like my fingers are his prick, his fist my pussy. Our

  bitten-back moans come at the same time.

  My clitoris is hard. Rigid. When I brush it with my

  fingertips I want to arch and squirm, thrust my hips. I want

  to fil myself deep with something hard. I want to ride his

  dick while my clit rubs his hard bely.

  I want to come.

  My hand moves faster between my legs. My other hand

  finds my nipples, which I twist and tug in time to the

  thrusting of my fingers. My knees fal open and my head

  fals back. The arm of the couch is unyielding, but I push

  against it anyway.

  The couch dips as he moves closer to me. He's on his

  knees, his jeans and boxers tangled on his ankles. He

  stops just long enough to pul his shirt over his head, the

  sleeves going inside out as it flutters to the floor. Then his

  hand is back on his dick and his other is on my hip.

  I stop rubbing my clit, thinking he's going to take over.

  That he means to cover me with his body and push up

  inside me. Every nerve is singing now, and I want that. I

  want him to fuck me, but he doesn't.

  "Don't stop, Paige," he says. "I want to watch you."

  So my hand moves back between my legs and my fingers

  stil, going slower even though he's hand-fucking himself

  ever faster. I want to draw it out, make it last, build the

  pleasure.

  My breath is coming in short, harsh pants and my hips are

  moving al on their own. I'm so close I could come only by

  thinking about it. I take my clit between my thumb and first

  finger and squeeze, just gently. Just softly. Just enough.

  Everything contracts at once. My pussy, my ass, my clit.

  My breath bursts out of me in a cry that's too loud but I

  can't hold it back. This time when I bite my lip, I do taste

  blood.

  My orgasm has taken over. I am steamrolered by it and

  left flat. I can't move, though my neck is kiling me from the

  awkward angle and something sharp is poking me in the

  ass.

  ass.

  "Ah, God," he cries. "Ah, Paige!"

  Hot wetness spatters my chest and belly. It pumps out

  of him in three hard spurts. The rest surges over his

  hand as it cups the head of his cock and he strokes a

  few last times. The scent of him fills me. The couch

  beneath me dips again as he leans to put his hand on

  the arm behind my head.

  Crouching over me, his hand stil on his penis, his face is lit

  by the television's moving shadows but I have no trouble

  looking straight into his eyes. His jizz is going cold on my

  skin and I'm afraid to move in case it drips off me onto the

  cushions.

  He leans to kiss me with an open mouth, but no tongue.

  It's sweet and unexpected. I taste the salt of his sweat on

  his upper lip.

  He puls his shirt up from the floor and wipes me clean,

  which is also unexpected and leaves me uncertain how to

  react. He scrubs at the wetness on my bra with his sleeve,

  but it's too late. I can wash it, but there wil always be a

  stain.

  stain.

  "You are so beautiful," Austin says when he kisses me

  again.

  It's the first time he says it and this time, though later I

  won't, I believe him.

  My fingers had gone stiff from gripping the pen. I hadn't

  thought about that night in a long time. Other memories

  had crowded it out. Worse memories, actualy, that had

  made me forget there'd once been a time when I'd been

  young and in love.

  "Discipline," I said aloud. I wasn't smoking, but the taste and scent of tobacco smoke filed my senses anyway.

  What the hel was going on?

  I gave in to the need to let my legs buckle under me then. I

  let myself fal onto my couch, where I curled into a bal and

  puled the knitted afghan over my head. Through the holes

  the stark wals of my apartment glared at me until I closed

  my eyes.

  I'm no prude. When other kids were watching Aladdin,

  my mom was working third shift and leaving me alone in

  my mom was working third shift and leaving me alone in

  the house from ten-thirty at night until eight in the morning.

  She thought I was asleep when she left, and it was true I

  was in bed. I never told her how anxious I was when she

  left, or how hard it was for me to sleep knowing I was

  alone in the house al night. I'd creep downstairs and

  console myself with hours of cable television. I saw a lot of

  things I probably shouldn't have, but it also taught me a lot.

  Even so, these notes. The commands. What had seemed

  fairly innocuous at the start couldn't be confused for

  anything innocent now.

  The lists had been specific. Detailed. And now, explicit.

  What sort of woman wanted someone to tel her how to

  live her day? What sort of woman needed someone else to

  tel her to be beautiful, to be strong? What sort of woman

  craved the commands of someone else dictating her life?

  I put my hand between my legs, on the damp cotton of my

  panties, and felt my clit pulse.

  What sort of woman?

  I thought I knew.

  I thought I knew.

  Chapter 13

  Here's a funny story made humorous by time, since it

  wasn't funny when it happened. I was nineteen when my

  mom had Arthur, which means that when she got pregnant,

  I was eighteen. A senior in high school and screwing my

  brains out with Mr. Popular Jock.

  My mom had always been up front about sex and

  protecting myself. Too up front, in my opinion, since my

  sex life was the second-to-last topic of discussion I ever

  wanted to share with her, the last being hers. Austin wasn't