CAUTIONARY TALES

Piers Anthony

Contents

Introduction

1. Bluebeard

2. Root Pruning

3. Cartaphilus

4. A Picture of Jesus

5. My America

6. Serial

7. The Courting

8. Pep Talk

9. Knave

10. Juliet Quartet

11. Editing

12. Medusa

13. Rat Bait

14. Humor

15. Lost Things

16. Privy

17. Wood Knot Dew

18. Living Doll

19. Religion

20. Adult Conspiracy

Author’s Note

Introduction

This is an unusual volume, consisting of stories and essays of mine that have not before been collected. Some may not be to the taste of some readers, so there is a Caution before each one calling out the problem area: that it is an essay when what is sought is a story, that it has controversial social or religious material, or aberrant graphic sex, or in some other way could violate the preference of the reader. A few, being relatively innocent, have no Cautions.

Following each item is a discussion giving its history and special features. One, “Serial” was bounced from the Relationships volume it was in because it features rape. Another, “Cartaphilus,” was written to be translated into a graphic (that is comic style pictures) presentation. “Juliet” was rendered virtually unpublishable because a thirteen-year-old girl sets a man’s hand on her breast. “Adult Conspiracy” deliberately torpedoes that aspect of my Xanth series. “Pep Talk” is an essay about writing a novel in a month, with an illicit romance in the interstices. “Rat Bait” is perhaps the most disgustingly graphic sex story I’ve done. So these really are different, but should be tolerable for mature readers. None, I trust, are dull.

In sum: tackle this volume at your own risk.

Caution: simulated sex with a child

1. Bluebeard

I stepped into my Interact identity. It was Females’ Day on the Zone, meaning that there would be no charges of any kind for female players in certain games. That meant no permanent record, and that was just as important to a girl as the money.

I zeroed in on the ad I had heard about, next to the Junior Miss Games section. Maybe that was just coincidence, or maybe the game sponsors figured that today’s junior was tomorrow’s adult, so they were cultivating a future market. Naturally such a game would be fascinating to a child of any age. It was obviously based on a fairy tale, though of course the details would be changed to make it a worthwhile challenge.

There it was: “Bluebeard.” I felt the tingle of spine that such a notion evokes in a girl. Bluebeard was a rich noble who married seven women in turn. When he took business trips, he told them they could go anywhere in the castle except one room. Of course each wife sneaked a peek at the forbidden chamber—and spied the bodies of her predecessors. Until Wife #7 managed to escape and expose the rascal. It was a story stronger in mystery than in sense. Nobody even missed those other six wives? What about the stench of their corpses? Why didn’t Bluebeard hide the bodies where they couldn’t be so readily found? So there would be a forbidden chamber in the game, but no dead wives; it had to be something else. And there was the fascination: what was there? The only way to find out was to play the game.

I moved my electronic marker to knock on the castle door. A panel opened showing a grim face. “Go away,” it said sociably, and the panel started to close.

“But I came to play!” I protested, my spoken words appearing in print along the bottom of the screen. If I changed my mind, I could edit them out before I spoke again. Of course I didn’t do that. No girl would, at this stage.

The grim face scowled. “You are too young. You look like a ten-year-old child. You can’t marry Bluebeard until you are at least eighteen.” The panel started to close again.

“I’m at least eighteen!” I cried hastily. “I’m—I’m using my little sister Nettie’s membership. She said it’s all right. Since this is Females’ Day, I won’t be running up any charges on her account.”

“You should get your own account, registered to your name and age,” the face said. “Come back when you do. There’ll be another Females’ Day next month.”

“But this is my only day off!” I protested frantically. “I’ll be too busy then. And why get a whole membership when I won’t be playing much anyway? Why should you care whose name it’s in, since it’s free today anyway?”

He stared at my emulation figure. “Eighteen—in a ten-year-old persona. It’s highly irregular—”

“But people do it all the time, don’t they?” I pleaded. “Just let me in, and I won’t say a thing. I just want to play the game.”

He finally relented. “You swear you are eighteen or over? That you are adult, and qualified to play an adult game? And you know that this is an adult game?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I agreed eagerly, answering each question, as any girl of ten would.

“Then enter, Nettie,” he said, and the heavy oaken door swung slowly inward to reveal the dark interior hall.

I entered, relieved that they had accepted my word instead of doing the thorough verification of my identity that the law required. The one that would have shown that there was only one child in my family, so that there couldn’t be an older sister. The stats were on record from the original application for membership in Interact, the worldwide electronic entertainment network. But maybe they didn’t care, since the charge meter was turned off; there would be no permanent record of this transaction. Females’ Day was really a way to get more women into what had been a mostly male dominion. Monthly free samples to get new folk hooked, so they would become game addicts and be willing to pay endlessly for the privilege. Some games were extremely expensive, but those who were hooked had no choice except to pay. Why worry if they were underage, any more than the erstwhile tobacco companies had worried about the targets of their advertising? Soon enough they would be of age, and addicted to the special thrills of electronic entertainment. In fact maybe the tobacco companies owned electronic stock, since they knew so well how to nudge around and under and through the law. Free samples were seldom truly free; they were more like trial doses of heroin. I knew that—which was why I was here.

A maid met me in the anteroom. She held up a wedding dress. She looked doubtfully at me. “Are you of age to marry?” she asked. “Because—”

“Yes, yes,” I said. “ This is my little sister’s persona, because I’m on her card. Just make the dress fit.” Though I was surprised to encounter marriage; there had been no warning of this. Still, how could the Bluebeard scenario be played out without a wife? So it did make sense, on reflection.

She put the wedding dress on me, and it did fit my small persona, because it was a one-size-fits-all costume. Computer simulations in virtual reality are handy that way; no fancy re-stitching is needed. She set a tiara in my hair and showed me the mirror. I was now a lovely young (very young!) bride.

Music played as an inner door opened. I stepped through, and there was an aisle down the center of a chapel. At the far end was the altar with a priest, and beside it stood a portly man with a massive blue beard. I was about to marry Bluebeard! I might have been daunted, as any girl would be, but reminded myself that the game was not reality; no ceremony was binding beyond the confines of the game itself. So I marched down the aisle, thrilling to the swell of the wedding march, a melody I had always liked.

I reached the altar, and the priest mumbled some words, and Bluebeard put a golden ring on my finger. By this time I was identifying completely with my persona, so the scene seemed real; suspension of disbelief becomes easier with practice. Then he kissed me, and I had to clamp down on my reactions lest I go into freakout mode. I mean, the groom does kiss the bride, doesn’t he? Even if the groom had the universe’s bushiest Technicolor beard and the bride’s a ten-year-old girl. So I got through it, mainly by closing my eyes and pretending I was sucking on the world’s fuzziest giant peach.

He took my hand and led me through another portal. Now we were in the castle bedroom, with fancy draperies at the stone windows and an enormous four-poster bed. Oops—were we supposed to consummate the marriage? I really hadn’t considered that detail. In the fairy tale book they always sort of slide over that sort of thing. Any girl would be wondering whether it was better to quit the game now, while she was ahead, so to speak. I hesitated.

Fortunately Bluebeard ignored the bed. “Wife, I have to make a business trip,” he said gruffly. “Here are all the keys to the castle.” He held up a huge ring. “You may go anywhere you choose, with one exception. Do not enter the chamber that this little key unlocks.” He selected the smallest of all the keys. “Promise me you will not enter that one room.”

Ah, we were getting into it! “I promise,” I said, wondering what would have happened if I had refused to promise. Would the game have shorted out right there? That forbidden chamber was the whole point of it, after all.

“Good. I shall return in a fortnight.” He handed me the keys, and tromped out of the bedroom door. In a moment the castle shook as he slammed the great outer portal. I looked out the window and saw his huge blue charger galloping away. He had effectively been written out of the game. I had two weeks to myself.

Naturally the first thing I did was head for the forbidden room. There were servants cleaning the halls and making beds, just as in a hotel. They were figments of the game’s imagination, and I ignored them.

The forbidden door was easy to recognize. It had a big placard on it saying FORBIDDEN CHAMBER—DO NOT ENTER. So I put the key in its lock and tried to turn it. It resisted.

The placard changed. ARE YOU SURE YOU ARE OF AGE? it printed at me.

“I’m using Nettie’s card,” I explained again. “I’m actually at least eighteen.”

ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THIS? YOU GAVE YOUR WORD.

I hesitated. This was actually the third time the game had challenged my age or motive. Apparently they were really serious about keeping children out. Yet all they had to do was run a routine check on my membership, a process requiring perhaps all of two seconds, and bounce me out of the game when I couldn’t document my age. So it seemed clear that they really didn’t care. This was all window dressing.

“Yes I’m sure,” I said. I twisted the key again, and this time it turned. I heard the crude tumblers moving, unlocking the door.

The chamber was bare. The walls were not stone, but mirror glass, making it seem much larger than it was. There was only a chest the size and shape of a coffin lying in its center, reflected endlessly in the walls. This was the big secret?

I stepped inside—and the door slammed closed behind me. Oops—I had left the key in the lock. Now it and all the other keys on the ring were out of my reach. And the door had no handle inside. I had stupidly locked myself in. I would surely lose a point for that.

Of course I wasn’t really confined. I could exit the game any time simply by lifting my real hands and removing the electronic helmet that brought me the sounds and sights of Interact. My gloves and socks were only to track my movements in the game; they didn’t interfere with my real actions. But then I would default, and never find out what the big secret was. No curious girl would want that. I didn’t care about winning the game; I just wanted to fathom its mystery.

So I walked my persona to the coffin and pulled on the handle on its lid. The lid swung up and back, forming a padded horizontal table. And in the depths of the coffin lay a handsome naked human man. No pointed elven ears, no vampire fangs, no nothing supernatural. There was no doubt of this because everything was laid out to view.

“You’re it?” I asked, disappointed.

“Aren’t I enough?” He sat up, then lifted himself out of the coffin. He turned to bend over it, presenting me with his small bare masculine buns, and hauled the base up so that it snapped into a continuation of the padded table.

“That depends,” I said. “You must be something really special, to be Forbidden.”

“Of course I’m special,” he said. “I have remarkable lust and stamina. Get that dress off and I’ll demonstrate.”

I realized that I was still in the wedding dress. “Uh, you’re naked,” I said somewhat belatedly.

“Indeed. Get naked yourself, and lie on this altar of erotic expression. You and I are about to have a memorable experience.” He touched his genital, which lengthened.

I backed away, not easy with this. “I think I don’t want to play anymore,” I said.

The man fixed me with a disconcerting stare. “I think you will play my game, girl. You may call me Lucifer.” His genital expanded ominously.

This was definitely alarming. I lifted my hands to the helmet, as any girl would. The helmet didn’t show in the game, but the gesture was unmistakable.

“Listen, girl,” he said. “You have forsworn yourself three times to reach this chamber. You claimed to be at least eighteen, when in fact you are only ten. The arrangement by which you entered this game has no validity, because of those misrepresentations. If you quit now, you will be charged with the crime of illicit entry. a penalty fee will be assigned, and you will be arraigned for disciplinary proceedings. Not only will your family be impoverished by the assessment, you yourself may be removed from what is obviously an unsuitable home and assigned to a reform school for an indefinite period. Are you sure you want to let yourself in for that?”

I stared at him, dumbfounded as any girl would be. I did not speak, but neither did I continue my motion toward the helmet.

“You thought you couldn’t get in trouble when no fees were charged?” he inquired rhetorically. “That no fees meant no record? Girl, those records are there regardless. They just aren’t publicized. We can produce three game scenes showing your persona swearing that you are what you are not. You lied, girl, committing perjury, and thereby criminalized yourself. The law is now your enemy.”

I found my voice. “But I only wanted to—”

“To go where you knew you were forbidden to go. To do what was forbidden. And you did. Now you are locked into your situation as surely as your persona is locked in this chamber. You can hardly claim you weren’t warned.”

I began to cry, as any girl would. “Please, I didn’t mean any harm! I was just curious. Let me go, and I’ll never tell.”

Lucifer smiled. “Now we are making progress. I shall be glad to let you go, and to guarantee that no news of this is ever bruited about. Your secret is safe with me. If.” He looked meaningfully at me.

I tried twice before I got the question out. “If—if what?”

“If you remove that dress and lie on this bed. There is no need for any of this to be unpleasant. Indeed, you should enjoy it.”

“But—but you want me to—to—”

“Exactly.” He fondled his member again, which was now enormous.

“But I’m only ten years old!” I wailed.

He shrugged. “So?”

“It—it’s against the law.”

He laughed. “Le me clarify something for you, girl. What we do here is purely in simulation. There is no physical component. Neither of us is actually here. There is thus no violation of law. But what you have done is against the law. You lied to break into a game you knew was forbidden to you. You did it three times. You said you were of age, adult, and that you knew this was an adult game. And that you were sure you wished to play this game. You know that ‘adult’ is a code for sexual expression. You volunteered for this, girl. Now you will get what you wished—or face the penalties for your crime. It is your choice.”

I stared at his erect member in the manner of a hapless bird at a snake. “You’ll let me go? If I—?”

“I will let you go, with nothing on your record. No one will know, if you don’t tell. It will be our secret.”

Still I hesitated. “How can I be sure that---?”

“Certainty is impossible, of course. Still, if you please me, I shall have no reason to do you any mischief. I will simply go on to the next innocent girl.”

“Why—why don’t you get a—a woman? Wouldn’t she be better? For what you want?”

“Grown women know too much. They are not innocent. Sex is just a process to them. They grow cynical. But a virginal child is something else. The experience is all the world to her. She will never forget it. That is that I crave: that first experience, that defloration of innocence. There is just nothing else like it.”

“You—you want a child?” I asked, appalled. “Instead of a woman?”

“Yes. Now will you come to me, understanding the nature of the deal?”

“I—don’t know,” I said, my hands hovering near the helmet. “It’s so awful!”

“I trust that you have considered that you will be subjected to similar indignities in reform school,” he said smoothly. “The main difference being that those are physical rather than merely in emulation. The male instructors take their pick of the girls or boys, who are completely in their power, and of course other girls have their tastes.”

“Other girls?” I asked blankly.

“You can’t escape them, in the barracks. I understand the perverts work in teams, if there is resistance. One holds you down, another pries your legs apart, while a third wields the—”

“No!” I screamed, clapping my hands over my ears.

But his words came through anyway, because the ears of a persona have no physical reality; like the rest of the images, their aspects are only for convenience of orientation. “I apologize for causing you discomfort, girl. I have no wish to appall you. I merely wish to be certain you understand the alternatives. Do you?”

I stood for a moment, my eyes blank. I shuddered. Then, slowly, I pulled off my fancy dress. Persona naked, I went to the bed and lay down on it. Lucifer didn’t seem to mind that I was weeping continuously as he proceeded to do with my body what pleased him, indefatigably. It was all in simulation, but the mirrors made it quite clear what was happening in great variety. I couldn’t close my eyes to it; he required me to look, to see every detail. If I looked away, he did it again, and again, until I watched. Because the sound and sight was all there was; if I didn’t see it, I didn’t react, and he wanted the reaction of a child. I had a total course in normal and aberrant sexual expression. Every time I tried to demur, faintly, as he perpetuated some new outrage, he said that it was almost done, and reminded me of the alternative, and I let it continue. It became a dullness, a series without meaning other than amazement, horror, and disgust. I was almost beyond shock, and it showed—which was what he wanted.

At last his disgusting passions were exhausted; he had acquainted the innocent girl with so much that she would never thereafter find any novelty in any sexual act. Nothing, pleasant or unpleasant, remained to be learned. He had, as he put it, thoroughly deflowered her innocence.

I got up, put my hands to my helmet, and lifted it off my head. The game scene vanished. I blinked, reorienting to reality as I tore off my gloves and socks. I was in the bedroom of our house, and I stood beside our bed.

My husband left his portable console and stepped toward me. “Are you all right? Some of the things you were saying—”

I held up a hand in a stop gesture. “Please don’t touch me,” I said. “It will be a while before I—before I’m ready for that. I’m still thinking like a ten-year-old girl, after making such an effort to identify with Nettie. Even as an adult, I found some of it mind bending. That monster had notions I never dreamed of! They knew she was ten.”

“They wanted underage girls? It wasn’t just random?”

“And underage boys,” I said, my disgust brimming. “Did you get it all?”

“Completely,” he said. “Everything has been recorded. Every image, every word, every motion, every identity. I saw the indications as we locked on to the perpetrators, thanks to this special equipment, and every member of the audience who paid to watch. I believe we shall have a clean sweep of this live-action virtual porn ring, and no child will have to testify. The Interact white slavers will be finished. But of course I couldn’t see the actual images while I made the electronic record. When you started crying I wasn’t sure how much of it was acting. How bad was it?”

“Very bad,” I said. “A dreadful tissue of hints, distortions, threats, and outright lies, yet fiendishly persuasive to a child. He led her on mercilessly, coercing her into cooperation. It could have destroyed Nettie. Children today may know more of life and sex than earlier generations ever did, but this—this is something else. Now we know why children have been committing suicide in such numbers.”

“And with no record of anything untoward on the Interact,” he said. “And to think how readily our daughter could have been the next. It was just our fortune that she had the wit to mention that ad for the Bluebeard game.”

“And that we had the wit to be suspicious, and to contact the Interact proprietors, who were looking for a way to verify their suspicions,” I agreed. The numbness was gradually abating, though I know that I would never be able to abolish every vestige of the horror of the virtual encounter. If I, a grown, experienced woman, had been halfway freaked out by those sexual acts, how much worse for a child! “So that we could set up this little sting operation.”

“And that she was willing to let us use her game persona and identity, so they could verify her authenticity, and use it to blackmail her into submission,” he said. Then he frowned. “If it’s as bad as it evidently is, what about our deal with Nettie?”

I shuddered. “To let her view the full video recording? We can’t do that! I hope she never sees some of those perversions.”

“But what kind of parents are we, if we renege? We made a deal, and she honored her part of it. She would never forgive us.”

“Oh, she’ll forgive us,” I reminded him wanly. “You are forgetting the escape clause.”

He knocked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “That if we don’t show her that video, we must pay a consequence of her choosing, without limit. We thought that was academic.”

“Well, it isn’t,” I said. “We will suffer the consequence.”

“What could a ten year old girl demand? A ton of ice cream? An end to all curfews? An annual pass to Mouse House?”

“Let’s hope it’s that innocent,” I said, dreading it. Because Nettie had a diabolical imagination. Almost like that of Lucifer, in her fashion. We were in for it.

Note: In 1995 Charles Platt, who had been my editor at AVON, was guest editing an issue of the leading British Science Fiction and Fantasy magazine INTERZONE. He asked me for a story. I had a notion of his tastes, so wrote a provocative one relating to the then early Internet phenomenon, illustrating one of its dangers. My effort is dated now, but I think the intervening years have amply vindicated my prophecy, and not just with child porn. Do you know what your child is doing online? “Bluebeard” was published in the April 1995 issue.

Caution: biographical essay

2. Root Pruning

What makes a creative writer? It is obviously something other than intelligence, imagination, or ambition, though these surely help. I have pondered this question often, and tentatively conclude that it is root pruning.

You know what regular pruning is. Trees or plants are cut back to smaller size, and they then may bush out more thickly and look prettier, as man imposes his aesthetics on nature. It’s a regular thing with gardeners, though I always wince at how it must feel to the plants. Which suggests another quality of effective writing: empathy. A person who feels the pain of others seems more likely to be able to write effectively about it.

But there’s another kind of pruning, typically used with small trees. They prune back the roots so as to make a ball, so the tree can be transported and transplanted. The roots grow out again from that ball in the new location, and all is well. The pain of the tree is invisible. I had to do it with a small volunteer mulberry tree that grew by our driveway. Probably a bird dropped the seed, randomly. The location wasn’t ideal, as the soil was mostly gravel, but it was gamely trying, with its intriguingly curvaceous leaves and brightly orange roots. Picture the Ace of Clubs: the leaves were roughly like that. Picture a fresh carrot: the root color. It was about six feet tall, rather thin and rangy. But then trucks were running over it, pushing it flat, breaking off branches, including the main stem, about four feet off the ground. So I rescued it by transplanting it to a safer site near our house. But I had to cut back the reaching roots to do it. I gave it fresh soil and plenty of water, but the loss of some branches and roots was hard on it. For a week the poor little tree wilted and shed its leaves, suffering, and I feared it would not survive. Then I found one single smallest leaf that remained, and buds along the trunk and branches for other leaves. It was making it! Since then, two years, it has branched and leafed splendidly. One day it will make a fine tree. I hope it understands that I damaged it in the clumsy transplanting in order to save it.

But what about root pruning a person? That is, stripping back the intellectual and emotional basis and transplanting him elsewhere? I believe I understand, because it happened to me. I was born in England in 1934. My parents were active in the British Friends Service Committee, feeding starving children during the Spanish Civil War of 1936–39. It was too dangerous for their own children, so we remained mostly in England until 1938, with our maternal grandparents, cared for by a nanny. Then when I was four we rejoined our parents in Spain. In 1940 my father was arrested by the dictatorship, without a basis, and rescued only by dint of a smuggled-out post card and the threat of withdrawal of significant British aid. So they let him out, but on condition he leave the country. Thus we came to America in August 1940, on the last passenger ship out, as World War Two raged in Europe. I had my sixth birthday on the ship, with a cake made of sawdust, because the war made pastries scarce. I have been in America ever since.

So what does this have to do with root pruning? That is the subtext. My technical history is only a shadow of my emotional history, as is the case with every human being. You see, the beginning of my memory is not with my parents, but with the nanny who cared for us. She was the one who was with us, who took us to the park, who did everything for us. When my parents returned to pick us up and take us to Spain, they were on the verge of being strangers, just two identities on my horizon. The nanny was the prime nurturing figure of my life. When I lost her, I lost my heart. The damage didn’t show, because it wasn’t physical, but I had been emotionally orphaned. I had been root pruned.

My sister and I survived in Spain, getting to know our parents, cared for by other nannies, and we started to learn Spanish. Then came my father’s expulsion, and we came to America. Again we had to start over, with a half-new language and a whole new country. Then my parents’ marriage strained and foundered, and I was in that limbo of severed attachment. I took three years and five schools to make it through first grade. I wet my bed at night for several years, and developed assorted nervous tics, such as jerking my hands or tossing my head every few seconds. I stopped growing, and in 9th grade was the smallest member of my class, male or female. I never lived more than two years in any one place until I went to boarding school, 9th through 12th grades. It was another root pruning. I used to daydream of waking up and discovering that it was all a bad dream, and I would be back home and happy in England with the nanny. It never happened, and finally I came to terms with America. I separated myself emotionally from my fracturing family and forged my own identity. I became a heavy reader, losing myself in the idealized worlds of fiction. Some folk sneer at escapism, but for me it was vital. The bed wetting and tics faded, and I grew most of another foot.

It was in college after two years, when I was required to decide on a major, that I pondered a day and a night and realized that I wanted to be a writer. It was like a guiding star turning on, and from that time it has been my beacon, as my subsequent career shows. I never thought of being a writer before then, and never wanted to do anything else since then. Writing defines my life, and now, in my 70’s, I know I’ll never retire. I’ll always be writing, until I die, halfway through a great novel.

So what motivates me? Yes, I was well educated and can express myself well, as this essay should show. Yes, I have discipline, so that I can complete projects I undertake without the crutch of a regular paycheck or a boss looking over my shoulder. Yes, I am strongly independent in thought and inclination. Yes, I got key breaks that enabled me to make it; luck is a potent career force for any writer. But no, I am not mentally disturbed, though I was once ridered (that is, excluded) by my insurance for all mental diseases. That was a false alarm; when I complained of chronic fatigue and my doctor couldn’t find anything physically wrong with me, he concluded it must be all in my head. It was thirty years later that they discovered my thyroid imbalance and treated it, easing my fatigue and depression. What I am is an ordinary, smart, motivated, imaginative person who was jolted out of my satisfied life, thrown into emotional badlands, and who discovered in the realms of fiction and fantasy a type of salvation. I no longer depend on the emotional framework crafted by others; I craft my own. I am most truly alive when I am writing.

And I think that’s the key. Truly dedicated writers are likely to have been thrust out of their comfort zones and required to generate their own realities, which can become better than what fate otherwise offers. I doubt I am unique in this respect. I suspect that if you delved into the backgrounds of other writers, you would discover a similar emotional pattern, though the physical and intellectual details might be quite different. They have been root pruned—and survived.

Note: From time to time I get asked questions about what it takes to make it as a writer, and I answer as well as I can, trying to be reasonably original within an essentially unoriginal framework. I wrote “Root Pruning” in 2006, I think for an amateur magazine.

Caution: Jesus cursed

3. Cartaphilus

Then he met Leyla. At first he thought she was just another luscious young woman, to be used and thrown away. He was mistaken.

Not about her appearance. She had a cute sultry face, wild short purple hair, delightfully massive thighs in tights, and a tattoo of a flying bat on her back, eighteen inches across. The rest of her was in proportion. It had been a century since he had seen her like.

He headed for her, forging through the throng at the night outdoor party. But a beefy young man cut in between them, closing on the girl.

So? He put his left hand on the man’s shoulder from behind and hauled him back. “Mine,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? Listen, you fake barbarian—”

Suddenly the sharp tip of his spear was nudging the man’s throat. “Yeah. Don’t try my patience.”

“Hey, you can’t use a weapon here? It’s not allowed.”

“Too bad.” His left hand blurred as it slapped the man’s face hard enough to smash his nose and knock him to the ground. The man considered a moment more, blood welling out, then concluded that retreat was the best option. That probably saved his life.

The woman had not flinched. She seemed intrigued “You sucker punched him.”

“The hell.”

“You can’t do that with me.”

She was asking for it. Sometimes a woman he wanted cooperated. Then he was reasonably gentle. Sometimes she didn’t. Then he wasn’t. Regardless, she was his, once he decided. This one had a bad attitude.

His left hand moved—and missed her face. She had pulled back just enough. That was odd, because few people had enough speed to escape even when they saw the blow coming.

He whipped the spear around to touch her throat. Only it didn’t. She had moved again, slightly but enough.

“My turn,” she said. She jumped toward him.

He flung himself back, in an automatic battle reflex, but somehow she followed. One of her evocative legs got tangled between his, and he fell backwards to the ground. She landed on top of him, her remarkable breasts against his chest, her sweet mouth against his. She kissed him, then lifted her head, smiling faintly.

“What the hell?” he asked, amazed. No woman had ever done that to him before.

“You can’t escape me,” she said. “Now shall we adjourn to somewhere more private?”

She wanted him! “Yeah.”

Soon they were sitting in a cheap rental tent, one of many pitched around the fringe of the party site. It was barely large enough to accommodate the two of them, sitting or lying, but that was enough. Token privacy, that others would honor. Tents were part of the appeal of such gatherings. “Before we do this,” she said, as she removed her tight halter, “there must be two things.”

“Yeah?”

“First, an introduction. I don’t screw with strangers.” She smiled, and he had to smile with her. “I am Leyla. I am a witch. Do you have a problem with that?”

A witch! That explained a lot. They could govern their forms, to a degree, so tended to be beautiful. They also tended to be lusty. “No.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Who are you?”

“Cartaphilus. I am cursed.” He waited for the inevitable question.

She surprised him. “Aren’t we all!”

Maybe she had never heard of him, so didn’t care. Witches did have powers, usually minor. She might think his curse was a perpetual hangnail.

He was eager for the culmination. “What’s the other thing?”

“I need to satisfy you that you truly can’t force me. Anything I do with you I do because I want to. My will governs, even when I cater to your will. Are you satisfied?”

There was that attitude again. It needed to be expunged. “No.”

“Then make your move, barbarian.”

She was referring to his costume, which really wasn’t a costume, but passed for one at parties like this. “I am not a barbarian. I am a Roman soldier.”

“You’re stalling, Cart.”

That did it. He lunged for her, grasping for her shoulders to push her to the ground. And missed, hitting the ground himself. He wrapped his arms around her torso—and missed again, his arms clasping nothing. He dropped his body on hers—and missed once more, landing beside her. Somehow she was always not quite where she was supposed to be.

“Perhaps you should stop fooling around and get serious,” she suggested insolently.

He lurched into her—and crashed through the side of the tent, bringing it down on them both. “What the hell!”

“Hell has nothing to do with it,” she said.

He worked to put the tent back in order. “What are you doing?”

“I thought you’d never ask. I told you, I’m a witch. I have magic. Specifically, I am aware of what is about to happen to me, within about five seconds. I can avoid it if I choose. With that warning, I can move as fast as you can. You can’t hit me, slap me, choke me, or even kiss me unless I choose to let you. It’s an automatic response; I don’t have to think about it. Now are you satisfied?

“Yes.”

“Then let’s do it.” She removed her tights, baring the lower portion of her body. She was every bit as splendid nude as clothed. Her pubic hair was also in the shape of a bat. It was a nice touch.

Cartaphilus quickly stripped, setting aside his spear, Roman armor, and lion’s mane cloak. He got over her, his hard member poised.

“On my leave,” she murmured.

“The hell.” He held her in place and thrust.

Her hips bucked up to collide with his. His member was squashed painfully between them, entry impossible. He grunted and fell back, grasping his injury.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me say ‘on my leave,’ Cart,” she said, sitting up.

“I heard.” Speech was difficult at the moment.

“Then it seems you were not satisfied when you said you were.”

“Right.”

She reached forward to touch his member. “And so you suffered this.” She tweaked it gently.

“It’s healing. I heal fast. It’s part of my curse. I can’t even be killed.”

“So I see. But if you lie to me again, Cartaphilus, you will have more healing to do.” A knife appeared in her hand, the blade touching his member. “And you will never see me again. Do we understand each other now?”

“No,” he said, impressed. “You’re a lovely mystery, witch. But I get it that I can’t force you, and you don’t like lying.” As talents went, hers was a good one. If he wanted her cooperation, he would have to cater to her whim. To a point.

“Then you have my leave.”

He hesitated. “This lying ban—it’s two-way? You won’t give me leave, then cut me?”

“Astute, Cart. Yes, I will not lie to you. But I will make demands, in due course, and you will obey or lose me.”

“I obey nobody!”

“They will be reasonable demands, such as to leave my coven alone. You will not find them onerous. There are constraints on me that will necessarily apply to you also.”

“Okay.” Then he clasped her, and this time there was no disconnect. She met him eagerly, and in a moment he was in sheer bliss within her.

“I think we shall continue to associate,” Leyla said while they remained engaged. “You’re a lot of man.”

“Yeah,” It wasn’t just her physical beauty; it was the way she understood him and handled him. She was a woman who compelled his respect: the first in centuries.

“Now I suspect you want to know more about me,” she said as they lay half clasped in the aftermath. “It is simply told. I am a witch in a coven run by a man named Emmanuel. I do not go against his will, and neither will you. This is for self protection, as we are a hunted species.”

“Hunted?”

“Do you know of the Templars?”

He spat to the side. “Damned religious hypocrites. I thought to join them, several centuries ago, but they won’t have me. Claimed I was a psychopath.”

“But you are, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. But from them it was insulting.”

She smiled. “Just being a witch is an insult, from them. They seek to kill us, and they never relent. They will know how to disable my limited magic and burn me at the stake. There may come a time when I need your protection.”

Burn her? Already he felt horror. “You got it!”

“And the coven?”

“You tell me, I’ll protect it.”

“That will do. Now do me again, and tell me about you.”

“Again already? I don’t heal that fast.”

She put her hand on his member. “Perhaps you do.”

She had the touch. He surged to readiness, and clasped her again. What a woman!

Then he told his own history, half expecting her to be horrified and break it off immediately. But he had agreed not to lie to her, and he did want her to know the truth.

“Today’s crucifixion,” the centurion said. “Some faker they call the king of the Jews. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yeah. There is no king of the Jews. Rome governs us.”

“I mean, you being Jewish.”

“I don’t give a shit whether he’s Jewish or a Baal worshiper. Criminals are crucified. I’m a Roman soldier doing my duty. I don’t like fakers anyway.” This wasn’t morality, which he lacked, but the knowledge based on experience that the truth was bound to leak out some time, and it was better to deal with it at the outset. He was establishing that he was Roman first, Jew second.

The centurion nodded. “See to it.”

Cartaphilus intended to. The Romans recruited locals for much of the dirty work, but they watched them. If he made any mistake, he could lose his position, and with it the chance to legitimately bash heads for good pay.

Later in the day they marched the faker up the hill to the crucifixion site. He was a slight man, bearded, long-haired, in need of a bath. He called himself Jesus of Nazareth, and it seemed he had somehow managed to gather some followers. Some fools would follow any fool. It was his job to carry his own cross up there; it was part of the punishment.

But he claimed to be too weak to carry the heavy cross. This annoyed Cartaphilus. “How come your god doesn’t give you strength, you damned weakling?” he asked the man. “Any self-respecting god would support his followers in their hour of need.”

Jesus did not respond to the baiting. Neither did he manage to carry his cross. It had to be carried for him. The faker was getting away with it.

Halfway up the hill, Jesus tried to pause to rest. “Don’t stop,” Cartaphilus snapped. “You don’t rest until you’re hanging on the cross.” He threatened the man with his spear, making him get on with it.

Now Jesus looked directly at him for the first time. His gaze was uncannily penetrating, not with anger or pain, but with seeming pity. That was aggravating as hell. “But thou shalt tarry till I come,” he said.

Cartaphilus laughed. “I will tarry long after you’re dead, faker. Now keep moving.”

But it wasn’t over yet. The man dragged his feet the rest of the way up the hill to Calvary, stalling as long as possible. Then, once they had nailed his hands to the arms of the cross and hoisted the thing erect, Jesus had the temerity to look at him, again with the seeming pity. “Keep your eyes to yourself!” Cartaphilus snapped, and stabbed his spear into the man’s side so that blood and water flowed out.

Not too long after that the man gave a cry and expired. He should have lasted hours longer. A weakling through and through.

Cartaphilus’ chore was done. He returned to his barracks for the night. Yet those words and that look remained in his awareness. He tried to banish them; it was ridiculous to let a routine crucifixion get to him. He had seen hundreds. Yet somehow they lingered. What business did Jesus have haunting his memory?

In the course of the following days the memories gradually faded. There were after all many crucifixions, and it was hard to separate one from another; only the brief words lingered, and the look. Strange how they bothered him.

Two years later he got in a bad fight. Some kind of insult, and he tackled the guy. But it was a trap, and another stabbed him from behind, killing him. They robbed him and took his clothing, then buried him in a shallow grave by a deserted garden, food for the flowers.

It was when he woke in the chill of the night and sat up in the dirt, spitting out sand, that he realized he had been dead. He had not been left to die, he had been dead, because otherwise they would not have bothered to bury him. To hide the body. Fights happened, but murder remained a crime, and no Roman soldier was killed with impunity. Yet he had recovered.

Well, flukes happened. Maybe he had merely looked dead. Still, the matter annoyed him. So he did what he normally did when annoyed, and set about getting even.

The man he had fought with was half drunk at a tavern bar, but not so far gone as not to recognize the dead returned from the grave. He died with his eyes still staring in horror. But before he did, he told what he had not wanted to: the identity of his accomplice, the back-stabber. That man also died, in due course.

Then it was not healthy for Cartaphilus to remain in the area, murder being considered a crime even when the victims weren’t Romans, so he moved on. He could no longer enlist with the Romans, lest they do a background check and discover those he had killed outside the line of duty, so he wandered as a free-lance warrior, signing up with whatever semi-bandit band would take him. There often was not much difference between legitimate police and outlaw bands, in the wilder hinterlands. He fought and killed without remorse.

It was the second time he was killed, and revived, that he realized it had not been a fluke. He could not die.

Now the gaze and words of that crucified man, Jesus, returned to him. “Thou wilt tarry till I come.” That man had died, but now Cartaphilus remembered that his followers had claimed he would return, even from death. He hadn’t believed it, of course, but his own experience suggested that it was possible. He was tarrying in life, after all.

Till when? That question became more important as the years passed. He traveled widely, in part because he tended to get into fracases that required him to move on, but also in part because he was trying to escape the memory. He seemed to have been cursed to live until the dead man returned.

It didn’t work. Even age did not give him reprieve. It turned out that every time he died, he revived at a man aged thirty; that had been his age at the time of the Jesus incident. He hadn’t noticed at first because he had not aged significantly the first time he died. But when he lived to fifty, then died, and revived as thirty, he understood the full power of the curse.

Time passed inexorably. No one he had known in youth remained alive; all had died of accident or age. Cartaphilus passed the century mark, as a man in his thirties. That was a third reason to travel: to avoid others noticing. How could he explain, if questioned on this point?

When would Jesus return? The man was taking an interminable time about it. His followers had thought it would be a matter of days, or at least very soon. His followers were dead. Meanwhile Cartaphilus was stuck in a meaningless life.

After several centuries scholars gathered together several accounts of the life of Jesus Christ, as they called him, the Son of God. Cartaphilus didn’t know about that, but sure as hell the man could throw a good curse. Cartaphilus was tired of life and wanted it to end, so was eager for Jesus to come back and let him stop tarrying.

More centuries passed, and his secret leaked a bit. Cartaphilus became known in some regions as The Wandering Jew, and was considered very wise. He didn’t feel wise, but he had to play along. He had a single message for those who queried him: he had treated Jesus unkindly and was utterly sorry for it. “Do not you do the same, even in your heart as well as your words.” But he knew even as he spoke that the people were not heeding his advice of experience. Too many were hypocrites, professing a belief for political or economic or social advantage that they did not hold in their cynical hearts. He had once been like that himself, swearing allegiance to a Rome he held in private contempt.

And the worst of these hypocrites, he concluded, were in the Church founded in Jesus’ name. Especially the Templars. It was ironic that he who had scorned Jesus now believed in him far more fervently than those who claimed to worship him. Cartaphilus didn’t worship Jesus; he hated him. But he believed.

The longer it went, the more the curse grated. When the hell was Jesus coming back? The years had become centuries, and the centuries millennia. Two thousand years later the damned laggard still hadn’t made his appearance. Was Cartaphilus stuck in life forever? That hardly seemed like a proper part of the deal. Jesus was supposed to come again, and release him from tarrying. The jerk was reneging.

It drove him crazy. Literally. Cartaphilus had a right to die sometime, and it was way overdue. It wasn’t fair for Jesus to curse him, then go away and forget about that loose end. Jesus didn’t care about him; why should he care about anybody? So he did what he did, living only for the moment, heedless of the effect on others. And continued to travel, because mortal jails were not fun places to tarry.

His life was pointless. He cared about nothing and nobody. Why should he? No one cared about him. In fact they abhorred him the moment they learned his nature. He had hurt the man they (supposedly) worshiped.

“Until I met you,” Cartaphilus concluded. He wasn’t trying to flatter Leyla; he was merely telling the truth. She was the first woman to truly intrigue him in centuries, of the hundreds, nay thousands he had encountered. “So now you know my history. Are you going to ditch me?”

She considered. “This was not a story I anticipated,” she said candidly. “I do believe in Jesus. In fact I believe that my magic power derives from Him.”

This was new. She was a Jesus worshiper? She referred to his name capitalized? He could hear it in her speech. “How so?”

“When Jesus knew that His mortal end was near, He divided His power among His disciples, into twelve parts, keeping only a remnant for Himself. These twelve fragments passed down along the generations, largely hidden, not recognized for what they were. Those of us who inherited them are known as witches.”

“You!” he exclaimed, appalled. “You’re part of Jesus?”

“No. We merely carry His power. Some of us can heal. Some of us can see a bit of the future. I can avoid personal injury, usually. There are those who think we derive our power from Satan, but that’s false. They are our bits of divinity. This may also account for our health and form; we tend to be physically appealing.

He had noticed. “But he wasn’t invulnerable! I stabbed him with my spear! His blood and water flowed out. I saw it. He was a wretch who soon died.”

“He had given up His invulnerability,” she said evenly. “To the line of people that produced me and the other witches, male and female. It was part of the sacrifice He made.”

Cartaphilus was taken aback. “What about my own invulnerability? I can be stabbed, I can bleed, I can even die, but I can’t stay injured or dead. I am immortal—till he comes again.”

“He gave to you most of the remnant of power He retained, a tiny sliver of the whole. It hints at the magnitude of His complete power as the Son of God.”

“My curse?”

“It wasn’t a curse, I think. It was an assignment. So that you could be there when He needed you.”

“Why the hell would he give it to me and not to a disciple?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can only conjecture. The disciples must have had other assignments. Also they were marked men. He must have needed an anonymous man, or at least one whose true purpose would not be evident. One without conscience, who could to what needed to be done when the time came. One who remembered Him from personal experience.” Her lips quirked. “He may not have had a lot of choices at the time, and you were available.”

“I’m going to help him come again? I hate him!”

“But you do believe in Him.”

“Yeah. Now.” Cartaphilus shook his head. “I’ll tell you this: put him up on a cross again, and I’ll happily stab him again. Just so long as I can finally die and stay dead.”

“Maybe He counts on that. I couldn’t kill Him. It’s not really religion. It’s truth. Jesus will come again. Soon, we believe.”

“Yeah. I count on that.”

“Maybe by some chance that will turn out to be your role. To save Him, though you hate Him. We don’t want to kill Him at all; we want Him to return and exercise His will on Earth. Face it, Cart—he doesn’t need to die again, to free you. He just needs to return.”

She had a point. But Cartaphilus was tired of this dialogue. “Let’s fuck.”

“Gladly,” she said, accommodating him with a will. She was a lusty creature; he remembered again how that was unusual in beautiful woman, albeit not in witches.

“Our meeting,” he said, after. “That wasn’t coincidence.”

“Apparently not. Emmanuel suggested that I attend this party. He said I might find something interesting here. But I don’t think even he knew it was about you, just that there was something we needed to check out. He has a feel for such things; it’s why he’s a coven leader. So I came, obeying his directive, and also because I have a certain taste for danger.”

“I’m a dangerous man.”

“You are. You turn me on.”

He knew by now that she wasn’t fooling. She was definitely the woman for him, even if she was hung up on religion. “That bat on your back—how come?”

She smiled. “Well, I could tell you that my name means black-as-night, and the bat is a creature of the night.”

“You won’t let me lie to you. Are you going to lie to me?”

“Merely teasing. But it’s true, just not the whole truth. Early in my life when my ability started showing—little boys discovered I was one little girl they couldn’t pick on—someone likened it to the bat. The bat can fly in darkness through the most devious caves and never crash. It has echolocation, using high-pitched sound to bounce off objects and give it a special kind of ‘vision.’ I could avoid things similarly, in darkness or daylight, without even looking. So they nicknamed me ‘the bat’ and I went along with it, and finally it became my mascot. It seemed only fair to give it a place on my body. Does that turn you off?”

“Everything about you turns me on.”

“Before we separate, there is one other thing I should mention.”

“Oh, shit! You’re married?”

She laughed. “No. Would it make a difference?”

“Sure. I’d have to kill your husband, and then you might be annoyed. I don’t want you mad at me.”

“I am not married. And I’m not talking about any permanent separation. It is merely that we can’t stay constantly together, lest we attract attention neither of us wants. We’ll get together often enough for what counts.”

“Hot sex.”

She laughed again. “That too. The other thing I need to be sure you understand is that Jesus may not return in the form you knew. What counts is not His form, but His spirit, whatever its vessel. He may assume the body of another person, or simply infuse that person, making him become the new Messiah. He could even take the form of a woman. We don’t know. We need you to understand that so that you don’t mess it up.”

“Mess it up?”

“By killing the wrong person. There may be one who looks like Jesus, but isn’t, so you will need our guidance. Are you prepared for that?”

“I don’t kill anybody you don’t tell me to.”

“That’s about the case.”

“How about the Templars?”

She laughed once more. “Open season on them, I think. Especially if they catch me, damp out my magic, and try to burn me at the stake. My five seconds’ foresight won’t help me then; they’ll cover my escape for fifteen minutes each way.”

“They try that, I kill them all.”

“They’re pretty tough hypocrites. They claim to support Jesus, but they’re really out for themselves. They’ve got modern weapons, and they won’t hesitate to use them. Don’t tackle them unless you have to.” She shrugged. “Now do you have anything else for me before I return to my coven and report on my conquest?”

“One more hard one,” he said, taking hold of her. “By your leave.”

But she paused. “I smell danger. It’s beyond my magic, so I don’t know its nature, but there is something.”

“That lout I drove off. He’s returning with friends.”

She gazed at him. “How can you know that?”

“I know the nature of louts.”

There was a commotion nearby. A voice lifted in protest. “Hey, you jerks! What’s the matter with you?”

“Shut your face, creep.”

“You’re right,” Leyla said. “I recognize that voice. They’re looking for us. We’d better get dressed and get out of here.”

“And miss a good fight? We should have time for that one last clinch.”

She laughed, as she so often did. “And I like danger. But hurry.” She clasped him to her. They rolled, with her coming out on top. She rocked on him, her breasts heaving. Lusty? She was well beyond that. She had spoken of making a conquest. She certainly had. Cartaphilus didn’t know what love was, but if he was capable of it, she was the one who would evoke it.

They were still connected when their tent was lifted and thrown to the side. “Found them!” the man called. “Bat on her back, right?”

“Get out of here,” Cartaphilus told her. “I’ll handle them.”

“I’d better,” she agreed, drawing off him. “But first I’ll distract them so you can get your spear.”

“That will help,” he agreed. Actually weapons were more decorative than essential; he was by no means helpless nude. Then he said what he seldom did: “Thanks.” She really was his kind of woman. It wasn’t that politeness came naturally to him, but that he wanted her to be favorably impressed with him. He didn’t want to lose her, physically or emotionally.

Now there were four burly young men, standing around the two of them in the remnant of the tent. One had a sore nose. They had no weapons; they were depending on their fists and muscles. They were fools.

“Get clear,” he murmured. “I’ll handle them.”

“I’ll distract them first,” she said. She jumped to her feet, flashing the men with her bouncing breasts. “Get lost before you get hurt,” she warned them. Maybe that was her notion of fair play: to give them at least a chance to save their lives.

Two of them stared, mesmerized. Cartaphilus knew exactly how that was. That was all he needed. “Wow!” That was an understatement. They grabbed for her, and missed, of course.

Meanwhile Cartaphilus reached out and caught hold of his spear. “Are you ready, turds?” he inquired. He could play fair too, when he tried.

The two who weren’t watching the woman dived for him. He whipped the spear around to stab one through the belly. He shoved him to the side and caught hold of the descending head of the other. He opened his mouth, baring his teeth, and bit off the man’s nose. He shoved him to the side so as not to get too badly spattered with the blood.

Then he got to his feet, spitting out the nose. Leyla was gone, along with the clothing. That was best. She would probably not enjoy seeing the rest of it, as it might get ugly. Cartaphilus cared what she thought. They would get back together at another time; she had promised.

The remaining two men closed on him. They were not cowards. Too bad for them. They were about to learn that numbers did not necessarily make an advantage. Not when they faced a psychopath who longed for death.

All in all, it was a fine fracas. The perfect end to a perfect day.

Note: In late 2005 I heard from David A. Rodriguez, Lead Video Game Designer with High Voltage Software, also the writer and creator of a comic book titled Starkweather, published through Arcana Studio. He was setting up a companion volume, Starkweather: The Grid, which would consist of five short stories written by five authors, going into the background of the series, which would be translated to comic format. He sent me a copy of the original volume, and I concluded that I would like to do it. I needed a character for Cartaphilus to interact with, and he gave me Leyla. Intrigued by her body art, I made something of it, and came to like her well. Cartaphilus is actually historical mythology, the Wandering Jew, condemned by Jesus as shown; he’s not original with me, any more that Leyla is. So I wrote it, and I believe it was published, though I did not see the book. It was an interesting project.

Caution: none; this isn’t really about Jesus.

4. A Picture of Jesus

It was dull in the violent ward. Ethan had worked here only two weeks, but an hour had been enough to satisfy him that the patients here were the opposite of violent. This was simply the dumping place for the ones that didn’t fit in elsewhere in the hospital. And, it seemed, for the aides with least seniority, who had no choice about assignments.

One patient was a fat old man, cheerful but incoherent. Say “Hello” to him and he would smile and respond “Zig—zig—zzigh.” That was about the extent of his vocabulary. Mucous tended to collect in his throat; periodically he would hawk it up and spit on the floor. But usually the spittle didn’t clear his bulging belly; it would hang there in yellowish gobs until someone came to clean him off. Now that was Ethan’s job. Despite that, he liked Zig; the man certainly meant no harm, and made no trouble.

Another patient was small and lean. He muttered constantly and mostly incoherently. He seemed to hate the world, but he internalized it, ignoring the aides. When Ethan helped him bathe, he saw that the man had an enormous hernia filling his scrotum. He reported it to the hospital authorities, but nothing was done. Apparently it wasn’t worthwhile to mess with what was termed a benign condition. So it was ignored, and the violent ward was the place to ignore it.

Another patient was young. He lived normally in the regular men’s ward, but periodically he got wild, and then they would put him in a straitjacket, sedate him, put a tube through his nose into his stomach, and force-feed him until he settled down. A day or so usually did it. Every so often he would make strangling noises, but it was because of the tube; he wasn’t in physical trouble. Then he would return to the men’s ward for a few more days.

Sometimes they would dump a patient here after he had shock treatment. Electroshock was horrible to watch; it looked as if the man were dying of torture and going into instant rigor mortis. But he was unconscious; it was a controlled seizure, and it did seem to improve attitude. When the man woke, his mind would be blank. He would ask endless questions: “Where am I? How did I get here? How can I get out?” Ethan would try to explain, but he could see that he just wasn’t making much sense to the patient. It would be several hours before the patient achieved stability, and then he would be returned to his usual ward.

Then there was Ulysses. He sat staring at the wall and blinking. But when Ethan brought his tray with food, he would focus on it and eat it efficiently. He would take his own shower when asked to, and was able to handle the toilet cleanly, which was more than could be said for many other patients. He seemed, well, sane, when he was doing something. It was as if he could interact with the world when he chose to, but just seldom bothered.

Finally, in a dull period, Ethan sat down beside him and tried to make conversation. “Hello, Ulysses. I’m Ethan.”

“Frome?”

“What?” He was startled by the fact that the man had responded; he had never spoken to Ethan before.

Ulysses smiled. “Ah, you don’t get the education we did in my day. Ethan Frome is a novel by Edith Wharton which shows the futility of foolish love. I meant no affront.”

Sane? This man was completely lucid! But Ethan was wary, because some patients did have flashes of rationality. Indeed, some were completely sane, most of the time. It was their flashes of irrationality that made them unfit for general society. One had told him how he was driving from New York to Chicago when he blanked out; when he woke he was here at Bedlam. He seemed quite normal, but that could be extremely deceptive. So Ethan wasn’t about to take Ulysses on faith, but he was interested in what the man had to say. So he encouraged him. “Foolish love?”

“Frome was locked into a sterile marriage. Then he met his wife’s cousin and they fell in love. It was hopeless, so they tried to commit suicide together. They got on a bobsled and steered it into a tree. But they didn’t die; they both wound up horribly crippled, while Frome’s wife took care of them. It was, in a fashion, the wife’s salvation.”

Ethan shook his head. “You’re right. That was foolish. Today the man would simply have dumped the wife for her sister.”

“They don’t make morality the way they used to.”

Which was something Ethan’s grandfather might have said. “At any rate, I’m Ethan Drake, and I’m not about to try to commit suicide for a woman. But you—how is it that you are here, staring at the wall all day, when you are obviously rational?” He was afraid that question would snap the man back into his daze, but it had to be asked.

“I am rational. It is your society that is blind.”

Uh-uh. It was starting. “In what way, Ulysses?”

The man turned a disquietingly knowing gaze on him. “Take my word: you are better off not knowing.”

Ethan had a slight ornery streak. “Let me be the judge of that. What do you see in that wall?”

“I see a picture of Jesus.”

So he was off the deep end about religion! Ethan looked at the wall. “All I see is a pattern of white paint and black stain. That wall is overdue for cleaning.”

“That would be a shame. Jesus should not be hidden.”

“But there’s no picture there! It’s just random splotches.”

“So it may appear to you.”

Ethan realized that he wasn’t getting anywhere. He tried another tack. “Let’s look at the wall together, and maybe you can explain to me how to see what you see.”

“This isn’t wise.”

Ethan never had liked being dismissed as if he were some slightly obtuse bystander, and he liked it even less from a mental patient. He was also afraid that if this dialogue broke off now, Ulysses would never speak to him again. Not because of any anger, but because the window of opportunity would be closed. Other aides would simply laugh if Ethan tried to tell them that the man was speaking rationally. “Tell me.”

“If you insist. But you are apt to regret it.”

The man was not being threatening. He seemed genuinely concerned for Ethan’s state of mind. What a reversal! “I think I will regret it if I don’t get your side of things.”

“Then I will tell you my story. If it begins to disturb you, or if you find yourself believing it, then you must break off, for your own safety. What I have to say concerns phenomenal insight, and power through that insight, but equivalent danger. You have used a computer?”

“Sure. I spent an hour on a letter, then lost it by hitting Delete instead of Print. That was one lesson I learned in a hurry!”

“Exactly. What magnifies your power of insight and action also magnifies your power of destruction. Misuse it, and you destroy yourself, even if your intention was innocent. Or you can be destroyed by the action of a computer virus, because you didn’t guard against it.”

The man was making uncanny sense. Why was he put away here in a mental institution, and why did he put up with it? They would let him out soon enough if he talked to the psychiatrists the way he was talking now. “I never made that mistake again, with the computer,” Ethan said. “And I have an anti-virus program.”

Again Ulysses turned his disquieting stare on him. “But when your life is at stake, there may be no second chance.”

Despite himself, Ethan felt a rippling chill in the small of his back. “Are you telling me that I can put my life in danger, just by listening to you? What are you, an alien spy?”

“No, I am a normal human being, as you are. But I have learned to see in a way you have not. You can learn too, but you would not care to share my fate.”

“I wouldn’t care to be locked in a mental hospital when I was sane,” Ethan agreed.

“You may change your mind.”

He seemed so sure! But of course the man was a patient. “Tell me your story.”

Ulysses began to speak.

I was always a puzzle freak. If there was a riddle, I had to guess it; if there was a maze I had to thread it; if there was a mystery, I had to fathom it. So when I saw the picture, it was a challenge. It was in a book, and it said it was a picture of Jesus. But it was just a mass of light and dark, as if someone had spilled coal dust on snow and sections had melted together. I was never religious, so I had no imperative to see Jesus. But I wanted to know just what it was the author of that book thought I was supposed to see. So I stared at the page until my eyes grew bleary, seeing nothing of any man, let alone Jesus. I would have dismissed it, but I knew there had to be something, however farfetched.

Next day I looked at it again, with similar unsuccess. But I remembered a picture I had seen years before, with two women: the pretty young one I had seen right away, but eventually I had seen also the old woman. It was all in the way a person looked at it. The mind shapes familiar images from scattered hints, and so what was hidden can come into view, with the right mind-set.

But there was nothing there. Finally I gave up on it, frustrated. I set it on a corner table and went about my business elsewhere. It was open to the page, but out of the way.

Then, in the evening, I happened to catch sight of the page in the half-light. And there was Jesus, gazing serenely at me. The irrelevant details had fuzzed out, allowing my eye to shape the whole, and it was the head and shoulders of Jesus, suddenly so clear I wondered how I had ever missed it.

I brought the book into the full light, and the picture vanished. The page was a random mess again. But now I had the key, and I took it back to the half-light until I could see Jesus, then slowly into the full light. I analyzed it, and soon I was able to see Jesus in any light. But he faded out when I turned the picture upside down. So I kept working on it, training my eye, until I could see him from any angle and in any light. I had fathomed the unfathomable!

Next day I looked at it again, and Jesus looked back at me. I was now a believer, in this sense. I could see what I had not seen before. I was flushed with victory.

I went out to do some shopping. When I looked at the sidewalk, I saw pictures on it: animals, flowers, human faces. They had been there all the time, but now I could see them. I had widened my horizons, by learning to see Jesus.

When I crossed the road I saw in its pattern of cracks and smudges a different scene. In fact I became aware of a different landscape, a natural one, where no road existed. The effect grew stronger as I concentrated, becoming three dimensional. It was as if the road were a picture, which I might almost walk into. But I couldn’t; the true surface of the road seemed like a pane of glass, disappearing, but my feet still found it. This did not detract from the realism of the picture; a person may gaze through a window at the scene outside, yet his hand can not pass through that window. He understands that the scene is there, but that he is barred from it, unless he breaks the glass or finds some way around it. I was fascinated. In fact I forgot my errand, and simply meandered, viewing the new realm. So much I had never seen before!

Then I came to an awesome chasm that crossed the road and the terrain on either side. It was so deep I was afraid to try to cross it, though I knew it was just a picture. I stood at the brink, gazing down into its murky depths.

Someone came up behind me. I was so distracted that I never noticed until there came a touch on my elbow. “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Ignore it. Walk right on across.”

Startled, I followed her guidance, and walked with her across the chasm. I looked at her, trying to determine whether I knew her, but she seemed unfamiliar. “Why—?” I asked, somewhat at a loss.

“For God’s sake, act normal!” she snapped. “Have you no common caution?”

“But I don’t think we’ve ever met before,” I protested. “I’m Ulysses. You’re—?”

“Chloris,” she said tersely. She forged straight ahead, ignoring the frightening landscape I suspected she saw.

“Well, Chloris, why are you, well, picking me up like this?” She wasn’t beautiful, but neither was she ugly; she had the appeal of youth, which to my middle-aged eye was considerable.

“Because I don’t want the dragon to eat you before you catch on.”

“Dragon!” I exclaimed, laughing.

“Just keep walking, and I’ll explain,” she said grimly.

Realizing that she wasn’t joking, I did as she asked. I kept walking beside her, which was no chore. “I suppose you know that I’m seeing strange scenery.”

“That’s obvious.” Chloris glanced around, but she did it without moving her head. “What brought you to the breakthrough?”

“A picture of Jesus.”

She sighed. “I wish they’d abolish those pictures! People think they’re getting a religious experience, and then the dragon kills them.”

“You act as if there really is a dragon!”

“Listen, idiot!” she hissed. “There is a dragon, and it will be the last creature you see if you don’t ignore it.”

“I don’t understand! Am I supposed to see this thing, or not see it?”

“Both. You are seeing the larger reality, which has always existed, but few people manage to attune their minds to it. They are so accustomed to shutting out things that they actually shut out much of reality itself. That’s their salvation. But those who succeed in seeing more are in trouble. So if you see a dragon, pretend you don’t. Just walk right by it, or even through it, and don’t flinch. Your life depends on it.”

“My life!” I said, amazed at her claim.

“Your life.” Chloris looked around again, only her eyes moving. “And mine too, if the dragon catches on that I see. I’m risking myself by helping you. Don’t make me regret it.”

I still liked the idea of walking with a young woman, so I decided to play the game. “I’ll ignore any dragons,” I agreed.

“You had better. They have been around since the days of the dinosaurs—in fact I think they are the dinosaurs, in a more advanced state. Just as we are primates in an advanced state. The dragons are as smart as we are, and much more deadly, and we can’t escape them because our limited world isn’t real to them. We have been spreading across their habitat, building cities in their hunting grounds, but they don’t care because as long as we are unaware of them, we are harmless to them. But they know that we could cause them mischief, if we saw them. So they kill those of us who see them. Unless we fool them into thinking that we remain oblivious. So that is what we have to do. Always. Or else.”

“Are you saying that these pictures I’m seeing—that there are dragons in them? But since I can’t go into those pictures, nothing in them can hurt me. So why should I worry about dragons?”

“Because they aren’t limited the way we are. They can see us and hear us all the time, though they don’t seem to have bothered to learn to understand our language. If they decide to, they can chomp us, and when they do, we feel it. It’s one-sided: we can’t hurt them, but they can hurt us. They’ve been aware of full reality longer than we have, ever since about sixty five million years ago when they moved into it, and they have learned ways to handle it that we haven’t. Maybe some year we’ll learn too—but only if they don’t realize that we’re doing it. That’s why we have to be excruciatingly careful. That’s really why I’m helping you: because if I let you blunder and attract their attention to yourself, they will kill you, and perhaps realize that more of us are seeing them. Then they will be more careful, and more of us will die. So we have to educate you quickly.”

“So it’s not that you care about me as a person,” I said dryly. “You just don’t want me to mess it up for the rest of you.”

“Exactly.” Her emphatic agreement set me back. I had thought I was speaking at least halfway humorously. Evidently not.

“So if I don’t see a dragon, I can do what I want,” I suggested.

“No,” Chloris said. “You never know when a dragon is watching. So you tune out the larger world as well as you can. After a while it becomes second nature. When you get so that others who can see don’t realize that you are one of us, then you’re safe. As safe as it gets, for us; we can never rest as easy as we did in ignorance.”

I would have thought she was crazy, but I did see what she called the larger world, and she knew I saw it. So if she was crazy, so was I. “Where are we going?” I inquired.

“That’s right,” she agreed. “We can’t just walk aimlessly. We’ve already gone too far together to be strangers. We’ll have to be dating.”

“I’d love it,” I said gallantly. “But aren’t I a little old for you?”

“Not for real,” Chloris said impatiently. “Just until we can separate without arousing suspicion. You’ll have to see me to my apartment, I suppose.”

Who was I to object? So I took her hand, and we walked on like a middle aged fool with a young thing, which was as accurate a description as any.

Then I saw something. It was walking through an intersection. Maybe through a building too; our world seemed to be insubstantial to it. It looked like a monstrous dinosaur—or a dragon. I turned my head to get a better look at it.

“Don’t do that!” Chloris whispered. “Ignore it!”

It really was a dragon--and she saw it too.

The dragon turned its head, and caught me staring at it. Its ears perked up.

“Oh, the fat’s in the fire now!” Chloris whispered. “Our only hope is to fake the dragon out. Play along—and don’t look at the dragon!” She hauled on my arm until I turned to her, then put her arms around me.

All right. I was shaken by the sight of the dragon, but I could hardly think of a nicer way to reassure it that my attention was elsewhere. I embraced her. Her body was slender and supple, and though her face was not glamorous, it was young, and that counted for a lot. I wouldn’t have minded at all if this had been real.

Chloris’ eyes flicked in that headless way they had. I realized that this was so the dragon couldn’t tell that she was looking around. She was making more sense to me, now that I had seen the monster. “It’s coming to investigate,” she whispered. “We’ll have to make it look authentic. Make your hands stray.”

“Stray?” I had to be misunderstanding.

“Do it!” she snapped.

So I let my right hand slide down to stroke her posterior. What illicit fun!

Then I saw the dragon, much closer, coming up behind her. My hand clenched involuntarily, giving her a healthy pinch. Oops.

“Damn,” she murmured. “We’ll have to kiss.”

So we kissed, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun as it should have been, because now the dragon was right up close, and I could hear the bellows of its breathing. The thing was huge and hot, and its scales rustled slightly as it twisted around. I kept my eyes squinted shut, now, but I felt the dragon’s breath on my neck. At any other time such a kiss would have held the whole of my attention, but it was singularly difficult to tune out such a monster.

However, we couldn’t kiss forever. I was running short of breath. So I drew back. “Let’s go to your place, dear,” I said, opening my eyes.

That’s when my gaze met that of the dragon. It was only a yard away. I flinched.

The funny thing was that other people had collected, now, but they weren’t looking at the dragon. They were looking at us. They really couldn’t see the monster. They were limited in their perception to the smaller world. They hadn’t seen the picture of Jesus—or what it led to.

“I can’t wait that long,” Chloris gasped. She seemed genuinely desperate, but not because of any passion for me. “There must be a private spot close by.”

She was trying to make it seem authentic. I knew her desperation was because of the dragon, but it was having its effect on me too. How far would she go, to fool the monster?

I started to unbutton her blouse. The other people watched, enjoying the spectacle of a couple about to make love in public. The average man is not only blind to the larger world, he has the sensitivity of a clod of manure.

Then the dragon goosed me. Its tail came around and rammed me in the rear. I jumped.

Immediately Chloris reached around and grabbed my rear, as if she were the cause of my reaction. She was trying valiantly, but the dragon wasn’t fooled. It opened its mouth. I couldn’t help staring at the very large array of teeth.

I realized that this was fight or flight time. There was no hope of fighting the dragon. “Run!” I cried. I turned Chloris loose and started to move.

“No!” she protested. She still thought she could pretend ignorance of the monster. She stood still.

I hesitated, turning back. I didn’t want to leave her. I hardly knew her, but she had done her best to help me. Yet what could I do? The dragon’s head was bigger than Chloris’ whole body.

Nevertheless, I cast about for some weapon. There was only a plank lying in the gutter, perhaps fallen from a truck. Stymied, I stared stupidly as the dragon’s head struck at Chloris. It seemed to occur in slow motion, but that was because of my horror.

At the last moment the dragon closed its mouth, and shoved Chloris with its nose. She stumbled back, propelled by that nose—and fell into the path of a passing car.

There was the squeal of brakes, but it was too late. The car had struck her before the driver could react. It slewed to a stop, but Chloris was just a heap in the road.

“She jumped right in front of me!” the driver cried, wild-eyed.

“No!” I cried. “The dragon did it! The dragon shoved her!” Beyond caution, I heaved up the plank and ran at the dragon, clumsily trying to spear it with my improvised lance. “Die, dragon!” I screamed.

I scored on it--but the plank passed right through the monster’s body, and I did too. I couldn’t touch the monster, literally.

Then there were hands on me, holding me back. I was still shouting. “The dragon! The dragon! Can’t you see it? The dragon killed her!”

They wrestled me to the pavement and strung rope around me. The dragon merely watched. Suddenly I realized why: it didn’t need to kill me, because I was obviously crazy. The other people thought I was the one who had shoved Chloris into the car and killed her. A lover’s quarrel. They would never comprehend the truth.

“And so I was found innocent by reason of insanity,” Ulysses concluded. “I didn’t try to fight it. I knew the dragon would have killed me too, otherwise. But the dragons leave me alone, as long as I’m incarcerated here. So I drew a picture of Jesus on the wall, using smudges in lieu of paint, and I stare at it, the reminder of my folly.”

“But if—if you believe this is true—the world should know,” Ethan said. He now understood why Ulysses was confined, and it wasn’t because of any invisible dragons, but he still wasn’t quite satisfied. The man could have a better life, right here in the hospital, if he just talked to others instead of staring at the wall.

“If I try to tell the world, one of two things will happen,” Ulysses said. “Either I won’t be believed, in which case I have accomplished nothing but my own discredit, or I will be believed, in which case the dragons will strike ruthlessly to eliminate all believers. I saw what they did to Chloris, and the guilt of that will forever be on my conscience. She tried only to help me, and she paid with her life. I don’t want any more deaths to mourn.”

Ethan nodded. It did make sense. Either the guy was crazy or he wasn’t; why should he have to choose between incarceration and death? But there was a third possibility. “Suppose you are neither crazy nor correct, but simply had a bad vision?” he asked. “So there are no dragons, and if you just recognize that, you can be released and pursue a normal life?”

Ulysses turned that disquieting stare on him once more. “I hope you believe that, because it will save you from a terrible revelation. Look at the wall again, and pray you do not see Jesus.”

Ethan gazed at the wall. The random pattern of stains remained. He concentrated, giving it his best effort, because he didn’t want to be blinded by prejudice, he wanted to be quite sure there was nothing.

He realized that one part of the pattern might almost resemble an eye. Another could be taken as the highlight of a chin. And a gently curving line might be called the bridge of a nose, with the light on one side, shadow on the other. Maybe, by a sufficient stretch of the imagination, it would be possible to picture a crude face there. Follow the nose-line down, and there was maybe a nostril; follow it up, and there was the arc of an eyebrow. The larger black and white patches framed the head, and below were the shoulders and chest, with a loosely hanging garment …

It was, indeed, a picture of Jesus. Suddenly the calm, understanding gaze met his own gaze. “I see—” Ethan breathed, astonished at the clarity and detail of it, where before there had been only smears.

“You see nothing!” Ulysses snapped. “It’s just a stained wall!”

“No, you are right! It’s Jesus.” Ethan looked around. “And there on the wall behind you is a beautiful natural landscape. And on the floor—why there’s a river, with fish swimming in it, and a mermaid! And on the ceiling—what’s that creature?”

“It’s a dragon!” Ulysses whispered. “Avert your gaze, man, before it sees you looking! Do you want to die?”

Ethan yanked his eyes away. He focused on Ulysses. “Now look,” he said, shaken. “I agree there are pictures, with astonishing realism; it’s as if this entire hospital ward is just a glass shell, through which we can see a fantastic larger world. But that’s all it is, of course: just a pattern of pictures. Pictures can’t harm anyone. So why not appreciate them?”

“I can do so,” Ulysses said. “Because I’m certified crazy, and no one believes me. But you must not, because you’re sane. Now I see I should never have spoken to you, never have told you the truth. I thought you were too ignorantly self-assured to see, but I misjudged you. For your own safety, for your very life, shut it out, man, shut it out!”

Ethan still did not believe in any invisible dragons. But the extent of the revelation that the picture of Jesus had brought him shook his very nature. Ulysses had been right about Jesus, and right about the hidden larger world beyond the normal one, at least in appearance. Suppose he were right about the rest?

“Of course it’s just an optical illusion,” Ethan said. “I tried to empathize with you, to see what you see, and I succeeded. But the difference between us is that I know it’s not real.”

“Yes, yes!” he agreed. “Hang on to that! Don’t look at it any more. Look for the stains, the cracks, the meaningless randomness beyond the limited world. Know that I am crazy, and you don’t want to be that way. Go away from me; when you return, I won’t talk to you at all, so you’ll know it was just your idle fancy that I had a lucid moment. Don’t put your death on my conscience.”

“But you know I can’t pretend that you weren’t lucid!” he said. “I may disagree with your vision, but certainly you can talk. You don’t have to pretend—”

But he saw that the man’s gaze had wandered. Ulysses was now staring at the wall again, ignoring him.

“Hey, don’t do that!” Ethan exclaimed.

Ulysses glanced at him. His eyes were unfocussed, and a bit of drool was starting down his chin. He was playing the idiot.

Disgusted, Ethan turned away. But still he saw the larger world. It had been a job to fathom it, but once he had done so, he couldn’t un-fathom it, any more than he could forget how to ride a bike once he had learned.

Well, he would do something about this. He would go fetch a supervisor, and show him the picture of Jesus. He would get others to see the larger world. Then Ulysses would have to talk to them, and whatever truth there was behind this vision would emerge.

He turned the corner to enter the wing of the ward where the phone was.

There, beside the phone, was the dragon.

Note: As I recall, in 1991 I was asked to contribute a story to a prospective anthology, so I wrote “A Picture of Jesus,” based on an experience I had had, trying to see Jesus in an obscure picture. I looked at it every day, and after about six months finally saw Jesus. I guess a religious person can do it much faster. My wife, the daughter of a minister, saw it faster, I think. Everything I experience is grist for my imagination: suppose the ability to see something in such a picture were an avenue to a larger perception, perhaps with danger? So I merged the notion with my long-ago experience as an aide in a mental hospital, describing the patients I actually knew, and wrote the story.

Time passed, and the anthology did not find a publisher. So when I had a request from another publisher, I gave them this one, and it was published in Science Fiction Age, July 1993. Now, twenty years later, it should be safe to share it with you without getting caught by a dragon. But if you see that picture, don’t push your luck.

Caution: personal essay, some repetition

5. My America

I’m an immigrant. I’m from England, and it was England I longed for as a child; America felt like exile. My parents did relief work in Spain during its savage civil war, feeding starving children, until my father was “disappeared” by the victorious dictatorship. He smuggled out a note, and with that and the threat of financial repercussions, they were able to get him free, though banished from the country. Thus we came to America on the last commercial ship out, in 1940, as World War Two engulfed Europe. I don’t like discrimination against immigrants; too many are far worse off than we were, victims of totalitarian abuses. America is a refuge.

I’m a writer. I write because my imagination will not be suppressed. America has the freedom for the flowering of the arts, including writing. When I write, I receive love for my fiction and ire for my success. I understand what it is like to be the object of such mixed attentions.

I’m a naturalized American. My education, career, family, and future are here. I believe in the Constitutional values, for I chose to subscribe to them, and wince when I see them abridged. Unfortunately there is some of that occurring now, as fanaticism, greed, and lust for power prosper in the name of patriotism. I do have a notion where that leads. Yet I hope and believe that in time America will cast off these illnesses and return to the grandeur of its aspirations.

America is relatively wealthy and free and proud, so is loved and hated regardless of its merits. Love inspires tolerance; hatred sponsors terrorism. I saw one building become a ghastly smokestack, and a plane crash into another like a deadly chicken coming home to roost, and I saw the tall towers fall. I saw the heroes and the bigots roused, and the shock of illusion shattered. I remembered the assassination of President John Kennedy, the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and I thought of the Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.”

I’m an immigrant. I’m a writer. I’m American.

Note: I shared the shock of the nation when 9/11 happened, so when Hugh Downs solicited me to contribute to his volume My America, I did so, becoming one of 150 Americans to do so. It was published a year after the event. As it turned out, there came to be hundreds of volumes about that day, so this one wasn’t that remarkable, but it was worth doing once.

Caution: graphic rape by a woman

6. Serial

The security screen gave a silent alarm. Newton sat up in his pajamas, gazing at the screen. Someone was studying his premises, doing a systematic survey. A scintillatingly beautiful woman.

He touched the intercom button. “Maria.”

“Master,” she responded immediately.

“Here to me. Bedroom.”

“Can I fix hair, put on something sexy?” she asked eagerly.

“No.”

She did not respond. In a moment she entered, garbed in drab working clothing that could not conceal her excellent figure. “Master?”

“Someone is spying on the estate. A woman.”

“I call police?”

“No. Take the car this afternoon. Make sure you are seen leaving. Go to a motel for the night. See a movie. You have time off.”

“Master, I no want time off!” she protested. “I want you rape me like you used to.”

“No.”

“Master, please. I still got body.” She tore open her blouse to reveal her full breasts. “You no need other woman.”

Newton frowned. “Do not argue with me, Maria. You know that only annoys me.”

“Then punish me! I argue, I disobey you.” She ripped off the rest of her clothing. “I bad girl! Spank me.”

“Maria—”

She stepped into him, pressing close, bearing him back on the bed, hungrily kissing him. “Punish me!” she repeated. “Torture me. I scream real good.”

He heaved her off him, but she clung tenaciously. “Dammit, Maria! You know your status has changed. Get out of here.”

“Rape me first!” Her hands were clawing at his pajamas. “Like before.”

He struggled to free himself, but it was like wrestling with a tar baby. She would not be dislodged short of mayhem. Which was of course what she wanted.

“Enough!” He slapped her face with his open hand. It smashed her lips against her teeth, and a smear of blood appeared.

“Beat me!” she gasped. “Make me hurt!”

The violence and blood aroused him, as she intended. He grasped her by the neck, pinned her to the bed, rolled on top of her, and wedged his erect member between her wide-spread legs. “Resist me,” he reminded her.

“Yes! Yes! I fight you!” She hauled her legs together and struggled ineffectively to push his hands away.

He squeezed her throat until her face reddened and her struggling weakened. She went limp. Then he rammed up between her loosened legs and into her vagina, thrusting once, twice, and climaxing. He put his face down to kiss her bruised mouth. She firmed her lips, kissing back avidly.

Newton subsided, spent. “The irony is, you’re no masochist, Maria,” he said. “You’re a normal woman.”

“I anything you want,” she said. “I wish you love me.”

“Maria, you know my taste. You’re no longer a caged bird. You no longer hate and fear me. It’s over. Accept what I offer: decent employment.”

“Not enough. You no love me, but I love you. The stockyard syndrome.”

He had to smile. “Stockholm.”

“At least it like old time, right now. I felt your passion.”

He rolled off her. “You play a dangerous game, Maria. I could have killed you in my rage.”

“Then I die happy.” She was incorrigible. But she knew as well as he did that it was a bluff. He was a sadist and a rapist, but not a killer.

“Now do what I tell you. Clean up, dress, go out to a motel later in the day. Use the grocery credit card to buy yourself something you like. Chocolate éclairs, perhaps.”

She licked her lips, but shook her head. “They fatten me. I only jam them in hole and squeeze, pretend it you.”

He had to laugh. His penis was huge and fat and soft, with custard for an emission? He wandered whether she would really do that. She just might. “I want to be alone tonight. To encourage her to come in.”

“Master, you no know what that lady dog intend. Maybe she a cereal killer. Maybe she come to rob and rub out you.”

Newton smiled grimly, not bothering to correct what he knew was her misspelling of serial. “Then maybe I will die happy. Look at her!” For now the woman’s image on the screen was sharp. “What a stunner.”

“I jealous.” And of course she was. But she got up, collected her things, and departed. She had no further reason to remain; she had after all succeeded in seducing him. That was a genuine, if minor, victory on her part.

For Maria knew him for what he was. She had been his last victim, tricked into coming into this country undocumented for maidservant work, knowing very little English, then locked in his underground prison and forced into sexual slavery. She had been good for about six months, resisting bitterly as he repeatedly raped her, cursing him in her native tongue. But finally she had come to accept her situation, and even to enjoy their sexual sessions. They were better, she confessed, than being always alone and totally bored. But as her resistance eased, becoming token, so did his passion. He had given her more freedom, so that she had the chance to run away. She had not taken it. Now she was truly his loyal maidservant—and longed to be his captive again. It was ironic.

But she typified his larger problem: he was not turned on by conventional love. He preferred hate. The girls he captured inevitably ameliorated in the course of time, becoming resigned or accepting. That was like stale beer. So they had to be disposed of, to make way for the next. As a rule he did not like killing, using it only as a threat; it was too apt to stir up complications, even though no body would ever be found. It was easier to ship them off to some distant location with enough money to see them through a month or so while they found their bearings. They never knew his real name or location, calling him Master, so could not implicate him. Only Maria knew, and had become his tacit accomplice. But her continuing feeling for him was awkward.

He gazed into the screen. He had an outdated security system that could fairly readily be nullified. That was the honey pot. His real system was unlikely even to be detected, and could not be nullified without lethal consequences. So he knew when intruders came. Generally they were robbers, who would trip some hidden wire and summon the police. Or so they thought, not knowing that he signaled the police when he had verified the intruder’s nature. This one was different: not only a woman, but an outstandingly voluptuous one.

In fact, she just might be Militia. If so, this would be a night to remember. For Militia was a serial rapist who was female, notorious in sexual circles. She would be the ultimate in conquests. Newton fit the profile of her preferred victims. He had baited his trap, hoping she would come while knowing that the odds were against it.

Luck was with him. That evening he watched as she systematically nullified each guardian camera, not destroying them, merely turning them off briefly so that her passage was not recorded. It was possible to do that with less sophisticated equipment. She figured him for a typical patsy: a prominent wealthy bachelor who figured nothing like this could ever happen to him. Little did she know.

In due course she nulled the last one and achieved the house proper. Maria was gone, and of course the intruder was aware of it, knowing him now to be alone. The perfect target. That was why she had come in now. She always caught her men alone.

He dimmed the screen and lay back in his bed as if sleeping. She would find him soon enough. Then they would see.

She was so quiet in the darkness that he wasn’t even aware of her presence until he felt her lips on his. It was an electrifying kiss that both delighted and numbed his mouth with its potency.

He moved his head, as if waking, trying to clear his face. But she had hold of his head and kept her mouth on his, maintaining the kiss for ten, fifteen, twenty seconds. His tongue involuntarily tried to penetrate between her lips to titillate her mouth, but that was tightly sealed. This was a strange kind of passion.

Then at last she pulled back. “Wake, lover,” she murmured.

He pretended confusion. “Who—?”

“I am Militia,” she said, confirming his hope. “I trust you have heard of me.”

“I have,” he said. “But never expected to encounter you.” That much was true.

“Your wet dream has been granted,” she said. “Let’s have some light.” She moved away from him, found the switch by the door, and illuminated the bedroom.

There she stood, even more lovely than the screen had indicated. Hourglass figure, starlet face, long dark reddish hair. And a prominent tattoo on her forehead: M. For Militia, of course.

“You look great,” he said, affecting hesitancy. “But I’m not sure I, er, want to be on TV.”

“You don’t have a choice, Mister Oswald.” She opened a small suitcase he hadn’t noticed before and took out three small battery powered TV cameras. She set them on floor, table, and bed stand, all focusing on the bed. Their little action lights came on.

That made him wince. He didn’t like having his real name used in this connection, and those cameras were dangerous. “Of course I have a choice!” he protested. “Such exposure would ruin my reputation.”

She was slowly undressing. “Let me explain something to you, Newton.” Now she was using his first name too. It was an indication of her certainty of power over him. “I am a businesswoman. I learned that as a prostitute I could make several hundred dollars a night. That did not suffice. So I found a better way. Now I make several tens of thousands of dollars a night. It varies directly with the prominence of the man I seduce. So naturally I don’t leave it to chance. The man is not given a choice. He performs, the video is made, and I receive my cut. I am in the process of becoming rich by being a serial female rapist. Tonight it will be your privilege to contribute.” Her blouse and bra were off, and her full, firm, sculpted breasts showed to considerable advantage. “Relax, as they say, and enjoy it.”

“But it’s impossible!” he said, his eyes fixed on those twin orbs. What a treat they were! “A woman can’t rape a man.”

“Of course she can, Newton. She just can’t do it as crudely as a man rapes a woman. But with a little preparation she is more than able. Maybe you could say I am doing my bit to help liberate women from their outdated notions of inferiority.” Now she dropped her skirt and stood before him in lacy panties. The loss of her clothing detracted nothing from her appearance.

“I don’t believe it.” He was playing a role, because he knew she could and did rape men.

She lifted one leg and then the other to remove her panties. This, too, was an evocative sight. “It is merely a matter of technique. A man can use brute force to rape an unconscious woman. The man, generally speaking, needs to be conscious for the woman to address him. Apart from that it becomes an almost meaningless distinction.”

“Well, you’re not going to rape me.” Please don’t throw me in that brier patch!

She came and put her hands on his pajama top. “We shall see, Newton.”

“Hey.” He tried to resist, but she pushed his hands aside and pulled off the top. He seemed to be powerless to resist. Then she pushed him back on the bed and took hold of his pajama bottoms. He tried to clamp his legs together, but she put her hands on his knees and readily wedged them apart. In a moment she had his groin clear, his erection showing.

“You see, it is the man’s greater physical strength that facilitates his power over the woman,” she said. “But now my strength is equivalently greater than yours. You can’t resist me, literally.” She tweaked his hard penis. “I must say, this is a nice one.”

“You can’t do it,” he said.

“First, I will do my little dance. That may make you not only willing but eager. I like eagerness.”

“I’ll bet. How did you drug me?”

“It was the kiss. The drug is painted on my lips, over a sealant that prevents it from reaching me. Didn’t you notice how long I held it? I had to be sure you received a sufficient dose. It will wear off after an hour or so, but by then I’ll be gone.”

“Clever,” he said sourly.

“Now pay attention. The drug weakens your muscles, but not your genital anatomy. You can get an excellent erection, if you try.”

He was silent, as it was obvious that he already had a fully sufficient exhibit.

She donned what looked like a small grass skirt, and a tasseled sort of halter, and danced. It was quickly apparent that these concealed nothing, and enormously enhanced what they showed. The skirt offered a provocative illusion of concealment, the flapping strands calling attention to the flesh beneath. The halter played similarly with the breasts. Her buttocks flashed and her breasts bounced teasingly.

“New fashion?” he inquired. It was in his mind that if he could engage her in dialogue long enough, it might give the drug time to wear off. A faint chance, but better than nothing. Not that he would let her know if it did. He wanted the sex. He just preferred to be in control. Regardless, her display was excruciatingly sexy, by no coincidence.

“No, this is an old fashion. It existed for at least twenty thousand years, as mankind spread across the globe from Africa. Marriageable girls wore it to advertise their availability and attract men. It has never been improved on.”

He believed it. “Then why did they give it up?”

“That is one of the mysteries of the ages. My guess is that as people ranged into colder climes they had to wear more clothing, reducing opportunities for incidental seductions. That was unfortunate.”

He had to agree.

Then she unbound her hair. Her long tresses swirled around her shoulders and the upper surfaces of her breasts, adding another element of seduction. She was one supremely beautiful creature.

He couldn’t help it: his erection swelled almost painfully. He did desire her, regardless of the circumstances.

“I think you are ready,” she said, concluding her dance. “But I must take precautions, just in case.” She produced what looked like dentures. “Open your mouth.”

“What the hell?”

“Do it,” she snapped, poking her fingers into the corners of his jaw on either side so that the pain caused his mouth to open. Then she inserted the device. “It’s a tooth guard, to prevent you from biting. And these are gloves, to prevent you from scratching.” She put them on his hands, and he lacked the strength to resist.

She picked up one of the cameras and held it in her right hand, playing its lens up and down his body. Then she bore him back on the bed and straddled him, her solid thighs spread outside his. She played with his penis a moment with her left hand, making sure it was sufficiently rigid. Then slowly, carefully, she set it to her cleft and lowered her torso onto him, taking in his member inch by inch. She held the camera almost touchingly close, its lens orienting on that careful penetration, missing no detail. If he had had any doubt about the business nature of her effort, this abolished it. She cared more about the recording she was making than about any incidental pleasure he might be having. She jogged slightly, ensuring that the fit was exactly as she wanted it. He was all the way into her.

Satisfied, she set the camera back on the table and stretched out on him, her breasts pressing against his chest. “I think you want it,” she murmured, kissing his locked open mouth. “But if you don’t, it makes no difference. I will have my will of you regardless. Now you may cooperate by thrusting vigorously, or you may resist by lying passive, forcing me to evoke your emission. If I have to do it, I will withdraw at the last moment and cause you to jettison into air for the edification of the camera. I suspect you would rather spew into my core. Choose.”

He tried to lie still, to win a moral victory. But she squeezed him internally, and he knew he was going to ejaculate regardless. He bucked, thrusting as hard as he could.

“Good for you, Newton,” she purred, smoothly riding him. “You have earned your reward: I am staying on you.”

She did, and he had a powerful climax, spurting repeatedly into her. She lay on him, stroking his face with her hands, and kissing all around his blocked mouth.

“Now wasn’t that fun?” she asked as she removed the tooth guard and gloves. “Admit it: you were not completely unwilling.”

“I’ll buy the tapes,” he said, playing his role of a man desperate to avoid the embarrassment of such a video. “Leave the cameras here. How much?”

She shook her head. “I think you don’t completely understand, Newton. It isn’t just the money. It’s the power. I am amassing a collection of experiences that will put me in the record books. I need to have those tapes viewed, so that everyone knows that Militia has conquered another prominent man. You naturally prefer anonymity, but I prefer notoriety. In this instance, my will governs.”

“The police will run you down. Even if you fuzz out your face, your body will identify you.”

“Understand this, Newton: this is my identity. It is my mundane persona that is masked. There is no record of that. It has no forehead tattoo. I am Militia, complete and seductive. When I depart, so will my existence. Only when I send in the films will it even be known I was here.”

“No one knows you’re here?”

“That is correct. I am trackless.”

“Still, the police might find some physical evidence.”

“They will find Militia, the serial rapist, not the anonymous mundane.” Her mouth quirked. “I am not an amateur, you know.”

Or so she supposed. His trap was about to spring.

She got off him, did a quick cleanup in his bathroom, dressed, and collected her cameras, fitting them back into the suitcase. “It has been nice, Newton. I must be off. I doubt we shall meet again.” She lifted one hand in a stylized little wave. “Toodle-oo.”

He watched as she left the room, carrying her suitcase. He heard her take the elevator down. He smiled.

He got back into his pajamas and lay back, feeling his strength returning. Militia had timed it nicely, knowing exactly how long she had. He adjusted the image on the screen, tuning in on the furnished chamber in the sub-cellar, the one Maria called the cage. The one the elevator went to automatically when descending.

Sure enough, soon Militia entered it. In a moment, realizing that this was not the exit, she turned around to return to the elevator. She pushed the button. It did not respond.

He turned off the screen and closed his eyes for sleep. The lovely fly had indeed walked into the spider’s lair. The elevator button operated only for a person with a special key. Maria had a key. Militia did not. Militia was not going anywhere. No one would come to find her, as no one knew where she was. She would simply disappear from the scene.

There was a certain poetic justice to it: the serial rapist fallen victim to a more professional serial rapist.

Satisfied, he slept.

Maria returned in the morning. “I home, Master,” she said on the intercom. “How things work out?”

“We have a guest in the cage. Treat her carefully, as she is dangerous. See that she has what she needs, apart from freedom.”

There was a pause. Maria was activating the screen to view the cage. “Master, you must not keep her. She too much for you.”

“Perhaps.”

“I come up talk to you.”

Soon she appeared in his bedroom, fetchingly dressed and coiffed. She had treated herself to a new hairdo. He remained in his pajamas, knowing what to expect. Maria was much concerned for his welfare, and always alert for any chance to seduce him. The same fire that had made her such a good victim now made her an apt assistant.

“Master, she too pretty,” she said earnestly. “She make of you what you make of me: love slave.”

“That’s not the half of it,” he said. “She’s a professional serial rapist called Militia. She drugs prominent men, has sex with them, films it, and sells the films for tens of thousands of dollars. She is very good at what she does.”

Maria stared at him. “You let her drug you!”

“I needed to understand her modus operandi in detail. She has the drug on her lips, and delivers it via an impassioned kiss. It makes the man weak, but able to perform sexually. It was a considerable experience.”

“I give you experience,” she protested. “You safe with me. Not with her.” She opened her blouse. She never wore a bra.

“I need you to help me tame her. You will have to bring her meals and explain to her the facts of her new existence. To watch her when I am away at work. You understand every part of it.”

“No! Never! She no good for you, Master.”

“That is what attracts me to her, apart from her outstanding appearance,” he said. “The fact that I can’t trust her. The frisson of high risk. That I know she will betray me the moment she can. She will be a truly treacherous sexual partner.”

“Put me back in cage,” Maria pleaded. “Let her go, Master. I try to be very unwilling.”

“She will try to seduce you to trust her, but if you let down your guard one instant, she will steal your key and confine you to the cage.”

“I know, Master. I no amazon.”

“Amateur, not amazon” he said, gently correcting her. That was the thing about Maria: she did know every aspect of this situation, and would be competent. “I proffer this deal. As long as you assist me in this, I will allow you to come to my bed once a week. I won’t even make you fight me very hard.”

She hardly hesitated. “Twice week. And you let me kiss you, on mouth, no bite.”

He nodded. “Twice a week.”

“Plus once every time you do her.”

She was pushing it. “Too much, Maria.”

She eyed him cannily. “It motivate me. Give me reason make her do you often as she can. I tell her she no get food until she let you have her. She will hate that.”

She had a point. “Granted.”

“And I watch.”

“Of course. On the screen. I will not carry my key when I visit her. You will have to let me out. She won’t be able to disable me and sweet-talk you.”

“No sweet talk,” she agreed, smiling wolfishly. Maria had no use for other women, especially lovely ones. “First time, I put her naked in chains.”

“First several times,” he agreed.

“Deal,” she agreed. “Beginning—”

“Now,” he said.

She was on him in an instant, her clothing practically flying off her body. She kissed him with an insatiable hunger as she ran her hands over his body.

He obliged her, letting her have her way with him. But his mind was on Militia. She would be a spitting wildcat at first. He would have to use the mouthpiece and gloves on her, and probably chain her to the bed so she couldn’t knee him, as Maria recommended. It might require hundreds of hostile rapes before she accepted her situation and lost her edge. Heaven and hell, merged.

“You thinking of her,” Maria said accusingly. “Not of me.”

“Yes.”

That infuriated her, and gave her some of the fire he needed to truly enjoy the sex she insisted on. She would always be jealous of Militia, always angry that she was now the secondary woman in his life. Always competitive in what she knew was a losing cause. But she was bound to promote his sex with Militia, as the only avenue for her own gratification. An emotional firestorm, for both women. It was ideal.

Note: Electronic erotic publishers generally have lists of elements they don’t want: rape, bestiality, golden showers, pedophilia, incest, torture and such. I wonder what kind of submissions they receive, to evoke such warnings? So I suppose they wouldn’t want this story. But I wondered whether it would be possible to have a serial rapist who was a woman. Men rape for power and sexual gratification, but how and why would a woman rape? This is one conjecture.

I wrote it for the third Relationships volume, but the publisher, PHAZE, (yes, named after my fantasy world in the Adept series—the proprietor is a fan of mine) rejected it because of the rape element. So I took it to EXCESSICA where it was published online as a singleton, and did very well as time passed, earning over a thousand dollars. Apparently the same thing that publishers don’t like, readers do like, which makes me wonder.

Caution: sex with a zombie

7. The Courting

“I come to court you,” she said.

Jason looked up from his desk, startled. He knew June only passingly, a secretary in an adjacent office. She had a starlet quality face and body, so naturally had no interest in an ordinary Joe like him. Was this some cruel tease?

“I really am not in the mood at the moment,” he said.

“I need to make love with you now.” She spoke in somewhat measured tones.

She couldn’t be serious. “Not now. I have a headache.”

“I know. This must be fast.” She opened her blouse to show portions of her magnificent breasts. “There is a catch.”

Of course there was. At any other time he would have been seriously interested despite his suspicion that she was playing a game. At this point he just wanted to get rid of her, because his headache was getting worse. “Catch?”

“I am a zombie.”

This jolted his headache into the background for an instant. He stared into her cleavage. “You can’t be.”

“The peripherals are the first to go. My hair is a wig.” She lifted it, showing her bald pate briefly. “My teeth, false.” She lifted out her denture, as briefly. “My eyes have contact lenses. My nails are glued on. But my core body remains solid flesh. That is what counts, for this.”

“But—but zombies—if one even touches a living person, he dies horribly.”

“True, in essence.” She put her cold hand on his.

Jason was so startled and dismayed that his bladder let go. He ignominiously wet himself, there at his desk.

“Gotta go!” he said, lurching up and lumbering to the men’s room. His headache was worse than ever.

In the men’s room he hauled off his sodden trousers and undershorts and put them in the sink to rinse. Everything was going wrong!

“You are starting a stroke,” June said behind him. She had followed him in! “You will die in minutes. Clasp me now, and not only will your expiring life force restore me for another month, you will become a zombie and be able to continue your existence. Few others will notice. It is better than dying.”

He turned to stare at her, suddenly believing. She had stripped, and she was correct: her central body was in excellent shape. “That’s why you came to me! You knew!”

“Yes. I need your essence.” She stepped into him, drawing him close as his head seemed to swell with pain.

Then the pain faded, and there was only June and the phenomenal urgency of their union. Becoming a zombie no longer seemed so bad. For one thing, it was pain free.

Note: I’m not much into zombies, though they exist in my Xanth fantasy. But when I get a request, I try to oblige. Thus this little story, which appeared in Bits of the Dead, an anthology of brief zombie stories, in 2008.

Caution: encouragement for those about to attempt to write a 50,000 word novel in one month, phrased as a tough drill-sergeant lecture to a reluctant audience.

8. Pep Talk

You’re a fool. You know that, don’t you? Because only a fool would try a stunt as crazy as this. You want to write a 50,000 word novel in one month?! Do you have sawdust in your skull? When there are so many other more useful things you could be doing, like cleaning up the house and yard, taking a correspondence course in Chinese, or contributing your time and effort to a charitable cause? Whatever is possessing you?

Consider the first card of the Tarot deck, titled “The Fool.” There’s this young man traipsing along with a small dog at his heel, toting a bag of his worldly goods on the end of his wooden staff, carrying a flower in his other hand, gazing raptly at the sky—and about to step off a cliff, because he isn’t watching his feet. A fool indeed. Does this feel familiar? It should. You’re doing much the same thing. What made you ever think you could bat out a bad book like that, let alone write anything readable?

So are you going to give up this folly and focus on reality before you step off the cliff? No? Are you sure? Even though you know you are about to confirm the suspicion of your dubious relatives, several acquaintances, and fewer friends that you never are going to amount to anything more than a dank hill of beans? That you’re too damned oink-headed to rise to the level of the very lowest rung of common sense?

Sigh. You’re a lost soul. So there’s no help for it but to join the lowly company of the other aspect of The Fool. Because the fact is, that Fool is a Dreamer, and it is Dreamers who ultimately make life worthwhile for the unimaginative rest of us. Sensible folk are animals who make money, feed their faces and reproduce, perpetuating their kind. They even make it part of their religion: be fruitful and multiply. Dreamers consider the wider universe. Dreamers build cathedrals, shape fine sculptures, and yes, generate literature. Dreamers are the artists who provide our rapacious species with some faint evidence of nobility.

So maybe you won’t be a successful novelist, or even a good one. At least you are trying. That, would you believe, puts you in a rarefied one percent of our kind. Maybe less than that. You aspire to something better than the normal rat race. You may not accomplish much, but it’s the attitude that counts. As with mutations: 99% of them are bad and don’t survive, but the 1% that are better are responsible for the evolution of species to a more fit state. Sorry, Creationists; I’m not talking to you; you’d be obliged to write your novel in six days, and rest on the seventh. You know the odds are against you, but who knows? If you don’t try, you’ll never be sure whether you might, just maybe, possibly, have done it. So you do have to make the effort, or be forever condemned in your own bleary eyes.

Actually, 50,000 words isn’t hard. You can write “Damn!” 50,000 times. Oh, you want a readable story! That will be more of a challenge. But you know, it can be done. In my heyday, before my wife’s health declined and I took over meals and chores, I routinely wrote 3,000 words a day, taking two days a week off to answer fan mail, and 60,000 words a month was par. Now I try for 1,500 and hope for 2,000. That will do it. If you write that much each day, minimum, and go over some days, you will have your quota in the month. On the 10th of the month of August 2008, I started writing my Xanth novel Knot Gneiss, about the challenge of a boulder that turns out to be not stone but a huge petrified knot of reverse wood that terrifies anyone who approaches it. Petrified = terrified, get it? And by the 30th I had 35,000 words. That’s the same pace. If I can do it in my doddering old age—I’m 74—you can do it in your relative youth. What did I do on the 31st? I spent the morning on mail, and started this stupid Pep Talk in the afternoon, that’s what, and completed the first draft at 1500 words on Labor Day morning, working around my exercise routine and an hour grocery shopping in town. One day, part time—the same schedule you will attempt. So it doesn’t matter whether you’re a coed or an accountant, you can certainly give it a try. Remember, this is only an exercise, a—oh, you in the front row, you have a question? You say you are a coed? Okay, then. And you in the second row behind her. You say you are an accountant? That’s fine; I wasn’t trying to disparage you.

Of course it will help if you have something to say, like maybe a halfway decent story. The fact is, good characters and a good situation will help a lot. So even though you may want to get right on into it, don’t. Pause to consider characters, setting, story, and rationale. That is, does it really make sense? If you get those right, before you start, your story will practically write itself. I constantly make notes along the way, which don’t count as story text, but do point me in the right direction. It’s a bit like stopping to put gasoline in the car before you cross the desert: a sensible thing. Another question? Yes, Coed, you can make a teen girl the main character. The rule of thumb is to write what you know, and you surely know about teendom. That goes for you too, Accountant, though I wouldn’t recommend filling your manuscript with figures, ha-ha. Not mathematical ones, anyway.

Of course you need ideas. What, you don’t have any? You can garner them from anywhere. I noticed that our daily newspaper comes in a plastic bag that is knotted. The knot’s too tight to undo without a lot of effort, so I just rip it open to get at the goodies inside. It’s a nuisance; I wish they’d leave it loose. But I thought, maybe there’s this cute delivery girl who has a crush on me, and she ties a love-knot to let me know. Not that at my age I’d know what to do with a real live girl, but it’s still a fun fantasy. Okay, there’s an idea. I could use it in my fiction. Maybe even in a Pep Talk. The mundane world has provided me with an opening. It will do the same for you, if you’re alert.

No, Coed; you can’t write a steamy collaborative romance about an illicit affair with an Accountant. You’re underage and he’s married. Now do you mind? I’m trying to conduct a Pep Talk here.

Here’s a secret: fictive text doesn’t necessarily flow easily. Most of the time it’s more like cutting a highway through a mountain. You just have to keep working with your pick, chipping away at the rock, making slow progress. It may not be pretty at first. Prettiness doesn’t come until later, at the polishing stage, which is outside your month. You just have to get it done by brute force if necessary. So maybe your ongoing story isn’t very original. That’s okay, for this. Just get it done. Originality can be more in the eye of the reader than in any objective assessment.

Will you two stop whispering? I don’t care, Accountant, if you think my attitude doesn’t compute. Or if Coed thinks I’m a darned spoilsport. I’m trying to encourage half a slew of doubtful aspiring novelists to give it their best shot. Yes, actually, forbidden love is a workable theme. Half of all published novels are in the Romance genre, and they aren’t very original; in fact they have set formulas their authors must adhere to. But secret or forbidden love can fit a formula. So you can start anywhere. Even here. What, you want an example? Okay, try this for an outline:

Chapter 1: At first Accountant was annoyed by the knot in the newspaper bag… Chapter 2: He was amazed when he saw her, cute as a button, looking almost too young to drive. Then she caught his eye, and blushed… Chapter 3: Another morning she was in tears, because her car had broken down and she couldn’t complete the delivery route. Naturally he had to help… Chapter 4: “Oh, I’m so grateful, Mr. Accountant,” she said. “I don’t know how I can ever express my appreciation, unless…” She lifted her full blouse off over her head… Chapter 5: He was a huge gruff, florid, ugly stevedore of a man. “Have you been interfering with my sweet innocent daughter?” he demanded…

Not that I’m recommending junk like this; I’m just showing how you can make it from a standing start, even from a foolish daydream when you should have been paying attention to the Pep Talk. You will want to try for a bit more quality, of course, and maybe a spot of realism. Garner an Idea, assemble some Characters, find a suitable place to start, and turn them loose in your imagination. Now go home and start your engines. Some few of your sorry lot may yet become Authors.

Addendum: SPAM circular: Forbidden Love, by Accountant & Coed, roundly condemned by literacy critics, banned in 14 states and three countries, dedicated to Piers Anthony, without whose bad attitude this titillating short novel, written in only one month, would never have come to be.

Sigh.

Note: So I made it a kind of story. I understand that this Pep Talk did encourage some of the NaNoWriMo—that is, National Novel Writing Month—aspirants for November 2008. They have a similar project every year, so get in touch via www.nanowrimo.org if you’re interested. But no, there’s no physical gathering, so real-life Accountants and Coeds can’t get together this way. Sorry about that.

Caution: aberrant sex

9. Knave

Jack stared at the ad. All it said was KNAVE WANTED, with a picture of the Queen of Hearts card and a phone number. She was routinely stylized, with a lovely face and ornate robe merging into the inverted image below.

But when he moved his head, the image shifted, and the Queen’s nether section manifested. The robe was cinched at the waist to show off her silhouette, which was phenomenal. She would make an hourglass clog its sand in shame.

He refocused, and lo, it was a three dimensional image with a different scene beneath. The queen was completely nude. She was even more breathtaking that way, perfectly formed, her glorious red hair descending almost to her luscious breasts, her waist breathtakingly slender, her hips tantalizingly rounded. In fact she was the most beautiful woman Jack had ever seen or even imagined.

In another moment he saw her gentle breathing, which enhanced her marvelously full breasts further. She looked at him, smiled, and made a subtle beckoning gesture.

Jack blinked, and suddenly the ad was back to the original stylized card, clothed and still. He must have imagined it, or suffered spot eye fatigue from staring. 3D pictures existed, and ones with several spot variations, but this was beyond that. Her gaze had met his.

Well, it was simply enough to verify. He refocused, and saw the wasp-waisted figure. Then the nude.

She caught his gaze and mouthed a word: “Come.”

Jack shut his eyes, and the picture reverted again. Was he losing his mind? Jack was twenty, in good health, two years in college with the summer break starting, no specific future yet in mind, and horny as hell. To that extent, normal. But his face was politely described as homely, and he was no athlete, so his romantic life was nil. He was probably letting his rampant hormones affect his vision in a wish-fulfilling manner. No real woman of such splendor would give him a second look, let alone desire him. He was fantasying about a playing card.

Maybe he should just enjoy it. What else offered, after all?

He focused again, and quickly got the nude Queen of Hearts. This time she spread her arms and made an impassioned kissing gesture. “I want you,” she mouthed. And was gone again as he reacted.

“I’m a fool,” he told himself. He dialed the number.

It was of course a mechanized application form, establishing his name, age, health, marital status, availability and so on. He gave the information automatically, curious just what position they were offering. What did a Knave do, aside from being next down in the deck from the Queen? Why couldn’t they simply draw a card that fit the role? And why did they run the ad with such a luscious creature?

This was suspicious. There were a thousand reasons to be wary of such an oblique come-on. Maybe it was a trap, setting him up for identity theft. Good luck on that; he had no bank account to swindle, no identity worth stealing. Still, he should break off the contact, lest they be out for something more devious, like live body parts.

“Your application has been cleared,” the phone voice said. “Your boarding pass is awaiting you at Gate Four. Five-thirty-one flight. Be prompt. Travel light. Your needs will be provided.”

Huh? “But I haven’t even—”

He stopped, because the connection was dead.

He looked at the ad again. The Queen met his gaze and slowly nodded. She expected to see him soon in person.

Maybe it was a trap. But it would have been easier to mug him in an alley. Why go to this much trouble, for so indifferent a prospect? And that Queen of Hearts—he was already smitten with her. Just thinking of her made him stiff. He had to find out, even if it was destined to be a severe disappointment. It wasn’t as if he had anything better to do this summer.

The flight was two hours, and it was first class, with no other passengers in the section. Jack was served a very nice dinner. He had no idea where he was going; somehow the boarding pass hadn’t said. He wanted to ask the stewardess, but she was always busy elsewhere. What would he say, anyway? “Duh—where am I going?” He would surely find out soon.

The plane landed and he disembarked. There was a cabby with a placard bearing Jack’s name. He followed that man to his vehicle. “If you don’t mind my asking, where—”

“Soon,” the man said gruffly. And that was it.

The cab had opaque windows, showing nothing outside. Jack still had no idea where he was or where he was going. As job interviews went, this was mysterious.

When the cab stopped, the cabby opened the door and Jack got out. He was before the deluxe edifice addressing a spacious golf course. “I didn’t come to play golf!” he protested. “I don’t even know how!”

“Just get your ass over to the first hole,” the cabby said. “She’s expecting you.” He got into his car and drove away.

Jack, feeling weirdly out of sorts, skirted the building and found the marked first hole. It was in a pretty glade, a verdant green surrounded by manicured bunkers. A woman stood there expectantly. Her luxuriant hair was black, fastened in place by a small black crown, and her robe was elegantly worked with designs of clubs. Golf clubs.

“Ah, you are the Knave,” she said. “Right on time.”

“Uh, I guess I’m applying for the position, yes,” Jack agreed. “But I don’t know—” He broke off, because suddenly he recognized the woman, in a manner. Except that her hair was not red. “You’re the Queen! Only—”

“The Queen of Clubs,” she said. Now he saw that she held a golf club, and had several golf balls. She was practicing shots.

“But it was the Queen of Hearts I was supposed to—I mean—the ad—”

“All in good time,” she said. “First I must interview you.”

“Uh, yes, of course. But I don’t even know what the job is. They didn’t tell me, just set me up for a journey here. Wherever here is.”

“To be sure,” she agreed, not taking the hint about location. “There are things we need to know about you.”

“I answered all the questions they asked.”

“Some questions can’t be asked directly. Are you ready for the interview?”

“I guess so. But—” He broke off again, for she had just stepped out of her robe. She stood before him naked, a lovely figure of a young but mature woman. He noticed incidentally that her pubic hair was the same shade of black as her head hair, and just as appealing.

“Remove your clothing,” she said.

“But—”

She frowned. “Are you refusing the interview?”

“No! I just—what is this job?”

“You’re shy, aren’t you,” she said as if remarking on the timidity of a child.

“Well, I suppose—”

She put her hands on him and started removing his clothing. He just stood there, letting her do it, not knowing how to protest further.

“You seem reticent.” She set aside his shirt.

“But suppose someone comes?” he blurted as she loosened his belt.

“No one will come.”

“But this is—this is a golf course! There must be other players lining up.”

“You forget I am the Queen. This is my golf course. All golf clubs are mine, and this one is reserved for me alone.”

She meant clubs as in the whole golf courses, not just the sticks to hit balls. She was indeed the Queen of Clubs. “Sorry. I guess I misunderstood.” He let her draw down his pants.

Sure enough, in moments she had him bare, with his penis standing stiffly. She inspected it closely. “This will do,” she decided. “Is it experienced?”

“You mean—sex? With a woman? I never—” He stopped yet again, blushing. What a thing for a young man to admit!

“So you are clean and malleable. That’s good. Sit down; we must talk.”

He was glad to join her sitting on the plush turf. It helped mask his embarrassing condition. “I don’t think I understand,” he said. “The ad said they wanted a Knave.”

“Precisely. Knaves are hard to find and keep, especially for the Queen of Hearts. Very special qualities are required.”

“I’m not qualified for anything!” he said. “I have no training, and I don’t know what any of this is about.”

She leaned forward and kissed him neatly on the mouth. He was half stunned; no woman had ever done that to him before. “Your very naivety is a qualification,” she said. “We prefer to break in our Knaves without an undue burden of prior experience.”

“Break in?” he asked warily.

“Perhaps a demonstration is in order. Observe.” She parted her thighs, showing her open cleft.

Jack almost freaked out. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said, afraid his eyeballs would bulge.

“Why?” She seemed genuinely curious.

“It makes me—makes me want to—” His glance strayed helplessly to his standing member. A driblet of ichor coated its tip.

“Naturally,” she agreed. “And we shall get to that. But first I must clarify the rationale.”

“Rationale?” he asked dumbly. What he craved right now was straight unmitigated sex. To plunge into that beckoning crevice and spurt. If she let him.

“The King does not provide me all the attention I desire. He has too many mistresses. This annoys me. But I am a woman. I am not free to take masters as freely as I would like. So I use the Knave.”

Was she about to clarify the job? “The Knave, he repeated. “Exactly what does he do?”

“His only desire is to get into my pants,” she said. “He is my servant, and must obey me in all things, so he is mine to play with. But the forms must be honored.”

“The forms?”

“I am allowed to masturbate, but not to have sex with men other than the king. So I compromise. I have sex with my balls.”

“Balls?” He remained numb.

“So.” She picked up a golf ball. Its surface was oddly smooth, rather than dimpled in the normal manner, but it looked serviceable.

“A golf ball,” he agreed.

“A sex toy.” She used her fingers to spread her vulva wide and put the ball against it. She turned it slowly around, so that it picked up moisture from her cleft. When it was thoroughly coated and slick, she pushed, and slowly the ball slipped into her open vagina.

Jack stared. He had had no idea she was going to do that, and less idea that such an object would even fit. But the act was excruciatingly sexy. His penis was dripping. “A sex toy,” he agreed. He was almost panting, though he had done no exercise.

She closed her vagina around the ball, making it disappear inside. That turned him on even more. If only he could do that!

She got to her feet, proudly standing. “It is within me, as you can see.”

“Yes,” he breathed, fascinated. The way she held the ball inside suggested that she had good tight closure. How would that feel around his penis?

“I am having sex with my toy.”

“Yes.” Oh to be such a toy!

She put her hand down, tensed her belly, and the ball squeezed out. “Now it is your turn.”

“My turn?” His member was drooling.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

Bemused, mystified, still tautly erect, he obliged.

She stood behind him. She put her hand to her slick cleft, wetting it, then put it to his rectum, wetting it in turn. She poked her finger in, lubricating it inside. He was afraid he was about to jet onto the turf. “Now relax,” she said.

“I can’t relax!” he protested.

“Where it counts.” She pressed the moist ball to his anus.

Oh. He obeyed, unable to deny her. She worked the ball around and in slowly as his sphincter relaxed. In due course the object passed the constriction and slid further in.

“Now close on it,” she said. “As I did.”

He clenched his rectum, feeling the ball slide further in. He had never before experienced such penetration, but it excited him ever further.

“It was in me,” she said. “Now it is in you.”

“In me,” he agreed, awed.

“Stand.”

He got to his feet, standing in more than one sense.

She stepped into him, lifting one leg, guiding his turgid member. “Thrust,” she said. She lifted her face to kiss him.

Nature guided him. He put his arms about her, holding her close, and thrust. He climaxed instantly, explosively. He had never done it with a woman before, but knew that this was a supremely potent effort. He spurted repeatedly, and felt her clenching in her own orgasm, matching him. It pleased him that she was as turned on as he.

Then somehow they were on the turf, embraced. “Well done, Jack,” she said. “You were an agent of my ball. I have not violated the forms, merely found another application for my sex toy.”

“I’m a sex toy,” he gasped. Somehow it made sense: she had put the ball in herself, then in him, and the ball had sought to enter her again, with him carrying it. So she had not committed adultery. Not exactly.

“Now I need to recover my ball,” she said. “Spit it out.”

He tried, but the thing was now in him too deeply. It wouldn’t come. His violent orgasm must have shifted it upstream, as it were. “I can’t.”

“Then I must help. Hands and knees.”

He assumed the position. She stood, pulled the head off one of her clubs, inserted it deeply into her well-lubricated vagina, rotated it, and brought it out dripping. Then she inserted it carefully into his rectum. He feared it would poke him painfully, but it seemed soft, almost flexible. It twisted around, probing deeper.

“There,” she said, as there was a click.

“There?” he asked.

“It found the ball and fastened on it. Now hold steady as I draw it out.”

He remained in place, while she drew on the shaft. He felt the ball moving. It pushed by the prostate, stirring his penis back into erection despite its recent performance. It came up against the sphincter, then squeezed through and out.

There was the ball, hanging from a thick cord. How had that gotten in there?

“Flexible shaft,” the Queen explained. “Firm when I want it, limber when I need it.” She shook it, and it snapped firm, then went limp again.

Well, she was the Queen of Clubs. She could make them do her bidding.

Jack got back to his feet, his erection resurgent. The Queen noticed. “Poor boy! I worked you up again, didn’t I!”

“Yes,” he said, half ashamed.

“Then we had better fix it. I’m no tease. Down again.”

He got back down on hands and knees, and she worked the ball back into his rectum. It remained attached to the cord; he could feel the drag, and saw the club handle behind him. It was a weird sensation.

The Queen slid under him. “Down,” she said, taking hold of his member.

He lowered himself onto her, and she guided his penis inside her. Then he thrust, and thrust again. It took several, but soon enough he ejaculated satisfyingly enough.

“Youth is wonderful,” she murmured, kissing him. “Twice in fifteen minutes.”

“I guess so,” he agreed.

When he ebbed, she rolled him over and off. She pulled on the cord, and drew the ball out again. “But I think that’s enough. We have golf to play, so the King won’t be suspicious.” She smiled, indicating that there was an element of humor there. The King surely knew all about their liaison, and anyway she wasn’t cheating on him, according to her protocol. Just testing a new sex toy.

“To play?” Jack echoed dumbly.

“This is a golf course. We’ll play nine holes.”

“But I never played golf!”

“You will do well enough. We’re not keeping score.”

They played, both naked, teeing off from the correct spot. It took him nine strokes to complete a three stroke hole, but she was patient.

By the time they completed nine holes, he was tired. But horny again. It showed.

“We’ll go clean up,” she said, to his disappointment.

The disappointment did not last long. She put him in a huge tub, and joined him there. She produced another golf ball, this one with a cord of several inches attached, and fitted it into her cleft and vagina. “Now it is in me,” she murmured. Then she removed it and worked it into him. “And in you.” Then they had great sex in the hot water.

She treated him to a banquet for two, and ushered him to her bedroom for the night. There they did the routine again, and he slept. It had been the greatest day of his life.

The last thing he remembered before he drifted off to sleep against her warm breast and hip was her fond conclusion. “I believe you will do, Jack. You are virile and amenable. I regret I can’t keep you for my own.”

He woke in a completely different environment. He was on a golden mat on a mound of coins, naked. As far as he could see there were more coins.

A woman appeared. Another Queen, with a red crown fastening down her riotous red hair, and fancy red royal gown. Her sleeves were embroidered in diamond patterns. “Hello, Knave,” she said, smiling.

He organized his thoughts as quickly as he could. “The Queen of Diamonds.”

“To be sure. I manage the King’s finances. It’s a full time chore, so I have to import entertainment. Clubs reports you are naïve and potent.”

“Uh, I guess so. I was actually looking for the Queen of Hearts. There was an ad.”

“Of course. You handled the first interview well. This is the second.”

Things were starting to fall into place, obscurely. “The Queen of Clubs—she—”

“And so shall I,” she agreed briskly. “Shall we proceed?”

He looked around, daunted. “Here?”

“Naturally.” She shrugged out of her robe. She was every bit as luscious as the other. He especially noticed her perfectly rounded derrière. Not that he was any experienced judge, but it made him eager to get closer to it.

But there was that other aspect. “She—”

“Yes. The same rule applies.” She lifted a smoothly shaped diamond rod with a swollen bulb. “The royal dildo.”

“Uh, yes,” he said dubiously. The thing was considerably larger than a golf ball.

The Queen sat on a large bag of coins, spread her legs, and slid the dildo into her vagina, working it around. He was amazed that she could do it, for the bulb was large, but her hole turned out to be capacious. It expanded slowly around the bulb, absorbing it fraction by fraction, until the whole of the bulb was out of sight. “Now it is in me,” she said. “My sex toy.”

It certainly was. Watching her play with it, imagining how it must be stroking her internally, turned him on almost painfully. It was as though an invisible giant was probing her, distending her anatomy for his brute pleasure. That marvelous bottom of hers was obviously built for action. The juices of her arousal leaked out around the shaft and dripped to the mat. The juices of Jack’s own arousal echoed hers; his penis and scrotum were bathed in slippery flow.

When the dildo was completely slick, she drew it evocatively out, savoring every nuance of its pressure. She positioned Jack and nudged him with the bulb. He knew the routine, and desired the culmination, but had some doubt. “I don’t think it will fit,” he said.

“Nonsense. We shall make it fit,” she said confidently. She increased the pressure, but his sphincter resisted. The thing was simply too big. “I don’t think—” he started to repeat.

She tickled his scrotum. Caught completely by surprise, he laughed. His rectum flung out with the heaving of his stomach, and was half impaled on the bulb. “Excellent,” she said. “Now bear down.”

He bore down on the firmly held target, and slowly his anus yielded until the bulb navigated the tight sphincter. It was like passing a giant turd, in reverse. She slid it on into him until she judged it was deep enough, requiring him to clench on the shaft. He felt full, as if he needed urgently to defecate, but rose to the challenge and closed in it. He could feel the pressure against his prostate, stimulating it to urgency. He was urgently ready.

“Now it is in you,” she said. “My sex toy.”

“I am your sex toy,” he agreed. He was more than happy to go along with the protocol, knowing it was leading to phenomenal sex with a phenomenal woman. The kind who would never look at him in real life, let alone allow him into her.

She laid him on his back on the mat on the bed of coins, and came down on top of him. She guided his member into her orifice and squeezed, as she had around the dildo. “Show me your power,” she murmured, kissing him passionately.

He erupted. This was if anything even more powerful than the first one with the Queen of Clubs. For one thing the bulb was pressing against his prostate, urging it to empty itself completely, and his sphincter was clenching rhythmically against the shaft. He felt as if his semen would jet up ten feet if not confined by her vagina. This was a new kind of sex, and he was discovering he liked it.

She kissed him as he finally relaxed and slid out of her. “Clubs was right. You are potent. It is a pleasure to interview you.”

“Interview? It feels like sex.”

“That is the nature of the interview.”

“But why? Why not just, well, let me have it without the other?” But as he spoke he remembered: she had to avoid cheating on the King, and this was the way to pretend she wasn’t. He questioned it at his own risk of losing what she offered. He couldn’t risk that.

“It is not simply the rationale,” she said seriously as she stroked his buttocks with a delicate yet experienced touch. “It is that the Queen of Hearts is, shall we say, special. We need to be sure you can handle her.”

“She will want to put something in herself, and then in me,” he said. “I think I can handle that, now that I have learned from you and Clubs.”

“Well spoken, Jack! I’m proud of you.” She kissed him again.

He had just climaxed, but her assorted stimulations were already arousing him again. When she put her mouth on his flaccid penis and licked off the remaining ejaculate, it responded, lengthening. When she took it into her mouth and gently sucked, it thickened. Oh, yes, she knew what she was doing.

Soon she had him almost fully turgid again. But that wasn’t the same as being able to get another orgasm. “I’m not sure I—”

“Give yourself more credit, Jack,” she said. “I’m sure you can do it.”

“I’ll—I’ll try,” he said bravely.

She swallowed his member, putting suction all around it, making it swell further. Then, as some faint urgency began to stir within him, she put her hand on the handle of the dildo, which remained fully embedded, and began working it. It pushed and stroked against his prostate, alternately squeezing it and letting it rebound, at least by the feel of it. “You are rising to the occasion,” she murmured around his penis, then sucked harder.

He came. His semen commenced a long slow journey along the channel, pumped by the bulb of the dildo that expertly massaged it. He felt the fluid coursing along inside his member and finally spouting out into her mouth and down her throat. The sensation was less intense than before, but more pervasive. She had forced a different kind of pleasure from him.

“Oh God!” he gasped, collapsing.

She lifted her face from his groin. “Actually God is not into this sort of thing,” she said. “This is pleasure for pleasure’s sake, with no procreation pending.”

“Whatever it is, it’s great!” he said. “Oh, Diamonds, you’re even better than Clubs!”

“Why thank you, Knave,” she said appreciatively. “But I have to say that Hearts is likely to be the best of all, if you can handle her ways.”

“Why shouldn’t I be able to?”

She shook her head. “That is not for me to say. But you do show considerable promise. Maybe you will be the Knave she keeps.”

“I hope so,” he said. He was by now hopelessly smitten with all four of them, though he had as yet encountered only two. If the other two were even more sexy than these…

“We hope so too,” she said. “Now I think you’re done, and we must remove my toy.”

That was a job, but he was learning relaxation, and it slowly slid out like the huge bolus it was.

The rest of the day he helped her count assorted coins, as the King required an exact accounting. Then they had a wonderful banquet and a session in her diamond-studded hot tub. This time she produced a long string of a dozen rounded diamond beads the size of marbles, separated from each other on the cord by about an inch, with a gap of about nine inches in the center. They were all colors of translucent, very pretty and surely worth a king’s ransom. “We’ll share these; I think that counts.”

Jack eyed them dubiously. “I don’t think all those would fit in either one of us.”

“That’s why we’ll share. I’ll show you.”

And she showed him. She fitted half the beads into her own rectum, one at a time, lubricated by soap. Then half into his rectum, similarly. It was a leisurely and pleasant process, partly because he knew it was leading up to another good sexual episode. When the last bead was in the two of them, they were close together, connected by the string between them as they half floated in the bubbling water. It was sexy as hell. It seemed these Queens had a strong anal interest, but he was coming to appreciate and enjoy it.

“Now come into me,” she said.

He was eagerly ready. He aligned his stiff member, cautiously because the pull of the cord prevented him from separating any distance from her, and slid inside her. And was surprised. “I feel the beads!”

“Yes, that’s part of it, for both of us. The colon is adjacent to the vagina, and to the urethra, and they can interact. The beads stroke your member, and they stroke me when you move them. It adds to the effect.”

It certainly did. He exploded, jettisoning into her, surely knocking beads violently about. He was afraid it might hurt her, but she thrust against him joyfully, clenching in time to his spurts, milking him of everything he had to offer. What an experience!

“Oh, that was spectacular,” she breathed. “You are becoming quite a lover, Jack.”

“Thanks to you,” he said gallantly. But it was true: these women were guiding him, giving him an education he know he could not have obtained elsewhere.

Then it was time to remove the beads. They took turns. First she raised her bottom and he pulled them out one by one, watching her anus iris open to emit one, and close after it, leaving just the string. When it came to the last one, he put the prior one in his mouth and pulled on the string with his teeth, kissing her rectum as the bead emerged, then running his tongue into it. He just loved her magnificent ass.

“Ah, you are learning,” she said.

Then he raised his rear, and she did the same with him. He felt each bead as it pulled out, and felt her lips on his sphincter, her tongue exploring. He had never dreamed of sex like this, yet it seemed completely natural.

“I believe you will do,” she said. “You seem to have a natural affinity for the necessary.”

“But I still may have trouble with the Queen of Hearts?”

“You still may. It depends how tolerant you are.”

“I can’t imagine anything farther out or more enjoyable than what we have been doing.”

She kissed him on the mouth. “You’re so sweet. But I can’t keep you. I have a Knave of my own, not to mention the King.”

He joined her in her huge bed. But he couldn’t find a pillow. “It’s not that I’m a fussy man,” he said. “But I can’t sleep without a pillow.”

“Oh, I forgot! We have no pillows. We don’t need them.”

“But—”

“I’ll show you.” She turned around and put her legs up by the head of the bed. “Here are your pillows.” She patted her buttocks.

Oh. “If you don’t mind…”

“Mind? This is the way the King always sleeps. He says I’m better than any dead cushion. Try it.”

Somewhat dubiously he laid his head on her plush rear. It was indeed a marvelous pillow. But her cleft was right there by his nose. “What if I—stray, in the night?” he asked.

She laughed. “You can kiss my ass. I love it. Go ahead, put your face in there. Lick it, if you are inclined.”

He was inclined. He had been admiring that butt all day. He nudged his face between her buttocks until his mouth found her cleft. It felt great. He licked it. “I could do this all night,” he said, half embarrassed.

“Welcome.” She slid her head down beside his groin, and licked his penis. “So could I.”

So they settled down, with his cheek against her buttock, his mouth against her cleft. His penis was comfortable in her slowly sucking mouth. Neither of them were ready for another orgasm; it was merely a mildly pleasurable aftermath on the way to sleep. This was another completely new and exhilarating experience. The last thing he remembered was kissing the warm wetness of her ass.

He woke in a riot of flowers as dawn was breaking. He was naked but not cold; he seemed to be in a warm greenhouse.

His bladder was full. He got to his feet and looked for a bathroom, but there were only plants: potted, shelved, grounded, climbing trellises, flourishing everywhere.

“Hello, Knave,” a dulcet voice said behind him.

Jack turned to see the Queen of Spades, in a black robe with a black crown binding her black hair. She was regal and beautiful, of course.

He bowed his head, belatedly trying to remember his manners with royalty. “Hello, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, don’t bother with that,” she said, slipping off her robe to be splendidly naked. She had the best breasts he had seen so far, full and erect and perfectly shaped. “We have other business.”

He tore his eyes from her chest. “Uh, yes, I guess. But I need to—” He didn’t know how to express it in this company.

“To pee,” she said helpfully.

“Yes. Is there a bathroom?”

“Don’t bother with that either. This is my garden; my plants all love nitrogen fertilizer. Here, honor my royal poinciana.” She indicated a lovely small flowering tree.

With her watching? “But—”

“Here.” She took him firmly by the penis and drew him toward the tree. “On the ground beside, not on the foliage.”

Of course the touch and her nudity instantly stiffened his member. “I can’t.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Did I complicate things? How thoughtless of me.” She squeezed his penis, which she still held. Thoughtless? She had done it on purpose, the conniving wench.

“Maybe if I could have some time alone,” he suggested.

“No need. It just needs softening.” She angled her head, glancing obliquely at him. “You do comprehend the protocol?”

“I’d really rather just—urinate—first.”

She went to a vegetable plot and pulled up a small turnip. “This should do.” She rinsed it off under a tap that projected from a rising pipe.

“But my bladder is sort of full,” Jack protested. “I don’t think--”

She sat on a park bench, leaned back, spread her legs, and applied the turnip to her opening cleft. “So is mine. We’ll both relieve ourselves soon.” She pressed on the turnip, but it balked, being too big and dry. “Help me, Jack; I need to get it in.”

He realized that further protest was useless. She had her agenda, and his best course was to facilitate it so as to hasten the moment when he could finally pee. He knelt down before her, his face close to her belly and divine breasts, and put his hands to the vegetable. It was hanging up on the lips of her vagina, trying to pull them in with it. It needed lubrication.

She had put him in this position for a reason. He got on with it. He withdrew the turnip, put his face to her cleft, and licked it, spreading saliva copiously. Her own juices flowed now, responding to the stimulation. Then he licked the turnip, and brought it back to the hole. “Hold it open, please,” he said.

She put her hands down on either side and drew the labia wide apart. He applied the turnip, pressing it firmly in. Slowly it entered, wedging the hole wide, until finally it was inside except for the stem and leaves. “Now close,” he said.

She released the labia and squeezed her vagina tight around the stem. “That does it,” she said. “Now it is in me. Thank you, Jack.” She leaned down forward, those breasts dangling evocatively, and kissed him.

“You’re welcome,” he said. Of course his penis was almost painfully turgid. He had never had such contact with female genitalia prior to his encounters with the Queens, and the novelty still seriously excited him. As well she knew.

She took hold of the stem and gently worked the turnip out. It was now slickly lubricated with her fluid. “Your turn.”

What could he do? He got down on hands and knees and let her lubricate his anus with more of her juice and press in the turnip. It was too tight to fit. Then she leaned over him, her breasts touching his back tantalizingly, held a herb before his nose, and its acrid odor put him into a paroxysm of coughing. By the time he finished, his eyes were watering, and the turnip was lodged well within his colon, only the foliage projecting behind like a tail. She had known what she was doing, again. But the pressure of the vegetable intensified the imperative of his bladder. There was too much in him. “Now it is in you.”

It certainly was. No further words were necessary. She took his place on the turf, on hands and knees, then lowered her shoulders so that only her bottom was projecting up. He dropped to his knees behind her and jammed his swollen member in, jetting before he even achieved full depth. He continued thrusting, pumping madly, feeling the passage of the discharge as it surged past the pressure of the turnip. It was uncomfortable, in respects, but also wildly satisfying.

Then he was spent, and withdraw, again aware of his bladder. He lurched to the poinciana tree and aimed his detumescent member at the ground. Nothing happened.

“Relax,” the Queen said. She put her hand on the stem of the turnip that dangled between his legs and pulled.

Oh. He relaxed his sphincter, and slowly the vegetable emerged. It had filled his colon so thoroughly that it prevented the urine from flowing.

He let go, but it took a moment for the flow to start; he still hadn’t shrunk enough.

“Like this,” the Queen said with a naughty smile. She squatted beside him and jetted copiously into the ground. She was right: she had had as full a bladder as he. She must have liked having sex that way, maybe for the novelty.

Finally he got it started, and peed. It was an enormous relief.

“You are an excellent sport,” she said as he finished.

“I must be,” he agreed, bemused. She had put him through the wringer, in her fashion, forcing him into actions he would never normally have done. Jamming a turnip in his ass? Peeing before a Queen?

She stepped into him close, pressing her fine breasts against him, and kissed him. “There is a reason,” she murmured. “One day you will understand.”

“So you’re not just strangely turned on by sex toys?” For of course the turnip was such a toy.

She laughed. “That, too.”

“You know, all I did was answer an ad. I thought it was a job.”

“It is a role. If you care to fill it, it will be quite rewarding.”

“To have sex with the lovely Queen of Hearts? Why wouldn’t I care to do that?”

“She has her little ways.”

“As Clubs, Diamonds, and you do? Things in you, then in me? It’s weird, but I guess I can handle it. The sex is great.”

“Thank you. Now let’s do some gardening.”

They gardened. There were myriad plants to water and fertilize, and a number to transplant. She was expert with a spade, by no coincidence. Each plant had its name and nature, and the Queen was happy to describe them all. Jack would have lost interest, being no gardener, were it not for the way her full breasts moved as she talked. He wished he could stroke and kiss them.

“You’re looking,” she said.

He blushed furiously. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I love having you fascinated by my assets. It is time for another round.”

“But I don’t think I can—get stiff yet,” he said. He had had a lot of sex in the past two days, and his body was getting slower to respond.

“No problem. Taste this.” She proffered a leaf.

He put it in his mouth and chewed on it. Suddenly blood surged to his penis, lifting it high. Oh—it was a herbal stimulant.

She squatted by the garden and pulled up a sizable carrot. She washed it off, then fitted it into her vagina, which remained slick from their prior effort. He was surprised that she was able to get the whole of it in. Then she inserted it into his anus while he stood facing her. When he clenched involuntarily, barring the way, she gently bit his penis. The sheer surprise caused him to relax, and she slid the carrot in past the resistance. It was not as big across as the turnip, but was longer, and he felt its rigidity deep within him. But at last he was able to close his sphincter around its stem.

She lay on the turf, spread her legs, and drew him down to her. His turgid member spewed desperately into her.

“Very good,” she murmured.

Then he realized that she had not climaxed herself, either time. “You—you aren’t with me,” he said.

“Patience, Knave. I will get there in my own time and fashion.”

Mystified, he let it be. He would surely find out soon enough. He got up and worked out the carrot.

“What, no questions?” she asked.

He set the spent carrot aside. “I figure you’ll explain when you are ready to.”

She considered. “I like you, Jack. So let’s do it now.”

“You can’t mean sex. I couldn’t possibly—”

She held a flower to his face. “Smell this.”

He sniffed. The fumes instantly intoxicated him, transported him, empowered him, and in moments he found himself addressing her as she bent forward over a bench, only this time it was not her vagina into which he thrust. She had directed him to the other aperture and taken him eagerly in. And as he pumped, he felt her throbbing with her own orgasm, longer and stronger than his. It was like plunging into a waterfall, the surrounding turbulence swirling him into further effort.

They wound up on the turf, she prone, he lying on top of her, still embedded. “Oh, that was marvelous,” she gasped.

So that was her secret. She liked to climax anally. Well, he could hardly argue with that, considering how she had obliged him either way. He had discovered that both apertures had their sexual uses, along with the mouth.

They disengaged, got up, and showered together under an outdoor spray. Then he remembered what he had overlooked in the throes of his flower-stimulated passion. “The—in you, in me—we didn’t do it!”

“Are you sure?” she inquired, glancing at his groin.

Then he became aware of his tail. He reached down, grasped it, and slowly pulled out a fine black radish. He had been more zonked out that he had realized at the time.

As they resumed gardening, he inquired cautiously. “You—you don’t get your orgasm from normal sex?”

“Any mutually satisfying penetration is normal sex,” she said.

Oh. “Of course,” he agreed quickly.

“But it is true. I have nerves in my ass I lack in my cunt. The King understands. So does my Knave.”

“And so do I, now,” he agreed, taken aback by her particular words. He had somehow supposed that a Queen would not even know such terms. “I was just curious.”

“And you deserve honest answers,” she agreed. “It is all part of the process.”

The process of preparing him for the Queen of Hearts? “She—she likes it that way?”

“Not exactly.” And that was all she would say, to his dismay. What was there about the Queen of Hearts?

As the day declined, they cleaned up, dressed, and had a nice buffet dinner on a corner patio. This garden greenhouse seemed to be most of her world, and she was quite satisfied in it. “The only thing I really miss is the sex,” she confessed. “When the King is away on business. This time he took the Knave with him. After a while a diet of vegetables gets dull.” She glanced down at her crotch, so that he knew she meant sex and not food.

As night came, they settled down together on a bed of pungent moss. “Are you ready?” she inquired.

He remained depleted from the savage double session of the afternoon. “I’m not sure.”

“I proffer a trade: do me my way, and you can have all of these you want.” She stroked her own breasts.

He was tempted. So far he had had a lot of sex, but mostly of the genital variety. She had really nice breasts and he wanted to get closer to them, for a change of pace. Still, he was cautious. “I’d like to—to have them longer than the few minutes it takes me to climax.”

“No problem. Drink this.” She handed him a thimble sized cup of elixir, surely another aphrodisiac.

He shrugged and drank it. His penis stiffened, but did not seem ready to ejaculate. Maybe that aspect took longer.

The Queen produced a twisted vegetable and ran it into her vagina, then into his colon. It heated his gut pleasantly. “What is this?”

“Black-hot pepper,” she replied. “It will give you mild pleasure as long as you keep it in, to match the endurance the elixir provides. Now get in me, and reach around for my breasts.” She turned her back to him.

He did so, and discovered that while his member was metal-hard, stimulation was only mild. When he thrust, slowly, there was a surge of pleasure, but again mild. He could do this for a long time before reaching orgasm.

He held her breasts, squeezing them, running his fingers over the nipples, while his hard member massaged her colon. It was very nice. Soon he started kissing the back of her neck.

“Oh, that’s sweet,” she breathed, her breasts filling his hands pleasantly as she did so. Thus encouraged, he continued.

Her body reacted. Her sphincter squeezed on him, relaxed, and squeezed again, while her breathing quickened. Her bottom started pushing against his groin. She was working into her orgasm. This was interesting, now that he was clear-headed and aware of the details.

He thrust harder, liking the way it made her respond. She drew a little away from him, then pushed back firmly, so that his penis emerged part way then plunged deeper. His own pleasure increased.

Then her climax came. She gasped as her anus clenched powerfully on him when it pushed to the limit, taking him in as deeply as possible. This triggered his own orgasm, and he thrust as hard as he could, feeling the fluid surging through, the spurting like a geyser into a sealed cave, distending it. He knew his ejaculate amounted to only about a teaspoonful, but it felt like gallons.

“Beautiful!” she breathed.

“But now it’s over,” he said with regret.

“No it isn’t. Stay put.”

He discovered it was true. He had climaxed with her, but his member remained ramrod stiff and his colon still experienced warm radiation. Endurance and pleasure: the herbs had not finished.

He remained in her, resuming gentle thrusting. She moaned with continuing joy. They were starting over. He stroked and squeezed her breasts, delighting in their firm softness.

In time they worked up to a second mutual climax. “Oh, you are sheer delight!” she exclaimed, this time managing multiple orgasms as she braced against his continuing hardness.

That made him proud, though he knew it was really the herbs rather than any genuine prowess on his part.

“No it’s not,” she said, answering his thought. “The herbs do provide the means, but they have to have a willing partner. Not every man will allow a hot pepper up his ass, or stay lodged in a woman for hours. You are a dream come true. I envy Hearts.”

“Thanks,” he said, flattered. But he was tired and sleepy, and before the third climax he drifted off.

He woke at one point to discover himself still deep in her, still clasping her breasts. She was having another series of orgasms, evidently thrilled with the opportunity, but he fell back to sleep before he could join her. His member was on auto-pilot, and functioned with or without him. Or maybe it was having normal nocturnal erections, and these were setting her off. Regardless, he was glad to be of service, pun intended.

But in the morning he was alone in a bed in a room by himself. His penis was soft, and the pepper was gone from his colon. Spades might have loved his long caress, but she had not forgotten to pass him along to the next on schedule. He was almost disappointed.

He realized belatedly that the room was heart-shaped. That figured.

He got up and found the bathroom, determined not to get caught full again. He relieved himself, washed up, then searched for clothing, but there was none. That was of course no accident. He returned to the bedroom.

A nude red haired woman was on the bed, ravishingly lovely. That face, those breasts, those buttocks—she was the fairest of the fair. He recognized her. The Queen of Hearts.

“Join me, Jack,” she said. “We must talk.”

“Yes,” he agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed. The three other Queens had been outstandingly aesthetic, but Hearts put them all to shame. “I answered an ad.”

“You did indeed. You are by far the most promising of the candidates, if you care to qualify. The other Queens speak very well of you.”

“That’s nice. But they said that for some reason I might not want to be with you. I don’t understand that. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and a Queen, while I’m just a homely nothing.”

She did not argue. “This is what we must discuss. Your face and rank do not matter. Your tolerance does. First I must tell you that I love the King, and want desperately to please him. But there is a problem.”

“A problem,” he agreed. Was she about to clarify the mystery of his summoning? If she loved the King, why would she mess with a Knave?

“I love sex, and crave a lot of it, but only with him,” she continued. “But he is largely impotent.”

She had a problem, all right. “I can’t help you there.”

“Ah, but you can, Jack. The King can be potent only in a very special situation. He needs to be with a man.”

“He’s gay!” Jack exclaimed.

“By no means,” she said severely. “We do not speak that word here.”

He had somehow blundered. “I apologize. I misunderstood.”

“Not entirely. You referred to men having sex with each other. Men who prefer to love men. That is not the case here. The King loves no man. He loves me. He merely is unable to be potent with me alone.”

Now he really did not understand. “He needs—a man to watch him?” He was sure that wasn’t it.

“He needs a sex toy to facilitate sex with me.”

Oh. “Then why not just use it? The other Queens use sex toys freely. In fact they even sometimes refer to me as a sex toy.”

“Exactly. A heterosexual toy. That’s the only kind that will do.”

“You need to put something in you, then in me? I can do that.”

“That is precisely what I need. I am glad you understand.”

“Okay,” he said uncertainly. “But I don’t quite see how this relates to the ad for a Knave.”

“It’s a special ad, crafted to appeal to a certain type of man. The ideal Knave.”

“A Knave,” he repeated. “But I still don’t see—”

“The proper Knave knows his place.”

“Uh, not to presume? Not to talk about things?”

“That too,” she agreed. “But there is a more literal place.”

He was thoroughly baffled. “A physical place? Where?”

“Come to me,” she said.

He got on the bed beside her. His member was rampant, but that no longer embarrassed him, after his experience with the other Queens.

“Mount me.” She lay on her back, legs parted.

Could it really be that simple? He straddled her, his penis stiff against her belly.

“Kiss me.”

He was glad to. He kissed her marvelous lips, and she kissed him back exactly as if she meant it. Her hands felt for his member, and placed it at her divine juncture, not yet entering. She brushed her fingers through her cleft, wetting them, and rubbed the moisture on his penis and on beyond it, smearing his rectum.

Then he remembered. “But you haven’t put something in you, then in me.”

“Then King’s royal member has been in me, though limp. It needs the sex toy to be firm.”

“Uh, yes, I guess,” he agreed.

“Now it begins,” she said. She wrapped her arms and legs about him, clasping him close, kissing him avidly. He couldn’t move, but didn’t want to. What a phenomenal creature!

Then he became aware of something behind him. It felt like a large man. He knew immediately that it was the King, who had caught them at it. He struggled to get up, but she held him with a vice-like strength, still kissing him. He couldn’t get away.

The King’s huge penis probed his rectum, knowing exactly where to go. He was trying to enter! Jack struggled again, but that only made his anus flex a little, facilitating the King’s urgency. That member felt the exact same size as Diamond’s diamond dildo. As Spade’s tumescent turnip.

Suddenly he caught on completely. The Queens had been measuring him for this! He was truly the sex toy!

The Queen still held him tightly in place. He was their dildo, entering and being entered. The King’s insistent member navigated his slippery rectum, forced wide his sphincter, and rammed victoriously on into his colon. The shove caused Jack’s stiff penis to plunge into the Queen’s vagina. He was having sex with her while the King was having sex with him.

Then they were in the full throes of it. The King’s member jammed against Jack’s prostate, causing it to respond by pumping out semen. Jack thrust hard into the Queen, echoing the King’s thrust into him. He felt the King’s jet of semen as his own pulsed into the Queen. It was as if the King were doing it to the Queen, only with something between. The live sex toy.

Now the Queen climaxed too. Her vagina squeezed his penis with the rhythm of her orgasm. Her lips parted and her tongue darted into his mouth to meet his own tongue. She moaned ecstatically, writhing so that her breasts stroked his chest.

They finished together, all three of them gasping. The Queen relaxed, letting her arms and legs fall back to the bed. Jack half collapsed on her, still much aware of her breasts beneath him. The King drew out his long, bulbous member, and suddenly he was gone. Jack had never even seen him.

He rolled off the Queen, his softening penis falling out. He lay beside her. “May I?” he asked, looking at her breasts and bottom. For they still appealed strongly to him. He had not thought of himself as a parts man, but he had never seen breasts or buttocks like these. He wanted something to remember this encounter by. Something to distract him from awareness of what had just happened to him.

“Welcome,” she said. She took hold of his head and brought it to her bosom, directing a nipple to his mouth. He sucked on it, delighted, as his hands took firm hold of her butt and his fingers slid into her hot cleft.

“Now you know,” she murmured.

“I do,” he agreed around her nipple.

“You are perfect, Jack. Will you stay?”

He was the Knave, a sex toy to enable the King to have sex with the Queen in his own special fashion. By penetrating a heterosexual man, so there could be no misunderstanding about homosexuality. No foolishness about same-sex love. That was their compromise.

“Where will I sleep?” he asked. It was a more relevant question than perhaps she realized.

“Here with me, in my bed, of course. Now that you have been blooded. In my embrace, if you wish. I’d like that. You may have anything you want of me, except—”

“Except sex,” he finished.

“Only with the King. In a manner. Penal penetration alone is reserved for his participation.”

“I can do this?” he asked, kissing her nipple.

“Yes.”

“Or this?” He kissed her mouth.

“Yes.”

“This?” He slid down to put his face at her cleft, tonguing her clitoris.

“Yes.”

“This?” He slid a slick finger into her anus.

“Yes. I like it all, and will do it to you too. I will be your object. Your sex toy. But I can’t climax without the King. I can’t derive passion, though I will fake it for you if you wish. You understand.”

He did, now. It seemed like a good deal. Obviously he would live like royalty, as the Royal Knave. With almost free access to the most desirable woman he could imagine. That would be sheer heaven.

Except for the King. That penetration—

Then he realized something that astonished him. He had liked it when the other Queens did it with their toys. The toys had enhanced his performance. And he liked it when the King had done the same. Like the Queen of Spades, Jack had nerves there. He might not care to admit it, any more than the King admitted to any gay desire, but it was something he would like to do again. To have his prostate massaged and bathed by hot juice while he jetted into the Queen. There was nothing else like that.

The other prospective Knaves evidently had reacted with aversion or horror to the denouement and quickly departed. That was why the position was open. Why the other Queens had been so circumspect about that particular detail, while carefully preparing him for it. But he didn’t have to go. This could be a very nice situation for the right man. He was that man.

The Queen fathomed his decision as he made it. “Oh, Jack!” she cried, gladly kissing him.

Yes, a very nice situation.

Note: In my www.HiPiers.com Web Site I maintain on ongoing survey of electronic publishers and related services, for the benefit of aspiring writers who are looking for markets. I run anonymous feedback on the publishers, because some do go wrong, but will retaliate against any writer who tells. I was blacklisted for six years when I protested getting cheated by a traditional publisher in 1969, so I know about retaliation. The cheating publisher was praised by the media while the wronged writer was condemned. There is no guarantee of justice in this business. Now I have an ornery attitude and the will to help others who get caught in a similar situation. So there can be fireworks on occasion, but publishers have learned that I now have the means to fight back, and I do. One of the publishers I had contact with was Cobblestone, when I had a negative report, but it turned out that the complaint was about their strict editing, which I concluded was good editing, and that it was a good publisher. They asked me for a provocative story, and I wrote “Knave,” which they published in 2008. Sales have been small but steady. So that’s how this particular story came about.

Caution: this is a quartet of little stories centered on a thirteen-year-old girl who does a controversial thing.

10. Juliet Quartet

Juliet

It was a bad day. At lunch in the school cafeteria a damned juvenile boy had “accidentally” spilled milk down her front. Not a lot; just enough to soak her bra. He and his idiotic friends thought it was hilarious, claiming it might make her “boobies” grow, but she was hardly amused. She retreated hastily to the girl’s room and rinsed the bra out, but it remained too wet to wear, so she wadded it up in a damp ball and stuffed it in her plastic lunch bag. She managed to make it through the afternoon classes bra-less. Fortunately (?) she was as yet not well endowed, so did not attract attention.

Her friends said, giggling, that it meant the boy liked her. He just couldn’t say it openly without getting razzed, so he touched her in another way. Well, she didn’t like him. Not after that. Anyway, her folks were hopelessly twentieth century, and refused to let her date yet. She was just an ordinary girl, nothing special, not great athletically, indifferent as a student, and certainly no beauty. So there wouldn’t have been much prospect for dating even if she could.

Naturally she wished she could somehow amount to something. To accomplish some great deed, become famous, or at least recognized. But she was realistic enough to know a foolish dream when she saw it. She was doomed to nonentity.

Now she saw a group of boys by the bus stop, and that one was among them, so she just knew that they knew. She didn’t take the bus, as she lived close enough to walk, but her route went right by the stop. They would tease her unmercifully. She’d be lucky if they didn’t “accidentally” rip her shirt open to prove it. Neither parents nor teachers had any notion what real life was like in or around school. Not only would she be further humiliated, she’d get the blame for making a spectacle of herself. That was always the way it was.

So she detoured quickly, before they spied her. She made a right angle turn, going north. This would take her well out of her way, but would spare her the cruel gantlet of the boys and their juvenile humor. There was another through street two blocks up that would take her safely toward her house. She would be late, but her folks weren’t home at this hour, so wouldn’t notice.

She made the turn and approached a larger intersection. And heard a crash. She looked up just in time to see the delivery van turn over. It landed on its side with a second crash and slid to a halt. Meanwhile the car that had hit the van skewed to the side, paused, spun its wheels, and squealed away: a hit and run driver. The jerk had probably run the light and caught the van broadside. She wasn’t in a position to see its license tag; it was just a nondescript white car.

She ran up to the van. She was the first person on the scene. This was exciting!

Then she saw the man.

He was evidently the van’s driver, and he had somehow been pinned half under it. He lay on his back, his arms spread out to the sides, facing up. He was conscious, because he was moaning.

She dropped to her knees beside him, letting her purse, lunch bag, and homework book fall beside her. Then she saw the blood leaking out beside his body. She stiffened with horror. He was badly injured.

“How can I help?” she asked him, unable to think of anything more sensible.

“My legs!” he gasped. “God, they hurt! Make the pain stop!”

And how could she do that? She obviously lacked the strength to lift the van off him, and even if she could, it wouldn’t make him stop hurting.

She did remember one thing. She fished her cell phone out of her purse and dialed 911. “Bad accident! Man injured! Send help immediately!” She gave the intersection. “Can you hurry? He’s in awful pain. What can I do?”

“Comfort him,” the voice said. At least that was as much as she was able to assimilate at the moment.

She had no idea how to do that. But she knew it would take at least a little time for help to come, and the man was in pain now. How could she help him in the interim? She couldn’t stand to see him suffer.

His head rolled back and forth and his eyes were scarily wide. Then his wild gaze caught hers in a desperate glancing contact. “Please!” he begged.

She had to do something! But what? What could she possibly say to comfort him? How could she make his pain go away?

Comfort. Could she somehow comfort him the way her mother sometimes did when she was hurting? Not with words so much as with a hug. But she couldn’t hug him; it was physically impossible, there on the pavement. Apart from the dirt and blood. Was there anything else?

She acted before she knew it. She picked up his near hand and brought it to her slight bosom, hugging it to her. This was of course absolute foolishness, but what else could she do? “Help is coming,” she told him reassuringly.

His eyes abruptly focused on hers, and she felt his arm relax. It was working! She was hugging his arm, and it actually seemed to be helping him.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You’re an angel of mercy.” His breathing became less labored. Could that really be all he needed?

But then his eyes closed. She realized that he was relaxing too much. In fact he was probably going into shock. She knew about that from her health class. It was when there was not enough blood left, and the body shut down and died. Maybe like freezing to death. She couldn’t let him relax too far, lest he sink into oblivion. She had to keep him alert, at least for the few minutes until help arrived.

Maybe it wasn’t comfort he needed so much as distraction. To keep him conscious, alert, but not thinking of his legs. He was a man, and they had certain interests, as the attitude of the boys indicated.

She turned his hand around, then untucked her blouse from her waistband. She threaded his hand inside and set his palm against her small bare right breast. Would it be enough?

His eyes popped open again. He knew what he was touching.

“Don’t tell,” she pleaded.

“Never!” he agreed, with a fleeting smile. His fingers squeezed gently. He was definitely awake and distracted. “I’m feeling no pain.”

Someone came. She looked up, and was horrified. It was her church pastor! He recognized her. He saw where the man’s hand was. Now she was in awful trouble.

“He’s hurting,” she said lamely.

“It is not for us to question the manner God works His will,” the pastor murmured.

Did that mean it was all right, or at least that he wasn’t condemning her completely?

“You deserve credit for helping this man survive,” the pastor said.

“No! My folks would never understand!”

“You prefer anonymity,” he said, unsurprised.

She nodded, ashamed.

There was the sound of an approaching siren. The ambulance was finally coming. In fact there were several cars. The police were here also.

“I will handle this,” the pastor said. “Whom may I say comforted this man?”

He was giving her a chance to be truly anonymous! She gazed wildly around. She saw the cover of her school book: Romeo and Juliet. It was the Shakespeare play the class was reading, that promised to be really dull homework. “Juliet.”

The pastor intercepted the newcomers, speaking quietly to them. They saw his collar and knew he was legitimate. Actually, probably all the city personnel knew him, because of his calling.

The injured man’s hand was still inside her shirt, still grasping her breast, but the medics seemed not to notice. The pastor must have warned them. “Can’t help him until we get that vehicle off him,” one said grimly. “Can’t medicate him until we know the complications.”

“Lift the van off,” the pastor said. “Quickly, while he is feeling no pain.” He certainly knew the score.

There was another vehicle there. In moments the van was heaved up and off. The victim’s crushed legs lay exposed in their pool of blood. She averted her gaze, wincing. The medics got rapidly to work. They were used to this sort of thing.

“Now we can stabilize him,” one said. He brought a kind of cup and put it over the man’s face.

The hand relaxed, letting go of her breast. She pulled away, hastily tucking in her shirt. Then she got up, picked up her things, and walked away.

“But she’s a witness!” someone protested.

“I am the witness,” the pastor said. “Let her go.”

They let her go, heeding the man of the cloth. He had really helped her.

The accident made the news, but only in a minor way. Similar accidents happened all the time. No one seemed to think anything of it. Her folks never mentioned it.

That Sunday she was at church as usual, forcing herself to go. It was routine. That was the way she wanted it.

But then came the sermon. “This week I witnessed a miracle,” the pastor said. He described the accident, and how the victim’s injuries were life-threatening. Was he going to mention her after all? She was frozen with apprehension. “Had he not been saved from shock, he would surely have died before the medics could stabilize him.” He paused. “But God sent an angel to minister unto him, for his destined time was not yet. She took his hand and comforted him, lending him her compassionate spirit, sustaining him, preserving his life. He survives today in the hospital, in coma, but stable. When he wakes he will know he owes his life to that angel.” The pastor paused, and she held her breath. “And the name of the angel was Juliet.”

She let out her breath with a faint wheeze of relief, but her folks did not notice. No one noticed. There was a murmur of appreciation, for the accident had been in this neighborhood and many parishioners knew of it. It was a great sermon. But no one thought anyone here was involved. She was home free.

Back in her room she resumed her homework, reading the ancient play. There would be a test. She discovered she liked Juliet. Juliet was a figure of romance and tragedy, the kind of role it would be fun to play on stage if not in life, if only she could be an actress. Of course she lacked dramatic ability too.

But mainly Juliet was an ordinary girl her own age who achieved greatness because she dared to love. A perfect role model for another ordinary girl.

Secret

She answered the door. It was Saturday, so she was home. “Pastor!” she exclaimed, surprised. He did make house calls, but seldom by surprise.

“May I talk to you and your parents?” he asked. “Something has come up.”

“Sure.” She turned her head. “Mom! Dad! The pastor’s here.”

In moments the four of them were seated in the living room. “I dislike bothering you,” the pastor said. “Something has occurred, something private but important. I believe your daughter may be able to help. May I borrow her for two hours?”

Her mother and father exchanged a glance. This was unusual, but they trusted the pastor. He was a thoroughly honorable man who had done much good in the community in quiet ways. He would surely clarify his purpose when that was appropriate.

Soon she was in the pastor’s car. “I need Juliet,” he said. “You are of course free to decline.”

“The van driver!” she exclaimed, belatedly making the connection.

“He has remained in a coma for more than a week now. The doctor has impressed on me the need to bring him out of it, as he needs to give consent for what may be risky surgery on his legs.”

“Doesn’t he have parents?”

“He is nineteen, legally adult, and his family lives in a distant city. He is a student at a local university. He took the delivery job to support himself, as they are not wealthy. He is covered by insurance, and there may in due course be a settlement from the driver who hit him.”

“They found the ba—bad boy!” she exclaimed, gratified.

The pastor smiled, appreciating her stifling of the bad word. “They did. He was plainly at fault. But that will take months to clarify, while the crisis is now. Do you understand the nature of a coma?”

“He’s out cold?” she asked, aware that it couldn’t be that simple.

“It’s a state of partial consciousness. It is almost as if he doesn’t want to come out of it. He faces the possible loss of his legs, and even if they are saved, he will never participate in track meets again.”

“Track?”

“He was a competitive runner, on the university team. Not a winner, but with fair prospects for improvement.”

“And now he can’t.”

“And now he can’t,” the pastor agreed. “This surely makes for a serious depression.”

“Can’t blame him,” she agreed. “But I’m no doctor, or even a nurse. What can I do?”

“You can perhaps bring him out of the coma so his physical recovery can proceed.”

“Me? If the doctors can’t do it, how the he—heaven can I do anything? They won’t even let me in. I’m not his family.”

“They will make an exception.”

“Why?”

“All he says is ‘Juliet! Juliet!’”

She felt a warm thrill. “Oh my go—gosh!” The man must have heard her say the name, before they put him out. Before he went into the coma.

“I repeat: you are free to decline.”

But she couldn’t decline. “Okay,” she whispered. The implication was stunning. No wonder the pastor had said nothing about it to her folks.

Then they were in the hospital, approaching a check-in station. “This is Juliet,” the pastor said.

It was the magic word. This intensive care unit was restricted; only family and clergy were allowed to visit. But the hospital folk also trusted the pastor, and by extension, her.

“This way,” the supervising nurse said. “We call him Romeo.”

Because of what he said. But it really wasn’t funny.

They stood beside the bed. The man lay quietly, his lower portion encased in some sort of massive cast. He seemed halfway conscious, but unaware of them.

“I will be in the hall with the nurses,” the pastor said. “No one will interrupt you.”

She nodded, and he departed. She was left alone with the patient.

“Romeo,” she said tentatively.

There was no response.

“I’m—I’m Juliet.”

“Juliet! Juliet!” he said. Then he lapsed back into passivity.

So it would take more than words to bring him out of it. She had somehow known it would.

She untucked her blouse, reached inside, and unfastened her bra. Then she took Romeo’s hand and lifted it to her bared breast, setting the palm firmly against her modest flesh.

“Juliet!” he cried, his eyes focusing on her.

“Yes.” He was definitely awake.

“Juliet! I love you!”

Oops. “I—I—” What could she say?

“Kiss me, beloved.”

What could she do? She leaned carefully forward, keeping his hand in place, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Please.”

Oh. She kissed him again, this time directly on the mouth. The touch was electric, sending another thrill through her. This was Romance!

She finished and stood up straight again, his hand unchanged.

“Oh, Juliet! Marry me!”

“Romeo, I can’t! I’m—not ready.”

“I’ll wait.”

“But—” She was unable even to formulate a coherent protest. This was overwhelming.

“Please,” he begged. “It was only the love of you, Juliet, that kept me alive. Everything else is gone. Without you I’ll die.”

He wasn’t fooling. He could sink back into the coma, and on into death. What did he have to live for, except his dream love? How could she kill him by taking that away?

“Yes,” she whispered, shivering.

“Oh thank you! I know you don’t really know me, Juliet. I’ll make it up to you. I promise! Only stay with me in spirit. Visit me. With your help I know I can make something of myself.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But one thing. My folks—please, let’s make it a secret. For now.”

“Secret,” he agreed.

“Thank you. I must go now, but I’ll visit. I promise.” She leaned down and kissed him again. Then she lifted his hand from her breast, hooked her bra together, and tucked her blouse in.

“I love you,” he repeated as she left. “I know you can’t say it back yet. I must court you, win you. I will!”

“Yes,” she agreed, and stepped out of the room.

The nurse and pastor looked up as she emerged. “He’s awake,” she said simply. “But I’ll need to visit again.”

“It will be arranged,” the nurse said.

Back in the car, she couldn’t keep silent. “Did I do wrong?” she asked.

“I believe God sent you. You can not do wrong in God’s eyes.”

“I agreed to marry him.”

He froze for an instant. “This complicates things.”

“Yes.”

“Yet early betrothal is not unknown in many cultures, provided consummation is delayed until the girl becomes of age.”

“Like, don’t let him screw me until I’m twenty one?”

“I would not put it that crudely, but yes, that is the essence.”

“So it’s okay to be secretly engaged?”

“This would seem to be God’s will, if that’s what sustains his will to live. I might point out that in the future much can change. He may lose interest as he mends, and you will be freed from any marital obligation.”

“Lucky me,” she muttered. But it did suggest that her situation was not hopeless.

She visited Romeo again, courtesy of the pastor. She let him hold her breast while they talked. She learned that Romeo was a good student, interested in chemistry, but had not decided on his major specialty yet. “What do you think, Juliet? What should a cripple do?”

That was bothering him, and she understood why. What could she say? “I’m just a dumb girl. I can’t tell you what to do.”

“You are my beloved.” He squeezed her breast. “You can tell me what to do.”

She searched for something positive that would not also be hopelessly ignorant. “You know, your legs—I guess you won’t be running anymore. But even if you got to be a track star, your career would be over by the time you are, like, thirty. But if you’re a great chemist, it won’t be over until you retire.”

He nodded. “True. I could have wasted myself in a physical sport. Thank you for your insight. I appreciate it.”

He was not being sarcastic. He truly did value her input. That pleased her. The more she talked with him, the smarter she realized he was, and he was nice, too. In fact, she was starting to fall for him. Could she afford that?

On the third visit he picked up on her concern. “Something is bothering you, Juliet. Please, I hate to have you unhappy.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Your incidental mood is my obsession. Please, tell me.”

When he said please, she couldn’t deny him. “I’m falling for you, Romeo,” she blurted.

“Oh, Juliet! This is wonderful. How can you think of it as otherwise?”

“Because I’m not smart or talented or anything. You could do a lot better, and you won’t have to wait years. I’ve got no business lo—falling for you.”

“You are my beloved. Can’t you say the word?”

“Love,” she said. “I can’t love you. I’d be a drag.”

“Never!” he said passionately. He drew on her breast, bringing her forward, and kissed her. “I want your love more than anything else in the world.”

She had to accept it. “Then I guess we really are betrothed.” That was Shakespearean language she had picked up from class discussion. She had never been allowed to have a boyfriend, let alone a fiancé, but this made it seem more acceptable.

“We really are,” he agreed.

Suddenly it overwhelmed her. She leaned down again and kissed him fiercely. “I love you!” she said, and kissed him once more. “I really, really, really do!”

“I am in heaven.”

“So am I.” For the moment. But could this really be real? She wasn’t quite sure.

Romeo

Juliet was there for Romeo’s first walk, after the casts were off, by his request. The nurses had dressed him and wheeled him out to the hall, where there was a sort of wraparound walker. He put his hands on the rails and heaved himself up.

And sat down again immediately with a wince of pain. “It hurts!”

“You have been off your feet for some time,” the nurse said reassuringly. “Surgery on both legs. You have lost muscle and cartilage, and have scar tissue. It is likely to be uncomfortable at first. Time and patience will gradually improve it.”

“But I want to walk now!” he protested.

“First you learn to stand. Without too much pain. Then you walk.”

He looked around. “Juliet can help me.”

The nurse shook her head. “You’re substantially taller and heavier than she is. If she tried to support you, you would likely fall and take her down with you. You’d both get hurt. We can’t permit that.”

“I want Juliet.”

The nurse’s mouth turned grim. But before she could speak, Juliet did. “Let me talk with you alone, please.”

The nurse was puzzled, but obliged. They walked a few paces away. “Now what is this?” she asked sharply. “We’ve been remarkably tolerant about your presence and the way you interact with him, but this is serious therapy. You must not interfere.”

“Romeo—when he was in the accident, I was the one who got to him first. He was going into shock. I—I put his hand on my breast, and that kept him alert. He said he felt no pain. The distraction—it’s like pain pills. Now maybe he could walk, if.”

“No way. I know how you distract him, and I have to admit he behaves better after your visits. But this is different. For one thing, he needs both hands on the rails, to support himself.”

“I will be his support on one side.”

“You actually believe this?” the nurse asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

The nurse considered. “Very well. We’ll try it. Once. Show me that it works. If you fail, we’ll hear no more of this. Understood?”

“Yes.”

They returned to Romeo. Juliet loosened her shirt and unsnapped her bra. She took Romeo’s right hand, put it around her body, and on her right breast. She put her left arm around his body to help support him. “Ready?” she asked him.

“Ready. Three, two, one, heave!”

He heaved himself up, with her assistance and his left hand on the walker rail. He stood. “I feel no pain.”

The nurse’s expression said she strongly doubted that, but she kept silent. She was giving it a fair chance.

But the walker was now in the way. He could not step properly into it with Juliet there.

Impatiently, he swung it away and stood without support, except for Juliet. “Now we walk,” he said.

“In step,” she agreed. “Carefully. I can steady you, but I can’t hold you up if you fall.”

They stepped forward, carefully. Then again. Soon they were walking down the hall, his hand firmly on her breast. The nurse was surely watching, flabbergasted.

They turned, also carefully, and walked back. “No pain,” Romeo repeated.

“That’s enough,” the nurse said. “You have made your point. You must rest now. Your legs are hurting even if you can’t feel it. Tomorrow you will walk again, farther.”

“Our way,” he said.

“Your way,” she agreed grimly.

Next day the nurse wheeled Romeo to a separate hall that seemed to be closed off from general hospital traffic. “This is private,” she said to Romeo. “You will not be disturbed by anyone but me. Walk the length of the hall twice and stop. Even if you feel no pain now, your body is not yet recovered, and you do not want to damage it. Each day you will do more, until recovery is sufficient to allow you to check out of the hospital.”

“Thank you,” Juliet said.

The nurse glanced at her. “I believe in therapy that works. But I could get in trouble with the authorities if news of its detail leaked out. So I am not inquiring about the nature of your participation. You are merely his friend. Consider it moral support.”

“Thank you,” Juliet repeated. “I am good at keeping secrets.”

The nurse departed. “She’s not a bad sort, once you get to know her,” Romeo said as they got into position. She had come to really appreciate it when he touched her, especially where it counted. It was as though power flowed from her to him, uniting them in this challenge, but also came back to her. As if her breast was a portal, intimately linking them. Maybe the effect was all in his mind, and hers, but it worked. If this was love, she liked it.

He took hold of her breast and stood. “I did hurt yesterday, after you left. They had to give me extra pills.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. It’s proof of your magic. There truly is pain, but I don’t feel it with you.”

“I’m an anesthetic,” she agreed wryly.

“More than physically. Even if I felt no physical pain, I would not care to live without you.”

She loved hearing that, but had to demur, at least slightly. She was the young one, but she had to practice maturity. “But you know I won’t stay this way. I’ll fill out, and no longer be the slip of a girl who first took your hand.” And maybe lose him. She hated the thought.

“You will always be that slip of a girl to me. My beloved. My angel.”

“I’ll settle for Juliet.” She was pleased.

After two loops of the hall, she had to remind him. “That’s the limit.”

“I don’t want to let go of you.”

Maybe she could offer him something else. “Let’s compromise. Sit in the wheelchair.”

He let go of her and sat. Then she stood close. She took his hand and put it on her rear, outside her jeans. “There’s more of me, if you like.”

“Oh, Juliet, yes! Any part of you.”

“Make sure the nurse isn’t looking.” She loosened her belt and dropped her jeans and panties, then put his hand on her bare buttock. Her heart was pounding with this new daring.

“Juliet! Juliet! I love you!”

“And I love you, Romeo.” How sweet it was to say it!

He drew her close and put his face against her bosom. He kissed her breast and squeezed her bottom. “Beloved!”

Sure it was a kind of sex. It felt like love to her.

Then, nervous about discovery, they separated. She reorganized herself, and he turned the wheelchair and started back. She couldn’t overstay; the pastor would be waiting.

“I do not disparage young love,” the pastor said as he drove her back. “The passion of the young can be as intense and abiding as that of the mature. But it is important to honor the limits.”

“I’ve been naughty,” she confessed. “Does it show?”

“To a degree. You are flushed with excitement.”

“I—I let him hold my bare butt,” she said. “When I didn’t have to. How bad is that?”

“Well into the danger zone. To you it may be an adventure. But he is a man. There is little natural limit on his desire. You must draw the line. In future keep your pants on, literally.”

“Yessir.” She was relieved that he didn’t preach at her. His caution was surely well taken. Maybe he knew that his words could have only limited effect, in the face of the passion she had found. All the abstinence-only lectures in school and church didn’t affect the behavior of teens. Everyone knew that.

“You may be in love with love. That can be treacherous.”

“I’m in love with Romeo. Maybe when he touches me he feels no pain. But his touch really turns me on.”

He glanced at her. “I fear for your near future. I do believe God is using you as His instrument. But if you can’t be good, be careful. Extremely careful.”

“I’ll try.” But she knew it would not be easy.

The following days and weeks saw excellent progression. “I have never seen a patient with his degree of injury recover so rapidly,” the nurse remarked. “Too bad we can’t adapt this form of therapy to other cases.”

“I just talk to him,” Juliet said. “Apart from, you know. About his plans to return to college and major in chemistry and all. He has a good mind.” In contrast to hers. Indeed he was brilliant compared to her. He had a real intellectual future.

“But I would want none of it, without you,” he assured her during one of their therapy sessions.

“What, no coeds your age?” she asked. She smiled, but she feared it. She knew that many of those college girls were smart, shapely, and experienced. She was none of these things.

“I never cared much about girls, one way or another,” he said seriously. “Until I met you. Now I care only about you.”

Nevertheless, she braced herself for the time when he no longer needed her. Then he might discover the college girls. She would be heartbroken, but if God’s plan was to use her only in the interim, she would have to accept it.

At last came the Day: the doctors cleared Romeo for release. He was moved to a separate rehabilitative unit, where he would work his way back toward employability. He could walk well enough without Juliet’s assistance. For some reason he was not completely pleased with that.

There were many people at the rehab unit, in all stages of recuperation. Romeo shared a room with two other men. There was no privacy. Juliet, of course, could not protest; they did not know about her, and it was best that they never know. Young men couldn’t keep their mouths shut.

Home at night, in her bedroom on the second floor, she brooded. She had been several days alone, as it were. She knew it was best that she wean herself away from Romeo, but all she wanted was to be in his embrace, kissing him, with one of his hands on her breast and the other on her butt. Hearing him tell her how he needed her. She condemned herself as a foolish twit, but still she longed.

There was a faint sound. She paused, listening, but now there was silence. Then the sound came again, from the window, as if sand was hitting it.

Could it be? She went to the window and opened it.

“Juliet,” came the whisper. It was him!

Suddenly she was frightened. “Romeo, get away from here! If my folks saw you—”

“Juliet, I must hold you, kiss you. Only that will sustain me.”

“But it’s dangerous!”

“Please.”

She melted. “I’ll come down. Keep quiet.”

She made her way downstairs. Mom was cleaning up in the kitchen; dad was watching TV. She was able to sneak by without alerting either of them. She opened the back door with excruciating care and slipped out onto the dark porch.

Romeo was there. He swept her into his embrace and kissed her. “Juliet, I love you!” he breathed, putting a hand on her butt just the way she had imagined.

“I love you,” she echoed. Then something occurred to her. “You know, we’re reenacting the balcony scene in the play.”

“It was in my mind,” he agreed, kissing her again.

“How did you find me? I never told you my real name or where I live.”

“I Googled ‘Juliet.’ They had your whole story.”

“No!” she exclaimed, appalled.

“I’m joking,” he said quickly. “But I did do a statistical survey of all the houses in your neighborhood, orienting on those with girls your age who go to the local school. I got pictures, and there you were. I had to come.”

“You’re so smart,” she said adoringly.

“I’m so in love.” He kissed her again, squeezing her buttock. How she loved that!

Suddenly the porch light came on. The door flung open. Disaster! Her folks had caught them!

“Get your hand off her ass!” her father barked. “Get the hell out of here, you lecher!”

“Go!” she breathed tearfully, needing to save Romeo if not herself.

Romeo faded back and away. Juliet turned to face her angry father, who had plainly seen that she was avidly cooperating. To face the end of her world.

Vision

“God forgive me,” Juliet said aloud. Then she started swallowing the sleeping pills she had raided from her mother’s cache, washing them down with a cup of water. She hoped they would be enough.

When she had downed them all, she went to her desk and wrote a brief note for the world. I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT ROMEO. I LOVE HIM. I’M SORRY. She wasn’t condemning her folks, just explaining. She had always known her folks wouldn’t understand. They were locked in the sterile conformity of the chaste married state. If she ever got the chance to marry, she would make sure it never got to be like that. Not that she would get that chance.

Then she lay on her bed. “Romeo, I love you,” she said. “I hope we can be together in the other realm.” She closed her eyes, relaxing. What would be, would be.

Time passed, an instant or an eternity. She stood at the pearly gate of Heaven. She tried to enter, but it closed before her. She was not completely surprised; suicides were reputed to be unwelcome here.

She looked around. There was a desk to the side, with a female clerk sitting at it. “This way, miss,” the woman said. “We have to process you in.”

Oh. Of course. They wouldn’t even know who she was, without the paperwork. Bureaucracies were like that. She went to the desk. “Juliet,” she said, identifying herself.

The woman rifled through a sheaf of papers. Her eyes widened. “Oh, my!”

This was not looking good. “I’m a suicide,” she said. “I guess you have a problem with that.”

“It’s not just that. There’s a codicil attached. You must answer to God directly. And is He ever wroth.”

So it was the worst case scenario. “I’ll save you the trouble. Where’s the road to Hell?”

“Nuh-uh! You don’t get off that easily. Go that way.” A door opened in the wall behind the desk.

Juliet wasn’t eager to go there, but found herself walking through the doorway and down a short hall. Then she was in a huge glorious chamber, and the passage she had used was gone. There was no exit. Obviously they didn’t fool around with bad souls in the afterlife.

And there was God, sitting on a giant golden throne, wearing a brilliant crown sparkling with diamonds. At His right hip was a terrible swift sword. His eyes swung around to bear on her, transfixing her.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You OD’d on pills, you idiotic little snit?” He demanded imperiously. “Whatever possessed your minuscule mind? It’s not your time.”

She fell to her knees before Him, sobbing in terror.

“Oh shut up and listen,” He snapped. “Don’t you dare quit now. I am not through with you, you selfish twit. Not by a long shot. I need you to sustain Romeo. Why the Hell did you think I sent you to him?”

Now she found her voice. “But God, I can’t be with him,” she quavered. “My folks forbid it. I’d rather die.”

“You want to take the easy way out, you little ignoramus. I want you to take the hard route, go to school, pass your classes, be the best that you can be, little as that is.” His gaze bore down on her crushingly. “Even math. You can make a D in that, can’t you, if Romeo helps you study? Do it.”

“But God, I’m not smart or beautiful or courageous or anything. I have no future.”

“Your future is not the point, you feeble excuse for a girl. It is Romeo I’m trying to save. You are merely the instrument.”

This was confusing, even in her humiliation. “The what?”

“The instrument. The necessary mortal tool to accomplish My purpose. Do you think it was mere coincidence that brought you to him when that spawn of Hell sideswiped his van? I had to preserve him, and there were no good prospects handy, so I had to make do with what pittance offered. You were the closest, so I used you, and you used what little you had to sustain him the minimum necessary time.”

“My meager breast,” she agreed wanly.

“Any port in a storm,” God agreed. “I had to enhance its effect, of course. Even so, it was a shoestring operation. At least you pulled him through that crisis. For that I am obliged to give you credit.”

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“But now he is fixated on you, and it would be complicated to change that, so I have to work with it. Have patience. In due course you will become eligible. Then you will truly support him while he completes his degree.”

This was getting interesting. “But why is it so important?”

“He is destined to become an outstanding chemist, and to fathom the catalyst that will enable coal to yield its energy efficiently and cleanly.”

“Clean coal? That’s important?”

“Trust Me. It represents about half of the problem. The other half is the mess coal extraction makes, making molehills of My mountains, polluting My pristine streams, generating piles of useless contaminated rubble. But that’s a separate problem. Romeo must handle the energy aspect.”

“That seems so—so great,” she said, awed. “I had no idea.”

“It is not your business to have an idea,” God said. “It is Romeo’s. You just have to be there to support him, so he doesn’t do something stupid on his own.”

“You mean I can really, maybe, be with him? I don’t have to go to Hell?”

The phenomenal visage frowned at her. “Are you attempting to bargain with God?” he demanded.

She was cowed again. “Oh, no sir, no no! I was just trying to get it straight. Can I let him touch me?”

God sighed. “The limit is defined by what you have allowed before, you naughty nymph. Privately. For now. Thereafter more, to hold his interest until he can marry you. Is that satisfactory?” The sarcasm was divinely huge.

“Oh, yes, yes, sir! I didn’t want to do more anyway, really. Not much more. Yet. Just—”

God grew impatient. “So be it. You may have him in life. Now stop wasting My time. Get your silly little ass out of here before I spank it.” The flat of his sword glowed.

“But—”

“GO!” God roared like thunder, his body flaring like lightning.

“But I don’t know the way! It’s all opaque.”

“Oh.” God reconsidered as the special effects faded. “I forgot how meager you are. Take My hand.” He rose from his throne and extended it.

Timidly she took His hand. It was warm and firm and comforting, not deadly at all. She realized that beneath his gruff exterior, God loved her.

Then they walked forward, together, into the sparkling darkness that surrounded the glorious chamber.

She emerged into light. “Juliet!” Romeo exclaimed gladly. It was his hand she was holding.

“Romeo,” she agreed. She was back in the realm of the living. In a hospital bed.

“Don’t ever leave me, Juliet!” he said. “I could never survive without you.”

She believed that. “How come you’re here?” she asked as she got her bearings. “I thought Dad forbid you to ever see me again.”

“Your pastor brought me. I had to come. It was as if God told me to get my stupid ass the hell over here, or else.” He paused, embarrassed, for the pastor was standing by the other side of the bed. “I mean—”

“That was God, all right,” she said, smiling.

“Oh, Juliet, if I lost you, I’d kill myself!”

“Shut up a minute and listen,” she said. “I have something to tell you.”

“You’re just everything to me. The pastor made a deal with your folks, when the stomach pump didn’t bring you out of it. If I could take your hand and bring you back, the way you did me, I could date you, supervised. So now—”

She glanced at the pastor. “Can you give us a minute?”

He nodded, understanding. He left the room.

“I love you,” Romeo said. “Nothing will ever change that.”

She took his hand and threaded it into her hospital gown, on her breast. He was abruptly silent, transfixed.

“Listen,” she repeated. “Now what do you plan to do with your life?”

“I will love you forever! All I want is to be worthy of you.”

She pressed his hand closer, silencing him again. “I mean, what kind of a job? To support a family?”

“Well, you know I want to be a chemist. But there are many specialties, and I haven’t decided—”

“Coal.”

“What?”

“Coal. Study the chemistry of coal.”

“But that’s the worst pollutant of all!”

“Right. Find out how to make it burn clean. That’s your mission.”

“But—”

“Trust me.” Then she bought him down for a kiss. She knew his future, and hers. It was almost as if she could see God smiling in the background.

Note: This is one of my favorite stories in this volume, maybe because of Juliet’s vision of God. I wrote it early in 2009. In the original Shakespeare play, Romeo and Juliet, Juliet is thirteen, Romeo older. By today’s standards their romance is illicit. I have never been one to sneer at young love; it can be as intense as any. I remember my love for a schoolmate when I was eleven, she twelve, as real as anything since. So at age thirteen, Juliet could truly love, and she does. But the notion freaks out publishers, and I had to fudge it to get it published by Excessica, to whom I donated it, receiving no royalties. I am annoyed by erotic publishers who refuse to address reality, such as the fact that the average woman has first sex at about age fifteen. That means some do it older, some younger. There are even child prostitutes plying their wares. Publishers are afraid they’ll get sued for publishing fiction that comes too close to reality. It’s past time to let fiction be relevant to real life.

Caution: instructive essay

11. Editing

As I see it, there are two main aspects to writing a novel, and a number of sub-aspects. The main ones are Writing it and Marketing it. I love to write, but hate to market. That’s why I use a literary agent. (No, you can’t have one; that’s a whole ’nother subject.) The cards are stacked against the new writer, so that no matter how great his (that’s the generic his, meaning his, hers, and its) novel is, chances are it will never be commercially published. That’s just the beginning of why I hate marketing.

But this is not about that. It’s about the Editing part of Writing. It seems that many writers hate to edit. I don’t understand that. I love to edit my own work. I find it easier to polish an existing manuscript than to create it. But of course I’ve been at it since 1954 when I realized in college that my dream was to be a writer. I suspect I have learned something about the process in that intervening half century. If you had been at it that long you would find it easier too. The first years are the hardest, and that’s where you are now.

So let’s see if I can get into your skin. You have bashed out a 50,000-word effort in a month or so, responding to a foolish creative challenge, and now you’re stuck with this obscene lump of verbiage that you half-wish you could bury six miles deep. But that would mean admitting that you are a failure, that you have no talent, and that your mother-in-law or other frightful authority figure was right about you all along. That’s too much to choke down at the moment. It’s not that they’re necessarily wrong, but that you’ll be darned if you’ll give them the satisfaction. So somehow you have to grind this thing into shape so that it doesn’t reek too loudly of month-old cabbage. Great literature is too much to expect, but at least let it somehow achieve the illusion of average.

And that is what you hate: trying to turn this sow’s ear into a silk purse. You would rather slog through the six-inch-deep muck in an over-endowed pigpen in your bare feet. How can anyone in his right mind, or any mind at all, actually enjoy this feculent process? (Editorial note: “feculent” means full of feces; it stinks.)

Uh, I suspect you are giving yourself too little credit. What you really have is a diamond in the rough. Have you seen one of those, physically? It looks like a pocked fragment of rock from the bottom of a polluted stream. But when it is faceted and polished, its inherent glory shines forth. Face it: If you can Write it, you can Edit it. You just happen to need a different approach.

There are two types of personality involved in writing. Remember the famous story “The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” by Robert L Stevenson? Where one was nice and the other nasty, but both used the same body? These two entities exist in you, too. There’s the divine Creative Spirit that generates the original text. That’s what governed while you were writing. Then there’s the mean spirited Critic who gets his jollies from tearing down the work of others. There’s hardly any piece of writing he can’t disparage in some manner. That’s the one you need now. Yes you do; it’s time to drink that potion and loose this monster on your text.

The Critic will search out every Sentence that is less than utterly perfect—that is, practically all of them—and hack it into suffering parts. He will pounce on any Word that is not exact by his warped definition. He will screw with your Paragraphs. He will disparage your Theme. He will deride the motives of your Characters. It seems as if nothing will ever completely satisfy him except a pile of literary rubble where your aspiring novel used to be. He comes across as a Destroyer, and he loves his work.

But you are not helpless. You can fight back by making spot changes that nullify his taunts. You can be like Winston Churchill, who, when chided for ending a sentence with a preposition, said “This is the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put.” He sure made a fool of the purists! It’s an ongoing battle, but you can chain the Critic, especially if you like a good dirty fight. Word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, page by page. Battle him in the trenches, fight him in the high turrets, balk him in the open plain. Let him rage, because the ugly job has to be done, but do not let him win the day.

So he doesn’t like this Word: go to the thesaurus if you have to, to find another. It’s no shame to use the aids available. Many computer programs have them, and I do find them useful. Also, do use the speller, but don’t trust it completely. There’s a significant distinction between meet, meat, and mete that the speller won’t catch. You have to be in charge; the machine won’t do it all.

The Critic doesn’t like your sentence? Churchill could have fixed his by phrasing it “I will not put up with this sort of nonsense.” So can you. He doesn’t like your punctuation? Well, break up those run-on sentences and abolish half those exclamation points!!

Your paragraph is challenged? Well, if it’s three pages long, break it into five smaller ones. I see paragraphs as dynamic entities, gathering together particular aspects of your thought; a new slant should have a new paragraph. My original paragraph here began with “But you are not helpless,” and finished with “it wasn’t worth it.” Now it’s five smaller paragraphs. See how I did it, when my Critic got cracking. Yes, this pep talk got the same treatment I’m recommending, throughout.

Sure there will be metaphorical bodies strewn in the aisles, but your text will slowly, painfully, improve. And when you have stifled the Critic’s last foul blast, you will have a text that will silence your mother in law for a delicious moment. She may be incapable of saying anything good about it, because she is permanently locked in Critic mode, but she won’t be able to condemn it either. That will be your subtle victory. You will have made your piece as good as it can be. How can you say it wasn’t worth it?

Note: I have mentioned NaNoWriMo, encouraging writers to write a 50,000-word novel in the month of November, for which I did a Pep Talk. After they ran that I received a solicitation from Dream Writers, who planned to have a similar contest every month, buttressed by support for the manuscripts after they were written. They asked me to do a pep talk on Editing. So I did, and sent it in, but it was never acknowledged, and before long the organization went out of business. Amateurs will waste your time if you let them. So I ran it in my HiPiers site, and a fan site reprinted it. I feel it’s a good discussion, so I’m sharing it with you here. There is more to writing than just pouring out the words.

Caution: sex with an alien creature.

12. Medusa

Feeding time. Erik brought the food for the captive alien creature. She was an elusive marauder, caught mainly by chance; more than one man had died before a sample specimen had been caught. Confined, she had been quiet, knowing she could not get at him, but he remained careful. He set the severed haunch in the apertures compartment, closed the outer gate, then drew the inner gate open.

Medusa pounced on it, catching the projecting bone with her head tentacles that gave her her name and hauling it onto the floor of her cage. She lay with her four legs tucked under her body, out of play, their devastating claws not showing. Her tentacles held the haunch firmly and fed the bony end into the circular mouth orifice that irised just wide enough to take it in. There was a sound vaguely like that of a meat-cutting saw as her circular teeth sliced into it.

Slowly the bone disappeared into her mouth, guided by the tentacles. Erik knew that the interior teeth were cutting off thin slices, so fine that the result was virtually powder or liquid. She did not chew in the human manner, she shredded, so that she could then swallow and digest the resulting mash. The process took time, but what else did she have to do here?

The rest of her food processing was different too. She had no bladder, no anus; her wastes were processed by her feet. One for solids, another for liquid, a third for gas, the last for heat. They could be used defensively, too, flinging out turds, spraying corrosive liquid, blowing a choking stench, or applying a burning paw. Medusa’s captors had discovered such features the hard way. But these weapons were not used indiscriminately; Erik himself had never been threatened. Evidently she was aware that he was harmless.

She finished the haunch and walked on the sand pit, doing her business. She could eat and assimilate just about anything, whether meat, plant, or mineral, being an omnivore. One reason they fed her well was so she wouldn’t start chewing on the walls or bars, as it were; she might discover a way to break out. That would not be good, because she was a deadly predator, silent and swift. He was learning increasing respect for her; she was a fine creature.

Then he became aware that Medusa was paying as much attention to him as he was to her. Her three eyes were fixed on him, triangulating in three dimensions. She could see and hear precisely; he had noted the signs. What was on her alien mind?

Erik had been in nominal charge of her for the past month. He was what was colloquially called a BEM aide: the person who fed and observed the specimens here on the human outpost on Phew 114. The name was for Potentially Habitable Earthstyle World, because of its gravity, temperature, atmosphere, and background life. Soon it would be terraformed, which meant seeding by Earth viruses, bacteria, fungus, lichen, and primitive plant and animal forms. They would marginalize or eliminate existing life forms, making the planet suitable for colonization by advanced life: human.

Mainly, his job was dull. He had made most of his notes on the captive animal in the first few days; after that he was just a kind of baby sitter, making sure she was healthy and secure. He spent his time reading, playing computer games, corresponding with friends back on Earth, and snoozing. Lonely, he had taken to talking to Medusa as if she could understand, and reading aloud to her. She seemed less restless when he did that. She was especially attentive when he read erotic fiction; maybe he put more feeling into that.

“Medusa, I wish you were a lovely willing human woman, instead of a vicious alien beast,” Erik said rhetorically.

In her barred cage, Medusa rolled onto her back and spread her limbs, like a dog wanting a belly rub. But she was no dog. In fact she looked startlingly like a nude human woman, with breasts and a furry genital region.

Erik blinked, fearing he was hallucinating. He had been too long without a woman. How could a tiger-like animal suddenly seem like a girl? She had not had such body parts before. In fact she was considered female only because she lacked a penis. Her kind evidently did not need such a member for urination, and probably not for anything else.

Then he stared. Not only did she have breasts, they were visibly expanding, while her thick midsection was thinning into a girl-like waist. Her short limbs were lengthening into humanly-proportioned arms and legs. Her feet were shaping into hand-like extremities, with fingers and toes sporting delicate nails rather than rending claws.

“Medusa,” he said, awed. “You are shape-changing!”

“Mmmm,” she agreed. It was more like a purr than a growl, the only vocal sound she made.

His jaw dropped. “You understand me!”

“Mmmm.”

“Medusa, stop! If the authorities knew you could do either, they would destroy you immediately.”

She rolled back onto her feet, faced him, and nodded her head.

“You do understand me,” he said. “At least well enough to respond. You never gave a hint before. Are you sapient?”

“Mmmm?” She could do inflections, and he had learned to pick up on them.

“Sapient: having human intelligence and judgment. Smart. Savvy. Knowing what’s what.”

She shook her head.

“Not as smart as I am, but smarter than an animal?”

She nodded.

“Why are you letting me know, after concealing it until now?”

She was silent. He realized that the question was too complicated for her to answer, since she couldn’t talk.

He tried again. “You have a reason to tell me?”

She nodded.

“Your welfare is affected?”

She was silent. Too complicated again. But he was able to simplify it by breaking it down into more specific concepts. He had to clarify words and rephrase often, but they were making progress on a dialogue.

“Is someone treating you badly?”

Head shake.

He got an idea. “You can hear things, not just in this room?”

Nod.

“You learned our language by listening?” He had given her a lot to listen to.

Nod.

“You heard something that made you decide?”

Nod.

“Is there danger?”

No reaction.

“Is there danger for us—for human beings?”

No.

“For you?”

Yes.

Now he was getting there. “There is a threat to you?”

Yes.

“And I can help?”

Yes.

“Do you want me to make a complaint on your behalf?”

No.

“Medusa, I am really just an observer. I have no authority. I represent HETA, Humans for the Ethical Treatment of Aliens. The military folk let me work here because they want to show that they are not mistreating alien captives. I am trying to understand you and the other specimens. If I make a ruckus, they will simply ship me out. I do want to help you, but I have to be careful. I need to be very sure of my facts. What exactly is the threat?”

Medusa did not respond. But further dialogue zeroed in on it. The base was going to be closed in a few days. Because of the coming terraforming. He had not realized that it would be so soon.

“And that means they will probably destroy the study specimens,” he concluded. “Because they won’t have the time or money or inclination to return them to their places of origin. That dooms you.”

Yes.

“Medusa, I can’t just let you out. This planet is doomed. It has air and gravity compatible with Earth life; that’s why the base is here, and why you are here for observation. But outside this base it is going to be burned off and reseeded. You would soon die.”

Yes.

“Then what?”

And in due course he came to it: she wanted him to help her return to her own kind. Because otherwise she and they would die. She was trusting him with the secret of her intelligence and her ability to shift her form, and asking for his help.

“Medusa, this is impossible! They will not let me simply lead you out of here, let alone let you board a spaceship, assuming there were a refuge for you on some other planet. I can’t just buy tickets for two and escort you there the way I could for a woman. You’re an alien creature!”

She lay on her back and spread her legs. Her torso was now startlingly humanoid, with full breasts and thighs. He realized that she was emulating the nude figure on the girlie calendar he had put on the wall, and doing it remarkably well.

Medusa was trying to seduce him into helping her. The thought repelled him. Yet as he looked at her, he also felt a certain guilty temptation. She was trying to be human-sexy, and he had not seen an available young human woman in months, let alone had sex with one. There were only the matronly officer’s wives, and prostitutes he couldn’t afford.

It was of course impossible. Yet he appreciated her need to try to save herself. Were she a human woman captive, sex with a guard would be an obvious idea. Men would do just about anything for sex. How well he knew it! She was thoroughly alien, but perhaps her mind worked similarly in this respect. Had her captors been male monsters of her species, it would have been a fair ploy.

He spoke at length, knowing she would not understand every word but should get the essence. “Medusa, I think I understand you. You want to survive, and you are prepared to do what it takes to make it possible. Even if it means prostituting yourself to a horrible alien male, which is what I surely seem to you. You have made your point. I will try to help you. Not for sex, but because you are nearly sapient, and it would be wrong to let you die. But there are things you need to understand. This must be secret. If the human authorities knew you were sapient, they would not only destroy you, they would send a warship to this planet to extirpate your entire species. The relatively gentle terraforming process would be put on hold, in favor of habitat annihilation. Because humans are essentially xenophobic. We don’t want to tolerate any competitive species who might theoretically make war against us and possibly eliminate us. We assume others are like us, so we expect mindless violence from them. I’m personally different, because I’m with HETA. We value aliens, and would love to discover alien sapience and safeguard it from harm. Maybe some day this will be standard for everyone. But right now, no one else must know. You do understand?”

She understood. In fact, that was why she had contacted him, picking up on his special orientation. It was a remarkably savvy choice.

“I doubt this will work, but we have to try,” he said. “We must make you emulate a human woman so well it will fool others, at least for long enough. But this will be a challenge, and we don’t have a lot of time.”

She understood.

Erik considered. “First I need to know exactly what I have to work with. Do you have any other abilities you haven’t shown me yet?”

She did not move, but she changed. Her color had been tawny; now it shifted to brown, then to black. And on to red, green, blue, and white.

“You’re a chameleon!” he exclaimed. “You can change your color!” Then he reconsidered. “But can you do two colors at once?”

Her hide faded to white in stripes, and intensified to black in the spaces. She was almost like a zebra. Then she became a tapestry of colored blotches. He knew that the only Earthly creature with ability like this was the cephalopod: the squids.

“One more thing. Can you do a picture?”

The calendar girl formed on her skin, in full color.

“And you never showed this to any human being before me,” he said, awed.

The picture faded to the original tawn.

He realized that a predator like this might be able to emulate the prey it stalked. A panther mixing with the herd of deer. Presumably she could control her odor too.

But how could they have captured her? She could have emulated a dog or even a person, and faded from notice. But he thought he had the answer: colors were fast, but a full emulation needed everything together. A shift of form required redistribution of flesh and bone, and that could not be hurried. She must have been caught by surprise, and unable to shift without revealing her ability to do so. So she had remained in the form she was at the moment, with its limitations. It was better than getting killed as a devil thing.

Now she was revealing herself to him, because the alternative was to die when they closed the base. She was trusting him out of desperation. But he was not desperate; the closing of the base would simply send him back to Earth; could he trust her? Because were he in her cage, she could kill him in an instant.

“Medusa,” he said carefully. “You are trusting me because at worst I will betray you and you will be killed. That’s the same fate you face otherwise. You are not really gambling. But how can I trust you?”

She lay on her back, showing her open torso again. It was almost perfect now, supremely sexy.

“No. You are offering me sex. It would be no good if I got into the cage with you, and you killed me. I can’t help you unless I can trust you not to attack me the moment you have the chance.”

She considered a moment. Then she got to her feet. She stood against the bars of the cage, facing him, pressing her torso forward. Her breasts projected through, to a degree, and her crotch was accessible. It would be possible to put his penis into her without entering the cage.

“Medusa—” he protested.

She let go of the bars with her paws, but kept her body touching. She thought he was afraid she would claw him. Indeed, that was possible, but that would merely warn him of her treachery and end their association. He was sure she would not strike unless by doing so she could escape the cage, and then the base. No, his objection was the idea of having sex with an animal.

Yet her torso was now thoroughly human, in form and color. Only her head was alien. He also knew that her intellect was closer to human than to animal. She was no beast, and she was tempting.

It also occurred to him that there was really no way for her to prove herself except by interacting in this manner. It might not be solid proof, but it was a step. If she would do this without attacking him, there was at least the chance that she could be trusted further.

But how could she know what human sex was all about? As far as he knew, her species did not practice sex. They must have some other way to reproduce. Maybe they budded. So she was simply trying to show her willingness to interact with him in whatever way he wanted. She knew from the calendar that he liked the human female form, so she was emulating it. How would she feel if she knew what he would like to do with such a form?

Well, actually, maybe she did, because he had read erotic fiction to her, where the women were always lovely and eager. How much of that had she really understood? Maybe more than he had supposed.

“Medusa, do you know what sex is?”

She shook her head, then nodded: she had a notion, but knew that there was much she still didn’t know.

“Do you even have sexes?”

There was no reaction. That meant that the concept was foreign to her. So her female form was a blind guess.

“It is a—a coming together of a man like me and a woman like that.” He indicated the calendar girl. “They kiss and stroke, and he puts his penis into her. Do you understand?”

Again that ambiguous indication. She did not know enough.

He had to be more specific. “She has a vagina, a—a hole, here,” he said, touching the crotch area of the calendar girl. “He has a penis, here.” He touched his crotch. Then, realizing that this was hardly sufficient, he opened his fly and brought out his member.

She looked, but still did not understand. He knew why: his penis was limp, in no condition to penetrate anything. In the erotic fiction it was always big, thick, long, and hard. She did not recognize his meager example.

Then he got an idea. He put his member away and brought out his cell phone. He punched in the code for one of his favorite erotic videos, a remarkably virile bare man having at a marvelously endowed bare woman. “Can you see this?” He held the little screen up before her face.

Yes.

“Watch what the man and woman do.” He played the video. The man approached and kissed the woman’s mouth, then kissed her breasts. Her nipples expanded and his penis rose to moderate erection. She took her turn, licking his member and taking it briefly into her mouth. Her attention caused it to swell further. Then she lay down on the convenient bed and he inserted his now fully erect penis into her cleft, slowly at first. When he was well inside, he thrust and thrust, endlessly, in the manner of such productions. She wriggled and moaned, pretending that every thrust evoked almost unbearable pleasure. It was the standard fantasy.

Medusa watched intently. Was she getting it? She seemed to be assessing things, as if fitting the puzzle pieces of his prior reading together with the visual sex of the video. The two united should provide a fair notion of the whole.

He jumped the interminable sequence to the conclusion. The man thrust harder, groaned in rapture, then drew out his glistening member and let it spurt into space. After that it diminished, and the scene faded out.

“Do you understand?” he asked. “That is sex. Men like to do it with women, only they prefer to ejaculate inside her, not into space. When you take the form of a human woman, I would like to do it with you.” Oops; he hadn’t meant to say that last. But he realized it was true.

She considered briefly. Then she pointed to his crotch.

What could he do? He brought out his penis again. Now it was half erect. The very thought of her seeing the erotic video had turned him on. “When a man and a woman are ready for sex, his penis gets hard,” he said, “as you saw. Mine is not ready yet.” Because he was in serious doubt about the propriety or sanity of what he was doing.

She put a hand against the bars. “Mmmm?”

Again, what could he do? He had to be sure she understood. She might chomp it off, but it was a necessary gamble. He stepped up close and put his penis through.

She touched it, stroking it with surprising gentleness. She closed her fingers about the shaft and squeezed delicately. It sprang to full erection, exactly as in the video and the readings.

She nodded. She resumed her posture against the bars, her crotch within reach. She understood what he wanted, and she was willing.

He made his decision. He fetched his scarf. “Cover your face,” he said, passing it through to her. Because that was the one remaining thing that made her totally unhuman.

She took the scarf and wrapped it around her head, concealing her tentacles and triple eyes. Now she looked like a heavily veiled woman. She set herself against the bars and waited sightlessly. This was another act of trust on her part.

Erik dropped his trousers and shorts. His erection sprang out anew. He approached the bars. He bent to kiss the projecting nipples of her breasts, as the erotic video had shown. She did not flinch. In fact her nipples expanded, exactly as in the video. She was a quick study.

Then he guided his taut penis to her crotch. He found her channel, and the hole at its base. He pushed in.

It didn’t work. She had formed a vagina, but it was far too flaccid to provide satisfaction. He might as well have poked his penis into warm water. Though water was not a fair parallel; it was dry.

He withdrew. “Make it tight,” he said. “And wet. Slippery.” Could she do that?

“Mmmm.”

After a pause to give her time, he tried again, using his finger. This time the hole was moist, but so tight he couldn’t wedge his finger into it. “Make it a little looser,” he said, without withdrawing.

Then he felt the tightness easing. He poked in as deep as the finger would go, and it was fine. He returned his penis to the site. He was able to push in some with his thicker member, then more. She felt his penetration, and adapted to facilitate it, getting it right. Her vagina was slick and firm and warm. He pushed in further, then all the way, cautiously, concerned lest he be hurting her. But she remained firmly placed against the bars, evincing no sign of discomfort. Her channel was tight and hot, like those in the readings. He drew back a little, then thrust in more vigorously. She reacted internally by squeezing in rhythmic ripples and pushed her pelvis forward so as to facilitate his entry. She was getting it!

Then his urgency overwhelmed him; he thrust with abandon and ejaculated, pulse after pulse. The orgasm was phenomenal.

“Oh Medusa!” he gasped. “That was great!”

“Mmmm.” She seemed pleased. Was he imagining it, too eager to have her like it?

Then he withdrew, ashamed of himself, as his penis lost hardness and went flaccid. A drop of drool descended from it. He had had sex with an alien thing!

Medusa remained unmoving, the scarf masking her head. She still looked exactly like a woman. A driblet of his spent semen leaked from her cleft. He had really done it, spurting copiously into her. And already his urge was returning, making his limp member twitch. Whatever she was, whatever her motive, he wanted more of it.

And his commitment was made. He would help her escape the cage and save her life. He would enable her to return to her world, if that was possible.

And he would be having sex with her again. He knew he would not be able to resist, now that she was so human in appearance and action.

“You have trusted me,” he said. “Now I trust you.”

“Mmmm.”

“But Medusa, there is far more to emulating a woman than sex. A real woman talks and walks on two feet. Can you walk? That way?”

She unwrapped the scarf, gripped the bars with her forepaws and stood. Then she stepped away from the bars, balancing precariously. And dropped to all fours. The answer was no.

“We can say you’re mute,” he said. “Unable to speak because of recent surgery. But you can’t go four-footed.” He considered. “Could you walk if I supported you?”

“Mmmm?”

It was time for his next significant act of trust. He had had sex with her, but he knew next to nothing of her real preference. Sex was the beginning, not the conclusion. She could use sex to get him into the cage with her, then kill him.

“Medusa, I’m going to enter your cell. If you are waiting to kill me, this will be your chance. Otherwise, I want you to let me hold you up, to walk on two feet. Okay?”

She nodded. This was a victory for her, but he could not be certain of its nature. She would either let him, or kill him. Her claws might look like relatively harmless nails now, but she had other ways.

He unlocked the gate and entered the cage. He realized that he had not yet put his pants back on. He was nervous, but she did not pounce. That meant that she knew she needed him to facilitate her escape. He hoped.

“Now let me haul you up to stand with me,” he said.

She didn’t wait. She hauled herself up, and he caught her around the middle before she could fall. They stood face to face, their bodies in full length contact. She remained nude and shapely, and her breasts were flattening against his shirt. Only her completely alien head, now so close to his, betrayed the truth.

“Damn! I’m getting that feeling again.”

“Mmmm.”

“It’s okay with you?”

“Mmmm.” She still had the scarf. She wrapped it around her head.

“Thanks.” He kissed the scarf where her human mouth would have been, willfully deluding himself. Then he held her firmly at the hips and lowered his head to lick and kiss her breasts, which were even fuller than they had been. He didn’t really have to do this, as he was already hard, but he wanted to stick to the formula she was familiar with. Also, it was a real pleasure touching them, enhancing his urgency.

Then, standing, no bars between them, he bent his knees to lower his torso just enough, used one hand to fit his penis to her cleft, and angled it in. He put both hands on her rounded buttocks, drawing her in close. He thrust, and his member rose eagerly up into her pelvis. She squeezed in that rhythmic way she had, making it as good for him as she could. He could not remember a human woman being as obliging in this manner, outside and inside. Only the ones in the erotic fiction, significantly. He thrust, and thrust again. His edge was off, because of the prior session, but he felt the orgasm gathering in the depth. The third one did it, and he erupted, spewing more juice into her belly.

Then, remaining embedded, he hugged her close and kissed her scarf. In that moment, he loved her a little. He had done it, and she hadn’t killed him. “Thanks!”

“Mmmm.”

His diminishing penis dropped out. “Here’s a detail,” he said. “I put some fluid into you. It won’t make you pregnant, but it has to be cleaned up. Not allowed to drip on the floor.”

She withdrew from his embrace, dropped to fours, then lay all the way down. She curled her torso around, removed the scarf, and put her mouth to her cleft. She had no tongue; she simply sucked it in. Then her tentacles wiped up the remaining spill and fed it into the mouth orifice.

“But we were about to learn to walk,” he said as she concluded. “To see if you can do it well enough to pass, if I support you.”

She climbed back to her hind feet. He put his arm around her narrow waist and held her close against him. “Now I will step forward. Can you match me?”

“Mmmm.”

He took the step, and she matched him. She had good coordination; she just wasn’t used to walking this way on her own. He took another, and she matched him again.

Then he tried letting her do it alone. She was unable to maintain her balance.

“Try it along the bars,” he said.

She went to the bars, rose, and walked, holding on. She was doing it. But when she let go, she lost it. Human beings had taken tens or hundreds of thousands of years to learn to balance well enough; it was hardly surprising that she could not manage it in minutes. She could change her form, not her nature.

“Okay, you can do it with help, of whatever kind,” he said. “But you won’t have things to hold on to everywhere, and you will look clumsy regardless. Maybe I can get a wheelchair, and say you’re ill or recovering from a leg injury.”

“Mmmm?”

“Wheel chair,” he repeated carefully. “A chair with big wheels, and you turn them by hand and go where you want. I’ll bring one in tomorrow. Meanwhile, the big one: we need to get you with a human face. Your tentacles can model hair, maybe. But those three eyes and lack of a nose are a problem.”

They worked on it, and found a compromise: her third eye descended to where a human nose would be, its iris imitating nostrils. Her other two eyes reshaped to resemble a human pair. Her round hole of a mouth--

“Maybe makeup will cover it,” he said. “I’ll bring that too.”

But then she developed red lips like those of the calendar girl, and the circular mouth compressed into a horizontal slit. It was becoming human. Her tentacles lay back flat on her head and turned brown, looking increasingly like a wavy hairdo.

It was time for him to go. The post personnel would be suspicious if he overstayed his time. Civilian workers were normally just as eager to get off work as military personnel were. Too bad, because he was starting to get the urge again. His penis was twitching. He started to go for his pants.

She intercepted him. “Mmmm?” She drew herself up and expanded her breasts.

He had to smile. “You read my mind. But this time let’s use another position. A man needs variety to get it on a third time so soon.”

He had her bend over and hold on to the bars. Then he came at her from behind, grasping her hips and wedging his rising member into her plush bottom. It was not completely hard, but there was nowhere for it to go but inside. He felt her full buttocks pressing against his groin, adding to his urgency. Once he was fairly inside her, he moved his hands to catch hold of her hanging breasts. They were just as wonderful this way; she had them down pat. He massaged them, stroking the nipples, and felt his member hardening within her. He was getting there.

“Now do your thing,” he said.

She commenced her internal rhythm. It milked his member with its divine peristalsis, and soon the pleasure was forming within him. It gathered and surged through his penis, jetting into her while he held her breasts. This one was slower and less intense, yet fully as delightful, perhaps because he had time to savor it.

“You are some woman, Medusa!” he panted. Then he leaned forward, still holding her breasts, and kissed the back of her neck. Her vagina squeezed him responsively, and her breasts seemed to push against his hands as if seeking more. Even the aftermath was sheer pleasure.

In due course he had to withdraw again, reluctantly. She straightened up and faced him. Her face was another stage more human.

“Mmmm?”

“You want me to kiss you?” The prospect was considerably more inviting than it had been. Her face was hardly pretty, but it did seem pretty much human, with the features correctly positioned and shaped.

He embraced her, squeezed his chest against her breasts, put his face to hers and kissed that mouth. It felt pretty much like a human mouth. She had made another giant stride in her emulation of the Calendar girl.

“Keep working on it,” he told her. “You’re getting close.” Then he thought of something. “But revert to your tiger form when I’m gone, so the others don’t suspect.”

She nodded.

“Something else,” he said. “When I take you out of here, that’s only the first stage. Getting off the base is the greater challenge, because they check for ID. You need to be able to pass for a real woman in every physical detail.”

“Mmmm?”

He hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Sometimes they do a strip search. It’s an indignity people have to submit to. Things can be smuggled in or out in body cavities. They have to check, uh, inside, to be sure. You have no anus. Because your digestion is different. But a real human woman has one. Lack of it would give you away instantly.”

“Mmmm?”

Now he was sure he was blushing. “It’s similar to what men have. Same position, same purpose. I, uh, guess I’ll have to show you mine. Then you can emulate it, just as you do the vagina.”

He turned away from her, bent over, and spread his buttock cheeks. “There,” he said, feeling like a patient about to get a prostate check.

She inspected him, stroking his buttocks and scrotum, feeling his penis from behind, sliding fingers across his rectum in a ticklish feather touch. Then she poked a moistened finger in, exploring the interior, much as he had done with her loosening vagina. She withdrew slightly, then thrust in deeper. It felt a lot like sex. His penis was starting to solidify yet again.

“There’s a sphincter,” he said. He tightened his own around her finger. “To hold in the—the refuse. You won’t need more than that, and a few inches depth to the cavity. Normally that portion of the colon is empty anyway.”

She focused, her finger sliding in and out, exploring the tube of his colon. Her other hand circled the thickening shaft of his penis as if measuring it for size. Then she withdrew and beckoned him. She turned around and bent over.

He checked. Now she had an anus behind her vagina. He licked his finger and poked it in. Her new aperture was correctly sized and lubricated, exactly right for the penetration of a penis. Precisely his size.

She clenched on him, demonstrating her sphincter. “You’ve got it,” he said, satisfied.

She turned and looked at his member. The exploration had given him an erection, as she had surely been aware. She had needed that erection to get the size right.

“Yes, sometimes men do penetrate the anus,” he said. “For variety. If the woman is willing.” But of course she had known this; it was hardly coincidence that she had measured him for it. To her, a hole in a woman was for the rod of the man.

She turned again, patting her bottom. So he did it, pushing his member carefully in. There was room for it, and it was tight, exactly like a vagina. She had simply copied that, and it really didn’t matter.

Then she clenched on him, and he thrust and ejaculated, slowly but intensely. She had graduated, again, making him perform.

But it was overtime to go. He put himself back together and departed, lest he or she get any more ideas and maybe get caught by some routinely passing personnel. It wasn’t being caught at sex he was concerned about, because surreptitious trysts were common wherever men had access to women; it was Medusa being caught in human form.

Next day he brought a wheelchair and clothing. No one questioned this; the personnel of the post were specialists with their own jobs to accomplish, and they assumed he was working on his. As he was, though not in the manner they might have supposed.

Medusa was crouched in her prior form. But when he arrived, she commenced a rapid transformation. Her short legs lengthened, her torso developed breasts, waist, and hips, and her head became human. The process took about fifteen minutes. He watched, amazed; she had evidently zeroed in on it and now could return to it relatively swiftly.

Then she drew herself up against the bars. There was another surprise: she was wearing a halter and panties, exactly like those of the calendar girl in a supplementary picture.

No. She had no underclothing. It was skin pigment, in effect painted on. The details of her nipples and vulva showed clearly.

“That’s impressive, Medusa,” he said. “But there are effects of clothing I don’t think you can duplicate. The material of a blouse stretches across the breasts, and masks them to an extent, flexing as she changes position. A skirt similarly wraps the legs, but shows them when she sits. Mere coloration won’t do that. Still, you may be able to dispense with the bra and panties if you find them objectionable. The color may do for that.”

She shrugged, a mannerism she had picked up from him.

He unlocked the gate and brought the clothing in. He dressed her, first in bra and panties, then in blouse and skirt. Then he had her sit in the wheelchair. He stood back and looked at her.

“Oh, Medusa, you look exactly like a lovely woman! The way your thighs show under that skirt—”

She spread her knees. She was offering.

Erik couldn’t help himself. He went to her, lifted her up, and embraced her, his penis stiffening. Then he had her remove the panties and skirt so they would not be creased or stained, and nudged into her standing as he clasped her firm buttocks with his hands. Her tight vagina massaged him and quickly evoked his climax. She had learned about sex and rapidly become very good at it.

When he was done, he brought tissues and mopped her vulva, explaining that she must not use her mouth to clean herself when in human company. She nodded.

“Actually, women do on occasion use their mouth on the man’s penis, just as he uses his mouth on her vulva, as the fiction and video showed,” he said. “But there’s no need for you to do that.” She had made her face look human, but inside was that grinder.

He garbed her again, and showed her the mechanism of the wheelchair. She quickly got the hang of pushing the wheels. This gave her mobility in the human manner. He also demonstrated how he could push the chair from behind, so she did not need to know where they might be going. This was important, because the layout of the base was complicated, and he would have to make their way through it without confusion.

“Another thing,” he said. “When we go out, you must be a helpless woman. No fighting. I will show you around, and you must simply smile and agree to whatever I say.”

She smiled and agreed.

At that point he realized something. He had stopped thinking of Medusa as an alien animal masquerading as a human woman, and started thinking of her as a girlfriend. Worse, he was falling in love with her. Utter folly, he knew, but she fascinated him. All his life he had been seriously intrigued by the possibility of alien sapience without ever expecting to encounter it. Now here it was.

Of course she was catering to him so she could escape. She might even hold him in contempt. His feeling was bound to be one-sided. But there it was.

He had confirmed that the post was to be closed in days. It was time for the terraforming of the planet, which meant that all human personnel would be evacuated to the orbiting colony ship while a program of preliminary extermination commenced. They had been cataloging local life forms, identifying any that were not wanted, targeting them with specific poisons. The planet would suffer a grievous extinction, with only approved plants and animals surviving the first round. Then would come the seeding of primitive Earth life forms to fill in the void. After a suitable waiting period the colonists would be landed, and they would start taking over the planet. The work of the military outpost would be done.

They had two days to get Medusa out. Her species had not been targeted, because Erik had issued no danger report on it. No one else knew of the sapience or shape changing.

“But Medusa,” he cautioned her. “When you get out you must warn your kind. They must flee to safety in distant places, avoiding the terraforming. If my kind ever learns about your kind, I mean your shape-changing and intelligence, your kind will be doomed. You must tell them that.”

“Mmmm.”

He had learned to interpret her sounds, to a degree. “They already know?”

Yes.

“Then how did you get caught?”

It turned out to be not an accident. They had needed to know more of human nature and potential, the better to avoid the threat it represented. She had allowed herself to be captured in animal form, hoping to be considered no more than a local predator. Once she knew enough, she had planned to change form and escape. But she hadn’t anticipated the closely barred cage, or the threat of early termination.

“Oh, Medusa, you risked your life!” he said. “Yet I can’t say I’m sorry, because it enabled me to get to know you.” He shook his head, bemused. “I realize that you are acting out of necessity, and surely care nothing for me personally. All you want is your freedom, and to help your people survive. But I—” He broke off, confused by his own emotion. “I wish it could have been otherwise. But I will help you all I can, both because I truly believe in treating alien sapients ethically, and because you have more than paid your way sexually. That was the deal you offered, and you have delivered.”

“Mmmm?”

“How do I feel about you personally? I think I love you, Medusa. You are a remarkable creature, but it’s more than that. It goes way beyond mere sex. When I embrace you—” He shrugged. “But I’m being foolish. I know it. So let’s get on with the business at hand. We need to get you safely out of here in the next day, so that when the exterminator comes for you, you are already back in the jungle with your own kind.”

“Mmmm?”

“Medusa, I told you! I have become foolishly attached to you. I wish I could have you with me always. I wish I could take you home to Earth with me. Hell, I wish I could marry you! You may be alien, but you’re more woman than I have ever known before or am likely to know in the future. Since I know any such relationship is ridiculous, let’s just forget it and get the job done.”

She nodded. They got to work perfecting her nuances of human femininity, so that she could pass long enough to get off-post. “I have gotten passes and tickets for two back to Earth,” he said. “If we are intercepted, I’ll say you are my girlfriend from town, going home with me. They’ll think you are a whore I have fallen for and they shouldn’t check more closely. If they try to question you, I’ll say you are suffering from throat congestion and can’t talk now. There’s bound to be confusion as they evacuate all the personnel, and corners are bound to be cut. I’m counting on that. We’ll head for the spaceport, which is in walking distance. I will walk the whole way; you will disappear along the way. The moment you’re alone you’ll be able to throw away the stupid clothing and revert to a more natural form and be on your way. No more silly six-inch holes for you.”

“Mmmm.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He stripped, and she stripped, and they lay on a mat on the floor and had at it in style, hugging, kissing, and climaxing. She had learned to emulate orgasm too, making it that much better for him. What he had told her was true: she had become a better woman than any real one was ever likely to be, because her whole focus was on pleasing him. Yes it was an act, but he wasn’t sure that wasn’t true for human women too. How many of them really cared for sex? They used it to reel men in, and the men were generally more than willing to be reeled. In this respect he and Medusa were typical.

“Oh, Medusa,” he breathed. “I think this is the last time. Tomorrow early I’ll take you out, and we dare not make any mistakes. You have been great!”

“Mmmm,” she agreed, seeming pleased.

But there was a foul-up in the schedule, unsurprising considering the complications of the evacuation, and the guard for the next shift did not appear. Such things happened.

No one was watching the ward.

Erik got a wicked idea. “Medusa, I want to take you out now. Not off-post; I mean to mix and meet people, to be sure you can pass when it counts. Can you handle that?”

She nodded.

He got her properly garbed and in the wheelchair. Then he wheeled her out of the cell and out of the ward. No one challenged them. Soon they were traveling into the residential section.

“The commissary,” he said. “Everyone goes there, and no one pays attention to others. It’s the perfect place to mix. We’ll go buy some food.”

The commissary was like a huge department store, with sections for clothing, tools, food, and anything else the post personnel might need to buy. It was like a piece of Earth, making him feel vaguely homesick.

Medusa looked around, plainly impressed. She had of course never been exposed to this type of facility.

“Let me buy you something,” he said. “What would you like to eat? You must not eat it here, but we can take it back to the cell.”

They were entering the produce section. There was an array of apples of many colors, imports from Earth. She pointed to a bag of red ones.

“Got it,” he said, picking up the bag. He held it up to the purchase sensor, which clicked as it entered the sale on his credit report. “We now own these apples,” he said. “Anything else?

She got into the spirit of shopping. In fact she evinced the delight of a child in a candy store. They wound up with a turnip, a squash, and a hand of bananas.

Back at the cell, he watched her consume them all. Evidently they had nutrients she had been missing.

“I’m sorry I don’t have the chance to teach you to read,” he said while he watched. “So you could have your own credit account and do your own shopping, back on Earth. Because I really would take you to Earth if I could, to show you to HETA, and—” He shrugged, not wanting to say openly that he longed for the kind of sex she could provide him with, that no human woman was likely to match.

She broke off and approached him, lifting her skirt. They had ardent sex. He could have sworn she enjoyed it as much as he did, had he not known better. Certainly she understood his desire for it, and catered shamelessly to that lust. She was a marvelous actress, emulating human mannerisms much as she did the human form.

“But of course I can’t,” he said. “I must free you to rejoin your kind, and help them save themselves if they can. I’ll miss you, Medusa, but I want you to be happy.”

At any rate, Medusa had passed her human-mixing test; no one had even noticed her, other than passing men whose eyes had lingered a bit too long on her blouse and legs. She had that kind of form. Erik was almost jealous of their attention.

Next day was the day. “Make or break,” he murmured. She offered him sex, but he declined with regret. “Have to get you out of here efficiently,” he explained. “Can’t risk any delay.”

He wheeled her out and across the base to the checkout point. He gave his ID. “Got to take her to the spaceport,” he said. “Private officer order, you know.” Medusa inhaled and let her knees spread slightly, on his cue. Officers did have special privileges, and woe betide the enlisted man who messed with them, regardless of regulations. They did not pause to question why a whore was being let out instead of in, perhaps because of those evocative breasts and legs. Medusa was truly a sight to behold, by no coincidence.

Just like that, they were through. All the things that could have gone wrong had not, thanks to the distraction of the ongoing evacuation. Lots of people were going to the spaceport.

He wheeled her off the main trail onto a winding forest path. No one was using it today, so it was private. He stopped in a rocky glade. “I guess this is goodbye, Medusa,” he said. “I love you. I hope you think of me occasionally. I know I’ll be thinking of you, back on Earth. I’ll do my best to get HETA to support your cause.”

Medusa got out of the chair, and removed her clothing. She would have no need of it hereafter. She stood braced against the chair. “Mmmm,” she said, presenting her luscious bare body.

“Medusa, don’t wait,” he said. “Someone could come at any time. Get away, disappear, and never look back. I’ll go on to the spaceport and board for Earth. Someone else will use the second ticket. So—”

She cut him off by stepping into him. She kissed him ardently, holding him close. Then her hand snaked down to find his fly. In a moment she had hold of his rapidly stiffening member. She intended to have sex.

“But you need to rejoin your people,” he protested.

She drew her face back. “Mmmm.” This time there was a different tone.

The boulder behind her opened three eyes. A treetrunk beyond it opened another triad. So did a nearby bush. Even a mossy patch on the ground did.

“Your people!” he exclaimed, amazed. “They’re here! Emulating plants and rocks along the way. I had no idea!” There were surely others along the path, who would warn them of the approach of any other humans. They had privacy of a sort. But why?

She loosened his belt and drew down his trousers. In a moment he was naked below the waist. She removed his shirt. Soon he was completely bare, with an urgently standing erection. She meant to have sex while her kind was watching.

“Oh—so they know how to do it,” he said, catching on. “So they too can emulate human women, and be with men. So that when the colonists come, your people will be able to hide among them, undiscovered.”

“Mmmm,” she agreed. She got down before him and put her face to his groin. She took the tip of his rigid member into her mouth.

“But you don’t have the—” he protested, afraid for the moment that she might grind his member off.

She took him in the rest of the way. There was no grinder; it felt just like another vagina. She had rearranged that aspect of her anatomy too, at least for this occasion. She massaged him, and in moments the urgency rose and his orgasm was upon him.

Just before the climax, she removed her mouth and let him spurt into the air. That was the first time she had teased him like that.

But she wasn’t finished. Now she brought him down on an eyeless patch of moss and hugged and kissed him, making him respond. She put his hands on her breasts and buttocks, then had him lick her vulva, turning him on. She was going to make him perform again, for the eyes of her people, so they could know the whole route. From foreplay through finish, from penetration through ejaculation. That bothered him on one level, but she was so ardent that he couldn’t help but respond.

She was doing this so her kind would know exactly how to handle a human man sexually, yes. But once she had done so, what further need would she have for him? Would her folk release him, knowing what he did about their potentials? He had never been sure of her feelings, but had been prepared to let her go, having done his best for her. Now he had to wonder: would she let him go?

She evoked his full erection, and turned her back, guiding it to her anus. He pushed in, but was not able to climax yet; it was too soon, and he was too uncertain of her motive. In a moment she drew off him, whether satisfied or disappointed he could not tell. She changed position and put her breasts to his face, letting him fondle them and kiss the nipples. She was still charging him up, playing him for the second orgasm. It was working despite his misgivings. If he had to die, this was the way he wanted to do it, in a minor orgy of fulfillment with this goddess of ecstasy. Then she embraced him full-length, putting his member to her vagina but not inside it, teasingly. She had him lie on his back, and straddled him, setting the tip of his member at her cleft, taking it in a little, then out, then in a bit deeper. Oh, the others were getting their triple eyes full, seeing every detail of the staged penetration. But now at last he was working up to his orgasm.

She felt it, being marvelously sensitive to his condition. She lay on her back and had him mount her from above. He thrust deeply into her, repeatedly, as she wrapped her arms and legs about him. He climaxed, figuratively spewing his guts out of him and into her. She kissed him while taking it all in, every last spurt.

At last he faded, sexually exhausted. The watchers had seen it all. What was next? All the eyes were closed, and there was no indication of anything other than nature. They were so good at hiding that he hardly believed he had ever seen the eyes. They must have been closely observing the passing humans all along, and never giving themselves away. Until they had shown him.

Medusa disengaged. She wiped herself up and put on her clothing, while he donned his. So this was not the end, yet.

She got back into the wheelchair. “But you don’t need this,” he said. “In your natural form, whatever it is, you don’t need any human artifacts.”

“Mmmm,” she said, putting her hands to the wheels and starting to move forward.

He quickly took hold of the handles in back and began pushing her along. “But Medusa, where do you want to go?” he asked, bemused. “This is the way to the spaceport.”

“Mmmm.”

Could it be? That not only were they freeing him, in the manner he had sought to free her, but that she was coming with him? To Earth?

“You want to make the case to HETA!” he exclaimed. “Demonstrating the truth of my statement. That you are sapient!”

“Mmmm,” she agreed as they came in sight of the spaceport.

This was almost too good to be true. “But what of me? Of us? You would have to live with me, to hide effectively on Earth. Because there’s so much more there that you’ve never seen. It’s like the commissary, only the size of a planet.” He remembered how much she had liked the commissary. “It would take years before you could even hope to live independently, even if you don’t want to return to your home. I’d have to fake the ID and marry you, to give us cover.”

“Mmmm.”

“And you know I would want sex and more sex, all the time. Because you’re simply the best sexual partner I could ever dream of. In fact the best woman I could ever get to romance. I love you! I’d be telling you that all the time, between sexual efforts. Could you stand that?”

She reached up behind her with one hand, caught his head, and drew his face down to hers. She kissed him. He felt the passion. He knew she didn’t have to show it, because he was already emotionally captive and she knew it. Did she really mean it?

“You actually like it?” he asked, pleasantly astonished. “The sex?”

“Mmmm.” And it sounded like “That, too.”

Note: When I placed “Serial” with Excessica, I learned more about that publisher. They made their money by pushing donated material. So I gave them “Juliet”, then contributed to two of their provocative erotic anthologies. “Medusa” was one of them, sex with an alien creature, as I warned in the Caution, written in December 2009. I never saw the anthology for which it was destined, Divine Matches, and remain curious what other stories it contained.

Caution: graphic degrading abnormal sex

13. Rat Bait

“This is ridiculous, Lita,” Solita exclaimed. “Your bed at night is just about the safest place you can be.”

The child was adamant. “But there’s a horny monster, mommy! It will come closer tonight; I know it. It grabs my knees and pulls my legs apart and licks me. It’s going to do something awful to me.”

Solita blanched inwardly. This sounded like a memory of sexual abuse, but that was impossible; she was close to her seven-year-old daughter and made sure she was never exposed to anything like that. Her husband was serving overseas, but she knew absolutely that he would never be guilty of any such thing; he was a completely moral man. So it must be some scary tale told by a classmate in school that had caught Lita’s imagination and terrified her. Solita hoped that “horny” meant that it had a horn, like a rhino.

This was their second day in this newly rented house, and the price had been cheaper because of rumors that it was haunted. Solita had no truck with such notions, of course. Yet now a thin thread of doubt was creeping in. Could there really be a haunt?

This needed to be dealt with promptly and firmly. “Lita, I have watched you as you sleep. Nothing has touched you.”

“But it has, mommy! You just can’t see it.”

Definitely imagination, maybe. “I’ll prove it. Tonight I’ll sleep in that bed and you can sit up in the chair until you are satisfied that there is nothing to fear. Okay?”

“Okay!” the child agreed gladly.

They changed places. Lita sat in the chair beside the bed, and Solita lay on the bed and drew the sheet up over her. She closed her eyes as for sleep. She was sure this would not take long.

But she was more tired than she realized, and in moments was asleep. Then something grabbed her left ankle.

Her eyes snapped open. There was Lita sitting in the chair, watching. There was Solita’s body under the sheet. Nothing was grabbing her ankle. Nothing visible.

Another hand caught her right ankle. It was big and coarse-fingered, with hard calluses on the palm. Yet still nothing was visible. What was going on?

The two hands clamped down hard, compressing her flesh. “Ow!” she exclaimed. But no sound came out.

Solita tried to sit up, to sweep away the sheet and discover what the hell was happening with her feet. But her body did not move. She was paralyzed. Now she realized that her eyes weren’t really open, either; she was seeing what she expected to see. She was in some kind of dream-frozen state, the kind that prevented people from thrashing around when dreaming. She could not move or speak.

The hands exerted brutal force, wedging her legs apart. She tried to resist, but the hands had more leverage than she did, and her legs inevitably parted.

“No!” she cried, soundlessly. She was helpless to stop it, or even to protest.

Now she understood what her daughter had tried to tell her. A lustful monster was attacking her, and it intended to do something awful. It was indeed horny in the physical and sexual sense. Lita did not understand that aspect, but Solita did: it was out for rape.

She fought with all her might, focusing on her legs, willing them to close. And they did! She was discovering how to resist the monster! It was psychic rather than physical, and she had to oppose it on its own turf, or suffer psychic rape.

The problem with rape was only partly the physical penetration. Things entered a woman’s vagina all the time, ranging from her own fingers as she washed to the instrument of an examining gynecologist. To the hard penis of a man, which was fine if it belonged to a husband or boyfriend and was welcome. It became rape when it was unwelcome. The damage was generally psychological rather than physical. Her personal space was being violated, her will overridden.

That was what was threatening here. A psychic monster was determined to have psychic sex with her against her will. Therefore it was rape. But she somehow knew that if she could just hold on long enough, keeping her legs psychically as well as physically closed, she could prevent it.

She was succeeding. She was keeping herself closed to intrusion. The hands were straining at her ankles but not making headway. She was winning!

Then the bottom of the bed fell out. Her legs dropped down into a hole. She flung out her arms and caught the sides of the bed, hanging on, preventing herself from falling all the way in. She knew that this was figurative rather than literal, that her physical body was still lying serenely horizontal, showing no sign of motion. But her psychic body was in deadly danger, and that was the one she had to protect.

The gross hands yanked on her ankles, hauling her downward. She clung tight, aware that this was a new aspect of the struggle. If she fell all the way into the hole, she would be ravished by the invisible demon and hopelessly sullied. It might not show on her physical body, but psychically she would know she had been raped, exactly as if she had been physically abused. She had to hang on!

Now the hands resumed hauling her legs apart. In this position she lacked the leverage to keep them closed. Slowly they separated, and something blocked them apart. It felt like a gross apelike head. The hands were now free to move on up.

She couldn’t put her own hands down to stop them, because she couldn’t let go of her desperate grip on the sides of the bed beyond the hole. She had to suffer the handling.

And handling it was. The fingers moved up inside her legs, past the knees, and on to her thighs. They stroked and squeezed, evidently appreciating her unwilling flesh. She tried to lift her legs clear, but immediately the hands gripped her knees, holding them down, and she lacked the strength to get free. All she could do was stay where she was, refusing to be drawn down into the hole.

The head turned its gross face to her left knee. A hot slimy tongue licked it, and around her leg. It felt like oral sex—with her knee. She tried again to yank it free, but could not. Disgusted, she gave up the effort and let the monster slurp, fouling her leg with his saliva.

Now the hands slid up to her crotch. Fingers hooked into her panties and dragged them down, and she couldn’t stop it. They cleared her hips and thighs and came down to her knees. They could not go farther, because the head blocked the way. That was some small relief.

She heard a munching sound, and realized that the monster must be eating her panties. So much for relief!

The hands moved up again. This time they found her bared bottom and stroked her buttocks. They squeezed, savoring the flesh. Solita knew herself to be a well-proportioned woman, having kept herself in shape, but she had never intended to be appreciated in quite this manner, and she was disgusted. But she couldn’t even try to stop it unless she let go of the bed, and she did not dare do that. So she remained vulnerable to the lecherous interest of the monster.

The hands slid around to her vulva and drew the lips of it apart. It seemed she was being examined. The eyes of the head must be peering into her open cleft. Then a horny finger poked into her vagina. It was as big and hard as a normal man’s phallus. She tried to clench her vaginal muscles to bar it, but could not. It shoved up into her until the full length of it was embedded. She felt horribly distended. It moved about, pushing against the internal walls. The thing was having finger sex with her!

If the monster thought that was a turn-on for her, he was mistaken. She was utterly turned off. Or maybe that was the point: to degrade her until she simply had to try to use her hands to resist.

That was not the worst of it. Now the head moved up, its bovine-sized tongue licking at her thighs, crawling onward like a giant slug. It reached her open cleft and slobbered greedily across it, coating it with thick gooey spit. It tickled her clitoris. Such an action by a man she loved could have evoked her orgasm, but as it was, it made her want to retch. And still she could not act to stop it.

The hands moved up farther, sliding across her belly and back. Where were they going?

She found out all too soon. They came to her breasts and lasciviously fondled them, lifting, squeezing, pulling. “No!” she wanted to cry, but could not make a sound.

It got worse. The head moved up until the demon face was at her chest. The tongue licked her breasts all over, thoroughly coating them. Almost, she let go of the bed and grabbed the horrid thing to haul it away from her. Her breasts were special in ways her genitalia were not. But she knew that was what the monster wanted. He was trying to tease her into doing exactly that, so she would fall into the hole and become his complete captive. She still had to endure the disgusting process.

The mouth focused on her left nipple. The demon closed on it and sucked, hard. Soon it felt as if half her breast was inside that orifice, and still he sucked as if trying to swallow her whole mammary. Again, done by a lover, this could have worked her up toward a climax, but as it was, the effect was opposite. She felt like vomiting, but refused to give the thing the satisfaction of making her so obviously sick.

Finally the face withdrew. Was it leaving at last? No such luck. It returned to her vulva, and the tongue ran into her vagina, pressing it open, forcing its slimy mass on in.

Again it shoved, as the finger had, ramming into her helpless aperture. Now she felt really distended, as though her belly was bowing outward from the incredible mass of the thing inside her. So it wasn’t actually physical; it still felt like a flesh-pulping rape. She had never had sex like this, and wished she could somehow cut off the obscene tongue and spit it out of her body. But it was having its sickening will of her.

At last it withdrew, sliding slowly out like a spent penis, letting her stretched vagina contract back to an approximation of normalcy. Was the nightmare finally over?

Then it slurped across her anus, greasily lubricating it, and pushed while the hands held her buttocks apart so that the face could nudge in closer. Her revulsion multiplied: it was going after her ass. She tried to resist, to clamp her sphincter muscle, but the serpentine thing just kept licking and poking, wedging in bit by bit. She made a supreme effort and managed to close her rectum off so that the tongue could not get more than the greasy tip through. She was stopping it!

The hands reached up and touched her ribs. The fingers tickled wickedly. “Aaa!” she screamed, for she had always been hyper-ticklish there. And in that moment her sphincter relaxed and the tongue got in another inch. That gave it leverage, and though she clamped down again, hard, it slowly expanded, oozing slippery oily saliva, until it breached her defense and got the rest of the way inside. Now it coursed on through like a cruising serpent, an endless python, invading her colon, completing the conquest. It wrestled around in her intestine, probing this way and that, as if tasting every part of it. It stirred her gut from inside, reaching far along her alimentary tract, stroking it in unspeakable ways.

Solita gritted her teeth, literally, as she suffered this obscene intrusion. But yet again she knew she could not afford to let go of the bed, lest she be sucked down and trapped in the void below. The monster was doing its best to overwhelm her determination, but she somehow knew that if it succeeded, she would be doomed.

The tongue continued, withdrawing somewhat, then thrusting in again, repeatedly stroking the channel, like a phallus seeking its culmination. It went on and on, in and out, sliding through her system, stirring her gut, almost fondling her rectum as it pulsed through its constriction. What was the point? As it was, she was beginning to get a reaction, much as she hated the notion.

Then she had a flash of realization: the thing was trying to stimulate her into orgasm! To make her really have sex with it, in this loathsome fashion. That must be its way of truly possessing her. The vagina had failed, the clitoris had failed, the breasts had failed, but this time it would not relent.

She had to resist it. She tried, but it had finally found a way to turn her on. That was the ultimate obscenity: overwhelming her repulsion as well as her body. She fought as hard as she could, but that imperative pumping was evoking a reaction she had not known she was capable of: sexual pleasure from the anus.

The realization, perversely, caused the effect to intensify. She absolutely hated it, but could not prevent it. She was riding a hot greased flexing pole, and it was making her react. She built into a phenomenal anal orgasm.

“Ooooo!” she cried soundlessly, in mixed revulsion and guilty pleasure, as her body pulsed in response to the continued thrusting of the huge tongue. Her whole lower body seemed to explode into ugly rapture, making her too breathless to moan again. Her anus squeezed the tongue, relaxed, squeezed again, as the siege continued. The tongue, too, expanded and contracted rhythmically, feeding her climax, extending it amazingly. Her ass was one huge filthy font of ecstasy.

At last it passed, and she shuddered into relaxation. She knew she would be forever appalled by what had happened and her reaction, but also that it was the wildest orgasm of her life. She was ashamed, yet also supremely sated. She had never imagined that she could ever suffer such a foul intrusion, yet derive such delinquent delight from it.

And the tongue, evidently satisfied, withdrew. It slid out of her tract like an extended turd and was finally gone. The monster was departing, having had his will of her in more than one manner.

Now she felt strangely depleted, as if more than her relative naiveté had been taken from her. What had the monster seized, apart from her reluctant passion? She dreaded the answer.

Then it came to her: the demon had stolen her innocence. She was adult, and sexually seasoned, but now she knew that she had known almost nothing and experienced less. She had been forcibly introduced to her own ugliest buried lust. Because despite her horror of the process, she had in a perverted manner liked it.

She slept, emotionally exhausted, and did not wake until morning. There was Lita, watching her. “Did it come?” she asked anxiously.

She could not lie about this. “Yes it came, dear.” She was aware there was more than one meaning there, but that couldn’t be helped. She also was not about to tell her innocent daughter of the monstrous degradation she had suffered. That would be her secret, preferably for life. She had had sex often enough, and understood its variations; the violation had been of her will more than her body. Indeed, her body was untouched. It was her spirit that had been dirtied. “You were right: there is a monster.”

“I knew it! Did you make it go away?”

“Not yet, dear,” Solita said grimly. Because she knew the demon would inevitably come again, in both senses. They had to be rid of the monster, lest it inflict even more unspeakable things on her and her daughter.

She was sure the demon was only pausing between degradations, and had her marked for more and worse. She had to stop it, preferably permanently. But how could she balk a thing that could not be seen or touched in the mortal realm? She needed help.

She moved into the morning routine, acting far more upbeat than she felt. Lita had faith in her, and she had to justify that. But how?

Once Lita was off at the school, Solita repaired to the phone book. There it was, under MAGIC: a small local shop. Somehow she had known that it dealt in more than magic tricks.

She went there. The proprietor was an older woman with a supremely homely face and body. “I need a—a demon repellent,” she said.

The proprietress did not laugh. “What kind of demon?”

“A sexual predator. The kind that preys upon women in bed.” Would the woman laugh?

“An incubus. They are repelled only by sexual repulsiveness.” She glanced appraisingly at Solita. “You don’t qualify.”

So it was no secret who had the problem. “Then what will work?”

“Nothing will repel it once it has oriented on a particular subject. Do you comprehend the nature of these demons?”

All too well, erotically. But that was not the question. “No.”

“They are immortal sexual spirits that seek sexual prey. They don’t care whether it is single, married, or juvenile, only that it is desirable by their standard. They try to take over a woman by forcing her to have orgasms with them, one per night. Three nights, and they take possession of her soul. Then they can preempt her physical body, and assume mortal form. The woman, of course, is doomed; she becomes the host for the incubus. It is not a pretty fate.”

“It is not,” Solita agreed grimly. “What will kill it?”

“Nothing will kill it. As I said, it is immortal. But there are measures that can be taken to nullify it. Are you interested?”

“Yes,” Solita said guardedly. The woman was angling for something.

“There is a potion that will trap an incubus in much the same manner as he traps an innocent mortal woman. That is to say, if he orgasms three times in its presence, it locks on him, and he becomes the sex slave of the one who fashioned the potion. Any portions of a mortal soul he has garnered are forfeit, returned to their source. The problem is getting him to deliver those orgasms in the right context. Demons are generally canny about such things.”

“You made the potion!” Solita said, catching on.

“If he orgasms in the potion, regardless who contains it, he will become the sex slave of an unattractive woman,” she agreed. “A fate worse than death for him.”

“But he’s huge and gnarly and insatiable,” Solita said. “He slobbers and thrusts with finger, tongue, and I am sure phallus once he gets it into play. What woman would want that?”

“The difference is that she controls him, not vice versa. He must do as she bids, constantly. He will react to it much as you react to him: with helpless revulsion. The pleasure will be all hers.”

Solita thought of the way she had been forced into orgasm via the tongued anus. She was disgusted anew, but she could appreciate how a certain type of woman might like that treatment, provided she had control. It would serve the demon right. “What does this potion cost?”

“For you, nothing. You would be doing me a favor. For him, everything.”

Solita smiled. “I believe we have a deal.”

The woman fetched a small ornate bottle containing a dark fluid. “One caution. You must get him to orgasm three times by your own third. Otherwise you will not have a chance to refresh the potion before he indulges again on another night.”

“I get it,” Solita said, shuddering. “How can I do that?”

“If you appear willing, or at least resigned, he will give you some freedom. He takes sex as he can get it, but he prefers it with a woman who is not constantly fighting him. It’s not that he cares for her emotionally; he doesn’t. She is merely his vessel of lust. But it costs him energy to control her, which subtracts from his fulfillment. You do not want to seem eager, because that will be suspicious, but if you give up and let him have anything he wants without resistance, perhaps in the vain hope that he will then release you, he will take it. The first orgasm may even make him eager for another, in a different venue.”

“Like going from vagina to anus?”

“Or throat,” the woman agreed. “They like variety, and they can be quite imaginative.”

Just so. “How do I apply this?”

“Put some in any likely avenue, and renew daily. His substance must touch it as he orgasms. He will not be aware of it, and it will have no effect on you. It is spiritual bait.”

“Like rat bait,” Solita said. “The rat eats this tasty treat, and it has no apparent effect, so next day it eats some more, and it has no effect. By the third day it is too late; it has thinned the blood, and the rat will die.”

“A nice analogy,” the woman agreed.

“Something that perplexes me,” Solita said. “He did not have full sex with me. Instead he—he used his hands and tongue. Why didn’t he use his penis?”

“The powers that be decree that a victim must have a fair chance to escape. So the incubus can bring his penis into play only gradually. The first night with a given subject he can reach his penis no higher than her knees. The second night, her genital region. The third night, her head. If she flees after the first night, by traveling across a sea where he can’t follow, she escapes his phallus. If she flees after the second night, she saves her soul. But by the third night, she is his.”

That explained a lot. The demon had used his tongue for sex because it was the only organ he could get into her body. But she would not be that lucky again.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I will be sending him to you in a few days, I hope.”

“I will be expecting him,” the woman said grimly. “And thank you.”

Solita took the bottle home. In the evening she uncorked it and poured some potion on her hand. It was a translucent elixir, like a hair conditioner, but odorless. She swabbed it into her vagina, then put some on a bit of cloth and pushed it into her anus so that it would deposit the potion. Unsatisfied that this sufficed, she fetched a small syringe and squeezed a few drops in. Finally she swallowed some, trusting that it would suitably coat her mouth and throat. It was tasteless, but she hoped potent. As an afterthought she spread some on her breasts, especially around the nipples, just in case.

“What are you doing, mommy?”

Oops. She hadn’t been aware that Lita was paying attention. “Just applying some lotion.”

“Can I have some too?”

Oops again. Yet wouldn’t it make sense to protect her daughter too, just in case? Lita had been spared despoilment only by the rule that restricted the demon to her legs the first night. “You may if you wish.”

Lita took some potion and poked it carefully into her several orifices, copying what she had observed. To her it was a game. “Are you going to sleep in the bed again? The monster might come.”

“I believe the potion will discourage the monster.” That was true in essence, the same way rat bait discouraged rats by sickening or killing them. The incubus would not be sickened or killed, but would be enslaved, and that was perhaps fitting. She suspected the magic shop proprietress had some bizarre sexual tastes. Why else would she want the forced attentions of a thing like this? The only liability was that Solita would have to suffer seemingly willing sex with the horny incubus. She was sure that would not be fun.

“Oh. Okay.” The child lost interest. That was an excellent sign.

That night Solita lay on the bed again, and Lita took the couch. Her heart was pounding. Would this sexual ploy work, or had the shop sold her a bill of goods? Would the demon take the bait? There were so many uncertainties.

And the incubus came. She couldn’t see him in the darkness, but smelled his dusky odor. She was perversely relieved. She hated gratifying his infernal lust, but she also wanted vengeance for what he had inflicted on her already. She wanted him doomed the same way he sought to doom her.

He caught her feet and pulled her legs apart. Solita did not try to resist. She was almost satisfied. Now she had a role to play.

“Why don’t you just do it fast and go away?” she asked soundlessly. “Since I can’t stop you anyway, you obscene spook.”

She felt the demon pause, considering. Then to her surprise he spoke, similarly soundlessly. “Spread your legs and arms.”

She did, lying supine, exposed. “Fast,” she repeated. “I hate it and it want it over.” Which was true, if not the whole truth.

“I will do it as pleases me, slut.” He mounted her from above. The gulf did not open up below the bed. It seemed he wanted her to be supported by the bed so he could more readily do the deed. That was another relief; she had hated being suspended while her body was exposed to his lascivious attentions.

“It doesn’t please me,” she said. “I just want to get it over with so you’ll leave me alone.” This was emotional resistance, which was probably a turn-on for this brute.

“I will never leave you alone, wench.”

“Then why should I cooperate?” she demanded, and tried to close her arms and legs.

But it was of course too late. He merely touched her limbs, and they seemed to be manacled in place. It was evidently easier for him to paralyze her than to pry her open against her resistance.

He oriented his huge hard phallus, then rammed it into her full depth. It was a bruising penetration.

“It hurts!” she protested, with no exaggeration. But she did not try to resist further in any way.

“Great!” He thrust hard, withdrew, and thrust again, harder. She felt as if she were being impaled on a massive stake, like an ancient Assyrian victim. The thing was shoving impossibly far into her, displacing her internal organs. How big was it—nine inches, a foot, and wide in proportion? The tongue had been bad, but this was worse. If this had been physical, she would have to have restorative surgery. She let her tears flow, not having to fake her pain.

The worst of it was that she knew her extreme physical and emotional discomfort pleased the demon, enhancing his pleasure of the occasion. He wanted her to suffer.

In moments his orgasm came upon him. A huge amount of burning hot fluid coursed into her body, setting her on fire.

She screamed in agony as the blazing mass suffused her abdomen, but did not resist.

“You’ll do,” he grunted as his monstrous emission ebbed.

She hoped so. He had just had his first orgasm in the potion, while she had not. She had gained a point, as it were.

He withdrew his member. Another bad aspect was that she discovered she could not let the bolus of ejaculate flow back out. It was solidifying inside her as it cooled, keeping her tissues horribly stretched.

Now, temporarily depleted, the incubus focused on the rest of her body. His gross face came down on her breasts, taking them halfway in one at a time. He licked and sucked like a monstrous baby.

She twisted under him as if trying to escape his attention, but only succeeded in pushing one breast farther into his mouth. “Damn,” she swore, though she was pleased. She was working him up again, still without her own orgasm.

The incubus slid his face on up her body until it was opposite hers. She could not see him in the darkness, but she felt his rancid breath. Oh shit, she thought. He’s going to kiss me.

He kissed her, and she firmed her lips though the contact sickened her. She wanted him to continue working himself up, after all. So he would have another orgasm in the potion.

Then she had a scary thought: if he did it again in her vagina, would it be effective? Or would the potion there be used up? Surely he wouldn’t, because it was already swollen with that bolus of goo. But if, perversely, he did?

“You’ll do,” he repeated. “Now stand on your head.”

“I can’t do that!” she protested. “I was never good at sports of any kind. I just fall over.”

He did not argue. He simply got to his feet on the bed, put his hands on her hips, and hauled her into the air. He set her down on her head. She instinctively put down her hands to brace herself, and discovered she was doing it: she was standing on her head.

“Now spread your legs in a V,” he ordered.

She tried and succeeded. It seemed she could do things in her spiritual state she couldn’t even try in her physical state. She was standing on her head with her legs spread in a V formation.

Did this bring her head into the range of his penis? She suspected it didn’t, because the ban was not exactly directional. He simply could not make her do fellatio. Yet.

He kneeled behind her and put his face down into her open cleft. He slobbered all across it, then ran his tongue into her packed vagina and her empty rectum. She was unable to resist, because her hands were occupied maintaining her balance, her legs were locked apart, and she wanted him to get turned on whatever way he could without stimulating her to a matching orgasm. If tasting her holes did it, then so be it.

He stood, leaned over her, and put his giant member to her vulva. Was he going it inject another bolus there? She would burst asunder! No, to her mixed relief he oriented on her lubricated anus and bore down. His member rammed past the involuntarily tight sphincter and into the colon like a pylon being pounded into the ground. The pain was terrible.

She screamed in agony, but the brutal penetration continued. A foot long? It had grown! It felt like eighteen inches, six thick, mercilessly jamming down into her inverted guts. No wonder he had made her assume this position: without solid bracing, she could have risen to the ceiling instead of taking in this monster. She was already inflated by the bowling-ball sized mass of ejaculate in her locked vagina; now she was doubly distended by the sheer mass of the member. She was amazed that her flesh could handle it without tearing. But of course this too was different in the spirit mode: she was not limited by the limits of flesh. Down and down it drove, until she almost feared it would come out of her mouth.

At last it stopped, though her whole belly felt bloated. It paused a moment, then drew back slightly. Was he starting his thrusting toward his second climax? It seemed too soon, but of course he was not subject to mortal limits, and it was already as thick and hard as a phallus could get. So maybe he could do it now.

He shoved down again, and she felt her intestines squishing to the sides, forced out of the way. He withdrew, and thrust, and again her innards roiled. But the pace did not pick up in the manner of a developing climax, and she concluded that he was after all not yet ready.

He bent forward and down without dislodging his member, his upper body folding until it pressed against her front. What was he doing?

Then she felt his mouth at her breasts, which here hanging upside down. Oh, that again. He sucked in a nipple and masticated it with his course lips. As he did, she felt his massive penis throb within her. He was getting stimulation from the oral contact. That was, she supposed good. She dreaded his next emission, but she needed to evoke it, the sooner the better.

He moved across and mouthed the other nipple. His member pulsed again. He took in as much of the breast as he could, and his penis seemed to expand. So he was getting there, slowly. Fortunately she was not. How could she, in such an awkward position, her body stuffed like a holiday turkey?

Then he brought his hands to her sides and stroked her ribs. Oh, no, he was going to tickle her again! “Please don’t!” she pleaded.

But he did. He tickled her exquisitely. She burst into helpless laughter, feeling her body convulse against his rigid member. That was what he wanted: to make her do the work for his deeper penetration. She had no choice but to oblige. She compressed his penis with her involuntary agitation. This was not at all comfortable for her, but she did feel some further twitching as it responded.

Still the phallus was not quite there. Even immortal sex demons needed time to recover. That was too bad. Maybe he needed time to secrete another gallon of ejaculate for his next emission.

His hands left her tortured ribs and found her breasts, taking eager handfuls. His head lowered farther. His gross face came up against hers. They were both upside down, his knees at her back, his hands on her breasts, his penis wedged deep in her innards, yet this seemed like another novelty. He kissed her mouth. She kissed back. Anything to get him to climax and get the hell out of her before she suffered terminal distention!

His lips pried hers apart. Oh, damn! He was going to penetrate her this way too. His tongue snaked through and entered her mouth, much as it had entered her colon before. It tasted like a dog turd. It circulated around her mouth, exploring. Then it stretched on to her throat. It touched the back of it.

She choked as her gag reflex was triggered. She tried to vomit, but the tongue swelled to block her throat, preventing it. She heaved helplessly, unable to complete her puking. She felt her breasts pushing against his hands as her bottom clenched against his groin. Her whole body was rocking with the force of her frustrated nausea.

And she felt his member swelling again. Her convolutions of sickness were doing what her tickling reactions had not. They were at last evoking his climax. Aroused, his penis thrust and thrust again, storming through the violent contractions of her belly.

He came. She felt another bolus forging through the massive pipeline, powering down to the terminus, and finally bursting out below. On and on it surged, a seemingly endless gushing of molten lava, inflating her like a tortured balloon.

And that evoked her response. She hated it, but amidst the throes of her helpless gagging and the pain of her burning large intestine she was suffering a sexual reaction. Something about all that hot semen making her belly swell horrendously turned her awfully on. His climax was triggering hers.

She came. Her colon rhythmically compressed his pumping member, squeezing the rest of the ejaculate out of the spout. Her throat swallowed his tongue, squeezing it similarly. Her enlarging breasts seemed about to squirt milk into his hands. She was transfixed by a total body orgasm.

They faded together, she on her head, he wrapped around her, anchored at genitalia and mouths. She cursed it, because it was utterly disgusting, and she had wanted to make him spurt without doing the equivalent herself. She had gained a point, as it were, only to lose it immediately.

Yet it had been another transcendent experience, the most violent, weird, and powerful climax she had ever had. The very notion repelled her, but she could be acquiring a taste for demon sex.

He withdrew tongue and phallus at last, leaving her feeling like a tick swollen with blood into the form of a cherry. She collapsed onto the bed, lying on her back because of the severe fullness of her belly. Even late-term pregnancy had not been like this! His thick semen filled her completely, front and back, and she wasn’t sure how she would ever get it all out. She felt her crotch with her fingers and found her avenues sealed.

He ran his coarse hands over her body, appreciating the continuing fullness thereof. Maybe he regarded it as his work of art. He squeezed her breasts as though they were succulent fruits. It seemed that even that giant second emission had not completely depleted his erotic interest. She would have laughed, had it been funny.

Then he lay on her, cruelly squishing her body under his, kissing her. She felt like roadkill flattened on the highway, her guts splayed to the sides, but she remembered to firm her quivering lips. “One more night, my love,” he murmured. “Then you will be mine completely.”

That was exactly the problem. How could she get ahead of him, orgasmically, when his foul climax triggered hers?

She slept. She was uncomfortable as hell, with his gross weight on her bursting belly, but there wasn’t much else to do. His flaccid penis lay against her vulva, lacking the rigidity to enter. She ignored it. Maybe he would tire of her inattention to his efforts. But he continued kissing her, every so often running his tongue in again. It was almost like nauseating love play.

In the morning she woke alone, to find her body slender, and no evidence of sex, let alone inflation by noxious fluids. It had all been spiritual, not physical. That did not make it more comfortable to consider.

Especially since a part of her already wanted to do it again. Yea, even the fluid stuffing, even the squishing. There was something horribly erotic about such masochism. Maybe it was the evil in her that craved sin. Did she really want to destroy the incubus?

“Are you all right, mommy?” Lisa asked solicitously.

And there was her reason to wipe out the demon. To stop him from finishing with Solita and moving on to Lita. She knew he would. He did not care about Lita being an innocent child. She was pretty and she had orifices. He had no conscience, by definition. Just a giant phallus and a gigantic warped sexual desire. He had to be stopped.

“Yes, now I am, dear,” she replied.

That evening she dosed herself again with the potion, liberally covering all points of possible interest. The incubus had raped her vaginally and anally; he would most likely do her orally next time. She wasn’t keen on having that monstrous member jamming down her throat, but if that was what it took to be rid of him, she was ready. She was two thirds lost, but so was he; if she could make him climax first, without joining him, she would win. Everything depended on this third night.

She slept. The incubus came. He wasted no time in addressing her, as had been the case before; it was his second orgasm that caused him to become infernally creative, as he slowly worked himself up.

“On your back,” he ordered. “Spread.”

What, normal sex? She obliged, spreading her arms and legs. But he got on her inverted, his phallus at her face, his face at her vulva. She should have known. “Take it in.”

She took the head of his member into her mouth. She had been mistaken about its size; it was big, but not over two inches in diameter. Or maybe he simply sized it smaller to fit the desired aperture.

“Suck.”

She sucked. The thing expanded, but still fit in her mouth. So far so good; this could bring him to climax but would have no effect on her.

He put his face down and addressed her cleft. As before, he licked completely across it, and ran his tongue into her vagina and then her colon. Doglike, he liked to sniff and taste it first. This time she managed to keep her anal sphincter loose to facilitate it. The longer she could distract him, the more likely he was to climax before getting around to evoking hers. The contact was actually halfway pleasant. That was dangerous.

He shoved his member farther into her mouth. It touched the back, and she gagged again. That wasn’t pleasant! But as before, with the tongue, it swelled to block her vomit, and she was unable to complete the reflex. The phallus slid on down into her throat, filling it, cruelly dilating it. She could no longer breathe, but it seemed she did not need to breathe in the spiritual state, because she remained fully conscious and not actually that uncomfortable. She could do this: she could bring him off in her throat and finally be rid of him.

Then he addressed her clitoris. He fastened on it and sucked. Hard. It felt as if he was trying to pull it out of her body. But rather than being painful, the effect was evocative. She felt her sexual urgency forming and rapidly increasing.

Oh, no! He was going to bring her off first! She couldn’t afford that.

She swallowed his member, squeezing it as firmly as she could. She writhed, trying to add to the stimulus. She needed to put more effort into his groin than he put into hers.

But he kept sucking, and her cursed clitoris kept responding. She couldn’t stop it; she was going into her orgasm. Damn!

She came. Her pelvis jerked though there was nothing inside it, and her pulses raced. Rapture radiated from her clitoris, extending through the rest of her vulva and into her vagina and colon. And on through the rest of her body. She was losing her soul, but what joy there was in the process!

The incubus reacted to her climax. He liked to have her in whole-system motion, whether from ticklishness, retching, or orgasm. He thrust hard down her throat, once, twice, penetrating incredibly far, and the bolus of ejaculate pressured through and out. It coursed directly into her stomach, filling it with hot swirling soup. She felt her belly bloating with its turbulent volume, but she didn’t care because her own orgasm was carrying her onward. She had lost, but what a way to go!

“Now you are mine,” the incubus said as his emission faded and he drew his limp member out of her throat. “Now I will possess you completely.”

As if he hadn’t done that already. “So it seems,” she agreed with resignation. She had come so close! If he hadn’t focused so determinedly on her clitoris, making her want her climax, she’d have had him first. But as it was—

“What?” he asked, surprised.

“What?” she echoed, confused.

“Oh, no!” he exclaimed. “A honeypot! I never suspected.”

“Well, it was worth a try,” she agreed, catching on. He had finally realized that she was doused with rat bait potion.

“Shit fucking bitch! You tricked me.”

“Well, it wasn’t as if you didn’t deserve it.”

But he was abruptly gone. The potion had worked after all. She felt spiritually and physically restored. Her soul was back, complete, and her body was unbloated. Apparently it wasn’t who climaxed first, she realized, it was that when he soaked himself three times in the potion he was lost. Had he held off, this night, or taken the trouble to wash her out thoroughly before indulging his appetite, he would have won. So she had won after all, largely by default.

She was flushed with her victory. But another part of her felt guilty regret. That hideous sex—

She actually had a hankering for more of it. The demon had sincerely appreciated and desired every part of her body, from her knees to her breasts, externally and internally, and caused it to respond in a profoundly guilty yet appreciative manner. Solita truly loved her husband, but he was completely moral, which meant sexually unimaginative, and he was often away from home. She needed more, without violating her marriage vow. She craved sinful sex. The prospect of having virtually limitless, totally weird, remarkably imaginative, repulsively dirty, thoroughly wicked sexual fulfillment with no physical or social consequence—what more could a secretly lascivious woman want?

The incubus had evoked desires in her that she had never known she possessed. Wide-open oral sex, anal orgasm, massive penetration, being filled to bursting with lava-like semen—she would be ashamed ever to confess receiving any pleasure from such wild notions. No mortal man could even hope to ream her with a foot-long phallus that disgorged quarts of steaming ejaculate, and such a thing would be a medical disaster physically. But in the spirit realm it was not only possible, it was glorious. The demons of hell knew exactly how to indulge their basest passions.

In fact she now realized what she had literally never dreamed of before this encounter: she was a sexual pervert. The incubus had invoked her masochistic lust. Simulated sexual brutality and degradation was what really turned her on. She liked being roughly raped and savagely sodomized. Having an impossibly massive member rammed into her desperately tight orifices, and ludicrously voluminous ejaculate forced in, making her swell like a water balloon. Having a penis like a fire-hose nozzle thrust deep inside her, blasting at full force, blowing her channel up, and not being able to let any of the viscous liquid flow back out. Painful penetration and pressure in her most private parts, punishing her for her degraded desire—that was the true source of her pleasure. Sex was only really fulfilling when it hurt, bodily and emotionally.

She could never hope to get anything like that from her husband. In fact she would be humiliated if he even ever suspected what was in her secret heart, or guilty gut, as it were. And she never wanted it physically anyway, only in her dreams. She needed the services of the incubus for that. If he was a rat, she now knew herself to be a female rat.

But what could she do about it? The incubus was gone, captured by the magic potion. Had she discovered her illicit urge too late?

Maybe the matron at the magic shop would agree to share her captive on occasion. Solita now understood the woman’s desire, and shared it; that would surely count for something. A confined demon, forced to do anything a woman, or two women, demanded—that could be sexual heaven. So to speak, as there was nothing any heavenly power would approve about it.

Hellish temptation and opportunity, with no physical impact. She was ready. More than ready.

“Mommy, will the monster come again?”

At least she could reassure her innocent child, however guilty her own secret heart. “No, dear.”

“Should we put in more potion, just in case?”

“No, that was just to stop the monster from getting in there. There’s no need for it now.”

“So it won’t lick me any more with its big hot tongue?”

Solita kept her face straight, her voice even. “It won’t, dear; it’s gone.”

“Are you sure?” Lita seemed oddly disappointed, when she should have been relieved. That was curious.

“Yes, dear. It is safe for you to sleep in that bed now, though you don’t have to.”

“How do you know?”

She would have to be more candid than she liked. “Because I let it lick me, and the potion got rid of it.”

“Did it run its tongue into your wee-wee?”

Damn! The thing had invaded Lita. Fortunately she had no way to comprehend the significance. Much of her innocence could still be salvaged. “Yes. Into my vagina and rectum. That’s how it got dosed with the potion. I had to let it, to get rid of it.”

Lita turned a disconcertingly knowing look on her. “Was it fun?”

The emotional pavement shielding her from hell began to crack. Lita had liked it! She had been repulsed and afraid, but also felt the first stirring of desire. Already. This could mean that she was another potential sexual masochist.

In fact it made sense. Lita had spent the first night in the bed, and the incubus had come to her. If he preferred having a woman without resistance, wouldn’t he seek those who were secretly amenable to his attention? Maybe he attacked only a certain type, when she made herself available by lying in that bed. So he had gone after Lita, knowing her nature, and then after Solita, knowing hers. Like daughter, like mother.

She had thought she had saved her daughter, but maybe that was impossible. Now what was she to do?

She could find no acceptable answer. Rat bait would not work this time. Not when the evil was as much in the victims as in the perpetrator.

Had the rat won after all?

Note: “Rat Bait,” written in January 2010, was another story contributed to an Excessica anthology, Something Wicked, deliberately provocative sex. I think this the most aberrant erotic story I have done, and I am curious what else was in that volume, which I never saw. If it shocked you, well you were warned. It also reflects my belief that adults often don’t take children’s fears seriously enough. I remember when my preschool age daughter attended school-sponsored swimming classes, and became increasing nervous about them. We brushed it off. Then I attended one of the classes, and saw a woman take my child with warm reassurances, then dump her alone in the center of the deep pool. Unable to swim, she was so frightened that she vomited in the water. “Don’t be concerned,” a teacher told me. “She’s been dunked before.” What a betrayal! In the name of teaching swimming, they were actually teaching horror of swimming. We had to buy a shallow plastic pool and work with our child all summer to gradually overcome her inculcated fear of the water and teach her to swim. Thereafter I was far more careful to watch what schools and other organizations did with children, and intervened when necessary to save my child, right up through college. Those non-erotic experiences were perhaps behind this erotic fiction; betrayal is betrayal. Our society is hyper about young sex; it should be hyper about a good deal more than that. No wonder some children grow up twisted.

Caution: essay

14. Humor

What does it take to write humorous fantasy? I’m not quite sure I know, as I never set out to do it. I simply found that I could not take fantasy seriously, and thus did not. Not at first.

I think of two phenomenal misconceptions about writing humor. The first is that it is easy. It isn’t. It is perhaps the most challenging writing discipline. I have heard it said that a person who can do humor can do anything, and this isn’t limited to writing. Movie actors who are comedians can also do serious roles, while serious actors can’t necessarily do humor. Why? Because anyone can be serious, but not anyone can make another person laugh. It takes a special talent.

The other misconception is that humorists are happy. In my observation the opposite it true: they tend to be depressive. How can that be? It may seem counterintuitive, but a bit of examination clarifies the case. Satisfied folk don’t have reason to jump out of their ruts; they like what they’re doing and it makes sense to continue doing it. Why rock the boat? But unsatisfied folk do have reason to change. An irony is that when they do change, they tend to remain dissatisfied, so they have to try again, and again.

I have an analogy here. When I was a child I had a bowl of oatmeal. It wasn’t sweet enough, so I put sugar on it. It still wasn’t sweet enough, so I put on more sugar. But no matter how much sugar I used, it still wasn’t sweet enough. Then my sister said “Try salt.” That seemed nonsensical, but I tried a little salt. And suddenly my oatmeal was sickeningly sweet. I had been looking for the wrong thing.

Okay. I can make people laugh, so I guess I’m a humorist. Can I do other kinds of writing? You bet. I have written in several serious genres, including historical fiction and borderline horror, and believe I do them competently. My science fiction/fantasy novel On A Pale Horse features Death as the main character, not played for laughs, and it was a bestseller. How serious can you get? So humor is merely the tip of my talent, as it were. Am I happy? No. There’s a reason I wrote about Death: I thought about it constantly. I was borderline depressive for decades, until discovering thyroid medication; now I’m not happy, but neither am I depressed. I’m on the low side of normal. But in the interim I learned how to write humor, so I can still do it, even if the edge may have been blunted.

Let me give some examples, so I can come at some fundamental truth. I do tend to make people laugh, and I take a certain pride in scoring with the toughest cases. Such as the nurse who set me up with the anesthetic when I was in for a colonoscopy. A colonoscopy is not something anyone does for pleasure; it’s a six-foot deep penetration of the anus and colon to spot any beginning cancer. You don’t hear many laughs among people who are getting their posteriors reamed. So I said to the nurse “I bet I can make you laugh.” Naturally she doubted that. I said “I asked the doctor whether I could do this without anesthetic, as it’s not supposed to be a painful procedure. He said I could, but it would make him nervous. Well, I thought about having a nervous doctor doing it, and changed my mind.” Yes, she laughed. Then she knocked me out with the anesthetic, and next thing I knew I was in the recovery room. Score one point.

Another time my wife had a serious ailment, and they were trying an expensive treatment to see whether it worked. It was a four-hour IV infusion, another no-fun procedure. I talked with the hospital nurse about it. Those nurses don’t get many laughs; they deal all day with patients who may be in desperate pain or even dying. Was it the right procedure? “Wouldn’t it be awful,” I said, “if halfway through they discovered that it was the wrong treatment.” I paused. “Especially if it was working.” She laughed. Score another point. Fortunately it was the right treatment, and in a few weeks my wife was out of her wheelchair and learning to walk again, and she remains mobile today.

I invested in Xlibris, a company that enables ordinary folk to self-publish their books at a reasonable cost, instead of being forever denied by traditional print publishers. This is good for family biographies, technical information, and, yes, fiction that doesn’t make the grade with choosy editors. I invested from idealism: to make it possible. But this put me in the company of venture capitalists, people who are in it strictly for the money, hoping to make big profits on new ventures. I felt like the notorious petunia in an onion patch. But they had to take me seriously, because my wife and I constituted the second largest investor in the company, and I served for several years on their board of directors. Once Xlibris was stabilized, I retired from the board, but listened in on board meetings. And, after losing money for years, the company finally got its act together and was making money, paying off debts and doing very well. So how did I make these serious folk laugh? I said “I am chagrined to see how well the company is doing—since I left the board.” They laughed, and assured me that there was no connection.

What do these laughs have in common? It’s the surprise juxtaposition of sense and nonsense. The way of seeing something that makes inverted sense. Also the edge: a different take on an unpleasant medical procedure, or on the prospect of losing substantial money in a risky investment. My rule of thumb is that to get a laugh you need to come perilously close to trouble, without going over the edge. Humor isn’t necessarily all pleasant; that’s another misconception. It can be the overlapping of pleasure and pain, something funny but with an unfunny aspect. It is why the sight of a fat man slipping on a banana peel gets a laugh: it really isn’t funny, but it’s not happening to you, so, partly in relief, you can laugh.

Ah, but did you laugh at my examples? My guess is that you may have smiled politely, but did not come close to laughing out loud when reading any of them. And this leads to another misconception: that some things are inherently funny. I doubt anything is. Humor needs to be targeted to be effective. A joke delivered to the wrong audience will fall flat. There is no universally funny joke. Even one that gets a laugh the first time, won’t work a second time, because the surprise is gone. So a joke about colonoscopy can make a colonoscopy nurse laugh, once, and one about IV treatment can make an IV nurse laugh. And one about business investment and management can make investors laugh. Context is everything.

Sometimes humor is merely implied, not for a laugh. When I collaborated with a martial artist, Roberto Fuentes, onetime champion of Cuba, on a series of judo novels, I didn’t like the old familiar descriptions of skulls getting split open like falling pumpkins, and asked him for some more original imagery. He obliged with suggestions, and thus came about my favorite description: “His fist swung toward my face like a wrecking ball toward a condemned building.” That’s more of a wince than a laugh, but still a humorous analogy, especially to a martial artist. I have a mental picture of a giant face crumbling and collapsing slowly, slowly, into rubble.

Ah, but can you take a joke out of context and make it work? Explain the background, so people understand what’s funny about it? Not really. Humor is highly perishable. If you must explain it, you lose it. It’s like vivisecting a live animal to find out what makes it live. Instead you kill it.

So you want to write humor. Are you a good, versatile writer who doesn’t have to be funny? Can you readily come up with surprise connections that make superficial sense? Are you depressive? If you answer yes and yes and yes, you may have a future in this elusive and sometimes painful sub-genre.

Note: I wrote this in February 2009 on request, and understand it was well received.

Caution: none

15. Lost Things

“Ian, I have bad news for you,” the professor said. “Your mother has died.”

Ian froze in shock. Doane, his seeing-eye dog and so much more, picked up his horror and whined.

“When? How?” Ian asked.

“No foul play, for what little comfort that may be. She was discovered after several days. It seems to have been a heart attack. The police notified us. You will want to return home immediately. The office is arranging your ticket now. You will of course be excused from the rest of your courses until the crisis has passed. Do you want another student to accompany you?”

“No thank you,” Ian said numbly. “I can make it on my own, with Doane.”

“I’m sure you can,” the professor agreed. “You handle yourself remarkably well. Is there anything else I can do?”

“I—thank you, no. I have to go.”

“Of course,” the professor agreed sympathetically.

Ian took hold of the brace on Doane’s back and let the dog lead him out of the professor’s office and to his own room. He stifled his grief for the moment; he couldn’t afford it. “Catto,” he muttered. “He’ll be in trouble.”

Doane made a low woof of agreement.

Soon they were on the plane and in flight. The college office had done an excellent job, perhaps using Ian’s blindness as a lever to pry loose a good first-class seat.

While they flew, Ian kept his hand on Doane’s back and they communed. “I remember how you were the first,” he murmured. “The first failure.” He smiled, sharing humor. They had been part of what he later learned was a secret project dedicated to developing telepathy in animals and people by enhancing their system’s mirror neurons, sometimes even transplanting treated human neurons to animals. Unfortunately there were many failures. “You were slow, even for a canine. An idiot dog. They didn’t realize that in your case slow was not a euphemism for stupid; your human neurons not only made you partially telepathic, they put your life into the human scale. At a year old you still drooled, but you may live seventy years. So you were marked for extinction, because budget cuts forced them to destroy their failures. Fortunately you used your power to divert their attention, and fled before they came for you.”

Doane nodded, remembering. He was actually the same age as Ian, twenty, and in his prime. But of course that was a secret they kept well. Others assumed he was two or three, and no more than a guide dog, rather than a trusted friend.

“And you sniffed out the kindhearted neighbor, Chloe, and she took you in,” Ian continued. “She was always kind to lost things. And when she caught on to your nature, she kept the secret, and did not return you to the project to be euthanized. That was the first reason we loved her.”

Doane wagged his tail, agreeing.

“Then when I was five, and blind, they thought I was another unaffordable failure. But I simply had a different kind of telepathy, that they had overlooked. Catching on that I was doomed, I used my ability to escape. I was soon lost in the wilderness that surrounded the project, frightened, helpless. But you tuned in on me from afar, bless you, and led Chloe to me, and she took me in too. She saved my life, and gave me an excellent home. She’s not my mother genetically, but she is in the sense that counts. That was the second reason we loved her.”

Doane agreed again.

Ian smiled. “If anyone overheard me talking to my dog, they would think I was tetched or merely trying to reassure you with the sound of my voice. They would not know that when we touch we have what amounts to telepathic rapport. You feel my feeling, which is what counts, and I feel yours. We understand each other on a level few others do.”

Doane looked at him and nodded.

“Which is a reminder of my own slice of telepathy,” Ian continued. “I know you looked at me because I can eavesdrop on your perceptions. I know you nodded in a human fashion because your glance at me shifted perspective. Similarly I can see, hear, and feel what those physically close to me do. I can’t read their minds, but I know what they’re paying attention to. So I am not really blind, merely unable to use my own eyes. I can read by tuning in to the reading of the person beside me. The project supervisors were looking for their version of telepathy, which was an impossibly full connection to another person’s mind, so missed the partial types that were really more feasible. Such as your ability to divert spot attention from yourself, so that you became forgettable. Such as my ability to see where they looked, to read their written orders, and act accordingly.”

He shook his head. “Like that man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. They were great on prices. I can’t blame them; it took me years to figure out the distinction between the viewpoints of others and my own. So I seemed crazy, not relating to their world. At one point I was labeled as severely autistic. But I merely had not yet gotten a handle on my ability. Just as you had not on yours. It was only with the nurturing support of Chloe that we achieved our full potentials.”

That ability had served him increasingly as he grew. Chloe sent him to school, after home-schooling him several years, because she said he needed to get experience interacting with his own kind. It had not taken long for the local bully to orient on him as easy pickings.

“You got lunch money, blindbutt? Give it here.”

Doane bristled, sensing the threat, but Ian quieted him with a touch. He had to fight his own battles. “I have my own lunch.”

“Give me that.”

“No.”

The bully stared at him, and he saw himself through the bigger boy’s eyes: a thin boy wearing dark glasses, carrying a bag with a cell phone, lunch, notebook, pencils, and his folded cane. “How’s that again, creep?”

“I think you understood me the first time.”

“Okay, here’s something for you to understand, shitface.” The bully cocked his right fist.

Ian didn’t wait for the blow to land. He dodged to the side and swung his bag at the bully’s head. It smacked him hard against the side of his face.

The bully was more astonished than hurt. The blind kid had struck back. It must have been a lucky score.

“Okay, mush-brain. Now you’re really going to get it.” The bully cocked both fists and set himself for a fast one-two series of punches.

But even as he moved, Ian dodged again, this time to the other side, guided by the boy’s own vision. He got behind the bully, swung the arm with the bag around his neck, and yanked him back off-balance. “Lay off,” he said into the boy’s ear. “Or I will make you be like me.” With his free hand he pressed against the bully’s face, a finger touching an eye. “Shall I demonstrate?” He pressed just hard enough to make the point.

This time the bully got the message. No easy pickings here. “Okay.”

Ian let him go. Then he turned his back and walked away, openly showing his contempt. The bully stared after him. Had he tried to attack from behind, Ian would have ducked and whirled and punched him in the solar plexus, another move he had rehearsed. None of these moves would have worked well had he been sighted, but because the bully thought he couldn’t see, he was unconsciously careless, leaving himself open to sucker counterattacks. But he could see what the bully saw, and that guided him quite effectively. He was physically fit, and able to move with an assurance that sighted people underestimated. That underestimation was critical to his success in dealing with them.

The bully never bothered him again.

Ian did well in school, listening carefully and making notes. He could see through the eyes of his nearest classmates, but did that only to have an awareness of the layout of the classroom. He did not want to give himself away.

The girls liked Doane, and the dog liked their attention, but that was as far as it went. As Ian matured, no girl wanted to date him. They were polite to him, even nice, but, well, he was blind.

Prospects were better in college, and he did get dates. But no serious interest.

The stewardess approached with a meal, and Ian had to cease remembering. He could not see her directly, but she saw her own reflection briefly in the darkened window, and she was trim and pretty. The kind of girl he would have liked to date, had any been interested in a blind man. There it was again.

When she departed, he quietly put the sausage down for Doane, who really liked meat of any kind.

After the meal Ian resumed his summation, as it was his way of dealing with the crisis of the moment. “Then there was Catto, a decade later. The invisible cat.”

Doane wagged his tail, sharing the humor.

“Not literally true, of course. His partial telepathic ability was to cloud men’s minds so that they could not see or hear or smell him. So when the project concluded that he was a failure because he couldn’t read minds, and took him to the disposal chamber, he disappeared and escaped. You tuned in from afar again, knowing his nature, and we went out to fetch him. Chloe didn’t mind that he ate a lot; she loved him as another lost thing, and he prospered. That was the third reason we loved her.”

Now she was dead. What were they to do? Ian had done well in school because of her constant support. He was smart enough, but needed the emotional endorsement. Chloe had truly believed in him. Now he would be on his own—rather, the three of them would be—but he knew they couldn’t cope. He wasn’t remotely equipped to make it in life without Chloe’s guidance and support, and the others, as animals, had no resources in the human world.

The plane descended. Soon enough they caught a taxi home. The house was locked, but Ian had a key, and they entered the familiar premises.

Only then did Ian break down, sobbing for the loss of the only other human being he had loved. Doane howled, sharing the grief.

Then they organized for the immediate need. The near future was opaque, but the present was urgent. “We have to find Catto,” Ian said. “He had to go out to hunt, when the food in the house ran out, and he’s bound to hunt the wrong things. There’ll be trouble.”

They set out, dog and man, heading into the local forest. Doane sniffed out Catto’s scent trail, and Ian tuned into the dog’s vision so that he could proceed with confidence using only his white-tipped cane.

All too soon they found the area. There were three men, local farmers by their garb, talking. “Hey mister!” one called. “You blind? Don’t go in that copse!”

“I am blind,” Ian agreed without annoyance. “I am safe enough, with my guide dog.”

“That’s not what I meant,” the man said. “It’s no place for a sighted person, let alone a blind one. There’s a monster in there. We’re going to get a permit to start a ring of fire and burn it out.”

That was exactly what Ian had feared. “I have traversed this forest many times. There is nothing dangerous in it.”

“Maybe not, before. But this is now. There’s a monster, a ghost, and it’s dangerous.”

Ian forced a laugh. They had encountered Catto, all right. “Ghosts are fine for spook stories, but we all know they don’t really exist.”

“Tell, him, Frank.”

“Here’s what I seen,” Frank said, clearly shaken. “My dog smelled something and he ran into that copse. Then he yelped, and I ran in after him. There he was, lying dead, his throat torn open. Something killed him. Something big. I knew it was close by; the hairs on my neck raised. There was a smell, then it faded. I pulled my gun and looked, but couldn’t see or hear nothing. I stood there, and then I saw it.” The man gulped audibly.

“Saw what?” Ian asked, anticipating the answer.

“The ghost footprints. They just appeared right before me, pressing into the ground. Big ones, like maybe a bear. But there was nothing there. That’s when I knew it was a ghost monster. It killed my dog, and might have killed me, but I got the hell out of there.” The man was still terrified.

Definitely Catto. Because though he might seem invisible, he could not hide his footprints once he left the area, and they appeared. Frank thought they were being made as they came into view, but that was not the case. They were there all the time, but hidden.

As for their size: hardly surprising. Because Catto was no house-cat. He was a tiger. Chloe hadn’t cared: he was a lost kitten, and she loved him. She had covered for him for years, making sure he had plenty of meat to eat and keeping him out of mischief. Ian and Doane had taken Catto for walks in the wood, cautioning him, and he had trusted their judgment. They were a team.

But if Catto got hungry enough, would he attack a man? Ian could not be quite sure. It was better to make sure the big cat never got that hungry. Meanwhile the superstitious farmers might have reason to be scared.

“Ah, here comes the gasoline,” the first man said as a fourth man arrived, hauling a large fuel can.

“Well, thanks,” Ian said, pretending nonchalance. “We’ll be moving along now.” He touched Doane’s back, and the two walked on toward the copse.

“Wrong way, mister!” the man yelled. “The monster’s there.”

“If I see it, I’ll tell it to go away,” Ian responded as though oblivious. Obviously he wouldn’t see it, because it was invisible and he was blind, but the farmers surely didn’t get the humor.

They entered the copse, and no one followed.

Doane sniffed. Catto was near. He wouldn’t dim his odor for Doane.

“Catto,” Ian murmured. “Come in close. Make us all invisible.” This was part of their teamwork: they had done it before, as a game.

The tiger did. Catto had known and trusted them most of his life, because of familiarity and the telepathy.

They walked in a tight formation back the way they had come. The four men were busy pouring gasoline, starting a big circle around the copse. None of them paid any attention. Catto was diverting their sight. Only their footprints would remain, appearing belatedly. With luck these would not be noticed.

They made it safely back to the house, smelling the smoke of the gasoline fire behind them. The farmers would be satisfied that the invisible monster had been burned out, and that was best.

But a man stood at the door. “I can’t see you, but I know you’re there,” he said. “I’ve got a heat detector. We need to talk.”

Doane growled and Catto was ready to pounce, but Ian cautioned them back. He couldn’t see the man either, but the view from his eyes was competent. At his touch, Catto ceased his effort, and they became visible and audible. “Go inside,” he told the man. “We’ll join you.”

They settled in the living room, the animals on their favorite couches. The three of them gazed at the man.

“I am John Mawker,” he said without preamble. “I am from the Project, of course.”

This was like dealing with the bully. The man thought he had the advantage, but he might underestimate them. “The one that considered us failures,” Ian said evenly. “That was going to destroy us.”

“True. Our greatest failure was in not recognizing the nature of the successes we had. Since then we have grown smarter, as an institution. We want you back. All three of you. Now that your benefactor is gone, it behooves you to consider our offer.”

“What offer?” Ian did not trust this man, but their situation was desperate, and they had to listen. The alternative would be to flee the region, hiding from normal people, foraging in garbage cans, and trying to escape pursuit by people from the project who knew their nature.

“I see you understand,” Mawker said.

“Understand what?” Ian asked tightly.

Mawker smiled. “I am moderately telepathic myself. Mainly I pick up moods. It’s clumsy compared to the talents the three of you have perfected. But believe me, I understand you.”

“What offer?” Ian repeated.

“One you can’t refuse. Return to the project, and you will be protected and nurtured much as Chloe did for you. We were aware of this kindhearted normal woman, but left her alone, because she was doing our job for us, and better than we had done it. Did you really think we could be ignorant of a neighbor who took in our charges? She knew nothing of us, as far as we know, though she might have suspected. Now that is over, and we must act to secure you. We can’t allow you to range uncertainly amidst the populace. The project has always been secret and must remain so. We require your cooperation.”

Ian did not need to consult with Doane and Catto. “No.” Now it was up to the bully.

“I have not completed my presentation,” Mawker said without rancor. “I do not bluff. You will accept. But I prefer it to be voluntary, on the basis of full understanding.”

“We prefer to be free,” Ian said evenly.

“That is the key. We not only want you, we need you. Funding is always a problem, in part because we can’t tell Congress what we seek or accomplish, so we have to make do with what we have. We must use our best. And you three have, largely on your own, become our best.”

Ian still did not trust this. “Make your point,”

“We need you to train our lesser successes. To demonstrate what you do, and enable them to do it too. To see through the eyes of others,” he glanced directly at Ian. “To deflect attention.” He glanced at Doane. “To suppress the awareness of others, in effect becoming invisible.” He looked at Catto. “And other skills, perhaps some we have not yet recognized. We need your enthusiastic participation.”

“Provided we surrender our freedom,” Ian said.

“No.”

Now Ian was startled, and so were Doane and Catto, in tune with his mood. “No?”

“That is the nature of our offer,” Mawker said. “We want you to return to manage the project. The three of you; this is a multi-species effort. Under my supervision, the first year, to familiarize yourself with the protocols. Then directly, when I retire.”

The three of them stared at him.

“You can continue to live here,” Mawker continued. “This can be a useful outpost. We can pay off the mortgage; that at least is within our means. You can continue to range the local forest as you have been doing. Even finish your education, Ian; you are already close to your degree. You have learned to relate to the larger world; that is a skill we also need. We need to be able to interface with normal folk, without betraying our special skills. Starting with your attendance at the funeral and memorial service for Chloe, a fine generous woman. All three of you.”

He paused. “I might add that we do have other predator animals there, and other domesticated ones, who need the help of each of you to fulfill themselves. Also a maiden, seventeen, highly telepathic but uncontrolled. She’s rather pretty, but emotionally insecure, as you might imagine. I think you would find her worthwhile in more than one venue, Ian. She truly needs a talented and understanding friend. The pay is low, but there are compensations. What we are doing may some day change the world. It is, actually, a secret but glorious vision. One you surely share.”

Ian realized that Mawker had come well prepared, and had won the day. Indeed, they could not refuse.

They were no longer lost things.

Note: Jeani Rector of The Horror Zine asked me to contribute, saying they were not limited to horror. So I wrote “Inversion,” about a young woman who was not exactly what she appeared to be, but Jeani rejected it because they don’t do erotica, not even when there is horror. So I wrote “Lost Things” and she liked that very well, and later anthologized it in What Fears Become. When I learned that they could not afford to send out author’s copies of this 380-page tome I decided to do something about that, and paid for 60 copies for contributors. I received many thank-you notes from authors and artists, some of whom were my fans. It was simply the right thing to do. Jeani worked her posterior off promoting the volume, and I believe it was well received. Horror is not my thing, but horror writers are as dedicated to their genre as I am to fantasy, and deserve similar treatment.

Caution: a stink

16. Privy

Zeke gazed at the decrepit privy. It was half-shrouded by bushes and weeds, barely visible from the road, but he could make out the half-moon carved in the rickety door. And it stank; he could smell it from a hundred feet away. It was a literal shit house.

He pondered how he had come to this desolate backwoods outhouse. Maybe he was delaying because he didn’t want to approach closer. His wealthy playboy Uncle Z—Zeke, after whom he had been named 21 years ago—had died in a car accident and his will had spread his considerable holdings across the wider family. This isolated property in the Florida swampland had been left to Zeke, when he came of age. He had hardly known about it as a child, but now he was technically adult and he had come to take possession.

Zeke shook his head. He might have thought that rich Uncle Z would have done better by his namesake. Sure. Zeke might have won a hundred million dollars in a lottery, too, while he was dreaming. This was grimy reality.

Had Uncle Z’s vaunted fortune been a sham? Instead of phenomenal estates he had overgrown lots with abandoned privies? No, because Zeke’s grasping cousins had done very well. Only this particular property was left, which nobody else wanted, so no one had tried to screw him out of it. Now he understood why. Zeke’s lofty aspirations were crashing into crap.

“Is this it?” Avoca called from the car.

Which was another issue. Avoca was the perfect woman, intelligent, motivated, and beautiful. Zeke was well-smitten with her and wanted to win her. She was worth more than anything his uncle might have left him. He had prevailed on her to accompany him while he checked out his inheritance, just in case there was a fancy castle on it, or a platinum mine, or something else that would make up for the inadequacy that was Zeke himself. That would make him seem worth her while, because she was among other things a competent part-time real estate agent. She was professionally interested in properties of any type, and would travel anywhere to appraise them. But not, he feared, in this mess. It had been a serious hope that now was dissipating with the stink of disappointment. Avoca did not have to settle for a poor man. She wasn’t a gold digger, but there were limits. He marveled that she had even agreed to accompany him here.

“Nothing much yet,” he called back. “I’ll investigate.” As if that would change anything.

“I’ll help,” she said, emerging from the car. That was part of what made her desirable: she pulled her weight, not being a helpless flower.

“Ah, maybe you should stay back,” he said.

Too late. Avoca’s nose wrinkled. “What is that odor?”

Zeke sighed. “It seems to be from what is left of my uncle’s establishment. He liked to travel in a camper. You can see where he had a paved spot there to park it. And a privy.”

She came to stand beside him, her dark hair swirling about her slender shoulders. “So I see. But I have a problem with it.”

“The stench,” he agreed.

“That, too.”

Now she was going to politely rebuke him for wasting her time. All he could do was take it like the man he wished he could have been. “Something else?”

“How long has this property been deserted?”

That surprised him. “A good decade, since Uncle Z died.”

“So the privy hasn’t been used in ten years.”

“So it seems.”

“Yet it still stinks of excrement.”

Now he was really surprised. “You’d think it would have composted by this time.”

“Yes. Let’s investigate.”

He was surprised a third time. “But the smell!”

“Precisely. It’s a mystery. I love mysteries.”

“But if it gets on us—”

“We’ll take a joint shower.”

That silenced him. He had barely gotten to first base with her. A shower would be at least third base. Suddenly he liked the stink. “Let’s go.”

They approached the privy. The odor advanced to a smell, then to a stink, and finally to a fulsome stench. It was all Zeke could do to keep breathing, but Avoca seemed to be handling it well. It was so thick it seemed almost visible as a thick foul mist surrounding the tiny shack. He found himself straining it through his teeth.

“This is definitely not natural,” Avoca said tightly. He knew it was not emotion but the noxious vapor that tightened her throat.

“Not natural,” he agreed as tightly. “What could possibly cause it?”

“Perhaps more important: why?”

“Why?” he asked blankly. “A stink has to have a reason?”

“Yes, when there’s seemingly no natural cause.”

“Maybe to keep people away?”

“Bingo.”

“But uncle Z’s long dead! Who would care who might snoop around his outhouse?”

“That is the mystery,” she agreed zestfully. “Let’s find out.” She pulled open the warped door.

Inside there was just a single toilet hole. The putrid essence wafted up and out from it, almost tangibly. They peered into it, Zeke almost believing that the flowing miasma should be blowing back their hair. There was only darkness.

Avoca fished in her purse and produced a small flashlight. She shined it down the hole.

“No shit,” Steve said, amazed. He was speaking literally: there were no feces. It was simply a perfectly round descending tube leading to a floor about ten feet below. There were indented handholds along the side.

“This is somebody’s secret access,” Avoca said. “Protected by an aversive smell. There is bound to be something interesting down there.”

“Bound to be,” he agreed.

“And we need to discover what. Hold my purse.” She had extracted a pair of rubbery gloves and donned them.

Zeke accepted the purse, having little choice. What was she up to now?

She hoisted herself onto the seat, then squatted and put her feet down into the hole.

“Avoca!” he protested. “It could be dangerous!”

“After ten years? Don’t be silly.” She lowered her torso.

“But whoever or whatever made this could be down there.”

“Nonsense. This passage hasn’t been used in years. There are encrusted cobwebs and snail trails on the handholds.” She put the glowing flashlight in her mouth and levered herself down into the tube.

Zeke realized that it was futile to protest further. Avoca was a woman of decision, and she was on the trail of the mystery of the stench. All he could do was follow her down.

The tube opened into a tunnel to the side that angled farther down. It was definitely an artificial passage.

The passage led to a small room with a table and chair. On the table lay a notepad and an archaic computer keyboard.

“The smell is gone,” Avoca remarked, sniffing.

She was right. The foulness had abated as they entered the chamber. That was surely significant.

Zeke picked up the pad. There were words scrawled on it in what must be Uncle Z’s script. “Activation code is Hellova Stink.” That was all.

“Interesting,” Avoca said, sitting on the chair and putting her hands to the keyboard.

“Wait!” Zeke said, afraid of invoking some unknown menace. But as usual with Avoca, he was too late. She had already typed the words.

A picture appeared on the opposite wall. It was a caricature of a human face, surely masking an utterly alien visage. “Hello, Zeke,” it said in an artificial accent.

Avoca looked at Zeke. In a halfway blinding flash he caught on to part of the purpose of this unit. “Your prior contact is no longer available. I am Zeke the younger, his nephew, with a female companion. Please clarify the nature of our business.”

The face did not hesitate. “You have served as a local tourist host, carrying imprints of assorted galactic travelers to gather local impressions. Each satisfied tourist pays a certain royalty in local currency. A sufficient client base ensures adequate compensation.”

This was a sightseeing arrangement! Like a tropical cruise visiting native cultures, for alien visitors.

Avoca picked up on the essence instantly. “How much compensation per client per impression?”

“One thousand dollars. This is negotiable if unsatisfactory.”

One grand per sightseer. It might be worth it, depending on what the host had to do for it.

Avoca nodded. “How many imprints can a local host carry simultaneously?”

“There is no limit, as imprints have no mass and do not interfere with the host. They merely observe and record the visual, sonic, tactile, gustatory and emotional impressions the host receives. But business depends on the interest generated by the observations.”

Aha. The right stuff could attract thousands of invisible peepers, and hundreds of thousands of dollars. “What, specifically, are tourists interested in?” Zeke asked.

“Native scenery, edifices, arts, cuisine, entertainments.”

Just so. The tourists wanted to see the most impressive landscapes, admire castles, peruse paintings, taste the most exotic food, and … “Entertainments?”

“Competitions, games, reproductive interactions.”

So the alien tourists wanted to snoop on human sports, play assorted games, and experience the wonders of native love play. If they were like humans in interest if not in form, and Zeke suspected they were, they would be especially interested in gambling and sex. Alien porn. The illicit stuff they could not get so freely at home. They would pay generously if satisfied.

“One moment while we consult,” Zeke said. He looked at Avoca. “We could generate a lot of business, as Uncle Z evidently did, by being socially liberal.” That was of course a euphemism for lowbrow shows and experience in the kinds of establishments that got periodically raided by police. “Are you in?”

She had done the assessment and math as aptly as he had. This would mean traveling the world, eating richly, and probably making a lot of love. With alien imprints eagerly absorbing the attendant views and feelings. A web cam galore.

“One thing could spoil the prospects,” she said. “The smell. We can’t operate efficiently if we have to burn our clothes after each visit here.”

“It is a psychic repellent,” the screen face said. “Existing only here where the privacy of our enterprise is important. We can also provide what your uncle called the stink bomb from the skunk works: a device the size of a button that generates a prohibitively ugly odor, to be used only for self protection in emergency.”

Zeke nodded. That would be effective.

Avoca gave Zeke a straight look. “I’m in. This is a more than worthy inheritance. It seems that Uncle Z did like you best after all. He just didn’t care to advertise what he was leaving you, lest someone else try to steal it. You had to figure it out for yourself.” She smiled. “It justifies what I wanted to do anyway: to be with you, you handsome lout.”

So she had liked him for himself! That was almost more important than all the rest of it.

“We suspect there will occur a significant female tourist interest, as females like romantic interactions,” the picture said. “That was perhaps the one thing your uncle was unable to provide.”

“You bet,” Avoca said, closing on Zeke for an ardent kiss.

Oh yes, he liked abandoned stinking privies.

Note: Early in 2011 I received a request for a story featuring a deserted building, for an anthology titled The Forsaken. Unwilling to settle for something ordinary, I made it a special building, in fact an outhouse. How and why could there be such a bad smell when it hadn’t been used in decades? Therein lies the story “The Privy.” It was fun to do, and I hope fun to read.

Caution: how-to-write essay

17. Wood Knot Dew

My spot definition for the Science Fiction genre is the literature of the possible. You make one assumption that may be contrary to fact, then build a story around what could be if that fact were true. The reader’s willing suspension of disbelief leads you into a thrilling adventure. Thus it is true speculative fiction, and I have written a lot of it in the course of close to fifty years since my first sale.

My definition for Fantasy is the literature of the impossible. Virtually all of it is not only contrary to fact, it is contrary to common sense. You know it never was, is not now, and never will be, but if it is done well, you enjoy it anyway. It is perhaps the purest form of escapism, because you know it lacks all credibility. I have written a lot of that too, and made my fame on it.

The particular fantasy series I am best known for is Xanth. That is so far out that sensible rules of fiction hardly apply. They say you can have an ordinary character in an extraordinary situation, or an extraordinary character in an ordinary situation. Well, I like to have unbelievable characters in an unbelievable situation, and ludicrous puns abound, in violation of any serious rule of writing. For example in Night Mare the protagonist is Mare Imbrium, after whom a section of the moon is named: a female horse who carries bad dreams to deserving sleepers. When she communicates, it is in the form of a spot dreamlet that appears over her head, showing a human woman who can speak human. Once when an evil man caught her and put a bit in her mouth so he could ride her, her dreamlet speech was muffled by the gag. So are my readers revolted? Hardly; in three quarters of a moment readers can send me half a slew of puns. So when asked where I get my ideas, I can say from my readers.

What, then, could I possibly have to teach anyone about effective writing? Well, let me make a grunting effort. A cardinal rule is to make it believable. You might think that for me that’s like stepping on a stinkhorn: it makes a foul-smelling noise and a pink polka-dot stench that keeps folk away in droves. Yet it can be done with the right approach. You need to get the reader on your side, not only willing but eager to suspend disbelief. If you can make the reader laugh early on, you’re probably home free. If you laughed when reading this, I’ve got you. Now I can get serious. One key is to be consistent in your framework, to the extent feasible, so that it hangs together. I suspect that the person who said “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds” was thinking primarily of copy-editors, but there is a place for a sensible consistency. Another is to have little human details in your inhuman fantasy, such as your monstrous ogre having a sore toe, or your fire-breathing dragon suffering an itchy wing. That humanizes them, because you remember when that clumsy elephantine oaf stepped on your toe in the dance, and when you were jammed on the plane and got that intolerable itch right in the middle of your back where you couldn’t reach it, and folk stared as you contorted. You identify, and then you can accept the ways in which these characters differ from you and still root for them.

And difference is important. You don’t want your main character to be just like every other main character in fiction, you know, strong, handsome, beautiful, smart, talented yet intriguingly vulnerable. These qualities are fine, but they don’t suffice. You want a significant difference that will distinguish your character from all others in the universe without making him/her too different to be appealing. There is the challenge, and the success of your piece may depend on how you handle it.

So how have I handled it? Consider my recent Xanth fantasy novel Knot Gneiss. That’s a different sort of title. The main character is Wenda Woodwife, who speaks with the forest dialect, saying things like “I wood knot dew that to yew.” In Xanth you can clearly hear the spelling, so you immediately know her origin. Today she is a perfectly ordinary garden-variety fantasy princess who loves children, but her accent makes her immediately distinct. You just know that when she married Prince Charming she said “I dew.” So there is her difference, constantly apparent without interfering with the clarity of her situation in the story.

Exercise:

Find some minor but nice way to distinguish your main character from all others in the past, present, or who may in some alternate future come into being. Maybe even make notes of prospective traits you can draw on at need. I maintain a huge Ideas file of notions for that purpose, because the best ideas are apt to come at odd and often inconvenient moments rather than when you need them. I scribble them down in pencil, then transcribe to the file when I’m at the computer. They can come from anywhere when you’re working, playing, eating, romancing, or reading. No, don’t copy mine; that wood knot dew.

Note: In 2011 Now Write! asked me for a spot essay on writing, complete with a spot exercise for aspiring writers. So I obliged.

Caution: none

18. Living Doll

Tumble was ready to call it a day. His late grandfather’s attic was crowded, stale, and hot, and he had been slowly cleaning it out for hours. His folk were cleaning up the house for sale, and naturally Tumble, the clumsy one, got the wearing but safe job. Which was all right; he knew he wasn’t much of a person, and he was satisfied to do the best he could. It was sad, though, because he had liked the gruff old man, and was sorry for this evidence of his demise.

There was a small stout wooden chest before him. Very well, he would check that out, then get out of the oppressive heat.

He unlatched the lid and lifted it. Inside was a doll. What was Grandpa doing with anything like this? He had been no girly-man, but a tough old buzzard. The only dolls he liked were the living kind.

It certainly was lovely. It looked to be anatomically correct, garbed in a hula skirt and halter that showed a phenomenal shape, with a pretty face and massive dark hair that extended to her plush bottom.

Curious, Tumble lifted the doll out of her case. She was about a foot tall and perfect in every detail. “I wish I had a girl like you,” he breathed. Of course even the wish was foolish. Girls knew him for what he was, an awkward oaf, and stayed well away. Even if he had one like this, she would soon depart for some better man.

The doll shimmered. She expanded rapidly. In a moment she stood before him, his hand on her petite waist, her hand cupping his. “Your wish is my command,” she said.

Amazed and embarrassed, he sought to jerk away his too-familiar hand. But she held on to it. “Don’t do that! You have to keep touching me, or I will revert to doll status. Do you understand?”

“No,” he said candidly. Then, so she would know he wasn’t trying to insult her, he explained: “I’m not the brightest candle on the chandelier. I don’t know who you are or why you came here or how you relate to the doll.”

She smiled, and he could have sworn the dark attic brightened. “Tell me your name, and I will tell you mine, and clarify things for you.”

“I’m Tumble, because—”

“I get it, Tumble. You must have fallen a few times as a child, so they hung a cruel nickname on you, and it stuck.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I am Epiphany. I am a woman enchanted to become a doll in my own image. I can resume my natural aspect only when being touched by a man. When he stops touching me, I revert, and am dead to the world. So I am holding your hand not from excess of passion, though I can provide that when requested, but to be sure we can have a dialogue long enough to clarify my nature.”

“Uh, yeah,” he repeated uncertainly.

“Do you have any questions?”

“Yeah, I do. What are you doing here in Grandpa’s attic? He wasn’t exactly a doll man.”

“Ah, you are Trevor’s grandson. There is a family resemblance.”

“Yeah. Except he was ten times as smart as me, for one thing.”

“To answer your question, I was servicing your grandfather. He took me out when he was horny, and put me back when sated.”

Tumble was appalled. “He treated you like a—a—”

“Exactly. I must obey the man who touches me, and that was his interest, especially when he became a widower.”

Tumble realized he was blushing. “I’m sorry, Miss Epiphany. I didn’t know.”

“Don’t be concerned. I was enchanted in significant part for this purpose, and I’m good at it. I am the ultimate sex toy. It’s not a burden to me. I have known many men over the course of decades, and Trevor was by no means the worst of them. But now you must do what he did not: return me to my mistress.”

“Oh sure, Miss Epiphany. Who is she?”

“Call me Pip for short. She is the Sorceress of Bleak Mountain. Surely you know of her.”

“Oh, yeah, Miss—Pip. She does our village a lot of good, but we are careful not to trespass on her mountain. Only the folk with regular business go there, like the ones bringing vegetables, meats, leather, and the housemaids, who never see her, but they do their jobs and get away quickly. In return she gives us good rains and good crops, and we don’t want to mess with her.”

“That is a good attitude. Had she known that I was being used by your grandfather, she might not have been so kind to your village. But I’m sure she’ll forgive all, if you take me promptly back.”

“Right away,” Tumble agreed. But privately he wondered what the Sorceress would want with a sex toy.

She gazed at him a moment. “Perhaps tomorrow will do. It seems to be late in the day.”

“Yeah. What should I do, put you back in your box, then fetch it in the morning?”

“Tumble, I am just a bit tired of the box. Take me with you downstairs.”

“But then everyone will see you, and maybe not let you go, because you must be pretty valuable.”

“More than you know,” she agreed, smiling. “But do not be concerned. Only you can see or hear or feel me, when I am animate, and when I am not, I am just an inert doll. Just hold my hand and go down.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess, if that’s the way you want it.”

“That’s the way it is.”

They went downstairs. She was so light and balanced that her dainty feet hardly seemed to touch the steps.

“’Bout time you came down, Tumble,” his mother said, spotting him. “Wash your hands; supper’s almost ready.”

“Sure, Ma,” he agreed, as he always did. Epiphany was right beside him, holding his hand, but his mother seemed not to see her.

“I told you there would be no trouble,” Epiphany said.

Or hear her. “Yeah.”

But his mother heard that. “What’s that, Tumble?”

“Nothing, Ma. I was just talking to myself.”

“Don’t do that. It makes a bad impression.”

“She’s right,” Epiphany said as he walked toward the bathroom. “Do not speak aloud to me when you are in company. Just ignore me.”

He glanced at her beside him, and accidentally saw down inside her halter. He blushed as he snapped his eyes away. “That’s sort of hard to do.”

She laughed. “You’ll learn. No need to sneak peeks, either; just tell me to take off my clothes, and I will.” She drew down her halter, exposing her breasts completely. They were phenomenal.

“No!” he exclaimed. “I’m not supposed to look! Girls don’t like to be goggled.”

“Ogled,” she corrected him. “But I’m not like that. My body is yours any time you want it.”

“Oh no, no, no! I wouldn’t—” He could hardly contain his acute embarrassment.

She squeezed his hand. “I see. You have no experience with women.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what to say to them or anything.”

“How old are you, Tumble?”

“Nineteen. Past time for me to find a job and contribute to the family.”

“And to marry?”

He shrugged. “If I ever find a woman who’ll have me.”

“For that you need experience. Which for you is hard to get. Perhaps we can do something about that tonight.” She lifted her halter and was decently covered again.

Was she teasing him? He dared not ask. They were in the bathroom now, and she helped him wash his face and hands, never letting go.

He had a normal supper. No one saw Epiphany as she sat on his lap and kept a hand on his upper arm. For that matter, they hardly saw Tumble. He was pretty much ignored, as usual.

But after the meal, when he was washing the dishes—another chore that fell naturally to him, since he wasn’t good for much else—his mother broached him. “Tumble, what’s going on?”

She had caught on that he was up to something, as she always did. What could he tell her?

“Tell her the truth,” Epiphany suggested.

That made it easier. “I found something in the attic today.”

She smiled tolerantly. “That’s hardly surprising. There’s a lifetime of your grandfather’s junk there.”

“A toy. In fact a doll. A beautiful doll. And—”

“And?”

“Tell her,” Epiphany said.

“And it came to life, sort of.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I should see this doll.”

Her “perhaps” was his command. But this was awkward.

“You will have to set me down,” Epiphany said. “For a moment. Then animate me again after she has seen.”

“Uh, yeah.” She was holding on to his arm. He put his other hand on her arm and moved it to the counter, then let go.

Epiphany disappeared. The doll appeared, lying on her back on the counter.

“Oh, my!” his mother breathed. “That’s it!”

This was unlike her. “That’s what?”

She did not answer directly. “Tumble, when you touched her, and she came to life, what did she do?”

“She talked to me. Said Grandpa had used her, but she needed to be returned to the Sorceress of Bleak Mountain. So that’s what I’ll do.”

“What else?”

“Else?” he asked, confused.

“What else did she do with you?”

“She—” He blushed. “She showed me her breasts. She sure is pretty.”

“And?”

“She said I needed experience. But I know that’s not right. I mean, not with a doll.”

“So you didn’t do anything else with her.”

“Yeah. Did I do right?”

“Yes.” But her mouth was tight. “Tumble, you must not do anything more with her. That doll is hazardous.”

“She sure seemed nice.”

“Here is the story,” she said grimly. “Legend has it that when the Sorceress was eighteen years old, and the most beautiful woman of her generation, she made a doll in her own image so there would always be a record of her beauty. It was a magic doll, said to come alive when touched by a man, and to oblige him in any manner he chose. That meant only one thing, men being what they are. But someone stole the doll, and the Sorceress was so angry that when it wasn’t promptly returned she turned Bleak Mountain into a volcano that erupted and killed the entire village beside it. Later our own village was founded, and the Sorceress has taken good care of us. But we have known not to try her patience. We didn’t know this doll was here. You must return it tomorrow, with our abject apology, and hope the Sorceress is not angry.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, shaken.

“Do not do anything with it that might annoy the Sorceress. She is phenomenally dangerous when angry. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I think so. Don’t use her the way Grandpa did.”

“That’s it. Best not to touch it at all. We can wrap it in cloth for you to carry.”

“But she said to animate her again, after I showed you. I said I would.”

His mother winced. “Oh, damn! It’s a trap.”

“A trap?”

“If you don’t touch her, and return her wrapped, the doll may be angry, and will tell the Sorceress that you molested her, and there will be an almost literal hell to pay. But if you animate her again, she’ll seduce you, and that may also annoy her mistress. We’re damned either way.”

“But she seems so nice! And she knows I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“You always try to do the right thing, Tumble. But sometimes it can be difficult to know what is right.”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Animate her, but don’t use her. Tell her what I said, and hope she is reasonable.”

“Yeah.” He put his hand on the doll’s arm.

Epiphany manifested immediately. “No need to tell me, Tumble. I heard.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m not mad. You mother is a good woman. Tell her I said I’d treat you right.”

“Pip says she heard, she’s not mad, and will treat me right,” Tumble relayed.

“You’re talking to her now?”

“Yes. I know you can’t see her, but she’s right here. We’re holding hands.”

“So she can hear me.”

“I can,” Epiphany agreed.

“She can.”

His mother faced where she judged Epiphany to be. “My son’s a good boy. He wants to do what’s right. But he doesn’t always know what’s right. Please, if you have any conscience, let him deliver you safely to the Sorceress, and tell her the truth about what happened here. We didn’t know the old man was keeping the doll. I beg you, as a loving mother.”

“I can’t swear to that,” Epiphany said. “But I can tell you this: neither I nor the Sorceress wishes you or your village any ill. We shall see how it resolves.”

Tumble relayed her words. His mother relaxed only slightly. “Then we shall simply have to hope for the best.”

“Yes.” Epiphany leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

“Oh! I felt that!”

“I can make others feel me when I try,” Epiphany agreed. Then she turned to Tumble. “Time for bed, I think.”

“Bed,” he agreed.

His mother winced again, but did not comment.

Tumble returned to his bed under the eaves. They were staying in his grandfather’s house while they shaped it up for sale, and this was where there was room for him. But he hesitated to strip to his underclothing, because of Epiphany’s presence. “Maybe I should let you be the doll, for the night.”

“Oh, no you don’t. I’ve been asleep for so long I want to live a little. I’ll share your bed.”

“But—”

“Your mother’s afraid I’ll seduce you.”

“Yeah.” It would hardly be difficult; her very presence aroused him painfully.

“And that will anger the Sorceress.”

“Yeah.”

“Let me make this clear, Tumble. If you force yourself on me, my mistress will be angry. But if I choose to seduce you, she won’t. She just doesn’t like me to be abused.”

Tumble was sorely tempted, but wary. No girl had ever made such an offer, let alone as ravishingly lovely a one as this. But was it right? He was pretty sure his mother would not think so. “I wish Grandpa could advise me now.”

“You were close to him?”

“Sometimes. At least he taught me three things.”

“Oh? What are they?”

“First, to appreciate beauty wherever I might find it. Second, how to fight off thugs. Third, always to do the right thing. He said the third is where he failed, but with luck I’d be a better man.”

“I think Trevor knew you’d find me.”

“Maybe. I’ll sure try to do what he said.”

Epiphany considered, then brought her face close to his. “Trevor gave you good advice. I will try to let you follow it.”

“That’s nice,” he said uncertainly. “I was afraid you were going to kiss me.”

She laughed. “I am going to kiss you. Then I will leave you alone for the night, except for maintaining our contact so I won’t revert.”

“But if you kiss me, I’ll—” He couldn’t say what, because her very nearness was stirring his emotions phenomenally.

“You’ll sleep. This time. That’s part of my magic.”

“I don’t know. If—”

She kissed him. He felt as if he were floating to the ceiling.

Then it was morning, and he woke refreshed after dreaming endlessly of that kiss. He feared he loved her already. Had she bewitched him?

She seemed to read his thought. “No, Tumble, I merely put you to sleep. Your own nature did the rest. You are a healthy young man with a normal appreciation of the feminine form.”

“I guess you could have, if you’d wanted.”

“Yes, I could have seduced you, and I did want to, but I’m trying to play fair. I’m giving you your chance to deliver me to my mistress. But I can’t guarantee my future behavior.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

She laughed. “We’ll see.”

After breakfast they set off for Bleak Mountain, which was not far, but the path was rugged. It would be a half-day’s walk.

Unfortunately two village toughs were passing by. When they saw Tumble, they cut across to intercept him.

“Oh, darn,” he muttered. “Pip, I’m going to have to let go of you, because I’ll need to deal with these bullies. Otherwise they’ll take you, and you’ll never get home.”

“I can do a little enchantment, enough to mess them up long enough for you to pass.”

“No, thanks, I should handle my own problems, if I can.”

“As you prefer.”

He brought out his handkerchief and took hold of her other arm, then let go of her hand. She reverted to doll form. He held her close to his chest and walked on.

The toughs stood athwart the path, blocking his way. “Hey Tummy Dummy!” one said. “Whatcha got there? You playing with dolls now?”

“I have to return it to the Sorceress.”

They peered closer. “That’s some doll! Looks sexy as hell. Look at those gams! We’ll take it.”

“No.”

“We don’t much like that word, Dummy. We’re asking you nice. Hand it over or we’ll pound you.”

“No.”

The bullies smiled. Now they had a pretext to pound him. One reached for Tumble while the other reached for the doll.

Tumble’s left hand was free. He swing it forward and out, suddenly and hard. The knuckles of his fist cracked into the bully’s face so hard that blood spattered. Then Tumble ducked down and launched his right shoulder into the gut of the other. The air went out of him and he went down, gasping helplessly.

Tumble walked on. After a moment he touched the doll.

Epiphany appeared. “You weren’t fooling about handling thugs!”

“Yes, when I have to. It’s only the one thing, that I have drilled on hundreds of times, so I’m not clumsy.”

“But they’ll be lurking for you when you return, and wary about sucker punches.”

“Yes. But I couldn’t let them take you.”

They moved on. Beyond the village there was a field of wild flowers. Tumble paused to gaze at them admiringly. “They’re so beautiful. I always like them.”

“And Trevor taught you to appreciate beauty.”

“Yes.”

“Tumble, what would you do if you had all power in the world and could do anything at all?”

“Oh, I have thought about that! I’d help all the villagers in need, except the bullies, and make nice paths lined with flowering trees, and I’d try to perk up Bleak Mountain.”

“Bleak Mountain!”

“I think it’s called that because the Sorceress may be unhappy and doesn’t take much care of it. But maybe if it had some nice trees and rivers and butterflies, it would perk her up.”

“You’d try to make the Sorceress happy?”

“Yes. She’s a person too, even if she is centuries old. If she could look out on a really nice natural scene, she should be happier. Anyone would. Wouldn’t you be happy if the castle were nicer?”

She was thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose I would be.” Then she came up with another question. “Tumble, if you could have any woman in the world you wanted, whom would you choose?”

He laughed. “That’s easy. Just one who honestly loved me. I wouldn’t care about her shape or age or anything. All I want is to love and be loved and have a nice family.”

“That’s so sweet.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. No girl ever liked me. None ever will.”

“But a smart woman might, if she really got to know you.”

“Maybe. But I’m not holding my breath.”

“Tumble, I’m really getting to like you. I may be only a doll, but I think you’re a very nice man, and I’d truly like to make it with you before we reach the castle.”

“Make what with me?”

She smiled. “I love your naiveté, too. I’m talking about making love. Sex. I’d like to seduce you, at least once. I promise you rapture such as you have never known or even imagined.”

“But if you seduce me, I won’t want to turn you over to the Sorceress. I wouldn’t be able to make myself do the right thing. I’m weak, but at least I know my weakness.”

“Your weakness becomes you, Tumble.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand that. I only know I mustn’t do it with you. It would—it would violate my honor.”

“That’s true. You would be no better in that respect than your grandfather Trevor was. He was a good man, but he couldn’t resist that particular temptation. But Tumble, maybe I’m worth it. You could keep me the way Trevor did, and park me in a box between times. I’d be a whole lot of fun.”

He was sorely tempted again, but knew it wouldn’t be right. “I have to do the right thing. That is to return you to the Sorceress.”

She made as if to turn down her halter. “Don’t you like me?”

“I like you too much, Pip. I know you’re only a doll, but you’re really pretty and you seem like such a nice person. But I have to do what I have to do.”

“You are so steadfast,” she said sadly.

“What would you want, if you could have anything?”

“Me? I’m only a doll. It’s not my place to want anything.”

“But if you could?”

She glanced sidelong at him. “What do you think I would want?”

“To be alive and free, not needing to cater to any man any more.”

“But Tumble, I like catering to men. It’s my prime entertainment.” She paused, considering. “Still, it’s a fair question and deserves a fair answer. I think I’d like to be valued for more than just one thing, my evocative and obliging body. To—well, as you said, to truly love and be loved. And have a loving family. I’ve never had that.”

“I wish I could give you that.”

She squeezed his hand tenderly. “I wish you could too. You’re the first person who ever asked me about my preferences.”

The path became steep. Tumble was panting by the time they reached the front portcullis of the castle. “I guess this is good-bye,” he said.

“Not yet. This time I’ll do the seductive kiss.”

“But—”

She cut him off with the kiss. His whole body reacted with the power of it. His arms clasped her involuntarily and his desire seemed overwhelming.

But he fought it off. “I wish—oh how I wish!” he gasped. “But I mustn’t. I promised to return you, and I must not break my word.”

She frowned, her anger flaring. “You’re a fool.”

“Yeah,” he agreed miserably.

“Then put me down on the floor inside the castle and let go.”

He stepped through the gate, holding her. “I hope the Sorceress gives you freedom at last, so you can be happy.” His eyes were burning with tears. “I love you, Pip. Even when you’re mad at me.” Then with a superhuman effort he put her down and let go. He felt as if his universe were imploding.

But the doll did not reappear. Epiphany continued to stand there, untouched.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but the doll was not there. “I don’t understand.”

“Tumble, it is time for you to know the rest of it,” Epiphany said. “The trial is over. You have succeeded in doing your duty. I am more than satisfied.”

“Why haven’t you changed?”

“Tumble, you said you love me. Would you still love me if I were more than a magic doll?”

The truth was easy. “Yes!”

“Considerably more?”

“Yes. But—”

“I am more. I am the Sorceress.”

He was amazed. “You? But—”

“I assumed the doll form so I could anonymously get to know different men. Between-times, while the doll slept, I handled my regular business, alone. I like you, Tumble. Like you a lot. I believe I will marry you.”

“But I’m not handsome, strong, smart, or rich! I haven’t even finished cleaning out the attic.”

“I can grant you all these things, in abundance.” She smiled briefly. “I’ll even help you with the attic. But here’s the point: What I can’t magically give a man is integrity. You are the first in a century to actually turn in the living doll.” She stepped up to him, taking him by the shoulders, gazing into his eyes. “I know I can trust you, Tumble. You will do the right thing regardless of temptations or threats. That’s what truly counts.”

“But—”

“Tumble, it’s been a long dry spell. I have decades of passion backed up. I never got enough from the doll, though I relished what I did get. I simply had to find the right man. You are that man. Please, come to my bedroom. I promise to do the right thing by you, after. I will always look exactly as I do now, unless you come to prefer a change, and will always do my best to make you happy. I have potency spells galore if you ever need them. Your mother will be pleased to see you gainfully married. We’ll tour the world. We’ll help all your villagers. We’ll have children, a loving family. We’ll make Bleak Mountain beautiful. Anything you want, as I know you won’t abuse it. But right now I just have to make love to you. It’s all right, now that you know me and we have a relationship. I’m on the verge of loving you, in my fashion, and that is an extremely rare and wonderful thing for me.” She brought her lovely face closer. “Please.”

He could not get a handle on his feelings. “But—”

She frowned prettily. “Unless you have a thing against older women?”

“No! I don’t care how old you are. I love you! It’s just so much, so sudden. You were just a doll in the attic. Now you’re—”

“A woman almost in love.”

“Mother would be wary of my taking up with a—a strange woman.”

Her pupils came to resemble the fiery mouths of two volcanoes. “Not half as wary as she would be of an angry Sorceress.”

He was alarmed, knowing her power. “Please don’t hurt my mother!”

She was instantly contrite. The pupils became two placid love pools. “I wouldn’t think of it, dear. I’m just saying that I’m sure she will be reasonable.”

“I—I can’t tell you no. But I don’t know what to do. I have no experience. I’d be clumsy. I don’t want to—to turn you off.”

“Fortunately I have experience also, in quantity. I will guide you.” She took a breath. “Tumble, I have proposed marriage to you. Do you accept?”

What could he do? He was overflowing with desire for her, and sex was only part of it. “Yes. If it’s the right thing.”

She smiled. “It’s the right thing, Tumble, and it’s only the beginning.” Then she kissed him, and won him, completely.

Note: I wrote this on request in August 2011 and it was published in March 2012 in Attic Toys. The requirement was simply that the story relate to something found in an attic. I have a huge file of ideas that I summarize and save for when needed, and I delved into this and found this idea of an artifact that needed to be returned to a Sorceress. An item that is more than it seems. It came together nicely, and this is one of my favorite stories of this volume, vying with “Juliet.” I love the way the Sorceress tempts Tumble, and the way he unknowingly wins her by his honesty and appreciation for ordinary things, like maybe flowers for Bleak Mountain. I like the way the pupils of her eyes show her moods, whether volcanoes or love pools. Not that the average reader will notice; some details are simply because I like them.

Caution: religion

19. Religion

I am agnostic, with no belief in the supernatural. When they first told me about how Santa Claus flew through the air and delivered presents to every child on Earth on the same night, I was skeptical: No Way. Then they told me about God, sitting on the edge of a cloud, looking down, pointing to different folk to select which ones would go to Heaven and which to Hell. I was similarly skeptical. That was the beginning of a lifelong disbelief; I never joined any religion. Today I am a Humanist, which I regard not as a religion but as a sensible philosophy of life. But it’s a matter of definition. If you define God to be Truth, Honor, Beauty, Decency, Love, Intelligence, Empathy, and Realism, then you can say I believe. But I see little evidence that religious folk define God in that manner, or even practice the tenets of their own holy books. Rich Christian conservatives do not give all their money to the poor as Jesus recommended; devout Muslims do not practice tolerance; practitioners of the great Asian religions do not eschew war. I am a vegetarian because I don’t like hurting animals; how many religious folk follow the “Thou shalt not kill” commandment, even if it is limited to people? None who support war, abortion, or the death penalty. How could any religion ever justify the horrors of the Inquisition? So I am uncertain whether religion is a net benefit to mankind. I’m not against religion; I have been married to a minister’s daughter 55 years. I am merely in doubt. But I do dislike the way God is put on our currency, in the Pledge of Allegiance, and in legal oaths; these are supposed to be civil, not religious matters.

What religion, then, do I think should be taught in schools? My answer is simple: all of them. Children should be exposed to the essential tenets of every major religion and many of the minor ones, objectively presented by people who do not belong to the religions they describe. Then adherents of those religions should also be invited to express their beliefs to classes of children. Yes, including atheism and voodoo and even the Flying Spaghetti Monster. In this manner students can form their own opinions, based on information rather than prejudice. Then, responsibly educated, they can choose a religion to join, or none. The separation of church from state should also be taught: many today do not know that America is a secular nation, not a Christian one.

Note: I was asked to contribute to a volume of opinions: What religion, if any, should be taught in schools? This is my answer. It is perhaps my favorite essay of this volume.

Caution: this torpedoes Xanth

20. Adult Conspiracy

He was lovely. She was handsome. They made a nice couple in the magic land of Xanth. They embraced. Then they did something naughty. How had all this come about?

Esk Ogre had found Bria Brassie when she was lost, and the brass girl had taken a shine to him despite his fleshly nature and occasionally ogreish temper. So she married him, and impressed on him just how soft she could make herself be, when she chose. Since it was a warm day, she took off her clothing, consisting mainly of brass panties and a brassiere, so she could better demonstrate her softness.

This had an odd effect on Esk: the softer and cooler her body became, the harder and hotter his became, until she realized that there was nothing for it but to soften him before he got so metal hard as to be unable to function. She had not married him, after all, to turn him into a brassie man. She removed his clothing, but somehow he just stared at her and got even more so. She realized that a stronger measure was required. So she took his hardest part and put it into her softest part, as deeply as possible, and gave him her coolest, wettest kiss. “I love you,” she said softly.

The result was dismayingly explosive. But after a moment she realized that he had not gotten so hot as to melt away; only part of him had dissolved, while the rest had merely softened. That was a relief!

Steam formed above them, swirling into a pattern. Bria realized that the heat of Esk’s explosion, though muffled by her metallic coolness, had caused a magic Ellipsis to form: three glowing dots. The dots hovered only long enough to verify that it was time to signal the stork. They took a reading on the two people, classifying them by species and type. Then they took off, forging across the Land of Xanth through field and forest, o’er hill and dale, and all that, until they reached the top secret Stork Works. They could not enter that dread fastness, for this was the ultimate bastion of the Adult Conspiracy. No one was allowed to know what went on inside. Instead they struck the order receipt antenna and delivered their information: identical twins, hard and soft, male and female. Then, their mission completed, the dots faded out.

A screen lit. Specifications flowed across it, defining the genome.

SPECIES: Human

NUMBER: Two

GENDER: Male/Female

And on, in a torrent of information only a machine could assimilate: tissue and blood types, neuro-electric parameters, chemical composition, metabolism, magic talent, everything. All coded at the outset, together with permissible deviance from the norm. Soon the model genome was formed: the specification.

Had there been any animate intelligence present, it would have been amazed. Identical twins of different sexes? That must have been Xanth’s hardest and softest coupling! But there was no such intelligence, so there was no question. The number and gender information was merely noted.

Now the machinery addressed the living component. An impulse traveled through the network, bypassing the assorted entries for mouse, sparrow, goldfish, toad, lizard and the like, until stopping at the cage labeled HUMAN FEMALE.

In that hutch lay a naked woman. There was a tube for water and a dish for food; her wastes passed through the mesh floor to enter the sewer pit. The odor was intense. She screamed as the clamps came down on her arms, legs and torso. She tried to escape, but the cage was so small it was impossible. She was pinned down as a beam of light played across her abdomen. A nozzle squirted an antiseptic solution. She screamed again as the needle came down and plunged into her belly, and once more as it penetrated her left ovary and extracted one unripe egg cell. Then the needle withdrew with its burden, and the clamps released. The woman’s screams subsided as she dabbed at the bit of blood leaking from the puncture wound. She knew that the torture was over for now; it might be as long as two days before the next extraction was made. That was all she lived for: a day or so of respite. When her supply of usable eggs was depleted, she would be disposed of, and a fresh new brood woman installed.

The egg was piped to the central gene-splicing laboratory, where it was microscopically examined. A precise electronic surgery adjusted the genes of its chromosomes in rapid order, making them match those of the model genome.

Meanwhile the impulse stopped at the cage of a naked man. He tried to fight as the clamps caught him, but they were far too strong. They bent him over the milking stand as the beam of light and disinfectant came. A suction sheath closed about his dangling penis. A prod slid into his anus, locked onto his prostate gland, and squeezed. A small jolt of current made the gland convulse, forcing seminal fluid down the urethra and into the sheath. Then the prod and cup withdrew and the clamps released. He was done, for now.

The seminal fluid was centrifuged and its sperm cells separated. They were conducted to the laboratory where the genes were adjusted to conform to the specification. Then the sperm cell whose conformance was greatest was conducted to the holding spot for forced union with the egg cell. The gametes merged and the zygote formed. It was reviewed and found to be in conformance to the specification. It was ready for implantation in a host body. Right after being micro-surgically cleaved into twain, and the sex of the better half changed.

Lea had almost given up looking for the kind of job she wanted: well paying, easy, exciting, and limited to a year or so. She had just graduated from high school and wanted some fun before settling down to the grind of higher education, marriage and family. Then she saw the ad:

NANNY: WELL PAYING, EASY, EXCITING. MUST BE AGE 18-24, HEALTHY, WILLING TO RELOCATE. ONE YEAR EMPLOYMENT. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. CALL 555-9268 EXT 4.

That was it! Lea was going-on-eighteen, healthy, and without experience. She was willing to relocate, especially if that meant traveling. Like maybe on a fancy yacht, taking care of Lord Bilgerberger’s four-year-old kid while he and the missus visited the dowager queen. In her time off she could tour the great cities of the world whose ports the yacht visited. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be quite that exciting, but still, it looked like her ideal job.

She called the number and got an appointment. The woman who interviewed her was very nice, even inquiring what kind of job Lea had imagined as ideal, and Lea told her. “Of course that’s just fantasy,” she confessed. “Much as I’d adore it, I don’t really expect anything like that.”

“Oh, but the position is like that,” the woman said warmly. “And you seem to be perfect. When can you start?”

Talk of dreams coming true!

In two days Lea was ready to report for work. She had cleared her absence with her folks by means of no really strenuous white lies, packed her things, and come to the house. She stepped inside, and saw an odd green melon or gourd sitting on a shelf at about eye level. It had a little hole in the end. She peeked in.

The zygote was conveyed to the cage of a third human woman. She was naked, but it seemed that she had been recently clothed, because the skin of one slender wrist was faded where a band might have been, her plump buttocks were much lighter than her legs, her young breasts bore the fading indentations of a supportive garment, and her small feet showed no sign of calluses. She was clamped and disinfected, and an instrument inserted into her virginal vagina and her cervix for dilation. The zygote was fastened to the inner wall of the uterus. Then the instruments withdrew and she was released.

This young woman did not scream or try to resist. She was passive. In fact she seemed to be unconscious. One eye was closed; the other was locked on a little hole in a green gourd. The gourd was set in a framework near the top of the cage, at eye level. Sometimes the woman’s lips moved, as if she were subvocalizing. It was as if she were dreaming, and unable to wake. She did not seem to be unhappy, merely oblivious. Even when all of her bodily hair was shaved away, including her nice long tresses above and her pubic region below, causing her to resemble a mannequin.

It was lovely on the Fantasy Cruise ship. It had something like thirteen decks, with a pool on each one, as well as a restaurant and ballroom. Lea had a cabin near her employer’s suite, which she shared with four-year-old Junior, who was a remarkably well behaved little boy. She had to see that he was safely in bed by eight P.M. and up by eight A.M., breakfasted and appropriately dressed. She was free to go out on her own while Junior slept, to converse with other passengers, to dance, and to flirt, provided she did nothing to bring discredit on her employer. She had a credit card good for any food or incidentals, which her employer covered without debiting her pay as long as she did not abuse it. She carried a beeper which would signal her if Junior woke and needed her, or if he left his bed. She could also use it to signal her employer if there were any problem she couldn’t handle. It was, she had to agree, an easy yoke she wore.

Meanwhile the ship was traveling. Miami, Jamaica, Panama, with pleasant tourist stops at each key port. At first Junior spent the days with his parents, but Lea got along with him so well that increasingly he preferred to see the sights with her. Because they were unwilling to let him leave the ship without them, Lea had to join them for such excursions. Not only did that mean that they found it necessary to buy her more elaborate clothing, so as to maintain appearances, and to treat her somewhat like a family member, it meant she would be paid for the extra hours. “We had intended to provide you more free time,” her employer explained somewhat apologetically. But she enjoyed her “on” time as much as her “off” time, so she had no complaints.

An example of the joys of “on” time occurred near the South American continent. There was a special deck reserved for the most affluent clients. Lea had to bring Junior there so he could get a better view of the locks of the Panama Canal. But she was challenged at the entry stair. “I don’t see your name on the list,” the steward said brusquely.

“But I have to take—”

“Get out of here before I throw you out, girl.”

Junior looked up at her, smiling. “Use the beeper,” he suggested.

Lea did. She beeped her employer. Just once, not pushing her luck. In a surprisingly brief time the ship’s captain appeared. “What seems to be the problem?” he inquired gruffly.

“This idiot girl and brat tried to sneak onto the reserve deck.”

The captain glanced at Junior, who wore a name tag. He turned to the steward. “You are new here, so I will allow this to pass. But if you make another mistake of this nature, you will be summarily dismissed.” Her turned to Lea as the steward’s jaw dropped. “I shall be pleased to conduct you and Junior to the deck; you are expected.”

“See?” Junior said, smirking. “The captain’s my buddy.”

“True,” the captain said, gallantly offering Lea his arm. He escorted the two of them in style to the deck, where the employer waited with just the hint of a smile. He had evidently fathomed the problem, and taken the necessary action.

No steward challenged Lea again, ever, not even when she was alone. This was just as well, because despite her excellent life she often did not feel well in the mornings. Sometimes she had to make a fast break for the nearest lavatory, whether it was reserved for passenger or crew. She saw the ship’s head doctor, who suggested that it was nothing serious, probably just a touch of seasickness. Reassured, she tided through, and usually felt better later in the day.

Sometimes the woman smiled, as if enjoying something. Her eye remained fixed on the gourd, whether waking or sleeping. But she had to be fed, exercised and cleaned regularly. At appropriate intervals the clamps came on and tubes were inserted into oral, urethral and anal orifices to bring nutrients to her stomach and convey away urinary and fecal wastes. Regular enemas made certain there were no stoppages. Between times she was exercised: her body was supported so that her head did not move from the vicinity of the gourd while mild electric prods caused the muscles of her body to flex repeatedly, sustaining muscle tone. Her hair was beginning to grow back, and it was disinfected.

As her pregnancy advanced, her breasts expanded and her stomach began to react. On occasion she vomited. The machines promptly cleaned her up and reinserted the nutrients. They kept her upright so that it was impossible to choke on the emerging fluid. They continued the specified exercise program. The body remained healthy. All was in order.

Down the west coast of South America for a week at Santiago, Chile, with offshoot tours of one of the least known outposts of the Inca empire. Onward to Antarctica to admire the walls of ice and trek across a large iceberg, admiring the penguins. Lea’s siege of morning queasiness passed, but she felt oddly heavy, as if she had gained weight. The mirror showed that her figure remained perfectly trim. It was funny how she got these weird notions.

Meanwhile she was closer than ever to her employer and his wife. Once he summoned her to his suite when she knew that Junior and his mother were elsewhere on the ship, and she had a passing qualm. Sometimes more was expected of employees than was proper. But it was all right: he was holding the cellular phone. “Your family is inquiring; speak to them,” he said, and departed, leaving her with the phone. She was making an international call! She reassured her mother that everything was fine, and that their next port was to be at New Zealand, and then Melbourne, Australia, with a side jaunt to Tasmania. She was learning a lot of geography, and loving every minute of it.

Machines monitored the developing fetuses. The host’s blood was tested, and instruments measured every aspect of the situation. If any problem manifested, any deviance from the specification, the foeti would be summarily aborted and new ones implanted. But all was in order. The regimen continued.

Singapore, Bombay, Cairo, with leisurely pauses and side excursions all along the way. Lea was coming to feel like a seasoned world traveler—as indeed she was. Then on through the Mediterranean Sea. She had toured the Atlantic, the Pacific and the Indian oceans, and was coming to the underside of Europe, having crossed three quarters of the globe. She and Junior were almost inseparable. She began to fear how it would be when the cruise ended and they had to part.

She was feeling positively ponderous. It was illusory, of course, because she hadn’t gained a pound, and she moved as well as she ever had. Often she swam in one of the pools, and she remained sleek in a swimsuit. She was popular with the athletic young men on the cruise, though none attempted to take unwarranted liberties. Could her problem be some sort of guilt at the sheer joy of her current life? Her unconscious mind punishing her by making her feel elephantine? Yet she wasn’t aware of any guilt. She had been hired to do a job, and she was doing it well; everyone said so. So she tried to put aside her peculiar sensations, lest she be considered crazy. Certainly her private feeling seemed irrational.

In the late stages the host was floated in a vat of warm water, so that she wouldn’t develop bedsores from continual confinement. The machines and probes caused her to exercise by making swimming motions with her arms and legs. Special attention was paid to her abdominal musculature, so as to facilitate natural parturition. The machines could cut the babies out of her body readily enough, but that entailed further delay for healing. Nature’s way was best, in those instances when it was feasible.

Lea took to swimming more often, and to soaking in a hot tub. That took the imaginary weight from her body. Junior liked to splash in the water, too, so that was fine.

They came to Crete and toured the ruins of the palace of Knossos, and visited the blasted remains of the isle of Thera, whose volcanic destruction had devastated the Minoan empire and precipitated the legend of Atlantis. Then Rome, where they toured the Vatican City and saw the Pope. Lisbon, and Paris, whose sights were such that they remained in the vicinity for almost a month, with a special bus ferrying them constantly to and from the ship.

Coincidentally, somewhere between London and Dublin, Lea suffered a sudden, intense siege of illness. It was as if she had swollen so hugely that she could neither walk nor breathe. As if she had somehow swallowed two watermelons whole, and they were squeezing on out of her nether tract. She was apologetic about defaulting on her job, but for a time she was confined in the ship hospital. Junior visited her often, hoping she would get better soon, because it was pretty dull just being with his folks.

And she did improve. The doctor’s strenuous treatment was effective, and in a few hours the crisis passed. Weary, weak, feeling depleted, but relieved, Lea realized that the burden had lifted and she was on the way to recovery. She was sure that she would be her old self by the time the ship reached Boston. She hoped her folks would never know how difficult part of her wonderful excursion had been. Somehow she felt that she had accomplished more than merely circling the world while baby-sitting a little boy.

The babies were ready. All that remained was to insert a soul split into halves, and the two halves of the magic talent and ship them to their destination. They were wrapped in cloth, a blue ribbon was set in the hair of the male, and a pink ribbon in the hair of the female. Then they were conveyed to the other end of the complex, where the waiting room of the storks was. A husky stork was given the location. It then poked its beak through the upper knot of the bundle, made a running takeoff, and was airborne. Another baby or two was being delivered to the waiting family.

“Oh!” Bria exclaimed as the stork, tired from the double burden, unceremoniously dumped first one baby and then the other into her lap and flew away. “Two!”

“A boy and a girl,” Esk agreed. “I can tell by the ribbons.”

“I think I know what their talents will turn out to be,” she said wisely. “He will be able to make things magically hard, and she will be able to make them magically soft. Whatever shall we call them?”

“Epoxy and Benzene,” he said.

“That’s the label on the diaper!” she protested.

But it was too late. He had spoken the words, and the names stuck fast. Epoxy Ogre, who made things hard and fast, and Benzene Brassie, who dissolved them again. They were destined to be quite a pair, when they got loose in Xanth. But at the moment they were merely cute identical twins.

Identical? Male and female? Somewhere a disturbing thought hovered. Fortunately it found no place to settle.

“Do you know,” Bria mused, accepting it philosophically, “sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier just to let us make our own babies at home. Then maybe we wouldn’t have to wait so long for delivery, or be caught by surprise.” She paused, then reluctantly added: “Or be concerned about possible mistakes.”

“It will never happen,” Esk replied. “The bureaucracy of the Adult Conspiracy hides all such critical information. That outfit will never give up its power. No one will ever know the secret of making babies.”

“And no child will ever know the secret of summoning the stork,” she agreed. “Perhaps it is just as well. There could be a lot of mischief if children ever started doing it.”

Certainly no one in the Mundane world ever knew the real story, especially not innocent girls like Lea who answered newspaper ads. Lea remembered that year between high school and college, but somehow its details soon faded along with her stretch marks, in the manner of a dream. Perhaps that was just as well. What would the world come to, if such devastating secrets were exposed? It might be severely disruptive of the established order.

Note: The idea of Esk and Bria having twins with the magic of making things hard and soft was suggested by David Abolafia. But don’t blame any of the rest of it on him. This was written for Norman Spinrad’s anthology Down in Flames, where the authors of a number of series were to write stories torpedoing their own creations. So mine torpedoes Xanth. No wonder the storks are so close-beaked about where they get the babies, and why it takes so long to deliver them. I wrote it early in 1992, and revised it on the editor’s suggestion to make it more obviously Xanthian, and signed the contract on February 11, 1994. $250.00 was to be paid within thirty days of receipt of the signed contract. That was the end of it. I never received payment and as far as I know the volume was never published; it must have gone down in flames. So now, twenty years later, I think it is time to share this story with my readers, damaging as it may be to Xanth.

Author’s Note

Each entry herein has its Note, so I suppose the volume is entitled to one too. Funny thing about my Author’s Notes: editors don’t like them, publishers don’t like them, reviewers don’t like them, critics hate them. Nobody likes them—except the readers. Over the decades I think I have hundreds of reader endorsements, many saying they prefer the Notes to the novels, which leaves me with mixed feelings. I remember only three negative votes, and when I rechecked those, one was from a woman who liked them but thought I shouldn’t have to work so hard writing them; one reader didn’t see much point in them; and I forget the third. Assuming it was fully negative, that makes the reader score about a hundred to one in favor. So what’s with the critics, who hate what readers like? And I think that’s it: critics tend to have aberrant tastes, which is why they are critics instead of writers.

You might think I have included all my left over pieces. Not so. On rare occasion a story loses all its rights to the publisher, so I can’t use it. I have also done a number of essays targeted to specific audiences, that would not be of much interest to this (I presume) more general audience. For example, there is “Syntax of Dreams,” which was written in response to a request for an idealized Last Lecture: if I knew it was to be my last, so that I would have no further chance to address my audience, what would I say? So I said it, in about 5,000 words, but it gets technical and I concluded it was not for this volume. There are the talks I have given at conventions, targeted to their interests, such as my “Blockhead” talk, where I said I’m a blockhead because I don’t write only for money, and most Internet writers and publishers are blockheads too; they applauded that. Or the one where I used the analogy of a person getting a ten dollar bill, provided he shares it with someone else; pretty soon he catches on that he doesn’t have to share evenly, because if the other person doesn’t take the lesser deal, he gets nothing. I likened it to publishing, where the publisher offers maybe five percent of the money an author’s book makes, and if he doesn’t take it, he gets nothing. Which is one reason I support Internet publishing. But is that of much interest to the general reader? And some I simply lose track of. I try to keep a careful record of everything I write, but things do slip through the cracks, like typos.

But for those who are interested, you are welcome to visit my Web Site, www.HiPiers.com, where I have a monthly blog type column featuring my feisty opinionations, plus an ongoing survey of Internet Publishers and related services for the benefit of aspiring writers looking for markets, plus general information about me and my novels. Or my Blog site http://piersanthonyblog.blogspot.com where I have spot essays. Or my email address PiersAnthony@hipiers.com. Or my Twitter site, at https://twitter.com/PiersAnthony where I have an ongoing novelette “Forbidden Fruit” told line by line in 140-character-or-less Tweets, one per day. I lack the imagination to do original Tweets on different subjects, so I make them into stories which eventually may be collected into a volume like this. So there are several ways to reach me, if you are interested. Otherwise, I wish you well in your uninterested life.

Credits: some of these were written for amateur publications and I never saw them in print, so the listings are approximate.

“Bluebeard” published in Interzone 1995

“Root Pruning” 2006

“Cartaphilus” written for Starkweather: The Grid circa 2006

“A Picture of Jesus” published in Science Fiction Age 1993

“My America” published in My America 2002

“Serial” published by Excessica 2007

“The Courting” published in Bits of the Dead 2008

“Pep Talk” published by NaNoWriMo 2008

“Knave” published by Cobblestone 2008

“Juliet Quartet” published by Excessica 2009

“Editing” written December 2008

“Medusa” published in Divine Matches circa 2010

“Rat Bait” published in Something Wicked circa 2010

“Humor” written February 2009 for Crossed Genres

“Lost Things” published in The Horror Zine 2010 and What Fears Become 2011

“Privy” published in The Forsaken circa 2011

“Wood Knot Dew” published in Now Write! Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror: Exercises from Today’s Best Speculative Genre Writers & Teachers circa 2013

“Living Doll” published in Attic Toys 2012

“Religion” written 2012, publication uncertain

“Adult Conspiracy” written 1992 for Down in Flames, never published.

And a credit for my proofreader Scott M. Ryan, who caught half a slew of errors I had missed.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Piers Anthony

ISBN: 978-1-4976-6280-3

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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