She awoke in the dead of night, dead afraid.

There was no moon; it was far and away, on the other side of the sky. There was no light; the street lamps were out. She felt a heartbeat against her back, a chest that expanding with every breath; they slept curled about each other, spooned. "Baby? Are you there?"

"I'm here, Kati," came the murmured reply, the soothing feeling of his arms around her. His arms were magic: they could form a barrier that halted any distraction from the outside world. He denied being able to do this, but she knew the truth.

"What's wrong," he asked. "Nightmares?"

She shook her head, feeling matted hair against the pillow. "No," she said. "Just... I woke up, and everything seemed so strange." She was very small compared to the world, and she knew it, and the world knew it, and it loved to scare her. "I thought..." Why had she thought this? "I thought that you weren't there for some reason."

"I was here," he said simply. And he had been, she knew it; but it hadn't felt like it.

"I know, but..." she said.

"Shh." His whisper was for silence. "It's okay. It doesn't have to make sense, Kati."

It didn't. That was one of their agreed-on laws. The objective wasn't to decide whether it made sense or not; the objective was to deal with it. "I know," she said. She felt small and frightened, a little child. Things seemed magnified in the night.

She heard the difference in his tone; whatever the truth was, he wanted to hear it. "Are you okay, sweetie?"

All the better to heal you with, my dear, she thought, imagining what he must be thinking.

"I'm afraid," she said.

"Of what?" he asked, taking the next logical step. Logic; logic. He claimed that logic was by no means natural; it was a framework the human mind imposed on itself. He was probably right. But he used it. It was his nature to appreciate the virtue and vice of a concept at once.

"I..." Helpless shrug. "I don't know."

"Is that bad," he asked. To him, it was okay not to know things. In his mind, humans were not expected to have all the answers.

In her mind, they were. "Yes," she said, "it ought to make sense. But... It doesn't." Frustration marred her voice.

"It's okay," he said. His hands were soothing. "Calm down, Kati. It's not the end of the world."

"Maybe not," she said, "but I ought to know my own mind."

He shook his head. "No one knows their own mind."

"What?" she asked.

"Imagine it this way," he said. "You're standing inside a building. Can you see the outside?"

"No," she said.

"Well, there you go," he said. "That building is you, Kati. You can't go outside yourself to get an objective look; it's just not something we can do."

She turned over in his arms so that she faced him. Running to him, running from him... All at once.

"I guess you're right," she said.

His hands stroked her back, soothing, calming. "If you figure it out," he said, "and you want to tell someone, I can listen."

She nodded, feeling close to tears. It was true she could not exit herself, see herself from the outside; but the building she occupied was a maze, a mess of intertwining corridors and dead-end hallways, of rooms leading nowhere, of hallways a mile long. The architect who'd built her building ought to have been dragged out and shot.

A maze, she thought. That sounds about right.

She curled up in his arms and cried, silently, and he held her, taking her tears into himself, absorbing her pain so that she could wipe her eyes and forget anything that had happened.

"I love you," he whispered when she was through, "whether you know your own mind or not."

"I know," she said, miserable. "I love you too, Edward." It was hard not to run from him sometimes. His empathy was too strong.

"Is there anything I can do to help," he asked.

No, she thought. "Just hold me," she said. "Please."

He held her, her warm body tense and frail, with the subtle movements of her breath. It was as hard for him as it was for her to have no idea what was wrong.

Her hair was soft to touch, falls of veils. Her face had not yet lost the innocent roundness of childhood; gentle was the way to describe her face. She was very beautiful, and he loved her dearly.

"Do you want to sleep," he asked her.

"I don't know," she said. "Dreams..."

He knew the dreams.

She had never been an outgoing person, but as college wore on she gained some measure of confidence. They were close, quick friends, but she had a boyfriend. It ended after she refused to have sex with him, and he forced her. She had come home in tears and he had thought his heart would break—from pain, from grief, from anger. But the crisis flung them together. In several months would be their fourth wedding anniversary.

She was in therapy, which was either the height of irony or the perfect place for a woman who had graduated with a degree in psychology; he was starting to pick up some of the details of it himself, and supplemented her sessions with what advice he could offer, and his love for her. But the spectre of the disaster that brought them together, though past and gone, still hung over everything they did.

"I just want it to be simple again," she whispered, pained. "It hasn't been for so long."

Too, he knew that feeling. It was as if they controlled the world—everything they did seemed to have unforseen circumstances, most of which came back to haunt them. He sometimes felt they couldn't breathe without causing some disaster.

She sighed. "Even sleep isn't simple anymore."

"I think that's just part of being alive and growing up," he said, apologetic.

"Well, I don't like it," she muttered.

He kissed the top of her head. "That makes two of us."

She turned away from him, her back against his chest. "I can't breathe. Let me loose."

He did. Her hair made a carpet on the pillow; its texture was familiar to him now. He spooned behind her, their bodies corresponding; his face in her hair, he drank in her scent—sweat, and the herbal fragrances of shampoo, and a vague musk that was all her own.

He could feel her shoulders quaking. She did not like for him to see her cry. He held her, giving what support he could.

"Is there no escape," she whispered. "None at all?"

He had no answer for her.

"I'm cold," she whispered. "So cold... There's nothing outside of here. It's all empty space..."

"There's more out there," he said, shaken.

"Not that we can trust," she replied. "I'm so scared, Ned, I'm so scared..."

He held her tightly, and this time she came to his embrace, let him shelter her.

In their hearts was the knowledge that he needed her just as much as she needed him.

"I don't want to feel cold," she said. "Unloved. Ned..."

He understood the connection.

"Ned—" Like pain. "Love me... Please..."

He nodded. "I will, Kati. Just... Calm..."

His hands on her body, soothing. He could not love her if she was tense.

"It's hard," she said.

"I know," he murmured. "But... Just calm yourself. Relax. It'll all work out, you'll see... We'll make it better, you and I..."

She took a deep breath and expelled it, striving for calm. It wasn't entirely easy to do.

"Calm..." he said. "There's nothing out there—nothing to bother you, nothing to scare you. There's nothing to be afraid of..."

He let his hands drift across her body. If he were to hold her naturally when she faced away from him, he would find his hands capping her breasts. It was sometimes a constant battle not to do that; but hands on her breasts scared her. Unless she was ready for them.

He traced her breasts at random, his hands courseless and wandering. She wore a loose, thin nightgown that rippled as his fingers moved over them, graced the curve of her breasts. She shuddered a little, leaning into the sensation. It felt marvelously, marvelously good. It was completely unfair how good he felt.

His hands disappeared for a moment, leaving her alone, and she wanted to whimper at their absence. But his hands were behind her, on the closures of her nightgown, opening them. A few moments' work, and she was free, her skin bare to his ministrations.

She wanted him to go back to fucking her, but at the same time she wanted him bare as well. The latter finally won, helped by his admonition: Calm, Kati. "Turn around," she said.

He did, wondering what she wanted. The answer came when her hands slipped underneath his shirt and began to raise it. It was was a little tricky, with both of them lying down, and his briefs were even harder, but it was done, and they were both naked.

She leaned down and kissed him; her breasts, small and lovely, hung and swayed. "Happy?"

"Shouldn't we be asking you that," he asked with a playful smile. He was pleased at how quickly her mood had changed. Sometimes, when she wanted his love, it was like working with a statue—very little response. But not so today, evidently. At least she was speaking.

"I suppose," she said, her eyes neutral, hidden.

"Well, I'm asking," he replied. "Happy?"

She considered.

"Happy," she said at last. "But happier if we keep going."

He laughed, trying to make light of her serious tone. "Men are supposed to be the horny ones," he said.

She shrugged. "So?"

In answer, he reached up and pulled her down on him; and then rolled over, so that she was trapped under him, both of them laughing.

"You're mine," he said triumphantly, tickling her. She laughed, protesting, swatting at his hands, catching them finally.

He smiled down into her eyes—the deep blue of a moonlit sky, so beautiful to him. "I love you."

"I love you," she whispered, and leaned up to kiss his warm lips.

When their mouths parted, she smiled at him. She still had his hands in her own: she guided them down, placed them on herself, his large hands covering her breasts.

She was ready for those hands, this time.

He smiled, kissed her nose, and rolled off of her. For a time, he simply looked at her—this beautiful woman, his lover, his love—and planned his attack. She simply lay on her back, feeling the cold night air and his proximity bring goosebumps to her body, and waited, a faint smile on her lips.

She was not disappointed. His hands returned—gentle, warm, fingertips sliding down her skin like localized fire. She whispered soundlessly, enjoying the sensations, enjoying the tangibleness of his love for her. His hands focused on her nipples-pressing, rubbing, pulling gently. There were times when she liked him to pull on them, hard, but at those times he flatly refused. That was too much like abuse for his mind to stand, he said; and at that invocation, she fell silent.

Suddenly his hand was gone, replaced by the warm suction of his mouth. She laughed silently, thrilled, and stroked his hair as his lips and tongue attached themselves to her breast. She had small nipples in thumbtack aureolas; he loved their texture, the smoothness of her skin, her scent, the feeling of her chest arching up to meet him; harder, harder...

He stayed at her breasts for a while, occasionally switching to the other breast, occasionally venturing out over the rest of the breast. Too long without a lover, his exploits on the Internet had brought him evidence that the entirety of her breasts, not just the nipples, were sensitive; and he did not forget. She made no indication whether this was true or not, but she made no protest, either, and it added some variety.

Her breasts were perfect. Pale and soft, they were not large enough to get in the way; she disdained bra. Nor were they so small that they faded into obscurity when she lay on her back. She liked hard, deep stimulation sometimes; but more often she preferred the teasing, gentle caresses that were more his style. As to practically yanking her nipples off... Well, he'd have to get used to that someday.

Lying beside her, leaning over her, he let his hand whisper across her body—downwards, towards her legs, over the smoothness of her abdomen and the slight dip around her navel. Her muscles rippled as her legs parted in anticipation. And further, to soft tangly hair, trimmed, already wet. And further, between her legs—

His hand cupped her mound, and she shuddered—a whisper, a whimper, the first noise she'd made. "Oh, more, more..."

More indeed. His fingers traced their love across her mound, through the tangled forest of hair, caressing her fleshy lips already wet. He had read the pornos where women gushed lakes from their pussies; Katrina did not do that. Ned was glad of that because he did not want to have to ford a river, or bury his cock in one either.

She struggled for breath, managed to put out a coherent sentence: "I should shave that one day."

The tension broke. He raised his head and looked up at her. "Why?"

Her face was flushed and panting, her eyes dark and beautiful, so beautiful... "Because we'll probably like it better."

He smiled and kissed her cheek, missed her mouth; intentional. "I say, Do what you want to do."

What she wanted to do?...

She sighed. So much for peace. "I'll figure it out." Knowing his single-mindedness whenever her pussy was involved; so easy to manipulate in that way... "Keep going."

His eyes were clear and focused for a moment, focused on her—surprise? Startlement? Confusion? Comprehension of the truth? Oh, God forbid that. But he went back to her body, and she felt a lessening of guilt—she did want him to keep going, to pleasure her. So perhaps she was excused, a little.

She felt his breath on her pussy lips. Excused, indeed, she thought, satisfied.

His attack was practiced; he had evolved it as best as he could, over the few years of their marriage, through her infrequent feedback and more often than not the responses of her body. His tongue met her vulva, and he tasted her again—slightly sour, somewhat salty. The Internet pornos talked about sweet nectar and flowing honey and whatnot—she didn't seem to have much of a taste to her. He had no problem with that.

Carefully, he taunted her body, his tongue-point sliding over her vulva, at times making a curled mess of her hair, at times dancing between and across. Her legs, wider around him. Sometimes he liked her to place her legs on his back, over his shoulders—between her thighs, with her divine secrets before him. But that required a lot more space then they had.

His hands spread her cleft gently open; he felt the vague resistance of her moisture giving way. He dipped his tongue inside her.

Her world dissolved into heady, misty bliss at the first touch of his tongue. Gently, probing, tasting, he moved around her, within her. His tongue traced her feminine delights, her petals and folds; found the delicate nodule, her center of pleasure, and attacked—quick, darting jabs that sent tingles down her spine.

With a single finger, he probed the entrance to her tunnel, tasting, testing. Judging her ready, he slipped his finger gently inside her-and then the second, after a few moments. Thrusting, slowly, gently-feeling the firm muscles of her body, the smooth wetness of her walls. She was gasping, whispering, murmuring in a breathless voice; her hips undulated, meeting his fingers. That was what he loved, seeing her loving what he did to her. He let his fingers continue to move inside her-not very deep; never very deep. Human hands were not designed to work anything like human penises. But as he moved, he could rub her slender, pearl-white clit with his thumb; and he could feel her muscles, clenching about him, and anticipate what they would feel like around his cock; and hear her breath, warm and heady and gasping, lost in the pleasure of what he was doing to her.

The guilt was mostly gone from her heart now.

"Stop," she said. She was nowhere near orgasm; but she didn't want orgasm. She wanted him. "Let me do you."

He shrugged and surrendered his hold on her body, crawled up beside her. He met her face, kissed her. It felt so business-like.

He lay curled on his side, and she fit well into the hollow of his knees. At once he felt her hot mouth around his cock—breathy warmth as she exhaled; thin, curving lips forming a ring around him; her marvelous tongue feeling its way around the soft, fleshy head of his penis; the strange, breathy tingles her mouth always brought him.

Most of the time she focused on the head of his cock; she was not very good at throating him, and whatever pleasure he derived was evidently outweighed by the sound of her half-gagging, because he didn't seem to like it either. She could never get more than about half of him into her mouth at once unless she tried to fold him over backwards, which didn't work. Nor did she especially like sucking him off; his cock was a fascinating thing, and it was fun to have in her mouth occasionally, but very quickly it got boring. She had a feeling that he'd be insulted if she told him his cock was boring, though, so she said nothing. She was of two minds about swallowing; she wasn't fond of it, but there wasn't a whole lot else she could do with his cum once she had it.

Very simply, she reflected, there wasn't much future for her in the blowjob industry. Nevertheless, it was fun. On occasion. And nicely distracting when he gained too much on her and she needed to distract him.

She sucked on his penis, moving it in and out of her mouth, wrapping the head with her tongue. It tasted like nothing special, but its texture was wonderful. The interesting thing was that the head-half of his cock was thicker than the base half; it flopped around, but it also meant she had a little extra flexibility when working with it.

His breath came faster at her ministrations, flowing from him like whispered reassurances. He reached down to stroke her hair. "Thank you," he murmured.

She felt a moment's lightning panic—if he should know her secrets, how much she resented the whole idea of sex sometimes... But, no; he couldn't. He mustn't.

One of her tricks, when she had him in his mouth, was to squeeze him with her tongue. It was haphazard; but it worked, and he said he liked it. She pushed up her tongue until she had his penis caught between it and the roof of her mouth. If she bit down... But she wouldn't. Though sometimes she thought she should.

She alternated for a few minutes, making love to him with her mouth, and then was given a thankful reprieve when he said, "You don't have to if you don't want to, Kati." Was she really that transparent?

She came back to his arms, spooning against his rigid, damp cock. He curled his arms around her, kissing her ear, and then somehow took her shoulders and turned her around so that she faced him: "You're wonderful."

No, I'm not. "Thanks," she said. And looking into his deep, loving eyes she had the distinct feeling that he knew her thoughts as intimately as she did; perhaps more.

Not fair. He wasn't allowed to invade her mind. Her body, yes, as others had before, as he had before; her body, yes—but not her mind.

He could see her eyes—troubled; so troubled. She kept so many things to herself, away from his helping hands, that sometimes he wanted to scream in frustration. What was the point of keeping her problems in the dark, where they would continue to bite at her heels, when he could help her hunt them down, stomp on them, squish them down into oblivion? What was the point?

"Do you want to keep going?" he asked.

She shuddered. "Yes. Oh, yes..."

She did not sound very eager. She sounded... She sounded like she wanted to hide, to banish the demons with their sexual bliss.

He would be lying to himself if he did not admit that he would be happy to oblige her. But at the same time, he wanted those demons gone as much as she did. They could not be happy while they existed, and continually came between them.

He sighed a little and brought her close to him, stroking her silky back. "We'll get going, then." He knew the routines well by now. Tipping her gently over, he went back to her breasts—sucking, stimulating, bringing her pleasure, bringing her wetness. She lost her arousal so easily. He wondered if she had been like that before.

Sometimes their sex was as torturous as it was today; sometimes, it was swift and fleeting; and sometimes, on rare wondrous occasions, were those times when everything just went right, when their souls and minds were one, when their bodies gave way to something even more elemental, and there was nothing that mattered outside of the other. But regardless, they loved.

He pressed her breasts with his hand, applying solid, gentle pressure to the entirety of her firm swelling breasts; she shuddered against him. The light was back in her eyes, so empty just a few moments ago... Perhaps a forced light, but enough. He hated to see her eyes dead. They were dead so often...

"Are you ready?" he asked.

There was life in her voice, this time; finally, life: "Yes."

She did not like 'missionary mode.' She had been stifled and flattened too many times. More often than not she rode him; they both enjoyed it. He had to admit that he liked being prone, liked not having to move as much; he was lazy. And she preffered the control, the depth. The control was terribly important to her. Adept as he was, he could not make her come if he mounted her; and today, she wanted to cum with him inside her. Nothing beat that; nothing.

He rolled onto his back, and she rolled to meet him, diving atop him. She kissed him gently, her eyes dancing with laughter, and then pulled away. Suspending her body in midair above his, she reached down for his member, standing at beating attention, pointing straight at the secrets between her legs.

They both watched; he reached up to keep her hair out of the way, stroked her face.

She took the head of his cock and rubbed it across her feminine flower a few times, so that it was wet and ready. Then she placed it at the entrance to her canal, let it slip gently inside; and slowly sank.

Her folds, her depths, were as wonderful as he remembered.

It seemed to take an eternity for her to take him entirely, her pussy lips slowly consuming his shaft; but all too soon, he felt her legs against his, and their messes of pubic hair intertwined. And they were together, and there was nowhere further to go.

He looked up at her eyes—so beautiful, so tender—and reached up, pulling her gently down to lie atop him, holding him, he holding her-together, as close to one being as they could be.

"I love you," he said, and for once she made no response; no assurances of her returned love, no assurances that he should continue loving her and that she would be worth loving. For once, she simply tightened her arms around him—accepting.

She began to move, then, the walls of her pussy stroking him, pulling at him. Slowly, ever increasing in tempo—hers was a movement from far beyond time. She pushed herself up on her arms for easier flexibility; even better, his hands found her breasts again. The feeling of his warm cock pushing up within her, pressuring her from the inside, was beyond words. If she could have his mouth, then, at the same time—but wishes and fantasies were for another day. His cock had its drawbacks, but when it was inside her she would've gladly paid its weight in gold for it.

His hand found her clit—massaging, stroking, gentle. She moved up and down on him, back and forth, far enough on each slow, outdrawn stroke that she could feel his head between her lips, and then back down. Their sluggish speed made it exquisite; he knew that he wouldn't last long. If she was to come, they would have to do their work quickly. He wanted her to come. Release was a good thing, and God knew she forbid herself enough releases in her life...

She knew it was coming. She knew. Abandoning her clit, she began to move up and down his shaft—faster, faster, humping him. Their breathy murmurs filled the air-hers, high-pitched and almost squeaky; his, heavy and strained. His hips came up to meet her downward thrusts; he felt her wondrous throbbing passage caressing him like hands of molten pleasure. She felt the thick, solid head of his cock within her, moving up and down, in and out, stroking her, caressing her body as his fingers could somehow never, ever do—it was like fire, moving within her, growing.

They never moved very quickly. That was how he knew not to really yank her nipples off, that doing so would hurt her—when she had her own control, she didn't yank her nipples off. She fingered them, teased them, feathered them as she was doing now. He let his hands drift to the axis between her legs, the petal-soft folds and creases, and found her clit again, his fingers massaging, stroking, moving. He could tell she was close; he knew the signs well enough. And so he wasn't surprised when the storm broke inside her.

She stiffened, arching her back, and he felt her passage contracting around him. The sudden pressure got him in exactly the right places, threatening to bowl him over the edge, but he persevered. Her breasts were right there in front of him, and he took them in his hands, adding that extra bit to her pleasure, and she gasped and whimpered as liquid pleasure cascaded through her body, crashing like waves, and eventually trickled down to a gentle, voiceless flow that leaked out from between the petals of her flower and down into his pubic hair, proof of their love for each other.

As the tremors stopped, she collapsed bonelessly, flopping down on him, and he was there to catch her. His arms draped around her body, gentle and reassuring. She felt as though they had left the earth behind, were floating in a void where there was nothing, nothing but his cock inside her, the solid warmth of his chest, his heartbeat, his arms around her, his gentle whispers in her ear.

After a time, she asked, "What about you?"

"Close," he said.

When she raised her head from his chest and looked him straight in the eye, he knew what she was going to do. It was her secret weapon: she could contract her vaginal muscles at will, and she knew she was stroking him in exactly the right spots. He had made the mistake of telling her once and now she never let it go.

The first one made him moan.

The second one made him sqirm and brought sweat to his brow.

The third one tossed him overboard.

She felt the base of his penis swelling inside her, and then the first burst of his seed against her cervix. She gave him one last squeeze for good measure and then settled back to enjoy the sensations. They had never managed those fabled simultaneous orgasms before, and she didn't mind one bit; she loved the feeling of him emptying himself in her. She loved the feeling of his cum inside her. Never mind that it was sticky and icky and sometimes leaked out and made a mess; never mind how it turned her off it it showed up anywhere else on her body. When he was inside her, coming, his eyes wide and staring into hers, his cock convulsing within her, she loved it.

When he stopped, she kissed him.

Finally he got his breath back. "Do you feel better?"

She thought about it, and was surprised to discover that she did. "Yeah."

"I'm glad," he said, his hold tightening around her.

I know why I hate him sometimes, she thought. I hate him because he loves me, and I'm not perfect. But then I think about it, and I love him, because he loves me and I'm not perfect. What does it mean?

...I guess it just means I'm not perfect.

"I love you," she said.

He smiled up into her eyes.

Night drew its velvet cloak over them, and they slept.