Day 45

Jon's alarm jolted him out of slumber with its hateful buzz. Blinking his eyes into focus, he rolled away from his wife to slap the darn thing off. Whether he really wanted to be, he was awake right now; the adrenaline coursing through his system guaranteed that. It was the same alarm clock he'd had back home, and all through college and most of high school: a good ten years now of following him around and waking him up. By now the sound was hard-wired into his brain—and, evidently, into the noradrenergic pathway, judging by the boost of adrenaline that always seemed to strike whenever it went off. Why did that happen? How did that happen? Clearly, Pavlov was right, we are trainable—but of all the things...?

For a moment he merely lay there, staring up at the ceiling. His left arm was still trapped under Caitlyn's body; in fact, she was cuddling it, the hand up near her face as though she meant to kiss it. They had slept this way, with only occasional variation, every night since their wedding.

It's Wednesday. Yesterday was our last day at Pastor Larson's college group, today it's my last Wednesday with Dr. Polkiss and Dr. Leyton, and on Monday I start the training program with Dr. Chandakar—a training program which requires me to be on-station at the luxurious time of 9:30 AM. Caitlyn and I will get to go to bed together. Caitlyn and I will get to wake up together. There won't be long periods of time when only one of us is in this bed. Jon, like Caitlyn, was a night owl; if left to their own devices they'd be awake until 2 AM and abed until 10—maybe later if anything frisky happened, which Jon was looking forward to. Right before bed or right on waking up were his favorite times to savor her body. Obviously, neither was an option when he was sleeping from 10 PM to 6 AM, she from 2 to 10. He had tried awakening her just to have his way with her, and she was always receptive (in a sleepy sort of way), but he always felt bad afterwards, like he was using her, and stopped doing it altogether. We wouldn't be here, in our own apartment, if not for my job, but it really is the worst thing that could possibly have happened to our sex life.

Carefully he began to work his hand free of her grasp. Caitlyn didn't waken.

When he had dressed he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at her. She was still curled up on her side, fringes of hair around her face, her mouth slightly open. She never snored. To Jon's knowledge, neither did he, but how could he know what he did while asleep? She looked peaceful. She was so beautiful to him.

He caressed her cheek with one hand. Caitlyn didn't waken.

The only thing that made it possible to leave was knowing that she needed him to—that their precarious existence here was made possible by his efforts. That, if he didn't, she would not be here to return to. And suddenly, it was okay to leave.

The day seemed to pass with the slowness of molasses. People came in, had their teeth fiddled with, left again; and he would check the clock and see, to his despair, that only five minutes had passed. He had enjoyed his time here, working with these people, doing this job, but now he was excited and ready to go. He didn't want to be here anymore. He wanted to be doing something different. He wanted to have more and better chances to spend time with his wife.

The only highlight was a call from Caitlyn. "I can't talk long, I'm between classes."

"Classes?"

"Silly, it's the first day of school. I'm at Shellview. Remember?"

"Jeez, I feel stupid. You told me that yesterday when we said good-bye to the college group. From now on you have orchestra rehearsals while they're meeting."

Her laughter, like a loving caress. "Yep. I'm on campus and I'm taking classes, because the school year started up again."

"How's it going so far?"

"It's fine. I'm in Jazz Theory, which is going to be cool, and I'm taking my Composition seminar. You know, the one I've been excited about taking ever since I started my Master's program?" He heard the teasing smile in her voice.

"I remember," he said. "I'm not forgetful, Caitlyn, just stupid."

A full-blown smile now. "Oh, is that what it is? Well, I'd better go then. I don't like talking to stupid people."

"Why'd you spend so much time with Harold then?" said Jon.

The instant the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. The previous night, Caitlyn had invited Harold to join them for a late snack at a coffee shop—with Jon's consent and presence, of course. He could tell Caitlyn had regretted the idea within five minutes of sitting down with him... But she had her pride, and she would not give up on what she felt God was calling her to do. It was a sore spot with her now, and unless he was stupid he wouldn't bring it up.

Thankfully, Caitlyn misinterpreted it. "Oh, is that's was bugging you? Jon, if you don't want me to do something, you can always just say that."

Yeah, but will you listen to me? He knew what she was like once she got an idea into her head. "I know."

"I said it before, Jon: you're my husband. There's no one more important than you. There's nothing more important to me than what you want."

After a moment's debate, he said it: "Except God."

"Well... Yes. But, God wants me to be a respectful wife and honor you."

And if I want you to do something ungodly? This time he didn't say it.

"—Oh, I just remembered: Jon, someone asked me to play something next weekend.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. One of my friends here is having her wedding and they wanted...”

She’d been turning gigs down because of their inability to move her harp in any safe manner. “So we’ll need...”

“I think we need a truck. I know you like your car, Jon, but... I think we need to trade it in.”

Funny how she springs this on me now—right after she said that, if I asked her, she would do it. But the thought had no real heat. Jon had known this moment was coming ever since they'd wed; they would need to be able to transport her harp somehow. And it would definitely be nice to have another source of income. "Then how about we go after I get home? You figure out what kind of truck we need, and once I get home we'll go after it."

"All right."

"We'll have to be quick, though—I have Octapella practice at 7:30."

"Ooo, an adventure," she said, the grin audible in her voice.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

And so they went. Jon got home, kissed his wife, and they went down to the car for the last time. Caitlyn was smart enough to suggest that they empty the car of personal possessions first, and they wound up carrying a surprising amount of stuff back into the apartment. A fair bit of it went in the trash—old receipts, loose Xeroxes, bits of fast-food detritus—but among other things, they found an entire compliment of maps which Jon's mother must have stashed in the car. Neither Jon nor Caitlyn used maps, but the things must've cost money and they weren't going to throw them away. And then Caitlyn thought that they might need proof of registration and other legal documents, and they spent another fifteen minutes ransacking the apartment to find where they'd put them. Finally, at 5:35, they were on their way, praying that the Toyota dealership would still be open.

They needed a pickup; Caitlyn had been there when her parents did the math, and remembered it well. Gabriel, her full-size harp, was 65 inches tall and 40 inches wide; they needed at least that much space in the bed. Fortunately, even short-bed trucks were that large, so they'd have some wiggle room. While Caitlyn's family bought Ford, Jon's family and friends had had good experiences with Toyota, and the Tacoma was certainly retailing for cheaper. The only thing left to discuss was whether to get a standard cab or a full-size; eventually, when children came along, they would need back seats, but Jon couldn't even picture any children he might have with her at this point; the idea seemed wholly abstract to him. What was certain was that it would be years yet before any offspring came along. So why spend money on seats they didn't need now, and maybe never would need if the truck was obsoleted before then. They decided to make the final decision once they got on-site and had seen what there was to see.

Two hours later, they had their truck.

The salesperson was friendly—too friendly; after a whirlwind tour of the lot, Jon was glad he'd brought a notepad, because he knew next to nothing about cars. If it went forward when he hit the gas and slowed down when he braked and turned when he steered, it was fine with him, but here was the salesman throwing a blizzard of options and suggestions at him: skid plates, wheel locks, chrome grille bumpers, "overfenders" (whatever the heck those were). Jon dutifully noted them all down and then took five minutes off to call his dad, the one person he knew who was knowledgeable about cars. His father's tastes ran more towards tiny, high-performance coupes (he was still ranting and raving about a Mazda Miata he'd owned until an oblivious driver had backed onto it in a parking lot), but nonetheless he was able to walk Jon down the checklist and, as Jon had expected, tell him that most of the offered items were completely useless, whether in general or to the Stanfords' particular needs. Jon came back to the salesman with a firm grasp of what he wanted and some good ideas on how to get it. ("Besides," Caitlyn whispered to him, "the one thing we really want is a truck cap to protect the harp, and they don't sell those here; you have to get them after-market.")

Caitlyn did most of the bargaining; she had much more practical knowledge of trucks—not to mention loans and APR financing and things like that. As it turned out, there was little point in trading in Jon's 13-year-old Celica, as it was barely worth anything. This, as Caitlyn pointed out, would give them greater automotive flexibility, though Jon thought the greater insurance payments might cause problems later, not to mention the issue of finding it a parking space. Nonetheless Caitlyn insisted on putting as much down as possible on the truck, which she checked with him on because (as she put it) "that thins out our bank account just a little." Then she used a calculator; for what purpose, he had no idea. The poor salesman looked flummoxed, and who could blame him: here was this girl, 5 foot 3 on a good day, who seemed to know his job better than he himself did.

In the end, the check written and the papers signed, all that was left was for Jon to drive the thing off the lot. And that in itself was an adventure.

"Uh, Caitlyn... I've never driven a truck before."

"It's not that hard. It's just a big car."

"It's a lot bigger than anything I've ever driven before," he said. He liked his Celica. It was small and unassuming. It wasn't large and overbearing and didn't reek of testosterone. A pickup truck involved more masculinity than he really cared for; after all, men did some pretty stupid things sometimes. Like drive trucks.

"You'll be fine," Caitlyn said, giving him a proud smile. "You can handle it."

"Yeah, assuming nobody sees me in the cab and snickers."

"Oh, come on," Caitlyn said, grinning. "Don't you want to be seen driving a big, strong, manly truck?"

"Not particularly. Why'd you have to decide on playing such a big, strong, manly instrument?"

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Ultimately, it wasn't too much harder than he'd expected. The V6 gave a lot more power than Buffy's four-banger, but the greater weight of the truck helped even things out. Nonetheless, the gas pedal was rather more sensitive than he was used to, and he knew the truck would be jumping a little bit until he got the hang of it. The most disconcerting part was the larger size of the vehicle, but he'd driven his parents' van enough times to have some capability with a larger car. It would take some time before he got the truck's various corners perfectly aligned in his mind, but he was confident he could do it.

Still, it wasn't Caitlyn driving their very-brand-new car off the lot and worrying about whether she was going to accidentally hit something with it.

They stopped at a McDonald's for dinner. Jon parked very carefully and then joined his wife inside. As they sat down, he realized it was basically the first time all day they'd had time off together. "So," he said. "How was your day?"

"Well," said Caitlyn between a handful of fries, "we just bought a truck, so I'd say it's been pretty eventful so far." She grinned.

"Any specific details on this wedding you're playing at?"

"Not really. They gave me the music they want played, and half of it I've done before and the other half doesn't look hard. It's at a church in Westhaven and they want me there at 2 PM, so we'll probably want to leave here at about 1 just to be safe. And we can do it! We have a truck!"

"How much are they paying you?"

"About standard rate. $300."

"Not bad. That's another, you know, fifteen or twenty dinners at McDonald's."

He hadn't meant anything by this, but to Caitlyn it had a sobering effect. "Yeah. Accountant or not, they never told us just how fast it goes. Three hundred dollars seems like a lot of money, but when you get down to it..."

"Especially in light of the, you know, $10,000 we just put down."

"At least the monthly payments are lower that way."

"Yep. We should probably focus on paying that off. ...You know, if we have any spare money after rent and utilities and living expenses and whathaveyou."

"What, you mean, send in extra money?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, you're probably right..."

There was a short, comfortable silence. Jon put his arm around her, drew her close; she rested her head on his shoulder, he on the top of her head. How many times had they sat like this over the year-and-a-half of their love?

"We never do this anymore," she said. "We never just... Sit together. We're always busy. Or, you know. Doing it."

"Yeah. Not that there's anything wrong with doing it."

"No, of course not." He heard her smile. "But it's nice to do other things too."

They stayed like that for a little while, but it was hard to eat and they separated again.

"How was school?"

"Oh... You know. School."

"Still excited about your classes now that you've had them?"

"Well... I know how much work they're going to be. But it should still be fun. I mean, I was excited to take them because I want to learn what they teach."

"Any cool new people?"

"Mmm, not really. Just the same old. It's not that big a Music department. Besides, they're... Well. I mean, it's kind of like being at the college group, you know? They're so young sometimes."

"Yeah."

"They're all like, you know, 'I got so wasted last night' or 'Dude, this girl's totally coming on to me' or 'How do I get my boyfriend to stop staring at other girls'... And I'm sitting here thinking about how to optimize the car payments. It's a different world."

"That doesn't have to be an obstacle. You can join their world."

"Yeah..."

"Isn't that how you felt when you were friends with the Cranes and the Chamberses?—that they were in a different place from you?"

"Yeah, but... Well, number one, they're not anymore. We've joined them. And, number two, I don't really want to go back. What the kids talk about seems so... Shallow."

He smiled. " 'Kids.' You do realize they're probably older than you. I mean, you skipped how-many grades?"

"Yeah... And, I mean, there are some older people there too, but... I don't feel like I fit in with them either. They have kids and stuff." She sighed. "I guess I'm just an outsider."

He put his arm around her shoulders again. "We all are. You and me and Brandon and Meredith and everyone. That's why we're such good friends. That's why we love each other."

She turned to look at him. "You? You're not an outsider."

"Maybe not anymore," he said. "But that isn't because I met people who just magically let me in. I learned. I learned how to be... How to get along with people. How to, you know, present myself. So that people didn't want to kick me out. And I learned how to be comfortable and not kick myself out."

"Really?" she said. "How do you do that?"

"Well..." He shrugged uncomfortably. "First, you have to stop judging people. I mean, yeah, these kids in your class sound kind of immature, but you have to be willing to give them a chance anyway. Second... Well, you just gotta open your mouth. Let things come out."

She grimaced. "Whenever I do that, I sound like an idiot."

"I know. That's part of the learning. Everyone starts that way. But either you keep going and learn how to stop sounding stupid, or... You stop talking."

"Guess which one I picked." She grimaced again. "I think changing myself would be a lot easier if it didn't involve, you know, changing myself."

"Yeah. But even if it's hard, it's worth doing."

"I always... I mean, I'm there, and, I always have chances to meet people and make new friends and..."

"Well... If at first you don't succeed, right?" Inspiration struck: "—Or, think of it as turning the other cheek."

"To the people? I mean, I've barely talked to them."

"To yourself."

She was silent.

"If it's important to give other people a second chance, how much more important is it to give yourself one? If it's important to love other people, how much more important is it to love yourself?"

Caitlyn gave a sad shake of her head. "Loving yourself isn't easy."

"I know. You'd think they'd've taught us these things."

"But at least I have you to love me," she said. "That helps."

"Well," he said, smiling, "I'm glad to be useful."

When they got home, they draped themselves over the couch by silent agreement; Jon knew she must be trying to preserve the mood, and was content to do the same. For a short time they merely sat together, his arm around her waist and her head on his far shoulder; when they kissed it was gentle, without urgency. He was reminded of the early days of their love, when everything about her was new and every day dawned with the promise of discovery, when at any point he might learn more about her or find out something new. There had been an innocence to those times that he found he missed. Today...

"I wish we'd had more time," he said. "I wish we'd been able to... Explore more. Before we got married."

Caitlyn looked up at him. "Jon, I wasn't going to have sex with you before we got married."

"I know," he said. "I just meant... I mean, there's other stuff that, kind of... Leads up to it."

"That counts as 'sex' in my book," she said. "Foreplay counts."

"I know. I remember." A wry smile. "But, seriously, Caitlyn, what happens if I do this?" He moved his hand from her stomach to her breast.

She shrugged. "You can do that."

"But is it a big deal? Is it something that... I mean, remember how big a deal it was for me to, to rub your back, or to touch your bare stomach?"

"I think I see what you mean," she said.

"I just wish we could've... Spread it all out a bit more."

She smiled. "We could've waited to have sex."

"Pfft. Yeah right."

She kissed his cheek. "Yeah. And I think I understand your viewpoint a little more. Back before we got married, I never understood why... I mean, yeah, I enjoyed what we did together—what you did to my body, the way you made me feel—but it wasn't really anything special. I didn't know it could be special. And now I see that you were trying to teach me that. And... I kinda wish I would've let you."

He kissed her forehead. "Yeah, but, what would you have done if I'd tried to go all the way?"

She smiled. "Told you to put your pants back on. Politely, of course." She reached up to stroke his face. "And that's one reason I am glad we waited—so that I never had to tell you that."

He smiled back, and kissed the palm of her hand. "How come you never ask me for backrubs anymore?" he asked.

It was a jump, but evidently her thoughts were in the same place his were, because she followed it. "I dunno. I don't need them as much, I guess." She smiled. "You relax me."

"And besides, your mother isn't around to stiffen you up."

"That too. I'm also not practicing the harp as much. That's eighty pounds balancing on my right shoulder—it's a lot of stress."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I dunno, just wondering. I hadn't done it in a while and I like doing it."

"Even with all the other stuff you get to do to me?"

"Even with all that. Caitlyn, I love you. Every part of you is wonderful to me."

She smiled and kissed him again. "Every now and then, you remind me of why I married you."

She lay on her stomach on the couch, as she had so many times before, and Jon straddled her hips. Her skin was warm to his touch; they had always joked about his poor circulation, but Caitlyn didn't have that problem, and even during the first dates there had been some "heat redistribution" from her to him. He gave her a preliminary once-over with his hands and then began working his way up her spine in deep, firm strokes, kneading the tension from her muscles. His thumbs were strong by now, but he remembered when a prolonged session would leave him sore. Of course, Caitlyn was also a lot more stressed out back then; now her muscles felt like butter, pliant and not requiring much work. Where once he had had to battle knots of tension, today they just seemed to melt away.

"Mmm," she said, a verbal smile.

Backrubs had been one of his few excuses to touch her bare skin, though she'd never allowed her shirt to get rucked up very far. Once, it had been a big deal; today, if he asked her to take her shirt off entirely, she probably would. He decided not to. There was something to be said for innocence.

"Never mind the bedroom stuff," Caitlyn said. "You're doing this to me every night."

"I would love to," he said.

"Mmm... And I might even have some ways to reward you."

He heard the promise implicit in her voice, and deliberately ignored it. He didn't need any thanks for loving her; it was what he had been made for. "Whatever you want is fine with me."

He had never been allowed to massage her legs before—too much potential for sexual content—and once he had finished with her shoulders he began working down them for the first time. There were jeans in the way, there was not much to see; and Caitlyn was quiescent under his hands, not displeased but clearly not excited either. This was new territory, and there were things he would need to learn.

She finally spoke when he got down to her feet. "Where are you going?"

"Just... Exploring. Are your feet ticklish?"

"I dunno."

"Do you like foot massages?"

"I dunno."

"Hence the exploring."

"Okay."

He helped her out of her socks, sitting cross-legged at the other end of the couch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn over so that she was lying on her back, looking up at him.

Hers were the first feet he had ever paid attention to. Her skin was pale and soft (as ever it was), and her toes small but well-shaped. He noticed immediately that her smallest toenails were somewhat misformed, almost rectangular in shape like his were—was this a human-wide thing, or just them? Her feet were a little cooler than the rest of her, but dry, and without smell. They were beautiful to him—small and somewhat delicate, but not without strength.

When he looked up, she wiggled her toes at him with an amused smile on her face. "Finding anything interesting?"

"Well, I found these feet," he said. "Also, some toes. I'm still investigating."

"Oh? You think there may be more to find?"

"Quite possibly," he said with a smile. Hands were sensitive; he knew that from first-hand experience. And, considering the evolutionary etymology of feet, he didn't see any reason why they should be any different.

He began to knead the musculature of her foot—the long muscles along the inner arch, the broader ones along the flat. He wasn't as familiar with the anatomy of her foot; actually, he wasn't very skilled at massage in general: all he had to go on was a few Internet articles and some hands-on experience with Caitlyn. The end result was that he was condemned to a lot of fumbling around at first.

When her feet seemed as relaxed as they were going to get, he shifted gears and began to apply some fingernails. If the skin was really as sensitive, then liberal application should yield something nice... And indeed, she seemed pleased with the attention.

And yet... "Jon, are you... Are you going to spend a lot of time down there?"

"Why?"

"Well, it... It just seems... Sort of... Weird."

"Why, do you not like it?"

She shrugged. "It's not... There's nothing wrong with it. It's just... Are you supposed to like my feet?"

"...Am I not supposed to?"

"Well... It's not exactly what I imagined."

"What do you mean?"

"I just... Do you remember what Pastor Pendleton said, about good things sometimes leading us astray?"

He sighed. Not this again. "Caitlyn, is there anything in Scripture that says that I'm not allowed to like your feet?"

"Well, no, but—"

They were saved from this morass by the ringing of Caitlyn's cellphone, buried somewhere in her backpack. Wordlessly Jon stood up and found it for her. The tag on the little screen sent a stab of ice through him: Mom.

Caitlyn stared at the screen for maybe two seconds before answering.

"Hello?... Yes... Yes, hi, Mom. Umm. Hi. ...What's going on?"

Jon sat back down on the couch, a feeling of dread in his gut. As far as he was concerned, Linda Delaney's presence never heralded anything good.

"Yes... Yes... Well, I have a wedding to play that weekend, so it has to end before... Okay... Okay, that's fine... Well, if they want me back— Hold on." She took the phone away from her mouth and turned to face her husband. "Yes?"

"You don't have to say Yes," he said.

"Jon, they're asking me—"

"I know they're asking you. If they asked you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?"

She gave him a look of affection and exasperation mixed. "I hardly think playing at a church service is jumping off a bridge. Mom says they miss me."

"That's all well and good, but you have to think of yourself. You know how hard it is for you to say No."

"Yes, but is this the place to start? This is my church, Jon. We've barely gone to church since we got married. This is important to me. And besides... This is my gift. This is what God blessed me with. He didn't give me these talents just so I could please myself; He gave them to me so that I could share them with others."

He said nothing. After all, didn't he feel the same way? That, if someone needed him, he should be there for them, and never count the cost? It was the other thing that bound him to Caitlyn, to Brandon and Meredith and Zach and Christa and all those other outsiders: the idea that some things, some needs, were more important than his own happiness. Way more important.

"Then I'll be there," Caitlyn said. "But only for that, all right? If there's something else they want me to do, I want to hear about it by next Monday. You're lucky my friend is getting married on Saturday, or we wouldn't be able to come at all." Jon smiled at her; this was a definite shift in tone from the somewhat-limp assertions of personhood she had used to make. "And if there's something else you want to do, I want to hear about it by next— Oh. Okay. Okay... Umm. Well. Hold on."

She turned to Jon again. "She wants us to come to dinner on Friday."

Jon covered his face with his hands. "Didn't we have this fight already?"

"Jon, she's my mother. She says she misses me. She says she wants to make peace between us."

The ache in her voice pierced him, but he made himself ignore it. Would she sound the same about me? "She wants to use you, Caitlyn. You're not a person to her, you're just a thing she uses to feel better about herself. And if you don't let her, she'll just beat you up until you fall in line. What did we get married for, if not to get you free of her?"

"We got married because we love each other," she shot back. "And because we want to share our lives together. Because we want the same thing from our lives, and the best way to get those things is together."

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

"And one of the things I want in my life is my mother's presence," Caitlyn said.

"I understand that."

"Do you? Jon, if I asked you to cut loose from your mother, to just never speak to her again... How would that make you feel?"

She had asked him this before. He had no intention of rehashing it now. "Look, Cait, I'm just worried, okay? I don't think your mother respects you. I don't think she cares about anything except her own feelings. I think—no, I know—that she's willing to hurt you to make herself feel better. And, with that in mind, I can't help but think that it's better to stay away from her."

"Better," she said, "but not good."

Jon was silent.

"Jon, please," she said. "This is who I want to be. This is the life I want to live. Weren't you just saying that I should be willing to turn the other cheek—to give people a second chance? Well, how can that apply to me but not to my mother?"

And just like that, he was caught. Because, after all, that was the truth of it: if he loved her, he would support her; he would be at her side even when she did things he thought were a bad idea. If he loved her, it was not his place to judge—to have opinions of his own, certainly, and to express them if need be, but not to judge. If he loved her, his place was to support her, as unconditionally as he could.

And besides, he couldn't argue this one without sounding like a hypocrite.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. But let the record show that I am opposed to this. That I think it's a pretty bad idea."

"Jon, I'm not sure it's a good idea myself," she said. "But I have to try." Her eyes were clear, and steady on his. They were the perfect shade of blue: dark but not lusterless, and lit now with a calm, unblinking shine.

He sighed. Then he leaned over to kiss her.

"Mom? What time? Seven-thirty? Okay, we'll be there. See you then. Bye."

She closed the phone. Jon felt its flip-snap lid like jaws closing around him, crushing him into place, locking him to this course.

Caitlyn stared down at the phone for a moment, her eyes somewhere else. "Well," she said. "I guess that's that."

"I guess it is," Jon said. He couldn't accurately describe the feeling in his gut, a dropping sensation like all doom descending upon him at once. But at the center of it gleamed a single hard nugget of truth: that, if she were to ask him to cut loose from his mother, he actually would.

"Jon... Thank you," she said. "For... For being you."

He looked up at her. Her eyes were still steady, but they swam now with hope and anxiety and fear and a dozen other things he couldn't name.

"I couldn't do this without you," she said. "I couldn't... Go back. Not and have any hope of keeping myself. They'd... They'd take me. They'd take away my... My me. Who I am. Everything I am. They'd just... They'd turn me into a shell, someone who, who can't even breathe without their say-so. And the only reason I've been saved from that is... You."

"The only reason you can go back safely, you mean."

"Yeah."

He felt a mirthless smile crack his lips. "I wish I wasn't so good at what I do. Then you'd stay here safe. With me."

She gave him a sad smile and came into his arms. But for the first time in his life, holding her gave him no warmth.

"Well..." she said. "We were... Doing some interesting things before my mother called. Shall we, umm... Shall we get back to that?" Her smile, and the promise implicit behind it. "I believe you had earned yourself a reward..."

The mood was broken; he didn't see any way to replace it. "No, it... It's getting kind of late, I should think about bed soon. And you wanted me to look up that stuff for the reception..."

"Yeah," she said, her face downcast. "And I guess I should... Well, I've got stuff to do too." She stepped away from his arms.

In the end, Jon reflected, there were some things you could never get back.

Day 50

On Monday morning, there was something delightful in the bed when Caitlyn awoke. It was her husband.

The noise was the alarm, doing its buzz-buzz-buzz; the sensation was Jon, rolling away to snap it off. She had gotten so used to this over the last six-or-seven weeks that she could just roll over and go back to sleep with nary a flutter of an eyelid. But today there was muted winter sunlight and the twittering of birds from outside; it was morning, not dead-o'clock, and Jon was starting at his new job today.

The one that let him sleep until 8 AM so that they could actually wake up together.

She rolled over to face him and kissed him soundly. "Good morning, my love."

"Hey," he said. "You know, you don't have to wake up."

"Well, I might as well," she said. "My first class is at 9:35. And besides..." She smiled. "This is one of the best times to get, umm, close to you."

"Oh," he said.

He didn't seem especially enthusiastic, but then they had just woken up. And besides, it had been a fairly trying weekend: dinner with her parents on Friday, and then seeing them again in church on Sunday morning. Jon had barely said anything the entire time; Caitlyn herself had been torn between the joy of being back where she belonged—back in that comfortable space she had inhabited with her parents—and sheer dread that somebody was going to say something nasty and blow the whole dream out of the water. Fortunately, no one had; but she could see that Jon was tense-jawed throughout the entire thing. He simply didn't understand that her parents could be loving and caring too. She guessed she didn't blame him; he'd never seen them be anything but cold and domineering, and he had always had a hard time believing in what he could not see. He was thorough; he wanted to be sure of as much as he could before he made decisions. It was one of the reasons she loved him.

She had been hoping they could "get close" over the weekend, but things had come up almost like clockwork: homework assignments, harp practice, a dinner invitation from Jon's family, the wedding reception on March 9th creeping steadily closer. Today it felt vastly distant, but in a mere three days it would be February and the date would seem much closer. The long and the short of it was that there had been too much to do for them to spare any time for "getting close." The funny part was that Jon had taken a sudden interest in the reception, prompting her with things she'd forgotten or overlooked whenever they showed sign of slowing down. She didn't for a second believe any of it was truly important to him—men just weren't concerned with questions of hors d'oeurve or the appropriate combinations of napkins and cutlery—but he could be incredibly thoughtful when he wanted. It was one of the reasons she loved him.

"Jon," she said. "I know that... I'm not always one of the easiest people to live with." That was an understatement; she was a dreadful perfectionist and hated it when other people slacked off. A lot of perfectly good group projects had been ruined this way. "And I know that you don't always agree with my decisions. But, even then, you keep supporting me. You don't give up on me. And that means so much to me. I've never... I've never had anyone who didn't give up on me. I would've married you for that alone."

He was silent for a moment; but then a smile, a real true smile, bloomed on his face. "Then it's a good thing you did marry me."

"Jon, I know that... Sometimes you disagree with what I do. God only knows that sometimes I disagree with what you do. But..." She sidled closer to him, entwining her arm around him, letting him feel her naked breasts against his skin. "Never doubt that I love you. Never doubt that. Even if... Even after I'm dead, when my bones have long turned to dust... I will still love you." Now it was her seeking his refuge, her sheltering in his arms. She pressed her face against his shoulder. "Always. Always. No matter what."

"Well, good," he whispered, "because even when you do stupid things, I feel the same way. I don't think there's anything you could do that would make me love you less."

She saw her opening. They hadn't done anything since a hurried and somewhat-unsatisfactory session on Wednesday night, and the gap worried her. "Is there anything I can do to make you love me more?" Not to mention that, well, she wanted it. I'm a married woman. I'm allowed to want it.

She pulled back to watch his face and saw the smile grow. "I dunno. Should there be?"

They entwined on the bed, kissing, their arms around each other, hands between each other's legs. He was soon at full staff—she felt a ping of triumph, that she had been able to bring him to arousal so quickly—and he gently removed her hand, whispering for her to enjoy what he was doing to her. Both arms went around him, and she drew him to her, gasping into his shoulder as his fingers did their magic work, rubbing against the outside of her opening, one finger to either side of her clit. As he bent his mouth to her breasts, she felt her wetness grow and knew she would soon be ready.

But when he moved to ease one leg over his hip, she stopped him and rolled to her back, drawing him up over her. "I want you on top." She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissed at his neck, and opened her legs.

They had experimented with a lot of different ways of making love over the short course of their marriage; by far the most common ones were face-to-face on their sides, not always comfortable but workable, or spooning, because by far the most common times for them to make love was just before going to bed or when waking up together on a weekend morning. She had ridden him a couple times, and he had ridden her a couple of times, and had both loved the fullness of his penetration, but athletic, sensation-focused sex wasn't really their thing. And in the end, she still liked this the best, what Jon called the "missionary" position because supposedly it was the only Christian-approved way of getting it on: she on her back, her legs flanking him, her arms caressing his back and hair; he on his elbows, his forearms enshrining her face, the weight of his body pressing her to the bed, and his cock inside her, as far as it would go. The penetration was not as deep as some of the other positions; nor were the sensations as intense as they had been the one time he'd taken her with her legs closed. But nonetheless, she loved it here.

It was everything she wanted from their loving; here she could watch his face as he gasped and shuddered with the pleasure of her body, and feel his eyes on her as she did the same. Here they could kiss, and moan, and whisper to each other—talking dirty was beyond her, and this was hardly the time to have a conversation, but whatever whispered endearments he or she might murmur were near to hand. Here she could draw him down until he lay on her entirely, and hear his breath rushing through her hair, and know that he could hear the same. Here she could feel his heart beat against his chest, and know that he could feel the same. Here, they were as close as they would ever get to truly becoming a single one person.

And it was everything she could ask for from sex too. She never felt controlled here; actually, that wasn't true—she did, a little bit; and that was part of the thrill. She felt owned this way; she felt possessed this way. She was a woman, serving her husband's pleasure, being taken by him as only a husband could; she was his solace and his joy. It was who she was meant to be. It was what she was meant to be. If she must be reduced to a set of animal or evolutionary influences (as Jon believed, in his peculiarly post-religious way, was an appropriate mindset), then let her be this: the woman supporting her man, her hips tilted up to receive him, her arms binding her to him, her whole body pressing up to him as he grunted and pushed and flexed over her, drawing himself slowly in and out of her as she threw her head back in glory. This was where she belonged. This was where she was meant to be. Her entire life had called her to be here, to this place, to this point, under this man. Here she was made. Here she felt dominated. Here she felt whole.

She drew her legs up, drew them even further, linking them across the small of his back; suddenly she felt him deeper inside her, and gasped with the pleasure of this new intrusion. She was so glad the condoms were over; she could feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it slid in and out of her. His muscles were hard against her chest, his breath hard against her neck; she ran her fingers through his hair, across his shoulders and back. She was arching up to meet his every thrust, pressing her clit against him so that they gasped together at every thrust; she could smell the tang of her own fluids, of his sweat and hers.

"Baby..." he whispered. It was a throaty word, tinged with lust; the sound of it set her tingling. "Baby... I'm gonna cum... I'm gonna—"

"Come inside me," she breathed. "Make me your woman. Show me." She let her legs fall, tightened her arms around him so that his head was beside hers, folded into the cushion of her hair, his body flexing against hers. She grasped his buttocks with her hands, urging him on. "Oh, Jon, come inside me, make me—"

He thrust one more time and gave a great gasp and a throttled moan, and she felt the muscles in his ass flexing; and then she wrapped her arms around him as she felt the push, the burst, the flood, the great white splash of his cum deep inside her, hotness coating her inner walls, splashing up against the underside of her womb. She kissed his ear and ran her nails over his back as he twitched a few more times, his body expelling its last reserves; and then it was over.

She had not come. She didn't care. To her, serving his pleasure was so much better. It's the fundamental difference between us. Jon tries—and oftentimes he even succeeds—but he's a taker, and I'm a giver. Sometimes it causes us problems; but in bed, it makes everything perfect. Because when we're in bed, I don't want to be anything but the woman who gives him his pleasure; I don't want to be anything but the body that makes him come inside her. ...It's almost embarrassing, how much I want his cum. But it works. And he loves it too.

She was startled to feel tears in her eyes; startled at how happy she was. How lucky I am. That I found this man, this wonderful perfect man... The one who turns me into... Well, not a slut, I think. I have a few layers of dignity between myself and that. But someone who loves sex. And it's okay for that to be, even though it's dirty, because he makes the dirtiness good. Together, here—him inside me, my body cradling his—we're perfect.

"Jon?" she whispered.

"Yeah, baby?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, baby. I love you too."

It was difficult to get herself to move, especially with Jon lying full-out on top of her; maybe another woman would have found him heavy, but to her he was just right. But with a little bit of cajoling she got him on his feet before she went to take a shower and coax as much of his cum out of her as she could. She hated to; if she could, she'd leave his spend inside her for as long as possible; but by now she had personal experience with the fact that he would leak out of her before too long, and she had classes today. The last thing she needed was for some passing scoundrel to catch the scent of semen—it was very distinctive; you could not mistake it for anything else, once you knew what it was—and make some joke about it. Panties would soak it up, but they could not fight gravity.

When she emerged, she found Jon waiting for her. He was dressed nicely, in the same business-casuals he had worn to Polkiss-Leyton, and there was a quizzical look on his face. "First thing I do once I get in is thank Dr. Chandakar," he said.

"Oh?" said Caitlyn.

"Yes." He drew her to him. "Now I get to wake up like that every day."

She laughed. "Thank him for me too. I think we'd better not do it quite as... Vigorously... Every morning, but it was definitely a great way to start the week."

"You didn't come, did you?"

"No."

He frowned. "Caitlyn, you gotta tell me these things. I know that, sometimes, in the moment, I get... Preoccupied with my own pleasure, but, you stop me if that happens, hon. Hold me back and say, 'Wait for me, Jon,' and I'll make sure you—"

"Shh." She put a finger across his lips. "Stop, you silly man. I love it when you come inside of me. I love feeling it happen, I love watching your face, I love knowing that I did it, that I can pleasure you so well... If I were cumming too, I wouldn't get to do any of that. So I'm fine the way it is."

"But..." His face was wrinkled in confusion. "You didn't come."

She smiled. And yet another example of that fundamental difference. Does he understand? Does he even realize? "Baby, when you make me come, how do you feel? Happy? Proud of yourself? Pleased that I'm experiencing such pleasure?"

He smiled. "That's it, more or less."

"Well... Imagine feeling that, but knowing you had done it with your body. With the part of you that was meant to do that to me. Not your hand or your mouth, which is good too, but... You know. The organ. Your penis."

He considered.

"Wouldn't it be that, and then some?"

"You know, come to think of it... I don't think I've ever managed to make you come during actual penetration. ...Or, if I have, I was coming too and, as you correctly identified, was kind of distraced at the time." His eyebrows quirked. "I'll have to work on that next time." He smiled down at her. "But, baby, it's okay for you to enjoy yourself too. You don't always have to be the giver. You can take pleasure too."

She beamed, and leaned up to kiss him. Just when I think he's run out of ways to surprise me...

9:35 was her composition seminar, and in spite of its upper-division nature there were a number of underclassmen in it, in addition to the age-scattered clutch of graduate students. The professor, Dr. Kleimann, was new to her but seemed competent enough, and had authored several compositions which the orchestra had played; the students, as she'd mentioned to Jon, were more of a mixed bag.

Barely had she gotten settled in her seat when one of those kids came in. His name was Wesley Bannen and he seemed to have a high opinion of his attractiveness to women. To be sure, he was extremely handsome, with bronzed skin, perfectly-coifed golden hair and a boyish charm that reminded her of Max Lapinski; he was shorter than Jon but more muscular, and wore both his height and breadth well. Today he had dressed in a polo shirt (in January!) and clean slacks; she wasn't sure if he dressed up for school, or just as a matter of habit, because the fact of the matter was that his clothes, too, made him look good. In short, he was an impressive package. But he seemed to expect that this would win the hearts of any woman he laid his eyes on; evidently, the standard procedure was for him to sit next to the girl, give her his good looks, flash her a winning smile, and then move on to the humping-like-bunnies part of the program. Certainly he'd seemed surprised when the first three steps didn't work on her.

To be fair, he was certainly a fine specimen of manhood; had there not been a husband in her life, she would've been flattered, maybe even flustered. But ever since that fateful day when she'd played at the Chamberses' wedding, there were two categories of men in the world: Jon, and Everyone Else. And, no matter how shiny their smile or how luminant their skin or how charming their cologne, Everyone Else seemed to fall dreadfully short in comparison.

"Hey there, Caitlyn; how was your weekend?" said Wes. He slung his bookbag and then his person into a desk with a careless ease that made her jealous.

"It was pretty good," she said, smiling. It really was flattering to have him posture like that; she had enough confidence in her position now that she could enjoy his charm without falling for it. Just another example of how Jon has been good for me. "I had dinner with my family on Friday, and then with my husband's family on Saturday."

He knew, of course; she had mentioned it last Wednesday, during the first meeting of the class. "Husband? Sweetie-pie, you're far too young to be saddled down like that. Ditch that old oaf!, have some fun!, sow your wild oats!"

"With you?" she said, amused.

"Well, sure, if you wanted," he said with another dose of that easy charm. He made the whole thing look so effortless. "I'm sure I could show you something new." Such a change from the shy, almost inaudible words she'd first shared with Jon, there under her parents' noses as Brandon and Meredith's wedding. And yet the difference was important. From Jon, she knew, the words had come from the heart. Wes could lie to the devil and look good doing it.

Her daring rose and she gave him a wicked grin: "What, like a tiny penis?"

To his credit, he didn't even flinch. "So what if it is? As the whore said to the bashful sailor, 'It ain't how much you got, son, it's all in how you use it.'" There was laughter from few classmates who had straggled in and were trying (without success) to look like they weren't listening. "And baby, believe me: I know how to use what I got."

Again, it was the comparison that did it. In Wes' mouth, 'baby' was a throwaway term, just another pronoun to be switched out interchangeably. (She wondered how many he had.) From Jon it took on a whole new dimension: layers of tenderness and intimacy and the deep knowledge of their long association. It was an encapsulation of his love for her. He would never just throw it away.

"Wes," she said, smiling. "You're cute, and you're a lot of fun. But I'm afraid I'm just a one-man kind of girl." She showed him her claddagh ring; though he had not proposed to her with it, she wore it on her left hand now, with the heart facing towards her, as befitted a married woman. "Last April I lost a ring that looked just like this: a claddagh ring, but with the band in a Celtic-knot design. I had bought it when I was eleven, and I'm glad I did because I've never seen this particular design for sale anywhere else. And then... I lost it. And I felt terrible."

"Then... Where'd that come from?" Wes said.

"Well," said Caitlyn. "A certain boyfriend of mine asked me for the details, and then went out on the Internet to find something similar. He said it took him about an hour of various searches and sorting through the results. And then he had to drive north for an hour just to pick it up. So he did all that, and then, one night, when we were out to dinner... Well, he came through for me."

"Wow," said Wes, seemingly impressed. "That's pretty cool."

"And he said one thing which I always keep in mind," she said. She indicated the heart on the claddagh ring. Above it was the crown for loyalty, and the hands for friendship; but this heart meant more than just love. "He said, 'Be careful with that heart. It's mine.' "

The classmates, who were definitely listening now, gave a chorus of appreciative "Awww"s.

"So, I'm sorry, Wes," she said, "but I'm taken. I'm a happily-married woman. And if it makes you feel better, it's not you; it's that there isn't anyone who could take me away from him."

"Well, that's too bad," said Wes. "A girl with class—I like that. But my loss is your husband's gain. Is it okay if I still sit next to you?"

She returned his grin. "Only if you promise to tone down the extravagant flirting."

During the fifteen-minute passing period between this class and her next (Music Research, a class concerned solely with the writing of scholarly papers and the official formatting of said publications), she called her husband; unsurprisingly, she got his voicemail. He was probably busy, it being his first day on the job and all, and she hoped she hadn't disturbed anything by calling him. He didn't call back until 12:35, which told her he had remembered her schedule: she was walking back to their apartment, having just got out of the class.

"Hey!"

"Hi, baby. How's school?"

"Oh, you know. The same."

"Any hot boys trying to lure you away from me?"

She laughed. "Actually, just one. I got him shut down in a hurry."

"Too skeevy for you?"

"Actually, no, he was kinda cute."

"...Oh..."

His hesitation was almost palpable, but she let her smile carry through the phone and said, "But what do you feel when you see a nice-looking lady walk by?"

"Umm... Well, I'd tell you, but I don't think I'm supposed to admit to my wife that I notice other women."

She laughed. "Jon, I know you're only human. Of course you notice. But...?"

"But... Well... I mean, you know. They are attractive, right? And I look at them and think, 'Well, gosh, if I weren't spoken for, I might want to look into that. But I am, and happy to be, so...'"

"And now you know why I don't feel uncomfortable about telling you there's a cute guy in my class. Because I too am spoken for, and happily so. As I told him."

There was a short silence, and then Jon's voice, quieter. "Caitlyn?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

She smiled. "I love you too, baby. How's the new job going?"

"Oh, well... It's... Well, it's pretty busy. I'm on lunch break right now, but I've been shadowing this guy, Roberto? Basically, I just follow him around and watch what he does, and get to try it out every now and then. They tell me there's supposed to be a class—we're actually supposed to be, you know, sitting around and taking notes—but they're shorthanded today so all us trainees just got thrown into the practical training instead. It's been interesting."

"Any cute girls there?" She wanted to picture the situation as best she could.

"Well... There's one. Her name's June. But... She's not really my type."

"Oh?"

"She's not you."

She felt a wash of love and affection. "I love you too, Jon."

"Look, Caitlyn, I... I'm sorry I was so distant last week."

"Were you?" she said in genuine consternation. "Honestly, we were so busy that I didn't even notice."

"Well, that was... Part of the distance. It's just... Caitlyn, I've always known that one day it might come down to a time where your parents stand in front of you and demand you abandon me for them. And, it's... God. I mean, you've chosen me. You've chosen me again and again. There's no reason for me to be nervous about what you want or who you want. But, I... Especially now that they're back. I just keep thinking..."

"It's okay," she said. "Jon, it's okay. I'm not perfect either. I have insecurities too. And that's why I told you, and that's why I show you with my heart and soul and body and voice and everything, that I love you, and that I would never... Never... Choose them over you." She was glad she had gotten back to the apartment; she had no interest in letting people see her choke up over a phone call. "I want them to be a part of my life, I want them to meet their grandchildren whenever we have them, and be able to show them my room at home that I decorated and... I want them to be in my life—but only if they're willing to accept that you are a part of it too, and that they can't change that."

"You've said that before," he said.

Even if he hadn't meant it as a criticism, she took it as one. "I know." She sighed and leaned back against the closed front door. "I haven't always been... The most supportive of your presence in my life. But, Jonathan... I'm still here." She held her breath. There was nothing else she could say, no other truth she could offer.

She heard him sigh. "You are. And, you know... I think I don't give you nearly enough credit for that."

There was a short silence.

"So, this cute guy of yours... Did he notice what we were up to this morning?"

"Umm... How would he have noticed that?"

"Well... He might've smelled it."

"Jon, I washed off in the shower this morning. I'm not going let that smell linger when I'm going to school."

"I know, I was just teasing."

"No matter how much I'd like to."

"Wunhh??"

"Jon, don't act so surprised. I don't mind..." What was the right way to put this? "...being marked by you. I don't mind the world knowing that we're married, that you have primacy over me. Why do you think I wear your wedding ring?" Or the engagement ring with its fantastically-colored diamond, or the claddagh ring he had bought her to replace the old one. "It's okay with me if people know I belong to you. I like people knowing it. It's just that... people knowing it through that particular way... might not be... Politic."

"Hmm. ...You know, I didn't realize you had that kind of... I dunno, that kind of submissive streak in you."

"A what??"

"A... Well, I mean, you're your own woman; you're very dedicated and determined. But... You kind of like the idea of, I dunno... Being marked, as you said. Of being... What, of being mastered."

Come to think of it... "You know, I think you have a point."

She heard his smile. "Might be something to look into."

She made herself a sandwich lunch while contemplating the list of homework assignments already handed to her and the constant demand of her instrument lessons, not to mention the general housekeeping chores that seemed to be in perpetual bloom. Groceries were taken care of, as Jon had promised to get them on his way home and he almost never forgot his assignments, but there would be laundry soon (if there wasn't enough already), and the dishes would pile up the way they always did. She had never been both a full-time student and a full-time housewife before (if you could call it that, since they lived in an apartment and didn't have kids; if you could call it that, since political correctness decreed the use of unwieldy and highly-oversyllabic terms like "domestic administrator"). She could already see that some duties would have to be reapportioned. She knew Jon wouldn't mind; but she also knew that his standards of cleanliness and timeliness were simply not the same as a woman's. She wondered how far the household would deteriorate.

While she was eating, the phone rang again. Expecting something last-minute from Jon, she was surprised to hear Christa Crane's voice on the other end. "Hey, Caitlyn! I realize it's last-minute and kind of unorthodox, but Zach and I realized that we hadn't seen you since your birthday, and we thought, 'Oh no, that can't be allowed to last!' So, we were wondering if you guys were free tonight. We figure, it's a Monday and there's probably nothing going on..."

And that was how they ended up with visitors. Caitlyn scheduled them for seven that night, which should be enough time for her and Jon to put something good together for dinner, and then left him another message keeping him abreast of the updates. She needed to put in some harp and oboe practice in preparation for her lessons on Tuesday and Thursday; she was starting to think that maybe she should set oboe lessons aside, at least for her own sanity. The two instruments together took up about ninety minutes of her time; the homework took another forty-five, as she had no "real" classes until Wednesday and some of it could be spread out to there. Between it all, her mind had plenty of time to wander.

She'd never put that much thought before into domination and submission, but in retrospect she wondered why it hadn't occurred to her yet. She had assembled a modest collection of what her mother had condescendingly termed "young women's fiction," always with a bit of a sneer that Caitlyn should have descended to that level. "What's to read about," she'd once asked. "You'll find a nice young man and get married by Pastor Pendleton, and that'll be it." Sometimes Caitlyn wasn't sure her mother understood her at all. But that was neither here nor there; the relevant fact was that almost all of those "young women's fictions"—the romance novels, in other words—had elements of control in them. There was always the powerful man with half-unlaced shirt and burning gaze, the man whom (it was sensed, and sometimes spelled out) could take a woman against his will if he so chose. Of course, he never did... Or, if he did, the loss of control was dismissed or validated when it turned out that the woman "burned" for him just as much as he did for her.

It was a rape fantasy, pure and simple; the message was that, if a woman wanted sex, it was permissible for a man to go for it even if she resisted, because in the heat of the moment she would be compliant. Caitlyn wasn't sure if she liked this fantasy, or the fact that she was buying into it. Because she was buying into it, that much was plain; there was something incredibly exciting about the idea that she might be able to incite her man to some lust-crazed frenzy. After all, if she had inspired him to hold her down and ravish her, who truly held the power in this situation? And besides, she could not deny the animal attraction in being taken by a strong, powerful man who would convince her to see things his way—a man who knew what he wanted, and intended for them both to have it.

The aspects of non-consent were troubling... But they linked perfectly with the animal-lust aspect too. It was as if a woman had to trick her man into ravishing her in order to be satisfied; it was as if his lust for her was the actual goal, and achieving it would simply carry them away and smooth over all the rough edges. That seemed stupid at first glance; after all, what if the woman actually didn't want it? But, at the same time, wasn't that more or less how her own sex life had started? Here was Jon, knowing that he could show her to her pleasure, knowing that he could awaken her sexuality, but having to overcome her hesitations and inhibitions to do so. Hadn't there been an element of non-consent in those actions?—he, riding roughshod over whatever barriers and defenses had been instilled in her by upbringing and education, to touch her most intimate places, awaken her most intimate responses?

And yet it hadn't been like that at all, and she knew it. She had not asked, but she knew in her heart—had never doubted—that, if she had on their wedding night asked him to hold off, to ease her in more slowly, that he would have. He had opened her secrets that night, plumbed her depths, yes, but only because she'd let him. He would not have forced himself on her. He would've been anxious, frustrated, maybe even angry (and knowing now what she did about sex, she couldn't blame him), but he would have forebore. And with her consent, he had done only what he knew she would thank him for: touch her most secrets places, awaken her most intimate responses. She knew now what he had done, and she was glad for it. If he'd left me to discover these things alone, I would probably be just lying there thinking of England. I would never have understood just how intimate and passionate our loving was supposed to be.

And that was the heart of it.

In those romance stories, the danger was part of the fun—the women protagonists, frail though they might be in body, always seemed to enjoy playing with the lit bombs they made of their men, teasing them until the overwhelming passion swept everything away (especially reason, dignity and clothing). Caitlyn understood that feeling—the frisson of danger in toying with something only somewhat under control, something that could turn on you if you mistreated it... But in the romance novels, the turning-on-you was never a bad thing. When a man turned on her woman, it was always to their mutual pleasure; it was a no-lose scenario—especially since, even if the woman was at first resistant to the idea of sex, she turned out to have wanted it too. There was never a sense that the woman was teasing simply because she could, but had no intention of giving it up; there was never the sense that she was promising more than she intended to give. Caitlyn thought such an action was stupid in the extreme; Caitlyn thought it still didn't justify rape. And yet, in the stories, this side of it just simply didn't happen. The women always wanted it; the men were always gentle. Caitlyn knew enough of real life to see those for the fantasies they were.

And yet, with Jon, she had a fairy-tale come true. She knew he would never hurt her. She knew he was safe. And so it would be okay for them to play like that—because she knew that, if she said the word, if she was too frightened or the situation was spiraling out of control, he would stand down and they could reset. (She made herself a promise right there that, if they ever did have to back off like that, she would give him a blowjob as a reward. After all, one good turn deserves another.) No matter how threateningly he might posture, how loudly he might growl, she knew that, down at the bedrock of soul where the real decisions were made, he would never hurt her.

And if their sex in these sessions should happen to involve a certain amount of grabbing and holding-down...

Caitlyn came to herself suddenly. She was sitting behind the harp, its massive countenance frowning down on her shoulder, but the sheet music seemed utterly foreign to her, as though she had never seen it before. She had a vague recollection of having played the same page five or six times. And between her legs... She could feel the throb, the ache, the void inside her begging to be filled; her panties were wet, and maybe even the bottoms of her pants. Her chest was heaving, her nipples stiff against her bra; she was more turned-on than she had been even when Jon was fucking her this morning.

Carefully, as though it (or she!) might break, she leaned the harp back down until it supported its own weight. Then, carefully, as though she (or it) might break, she slid her hand down inside her pants, between her legs, into the flaming heat and murky damp, touching herself with sexual intent for the first time in her life.

The lower fringes of her hair were matted with her own wetness; she felt the slipperiness of her pussy as she leaned back against the wall to give herself more access. She had thought to slide a finger inside herself, but some unknown instinct made her press her hand against her own clit, nestling it into the webbing between her fingers. The wave of pleasure was almost dizzying, but oh so good; she had barely begun to press down when orgasm burst over her.

Her body shook like a leaf in a storm; she felt the explosion of pleasure beneath her as her pussy spasmed, clenching down on some non-existent intruder; her own movements caused her hips to buck against her hand, pressing her clit against her fingers and deluging her with sensations so strong as to be almost unbearable. She heard the rushing in her ears, and faintly beyond that her own gasping moans; and then it was over and she collapsed back down to the wall, breathing hard.

After a minute she stirred, and began extricating her hand from her privates. Unsurprisingly they were coated with her own lubricants; she smelled up close the tangy scent Jon's face always bore after he went down on her. After a dream-like moment she raised that hand to her face and tasted her own self for the first time; she was curious, and this seemed the thing to do. It tasted not unlike its smell: sour, somewhat metallic. She wasn't sure why Jon seemed to like it so much.

She was more composed when Jon came home; she'd changed her panties, and her pants to be safe. She couldn't remember being that worked up in her life. Jon had certainly never managed it, which was somewhat frightening considering that he basically was her sex life. Of course, Jon had been involved in the fantasy—kind of, sort of, to a certain extent, maybe—but it was just that: a fantasy. For mere imagination to have that much power over her—more than her husband...

Despite all her efforts, Jon sensed it. He turned her away from the mashed-potato mix with gentle hands and then tilted her chin up to look at him. "Hey. You've been quiet ever since I got home. Plus, your favorite jeans, which you were wearing today, are in the wash all of a sudden. Something happen?"

Caitlyn wilted for a moment. You notice these things? Though, considering how much she loved those jeans, and how often she wore them, maybe it would've been something to yell about if he hadn't noticed by now. But that was neither here nor there. The pertinent fact was that she couldn't talk about this, not to Jon—it was too potentially volatile, too potentially shameful. And yet she was bound to him by love, and if he wanted to know...

"You'll always love me, right? Always? There's nothing that could change that..."

He gave a gentle laugh. "What, this again? Didn't we just go through it with me earlier today? What's going on, hon?"

"Will you?" she insisted.

He sensed her intensity and didn't laugh again. "Yes, Caitlyn Stanford, I will. I will always love you. For better or worse, in good times and bad, through sickness and health, as long as we both should live. And even beyond then."

"Okay, then I can tell you," she whispered, though she still wasn't sure she could. "When you... When we talked, earlier on the phone... What you said about... Dominating me... I thought about it, and..." Almost silent now. "I really really liked it."

She saw Jon's eyebrows leap practically into his hair.

"I don't... I'm still not really sure why I like it, but... I do. And..." A nervous giggle. "I got soo worked up thinking about it."

"Hence the, err, pants replacement?" he said, an amused smile on his face. "You must've really been going, for that much smell."

She felt her face drop. "You could smell it?"

"And, if Zach or Christa pass by the laundry hamper, which they almost certainly will since it's in the bathroom, they will too." Then he laughed as Caitlyn stormed over to the hamper and stuffed the offending articles all the way to the bottom.

"Well," she said. "Where were we?"

"Err," he said, still laughing, "I think both of us had received shocks in a rather brief period of time."

"Mine has been dealt with," she said primly. "What about you?"

"Well..." His lapsed into silence. "It's, um... Well, I guess I can see it. I mean, you've never lacked for strong authority figures in your life; even me, to a certain extent. It makes sense that they would get... What, entangled up in your ideas of sexuality."

"You don't think they're supposed to be," she asked, immediately apprehensive.

"Well..." He shrugged. "It's not my personal cup of tea, I have to say. I'm not into the whole 'power' thing. But that doesn't mean it's wrong or bad or anything. As long as you aren't harming people, whatever floats your boat, right?"

But if it isn't his cup of tea, how do I get him to do it to me? "Okay."

"I mean, there's nothing in the Bible about that either, is there?"

"Not to my knowledge," she said. "I mean, there's the strictures about rape and all that, but it's not really rape if we're both just pretending."

She could see by his eyebrows that she had shocked him again, but to his credit he plowed on. "If we ever get to the point where we can entertain fantasies, I think it's a good sign. A lot of times—well, heck, just a minute ago—we feel really nervous about trying to explore the, umm, exotic sides of our sex lives."

"Or even talking about them."

"Or even talking about them. And that sort of exploration is only possible when you feel, you know, really safe and secure with your partner, because if you tried it for real you might get hurt, or somebody might get in trouble. So... I'd say it'd be a good sign."

"Isn't it already?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... Jon, I do feel that safe. I know we can explore the... I know that we can, you know, play out those fantasies without anybody getting hurt. Because I already feel that safe."

"That's good," he said, smiling, and reached out to draw her into a hug.

"So can we try it?" she asked.

He stopped with his arms halfway around her. "What, like... Right now?"

She glanced at the mashed potatoes, and then at the vegetables Jon had been working on. They could keep. "Sure, why not?"

He gave a distracted grin. "Who are you, and where's the woman I actually married? She's really hesitant about sex."

"And isn't it every man's dream to be married to a woman who really likes it," she countered, grinning.

"I suppose it is, but I'm not just any man," he said, running a hand through his hair.

"Of course not," she said, slinking closer to him. "You're the man who's going to hold me down and have his way with me." Just the thought of it made her tingle.

But Jon didn't look excited; as a matter of fact, now that she looked closely, he seemed downright worried. "Umm... Look, Caitlyn... I'm not sure if this is really the, umm, the right expression for me."

"Huh?"

"It's just... I don't like the idea of putting that power relationship in sex. We've never done that and I don't know if it's a smart idea. It adds violence to the relationship, pure and simple."

"Oh, come on, Jon, I'm not asking you to spank me or anything." Not even a little? "Just... You know. To be a little more aggressive. To be more physical. To be more... Controlling."

"I don't know if I even like that," he said. "That's what your mother does. It just isn't..." He sighed. "Are you sure you like this idea?"

In answer, she took his hand and placed it on the juncture between her legs. She knew he could feel the heat even through the cloth. But even then, it wasn't enough, so she guided him into her pants. She felt his fingers taste the slipperiness between her nether lips, and watched his eyebrows jump for a third time.

Suddenly she became aware of just how weird this might look: the two of them just standing here with his hand down her pants. I hope I closed the blinds!—I haven't had any more problems with that stupid Mrs. Clarke, but why tempt fate? Nonetheless she didn't feel weird; there wasn't anything wrong, in her mind, with sharing her arousal with her husband. Especially since, in its own way, this wasn't even remotely sexual. They were talking about sex, obviously, but he wasn't really doing anything to her, nor she to him; she was simply expressing her arousal, the effect this particular fantasy had on her. It wasn't erotic; it was factual.

I see what he means about feeling safe.

"Well," he said, slithering his hand out of her pants. "That answers my question. Umm. Gosh. Umm. Look, Caitlyn, this is just... I dunno if I can just swallow all of this all at once. Give me a little time to think about it, okay?"

He hadn't said no. She smiled. "Take all the time you need, my love."

Christa and Zach arrived thirteen minutes late—Caitlyn should've remembered to account for that when scheduling them—and burst onto the scene with their typical energy. Barely had Caitlyn opened the door when she was being engulfed in a full-on hug. She wasn't used to there being someone else's breasts in the way. Jon popped the chicken from the oven, Caitlyn grabbed the mashed potatoes, Zach offered to say a quick (and all-inclusive) grace, and off they went.

The Cranes were doing just fine, thanks for asking. They had returned to Greenfield at the beginning of the month for the second quarter of their respective Master's programs, much as Caitlyn had just last Wednesday, and were settling back into their school-year routines. Octapella had rehearsed several times already, of course, but they'd only seen Jon there and didn't want Caitlyn to feel left out. Yes, they had very much enjoyed their first Christmas together; they'd gone home to spend it with their respective families, but on the 26th had had their own personal Christmas together back at their place—well, right after they'd helped move the Stanfords into this very apartment, that's when! They were married now; though they loved going back to Mount Hill to see their family, 'home' was their apartment just off the Greenfield campus, and the two people who lived there. How was Caitlyn doing?

"Oh, about the same," Caitlyn said. "Shellview went back in on Wednesday." She described her classes, what little there was to say about them; it wasn't like she'd learned that much jazz theory or new composition techniques since then. She was also taking a class about music in the age of computers and filling her ensemble requirement in the orchestra, in addition to harp and oboe lessons every week.

Jon talked about the truck they'd bought and the adventures of finding a cap for the bed, and then moved on to his new job. "The one Brandon told me about, at Caitlyn's birthday."

"That was barely two weeks ago," Christa said. "Two weeks ago yesterday, wasn't it? You guys move pretty fast."

Jon shrugged. "It was a good opportunity. No reason to wait, right?"

"How was it," Caitlyn asked. She realized that, though he'd come home over an hour ago, she hadn't asked him about his day yet.

Jon shrugged again. "It was... fine," he said. "It's my first day, after all. A lot of new technology, a lot of new jargon. And technically they haven't started training me yet."

"Oh?" said Zach.

"Well... Remember what Brandon said about the industry being short-handed?" Jon said. "He wasn't exaggerating. There were quite a few people home sick, and then quite a few extra people coming in because they were sick and needed to see their doctors. We had more people coming in than the staff could handle. And that was with me and the other two trainees being temporarily promoted to apprenticedom and actually just shadowing real medical assistants."

"Wow," said Christa. "Total immersion."

"Yeah. I think I can get to handle it. But what a way to find out."

"Do you like your coworkers?" Zach asked.

"Oh, yeah," said Jon. "They're just fine." He smiled. "I'm already learning which ones sleep around and which ones go home to their wives. It's a big complex—I'm not actually assigned to any one doctor, Brandon just said Dr. Chandakar because he was Brandon's connection, he was, like, the 'who you know' angle. Which is actually too bad, because Dr. Chandakar's nice. He's got an accent but his English is perfect. ...Well, except for the accent. I haven't dealt with too many Indian people, so occasionally I have to double-take."

"I'm sure you'll get used to it," Christa said. "I didn't know too many Indians myself until I came to Greenfield, but now it's easy."

"What about the assistants and nurses and such?" Zach said.

"They're... They're a good group," Jon said. "I mean, I haven't known them that long, but... I mean, in order to handle this medical stuff, you have to have a certain amount of intelligence, or at least a certain amount of reliability. And... That's my kind of person. ...And of course I've only been there one day; God only knows how everything will pan out. But that's the feeling I get for now."

"Any people our age?" Caitlyn asked.

"Not too many," Jon said. "Most people our age are still in school, remember. But some."

"Hey, hold on," Zach said, grinning at her. "How come you didn't know that? You're his wife, you're supposed to be the first one he talks to."

"Well, because the instant I got home, she dropped all sorts of bombshell on me," Jon answered, giving her a wry leer that (she suspected) wasn't entirely joking.

"Uh-oh," said Christa. "Are you pregnant?"

Caitlyn laughed. "No, nothing like that. At least, I don't think so. My period should start, like, tomorrow, so ask me on Friday or something. But probably not. I am on The Pill now."

"So, juicy gossip," Zach said, grinning. "Something interesting, probably, 'cause you didn't cheat on him and you aren't pregnant. Something harmless but really interesting in its implications. Which is the best kind."

Caitlyn hesitated for a moment; after all, she did want to have Zach and Christa's respect. But she had told Jon, the person whose rejection would hurt her most, and he had accepted her even in his surprise; and besides, if the Cranes were going to separate themselves from her for something as minor as this—after all the talk they'd shared, after all the discussions on sex technique she'd listened in on, after being one of the first people to meet Laurelyn Chambers—then their friendship wasn't worth that much to begin with.

"I told Jon that I want him to dominate me in bed," she said.

Zach and Christa shared a short look. Then they both turned back to Caitlyn. "And?" Zach said.

Jon laughed. "Well, remember that this is a girl who's never masturbated in her life."

"Well... Actually..." Her cheeks were flaming. "That's not true."

Jon shot her a look. "What? But you said that..."

"I know, I know, and... It was true. Until this afternoon."

Christa looked back and forth between them in confusion. "Why, is Jon not satisfying you?"

Yes, if he won't do this for me, she thought, but aloud she said, "No, that's not it at all. We did it really well this morning, actually. It's just that... I was thinking about, umm. About Jon, um. Dominating me. And... I got really worked up, so I..."

"You go, girl," Zach said, grinning.

"I was really worked up, it only took about three seconds," Caitlyn said, feeling redder than ever.

She saw Jon's eyebrows perform the now-familiar lift. "Jeez," he muttered into his drink.

"Okay, so..." said Christa to Jon. "What's the problem?"

Jon considered his drink for a moment.

"I just don't feel it's safe," he said. "I think that, for something as delicate as sex, it's a mistake to put in power and control and denial elements like this. Unless the bond is really strong and can withstand violence that way."

"Well, the thing is, it is totally consensual," Zach said. "Caitlyn is consensually telling you to bugger off, and you're consensually getting her to yield to you." He grinned.

"Look, all I know is that what you play at has a way of becoming what you actually think," Jon said. "And I don't want those ideas to become the way I think, no matter what. Because then what separates me from her parents? What keeps us from turning into them?"

"Oh, come on," Caitlyn protested. "That's not what's gonna happen—"

"Caitlyn, think about what they did to you," Jon said. "Think about the way they think. They make the decision that they know what's best for someone else, and then they don't stop until that decision is enforced. That's the way they roll. It doesn't matter what you want, only what they want. It's rape, Caitlyn. It's violence. And I don't want to toy with that, even for fun." He reached out for her, his palm warm and rough against her cheek; it was the most intimate gesture they ever shared. "I love you too much for that."

She pressed his hand against her cheek, kissed his palm. "Oh, Jon. Don't you see? It's precisely because you love me too much to do it that we can do it. It's because I know you never would hurt me."

"Today," Jon said. "What about tomorrow? What about a week from now? What about after we've done it so often that I grow to like it, and I want to have dominion over you like that? What happens when I become the thing I hate most?"

This was a different matter. "Jon, you wouldn't become that kind of—"

"Maybe, maybe not, but Caitlyn, I don't want to even risk it. This is more important than... Than anything."

"What is?" Christa said. Caitlyn had almost forgotten she was there. "What's more important? To not hurt Caitlyn?"

"To..." Jon looked back across the table. "To not turn out like her parents did. To not turn out like my parents did. To not repeat history. To learn from their mistakes, and not screw my kids up like they did theirs."

Caitlyn took his hand again. "I never knew that."

Jon gave her something of an alarmed look. "Really? I'm sure I've mentioned it."

"You have?"

"Caitlyn, it's like the most important thing to me. That's what I wanna do with my life. That's why I'm a Family Sim. Because there's nothing more important than raising your kids well."

That he had said, both before and after they'd married. "Okay, now I'm back in we've-talked-about-this territory."

"Caitlyn, it sounds like this is something that's important to him," Christa said. "Is it something you really want to push him on?"

"No," said Caitlyn. "Not if it's important. But..." She could already feel the enthusiasm draining away. "I was really looking forward to it. I really liked the idea."

"I'm sorry," said Jon.

"It's okay. I'll get over it. It just..." Now she was a little frustrated. "I mean, we try everything you come up with. When's it my turn?"

"Cait, you don't have to consent with the things I come up with. If any of them rub you the wrong way..."

"I mean, everything, just from day one," Caitlyn said. It was true, after all; he'd more or less guided all their bedroom activities. "You're leading me, you're teaching me..."

"Cait, that's just because I happen to be more experienced than you. It's not like I have an agenda or anything. I just..."

She was more angry than she'd realized. "Can't we just, for once, do something my way? Just for once. We do everything your way. You owe me."

Jon looked a little helpless, so it was just as well (for him) that Christa intervened (Caitlyn felt for a moment that she should never have invited them). "Caitlyn, I'm not sure that's really a wise attitude to take about this. Are you listening to yourself?"

"So what if I'm not," Caitlyn said, feeling sulky.

"One of the ministers at the church where we work brought up an interesting point a while back," Zach said in a conversational tone. "He was talking about the difference between hopes and expectations. A hope, he said, is a positive statement. It says, 'I think it would suit you to do whatever-it-is, but I won't judge your or love you any less if you don't.' Whereas an expectation, on the other hand, is not supportive or positive or affirming whatsoever. It says, 'I think it would suit you to do whatever-it-is, and I withhold my love and approval until you do.' It's an act of violence. And I think you can guess which of the two modes you're approaching from now."

"And, Caitlyn, that's why I don't want to introduce these elements of power-play into our relationship," Jon said. "Love is about giving. Sex is about giving. There should never be an element of taking in it, never. Giving, yes; and accepting what is given. But never taking."

"Which makes it strange that the act itself is described as 'taking' a woman sometimes," Christa remarked.

"It is, isn't it," Jon said. "That's weird."

"Though, most of the time that's only in the romance novels," Christa said. "Especially the ones with the ripping bodices and thrusting loins."

"Wow," Zach laughed, "I can't believe you said that with a straight face." Caitlyn, for her part, could feel her own cheeks heating: those were exactly the terms used in the young-women's novels. Had Christa read the same ones?

"I've never read those," Jon said. "What's with the bodice-ripping?"

"Oh, it's just this weird trope in some of them," Christa said. "You know: the tall, intensely physical man who's interested in the woman's charms, and the woman is resisting—or at least is saying no. You know?"

"Yeah, right," Jon nodded, understanding blossoming on his face. "And he is, err, insistent, and she continues to resist but it turns out that she was either playing with him or was secretly aroused. Boom. Deus ex machina."

"It's not really a healthy outlook," Zach said. "Doubtlessly led to a certain amount of date-rape. The underlying philosophy is that a woman doesn't know her own wants when sex is concerned; she's just putting on an act to be seductive. Or living out society's expectations, since a good women never says Yes to sex."

Caitlyn felt an extra bloom in her cheeks; that last sentence definitely applied to her. Or had, previously; there had been some adjustments made, starting on the night she'd said 'I do.'

"Meaning that, whenever a woman says No, the man feels justified in ignoring it," Jon said. "There's no provision for a woman meaning No. Either she says Yes and they do it... Or she says No, which is a Yes in disguise to the man, and he keeps pressuring her until she relents, and... They do it."

"Date rape," Zach said.

"No, not really," Christa said. "It's a really fuzzy line. I've never been in that position personally, but I know someone who has, and we agreed pretty quickly that it's a gray area. I mean, it's 'Fine, let's get this over with.' Is that a No? Is that a Yes? It's not really either of them. She's relenting under duress. It's a gray area."

"Gray means no," Zach replied. "Look, remember what Derek used to say back in high school? Quoted Brian Billick: 'No means no, Maybe means no, and Yes means no the next morning.' " Jon laughed. "You can never assume, is the point. So, 'Fine, let's get this over with' is definitely a No."

"Fair enough," said Christa, gesturing with a hand to accept his conclusions.

"Date rape," repeated Zach.

"Fair enough," said Christa again. "But—assuming of course that you actually did want the sex—I can see how it could be... Flattering. To have a man who knows what he wants, and plans to get it. And knows that he wants you." She grinned. "There's something to be said for raw physicality, especially where sex is involved."

"So you believe in it too?" Caitlyn said.

"Well, I'm not sure I'd wanna act it out, but, I certainly understand the appeal," Christa said.

"Hunh," said Zach. "You learn something new every day." He grinned. "I hadn't realized our sex could get any more physical."

"Yeah, it gets pretty wild sometimes," Christa said, giggling. "I don't think Zach could do it either. He just... He doesn't run that way. He's too much like a puppy dog."

"Uhh..." said Zach. "Thanks. I think." He grinned.

"But Jon, on the other hand," said Christa. "Mmm... I can see it." She nodded. "I can see it. I think he could find it within himself to be masterful in bed."

Caitlyn felt herself beaming. She liked that idea.

Jon looked at her and rolled his eyes. "Oh thanks. Now she's going to badger me until I give in."

"Well, that's your job," said Christa. "To hold her back. Jon, the same thing is true of you as it is of Caitlyn: don't ever try something unless you feel completely comfortable with it. Your job isn't to try something you think is uncomfortable. Your job is to get comfortable with it."

Jon grimaced. "Yeah. I guess. Because she's right, we do mostly do things my way. And..."

"And even if that weren't true," Zach said, "you'd still be obligated because you love her."

Jon squinted at him. "That's backwards, isn't it? I love her, so, isn't she under obligation to me?"

"Nope," said Zach. "Not at all. Nope nope nope. The person who's under obligation, my good man, is you. Not because you owe her for gracing you with her presence or some other waffly thing like that. Nope. You have obligation to her because you love her. Your obligation is your love. Because, let's face it: if it's within your power to make her happy, you wanna do it. Don't you?"

Jon didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"So, once you find out what would make her happy, you've gotta do it. Because you love her. And there's nothing more important in the world than making her happy."

"Which is exactly how I feel when we make love," Caitlyn said to him. "Remember? You were asking whether I came, and I said, No, I don't need to. It's because of this." She stroked his hand. "It's because I love you, and that means your pleasure is more important than my own. It makes you happy to not have to worry about that, to just be inside me and let go of having to be, I don't know, responsible for the whole act. It makes you happy to just slide into me and be carefree. And besides..." She was blushing again. "I actually really, really like it when you come inside me."

Jon smiled at her. He turned his hand up to clasp hers.

"Well, why don't you try this at some point," Christa said. "Jon, it sounds like you're in charge most of the time when you guys are in bed, right?"

Caitlyn laughed. "Who else? He's the only one who knows what's going on."

"Well, why don't you reverse that some night?" Christa said. "Caitlyn, you be in charge. You make the decisions, you take control—it's only been a few weeks, but I bet you know enough about himself and yourself to keep things moving."

Caitlyn frowned. "I don't wanna be in charge. Wasn't the whole point that I wanted him to be more in-charge?"

"Yes, and he's going to work on that," Christa said. "In the meanwhile, if you're in charge, it might give you more ideas for things you'd like to try. You said that you guys always did things Jon's way, because he's the only one who knows what's going on. Well, if you explore, maybe you'll be able to even the knowledge out. And maybe you'll find things to try which Jon finds, ahh, less objectionable."

"Fair enough," said Caitlyn, borrowing Christa's expression.

"And you," Christa said, looking at Jon, "you have your assignment already."

"Okay, Mrs. Crane," said Jon in a squeaky voice. "Is it time for recess yet?"

"I keep telling you you should get a teaching credential," Zach remarked.

After the Cranes had gone, things were a little subdued; Jon and Caitlyn put away the leftovers and cleaned up without much talk. She knew that Jon was mulling over everything that he'd heard tonight; and, to be fair, she herself had some new thoughts to consider. Now that Zach had mentioned it, she could see how almost her whole life had been one long string of expectations—of people making demands on her time and thought and energy. Even better, her parents had never let her turn down one of these requests; when she was younger, they'd made the decisions for her, and by the time she was older, the habit had settled to the consistency of concrete. Oh, to be sure, they'd claimed it was for her own good, and maybe it was; certainly she had already achieved a certain notoriety as a harp player despite her meager age. But the end result was that she was almost completely incapable of saying No.

Only Jon had ever gone into things without placing demands on her.

But even then, the distinction was meager in her mind—not because Jon's approach was similar, or because he was lying; no, it was because (she realized) she still had no conception of saying No. If a person needed her help, she helped them; this was law. It was the Christian thing to do. Jon was much the same; it was part of what drew them together. But Jon had always been much better about drawing barriers around himself—like with this whole dominance thing; he wasn't rude about it, and tried to minimize the conflict, but he'd made it clear that he had problems with the whole thing and didn't want to participate. For Jon, saying No was something as self-evident as breathing.

And what Zach had said about love! She'd never thought of it in quite that way before. It was a strange way of looking at love, but there was no denying its power.

"We should introduce Zach to Pastor Pendleton one day," she said. "I think they might get along."

"I'm sure they'd be able to have some great conversations at least," Jon agreed.

Jon took a shower while Caitlyn checked her e-mail; whether by coincidence or some other skill, her mother called while he was busy. It still startled Caitlyn how much it surprised her to see that name and number flash across her screen; she'd seen it multiple times a day while she still lived with her family. Shouldn't she be used to it? Why should she not be used to it now? "Hi Mom."

"Good evening, Caitlyn. How was school?"

"Oh... School-ish. You know how it is."

"No, I'm sure I don't." Caitlyn's mom was a second-grade teacher, and brooked no disrespect for education.

"Well, it's only just started," Caitlyn said, feeling a pang of the old impatience. Mom knew that; she'd been calling every night. "There hasn't been that much time for anything to settle yet." She was fairly sure Mom was asking just to make conversation, which was all well and good in person but sillier when you were calling someone up at 9:30 PM.

"I can't believe your school only started now. I've been back in since the 7th. We've already moved on to some advanced topics."

"What, like three plus three?" said Caitlyn.

There was a frosty silence. "Caitlyn, I don't know what's been going on between you and that man, but I am still your mother and deserving of your respect."

This was no time to get into an argument; Caitlyn didn't really want any more strife in her life. Especially not with Mom. Who would sit here and argue until she got her way, which at this rate could take until two o'clock tomorrow morning. "I'm sorry, Mom, it's been a long day." She was beginning to understand what Jon had said about her parents getting their way.

"That's no excuse. I raised you better than that."

"Well, then, it's a good thing I married a man who's willing to put up with it," said Caitlyn.

"Yes. Your husband." Caitlyn could swear the phone was getting chilly in her grip. "How are things in your... household?"

I'm trying to get him to dominate me, Mom. I learned it from you. "Just fine. He's starting at a new job, and I have an interview tomorrow for a position on-campus. And just now we had Zach and Christa Cranes over for an impromptu dinner party."

"On a Monday night?"

"Well, we're all busy people, Mom, we gotta move it or lose it."

"A new job, you say." Caitlyn had the distinct impression that Mom had never heard that slang before. "What's he doing now?"

She wasn't sure she wanted to tell her what Jon was doing. Drs. Polkiss and Leyton had stopped offering Mom the relative's discount she had availed herself of while Jon was working there, and she had immediately sought out a new dentist; the last thing they needed was for her to change doctors too. "More of the same, basically. He likes it. It's good."

"Why does he need a new job?"

"Why does anyone need a job? To make money. The things we need don't grow on trees, Mom."

"No, they grow in the heart." Caitlyn was surprised at this seemingly-transcendent comment from her mother—at least, until she continued. "There's nothing more important than your salvation in the Lord, Caitlyn."

"Yes, Mom, I remember." It was hard to forget; after all, an eternity of hellfire and damnation hung in the balance. Besides, despite what people would have her believe, it wasn't that hard to get into Heaven. Why take the risk if you didn't have to? "Jon isn't making me do anything sinful or inappropriate."

"I wonder about that," said her mother.

I'm sure you do, because you think sex is sinful. Caitlyn wondered if her mother believed in some crazy Puritan idea she'd heard—that the only proper way for a man and woman to have intercourse was with a bedsheet in between them. Caitlyn didn't think this idea would work at all; she thought the sheet would chafe the man's penis far too much for him to reach his orgasm, and no orgasm meant no cum—and no cum meant no conception. Besides, wouldn't the bedsheet have a condom-like effect on his sperm? Besides: having a bedsheet stuffed up her privates? Maybe the bedsheet idea was complete fiction. Maybe they cut a hole in it. Either way, it was just stupid enough that Caitlyn thought her mother would fall for it.

"Mom," she said. "I'm twenty-one years old. I'm old enough to make decisions for myself."

"But to make mistakes for yourself?"

"Well, then, how old is old enough to make mistakes for yourself?" Caitlyn asked.

"Approximately the time you're born," said Caitlyn's mother. "Which is why God graced us with the Bible. His Holy Word contains all that we need to keep from making mistakes in this life."

The fact that Caitlyn agreed with her mom didn't make her sound any less like a pious sheep. "Well, Mom, you'll be glad that both Jon and I know the Bible well, and follow its precepts. We also know each other well. This is also a Biblical precept—to love your spouse, and be faithful to them, and be good to them."

"Is Jon good for you?" her mother asked, abandoning all subtlety. "Does he do good things for you? Does he keep you from the path of sin?"

A lot more than you guys did. "When he doesn't, we talk it out. Everyone makes mistakes, Mom. The more important question is whether we're willing to stop making them."

"Mm-hmm," said Mom. Caitlyn could tell she was unconvinced; at what, Caitlyn couldn't begin to fathom. That Jon wasn't leading her down the path of iniquity? That they could discuss those trangressions that did happen? That people made mistakes?—Caitlyn knew that, as far as Linda Delaney was concerned, Linda Delaney had never made a mistake in her life.

"Okay, Mom, I've gotta go. It's bed time."

"We'll talk tomorrow. Good night."

Caitlyn folded up the phone just as Jon came out of the bathroom, rubbing his hair with a towel and wearing absolutely nothing. "Your mom again?"

"Same Mom time, same Mom place," Caitlyn said.

"You know, you could tell her you're busy," Jon said. "I mean, it's not like you guys have a lot to talk about."

That should be less true than it is. "I know."

"You're, like, on different worlds. Specifically, she lives on a world where she's always right, and you never are."

Caitlyn sighed. "I know."

He gave her a quizzical look. "And yet... You still want me to act that way towards you regarding sex?"

"Ooo." She gave him a grin.

He tossed his hands theatrically, sending the towel flopping. "I should know better than to ask questions like that."

"But, Jon, you are always right when it comes to sex." She stepped close to lay a hand on his chest. Sometimes she'd been naked while he remained clothed, but this was the first time the opposite had been true.

"First off, no I'm not, but second off, even if I am, it's for completely different reasons. It's because I study you. I love you, and learn about you, and apply what I've learned. That's completely different from me just dictating that you're going to like something and then expecting you to fall in line."

"Not really," she said, "because you know me so well. You'd always be right." She smiled up at him.

"Ugh," said Jon, wiping his face with a hand. "Look, are you sure there aren't any other things we could try? Ones less... Volatile?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. I didn't know I had any kinks until this afternoon. Christa's suggestion was a good idea, by the way. Do you have anything?" She thought about the pubic-hair surprise. "If there's anything else you're planning to drop on me, I think I'd like some preparation."

Jon shrugged; she was surprised to realize he was a little uncomfortable. "Well... I always... If you plan to breast-feed, I kinda wanna try it."

This time it was her eyebrows making the climb. "Umm... I have no idea how I feel about that." What would it be like to nurse Jon? What would it be like to nurse a child? She could barely envision what any child of theirs would look like. They both had brown hair, Jon's a bit lighter than hers, but he had the most remarkable eyes and she hoped her children would have them. "Let's table that until later. I mean, I don't see anything wrong with trying it, but I have no idea what I'll think about it."

"That's fine, it's not like we'll be having children any time soon anyway," he said, still a little wild-eyed. He was very good with his poker face—so was she, of course—but she knew his eyes well enough to see when he was nervous. "And... Well... I kind of want to try... Anal."

That was definitely a shock. "You said you had no interest in trying it. I remember it well."

He looked pained. "I know, and, I didn't. But... Things have changed."

"You realize, there's passages in—"

"I know, I know. If you don't want to, you don't want to, and I live with it. That's the way it's always gone. But... I mean. I'm curious. This is the one sex life I ever get—you're the woman I love, you're the woman I married, and, knock on wood, we'll be together until the end of time. But that means that, if I want to try something, it has to be with you. And... This is something I'd like to, just, try. To see what happens. If that's okay with you."

She wasn't sure it was. Scriptural strictures aside, she couldn't get her head around the idea of something going in the out door. Actually, she couldn't get the idea of anyone wanting to interface with that area of herself voluntarily. "Why? I mean, Jon, what's the appeal?"

"I dunno, I just..." He shook his head. "Baby, I really like that part of you." His hand slid down her hip, over the curve of her waist, came to rest her left buttock. "I don't get the option much, but, I really like watching you walk, and how you sway." The hand squeezed gently. "You have a really beautiful... Butt."

She tried to suppress a giggle over this comment. She almost succeeded.

"Okay, okay, it sounds stupid," he said. "Maybe it is stupid. Caitlyn, I'm not saying it's logical or intelligent or anything. I'm just... Interested."

...Which, in the end, was exactly how she felt about this whole domination thing. Because, undoubtedly, Jon was right: there were good and intelligent reasons for her to not want to move in that direction. Reasons that, clearly, hadn't stopped her from wanting it anyway. If she could want something for no meaningful reason, then so could he.

That didn't answer the original issue, though: the one about the Bible.

"Well-lll..." she said. "I don't know. It isn't... It isn't something I ever, ever thought I would do. And I think it might be wrong."

"That's... Fair enough," he said. "At least you're not saying No."

"But I'm not saying Yes either," she said.

"No, I understand that," he said. "And since you haven't said Yes, that means it's off-limits until you give a real answer."

Which meant the domination stuff was off-limits too, since he hadn't said Yes. Though he also hadn't said No either. "Agreed."

"And in the meanwhile..." he said. "There are always other things that are... Not out of bounds. Which we could engage in."

She gave him a teasing grin and stepped closer to him, feeling his semi-hard shaft against her pants. After what we did this morning, he's still interested! "Oh? Are you interested in getting to know your wife a little better?"

"Always," he breathed.

...And, in the end, wasn't that the entire point? To feel that, no matter what they'd done before, he could never get enough? God only knew that she never could.

And this time, when he comes inside me, it gets to stay there.

Whatever the case, Jon was on form tonight. Almost before she knew it, she was naked on the bed, his hand between her legs, feeling the rush of her second orgasm of the day. The other had been stronger, but this one was sweeter—not nearly as overwhelming, so that she could feel Jon's breath on her neck, the warmth of his skin. When she had control over herself again she reached for him, rolling onto her back for the second time today, inviting him in.

When he slid home she moaned her acceptance into his mouth.

But instead of moving, he simply lay there for a while, touching her, kissing her, being kissed in return. She caressed all of him that she could reach—his face, his back, his arms, his shoulders, his cute little butt—and then drew him down to her, coaxing him until finally he relented and let his arms relax, resting every ounce of his weight on her. He was not a big man—he weighed at most 155—but even if he had been heavier, she would not have felt smothered. He was perfect here. This was where he was meant to be.

He kissed at her ear. "See, isn't this good too? Just... Making love. Sharing our love with each other."

"Yes, it is. Jon, I never said I don't like this. But, don't you see? Even just by letting yourself lie on me like this, you make it better for me."

"Why?"

"Because I can't move."

He was silent.

"Jon, I really really like it this way. I like it that you're so... Physical with me." She couldn't explain it; she'd never been able to. "I like being overwhelmed with it."

He raised his head to look at her—which, of course, required him to take some of his weight on his elbows. "You really are serious about this, aren't you."

She wiggled her hips against his to prove the point. "Maybe, after you're done, you could fall asleep on me like this."

"You'd suffocate."

"I wouldn't." She doubted she would. "If you got too heavy, I'd push you off." And it would be worth the risk, in her opinion. "Jon, I want this."

He just looked at her for a moment; then he smiled, something amused but a little bemused at the same time. "I never know what to expect from you sometimes."

"Isn't that supposed to be a hope?" she said, smiling.

"Good point."

"Well, speaking as the woman you're currently inside, I hope you'll start moving until you come in me." She grinned up at him. "Deep in me, all warm and sticky inside me so that it doesn't dribble out. And then when I wake up tomorrow morning, I'll feel your cum still there, and get really turned on, and I'll wake you up and we can do it again."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Who are you, and what've you done with my wife?"

"She's still here. You just awakened the part of her that really, really likes sex." She wiggled her bum again. "This one."

"I've created a monster."

"Oh, come on, you know you love it," she said, grinning.

In answer, he began to move inside her, and she let her head fall back to glory in the thrill of his penetration. She drew him down to her again, bringing his full weight onto her, holding him tightly against her as, down below, he began to thrust in earnest. "Of course, so do I..."