THE ADJUSTERS

47

Jennifer’s Plan

Richard Sanderson could not sleep. He tossed and turned in bed, trying to find a comfortable position and failing miserably. His bedside clock shone a bright green 3:10, the glow almost mocking him with its fluorescence.

Sanderson sighed, flipped onto his back, and stared at the ceiling of his room, arms behind his head.

In the darkness, he could pick up the sounds he had grown used to hearing for the past weeks coming from the other end of the apartment: his roommate Erik and his new girlfriend were going at it. It was an almost nightly event, one that lasted for several hours, and that made Sanderson wonder exactly how much sleep those two were getting, and how they managed to be coherent at work.

Granted, Erik worked part-time and usually had his mornings free, and Sanderson had no idea what the new girlfriend did during the day but he suspected that she was still in school, and thus had a somewhat more accommodating schedule. Or at least so he hoped for her sake.

They were not particularly noisy—though the girl tended to shout out when she came—but in the silence of the night, they were loud enough.

None of which helped his wandering mind. He kept thinking back to the events of the day—the excitement of pulling Jennie out of her medically-induced catatonia, the thrill of seeing her walk around and interact with others, the surprise and fascination of following her to that room and having her fall in his arms.

He closed his eyes. He felt his dick get harder at the memories—memories of how her body felt against him, memories of how her mouth felt on his, of how her hands felt on his skin, the memories of how her pussy felt sliding down his dick, soft and tight around him, sucking him in, milking him, memories of her words worming through his mind, memories of how she came astride him.

Unconsciously, his hand had sneaked its way down into his pajamas, and he was stroking his growing erection. The feelings were so fresh, so intense, so joyful. But part of him, the responsible, practical part of him, was berating him nonstop.

She’s a patient, the voice said. She’s a patient on a mental ward, the voice said. She’s crazy, you’ve seen her, the voice said. The only reason she can function is because she’s doped up to the eye balls, the voice said.

All good points. Sanderson knew it. He was falling for a patient under his care, which was stupid, stupid, stupid. That she reminded him of Felicity was but the cherry on the sunday of his lust.

Falling for a patient under one’s care was one of the oldest stories in the medical book, but that it was a well-trod path did not lessen its impact. He wanted nothing so much as feeling her right there beside him, away from that place, away from that prison in which she was trapped.

And it was no joke. She needed to get out of there. That was clear. I think Gutierrez wants to sell you, he had told her. She had looked at him with curiosity but no disbelief. That had affected him almost as much as what had happened at the party that Gutierrez had thrown for his initiation. What must she have gone through to take the news that she was to be sold—like a slave, like cattle—so casually?

Sanderson had told her what he knew, which was not much. He had been walking around the ward a few days earlier, thinking back over what he had done, how he had talked Beatrice into asking Doctor Dante to wake Jennie up. And Beatrice had come through, informing him that Dante had indeed looked at the file and that he had come to the same conclusions they had: Jennie did need complete sedation but could presumably function under the normal drug regimen that the other patients in the ward were under.

Sanderson could not help but wonder how Beatrice had convinced Doctor Dante to look at Jennie’s file, and when he had asked, the blonde nurse had responded with a sly grin that suggested a lot more than she probably meant to suggest.

Beatrice. He had almost stopped thinking about her ever since embarking on the Helping Jennie project, and he felt guilty about it. Which was a ridiculous reaction, because not only had he not promised her anything, she was most likely not even aware of his attraction to her.

And while Sanderson was walking around the ward and wondering about Beatrice and Dante and trying to imagine how waking Jennie up might go, he overheard Gutierrez.

Gutierrez was in the break room of Blue Ward on his cell phone, speaking quietly, and Sanderson upon seeing him ducked against the wall outside the room before he could be seen. He had listened to Gutierrez’s side of the conversation.

“Well, glad you enjoyed it, really.” — “Least I could do, really.” — “Call it a combo special. The tiny one was just a bonus.” — “Yeah, she was sweet, wasn’t she?” — “No, I don’t know who Biff is. One lucky bastard, that’s for sure. Well, maybe not so lucky, since she’s here now!” Gutierrez laughed. “Yeah.” — “What?” — “I don’t know, man…” — “Where did you hear that?” — “Sure…” — “Look…” — “Wait…” — “Okay, sure, fine. Yeah, I know I’ve talked about it before, but…” — “No, I know. I understand, but…” — “I get that. But I can’t just make her disappear like that…” — “It takes time.” — “I know.” — “How much?” — “Fuck.” — “Fine. Okay. Look, I’ll think about it, okay?” — “What?” — “No way?” Gutierrez remained silent for a long time. “Okay, fine, fine. Yeah, we’ll settle the details next time. Yes. Next time.”

Punching out of the call with a swear words, Gutierrez had stood and started pacing the room, and Sanderson had walked away as quietly as possible, thinking hard about what Gutierrez could have been talking about, feeling sick to his stomach.

And now Sanderson stood awake in the middle of the night, trying to figure out how to get Jennie out of the crosshairs she was in. And was not making any progress.

The obvious route was to convince people that Jennie was cured, or at least, able to function on her own. But that route was not available: it required a doctor to sign off on it, and while Doctor Dante might be persuaded that Jennie did not require sedation, there was no chance he could be induced to give Jennie a clean bill of health. Because Jennie was not healthy. He had seen first-hand what happened when she was left untreated. And his dick twitched in response at the memories of Jennie, a few weeks earlier, going crazy over him in the throes of the most delightful lust-filled psychotic episode Sanderson had ever witnessed.

The other possibility was equally obvious—to somehow get Gutierrez arrested, or fired. But he had no proof, no evidence of what Gutierrez was doing, and moreover, if what Beatrice said was true, he had friends in high place in the Institute. Collecting evidence would take time, by which point Jennie will have been sold.

Sold. Such a terrible, incomprehensible word. Sanderson could not wrap his head around it. That human beings could be traded like any other commodity was insane. Not that he was necessarily surprised that someone might want to purchase a girl like Jennie, or what he would purchase her for. She would probably be used to satisfy some old rich man’s lust, kept at hand as a concubine to warm his bed, perhaps wake him up with a blow job, and serve him naked, or perhaps dressed to the nines as some high-class escort forced to satisfy his every perverse desire. The image stuck in Sanderson’s head and could not be dislodged no matter how hard he tried.

Jennie in a short revealing evening dress, baring her long legs, a plunging neckline nearly exposing her round breasts, her hair up, on her knees in a fancy limousine dutifully and obediently sucking on her owner’s cock while he conducted some business on the phone, hardly paying attention to the beautiful woman servicing him.

Sanderson shook his head, disturbed by the images, and by the effects they were having on him. His dick was hard, and demanded attention. At the other end of the apartment, his roommate and his girlfriend seemed to be reaching a climax.

Sanderson got out of bed. He was driving himself crazy. He headed to the living room, in the dark.

No, the only approach that remained, really, was to break Jennie out. But how? Sanderson could not think of anything. No, that was not true: he could think of plenty of ways, but they all sounded like bad plots to over-the-top heist movies. He not only had no clue how to pull off anything like that, it was pretty clear that any of those plans were way too complicated.

He settled down on the couch, and turned on the television, keeping the sound off. He needed distraction. And then he needed to sleep. His exhaustion would be of no help to anyone, least of all Jennie. He found a baseball game, the Cincinnati Reds visiting the Atlanta Braves, a game that had been played earlier that day. He had not followed the Reds since he was a teenager, but those memories of a better time served to calm him down.

In a gesture that he had been repeating too often these last few weeks, the way someone else would caress a worry stone, he pulled out the photograph of Felicity he carried with him, that photograph of Felicity posing on a bed with a black slip and dark stockings, her arms above her head. The same clothes that Jennie had worn that night when Gutierrez made her available to him.

That Gutierrez had offered her to him the way he was planning on giving her to some rich bastard did not escape his notice. At least, he tried to convince himself, I’m not taking advantage of it.

“Ah! I thought I heard something.”

Sanderson spun his head around so fast he thought he would get whiplash.

“Oh! Did I startle you?” His roommate’s girlfriend—Shondra, he finally recalled with a flash—strode into the living room, illuminated by the glow of the television set.

She plopped herself down on the couch next to him, clutching a small container of ice cream and a spoon. “Got the munchies.”

Sanderson muttered a simple “It’s okay,” giving her a quick glance but then averting his eyes.

Shondra was a garrulous young woman with an easy laugh and an unrestrained personality. Sanderson had no idea where his roommate had found her, but he could easily understand what had attracted him.

Shondra was the template of his roommate’s type, from what he had gathered—she was short and curvy, and sported a pair of enormous breasts. His roommate had a fondness for abundant flesh. Said enormous breasts were currently barely hidden underneath a man’s shirt, but the shirt had no chance. The material was tented, and the one button closing it off struggled under the weight of her cleavage. At least, Sanderson noted with a wry internal smile, she wore panties.

“Who’s playing?” she asked, as she dug into the ice cream and brought the spoon to her lips.

“Huh, Cincinnati against Atlanta.”

“Hey, my home team,” she said. “Love those guys.”

The last thing Sanderson wanted was to have a middle-of-the-night discussion with his roommate’s girlfriend. She did not seem the type to help him figure out how to break Jennie out of the Institute. And he was still sporting a stubborn erection—not helped in any way by the flesh on display within arms’ reach.

“Woha, who’s the babe?” Shondra had slid up next to him and was looking at the photograph of Felicity in his hand. He made to move it away, but she grabbed his hand. “Your girlfriend? Smoking hot!”

Sanderson had no ready reply. “She’s—”

“Man, I’d kill to have those legs!”

“Huh, you’re not so bad yourself,” he said. Small talk at four in the morning when having almost not slept was particularly difficult.

“Not in her class, I’m not. I mean,” she said, pressing a hand on one of her breasts. “I got the girls here, but that’s not the same, is it?”

Sanderson muttered something unintelligible. Shondra remained close to him, as she licked a spoonful of ice cream with an agile tongue. You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought.

“You a Reds fan?” she asked, not looking up.

He nodded. “I’m from Indiana,” as if it answered the question, which in a way it did. “Though to be honest I’m more of a hockey fan.”

“They got hockey in Indiana?”

“No, but they’ve got hockey in Chicago.”

“Wait—you go to Cincinnati for baseball but Chicago for hockey? That’s fucked up.”

Sanderson shrugged again. “What can I tell you?”

Shondra remained silent for a while, still licking her ice cream. She spread her legs, and Sanderson confirmed that she indeed wore panties, though their seemed almost translucent in the glow of the television set. His dick stubbornly refused to go soft.

“Is it true what they say about corn-fed midwesterners?” Shondra asked after a pause.

“Huh, what do they say?”

Shondra turned her head up and looked at him, giving a last teasing lick to the spoon. Given their respective positions, her cleavage was extravagant.

“Wasn’t Superman from Indiana?” she asked.

“I think he was from Kansas.”

“Meh, same thing.”

Only if you consider seven hundred miles the same thing, he responded in his head. He turned his attention back to the television, willing Shondra to go back to bed.

“You can look at them, you know,” she said instead. “I don’t mind”

“Huh, look at who?”

“The girls, silly. They love the attention.” Before Sanderson could say anything, she put the ice cream down on the floor, and unbuttoned the shirt. “They sure like you,” she said, pulling out and caressing her large breasts with hands that looked way too small. “You can touch them if you want. They’d really like that.”

Sanderson looked at her. She was leaning back on the sofa, her hands on her breasts, her legs spread, one of them folded back beneath her. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face, and she was grinning. He could not avoid looking at her breasts, which were the biggest he had ever seen on this side of a computer screen. Her nipples were puffy, her areolae large and dark.

“Shondra,” he said, using her name for the first time. Don’t be an idiot, he wanted to say, but he could not. Last thing he needed was to piss her off and have a running back to his roommate claiming he tried to rape her or something. He was in a Hollywood frame of mind, clearly. “This is really a bad idea. Erik—”

“Erik’s in the other room, passed out, because I screwed the shenanigans out of him. He won’t hear a thing. Come on, gimme your hand. They’re real, you know? Ever pawed real big boobies? They feel real nice. If you want I’ll let you stick your dick in and screw them real good. You like booby-fucks?”

Sanderson was thinking fast, trying to find a way out of this mess. His love life was getting complicated enough that adding a fling—albeit it a middle-of-the-night no-strings-attached fling—with his roommate’s girlfriend was possibly the stupidest move he could make. It was late, and he was tired, and he was horny, but even he was not that stupid.

Shondra was still looking at him with a come-on look in her eyes, one hand on a large breasts twisting the nipple, her legs spread wide enough to expose the crotch of her panties. On the television screen, the Atlanta Braves scored three runs on a blast over the left field fence that just cleared the outfielder’s glove despite an impressive leap.

“Shondra,” he said, and he tried to use his best serious voice. “Look—you’re a very desirable girl, and I’d love to put my hands on those big boobies of yours.” He figured he would try to flatter her the way she seemed to want to be flattered. “But I’ve got a girlfriend, and if she ever finds about this, she’s going to rip out my balls and feed them to her dogs.” The lie came off his tongue too easily.

“She doesn’t need to find out,” purred Shondra, who was edging her free hand down toward her crotch while at the same time leaning toward him.

“She doesn’t need to, but she will, because I can’t keep a secret for shit—and if I do put my hands on your… girls… then I won’t be able to keep myself from shouting it from the roof tops.” He made a leery face, and thought for a second he had pushed too far.

But Shondra merely giggled, and shook her head, and leaned over and gave him a wet kiss on the cheek before standing up. Her shirt was wide open, and her breasts bounced with her movements in a way that seemed to defy physics. “Your loss,” she said. “I’m going to go and see if Erik’s recovered. He loves to screw the girls.”

I’m sure he does, Sanderson thought, as Shondra skipped out of the room. And I’m nowhere close to solving the getting-Jennie-out problem. And, he added, as if it mattered, Cincinnati is losing.

“By the way,” Shondra said from the entrance to the living room, looking back at him, “did Erik tell you? There was a call for you earlier. A woman. Left a message. She wanted you to call her back whenever convenient. Beatrice something. She said she was calling in the favor you owed her. Her number’s on the fridge.”

There was a question in Shondra’s voice. Sanderson thanked her.

“Beatrice—is that your girlfriend?” Shondra asked. “The hottie in the photo?”

“No,” Sanderson replied automatically, before mentally kicking himself. Last thing he wanted was to open himself up to more questions he would have to dodge.

“Oh,” said Shondra, a smile in her voice. “I see. That’s the real reason why you’re passing up on the girls, then. You’ve got a little birdie on the side. You’re like that guy, there, the seducer guy…? What’s his name?”

“Casanova?”

“No, no. That Italian guy…”

Sanderson bit his lip. “Huh, Don Juan?”

“That’s it! Don Juan! You’re like Don Juan. A girl in every port. Don’t worry,” she added. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He saw her exaggerated wink in the glow of the television screen, and watched her disappear down the hallway toward his roommate’s room. Sanderson sighed.

Ten minutes later, Shondra’s moans and bed creaking came from Erik’s room. None of which helped Sanderson’s with either his arousal or his escape plans.

* * *

Sanderson called Beatrice back the next day.

“Huh, hey—it’s me. Returning your call. What’s up?”

“Are you in today?” she asked.

“No. Off until Wednesday.”

“Are you busy Friday night?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“You owe me a favor. For getting that patient file to Michael.”

“I remember. What’s Friday?”

“I’ve got a dinner thing.”

“Huh, okay. Sounds mysterious. So what’s the favor? You need me to babysit your dog?”

“No, silly. I want you to accompany me to a dinner.”

“Huh… wait—your favor’s for me to be your… date?” Sanderson did not add that she should not have wasted her favor on something he would have done with pleasure anyway.

“Well, it is a black-tie affair.”

“Oh, well, that changes everything. You’re lucky I owe you a favor, then. Fine, I’ll be there.”

“Perfect,” Beatrice practically purred into the phone. “I’ll text you the details on Friday.”

“Anything I need to know beforehand?”

“Nope. Just make sure to bring your usual charming self.”

“That might be stretching the favor I owe you, but sure, I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Sanderson felt some amount of trepidation on Wednesday when he returned to the Craven-Wilford Institute for his shift in Blue Ward.

He had spent the previous days trying to come up with a plan to get Jennie out of the ward, but could not come up with anything vaguely reasonable. He did make headway on getting a supply of the medication that kept her from becoming the ravenous beast he saw at Gutierrez’s party.

He knew the exam drug regimen from having looked at her updated file. A quick phone call to an old friend from nursing school—a friend who ended up ditching the program and going into pharmacology—confirmed what he already guessed. Most of those drugs were prescription only, but could be obtained on the black market for a reasonable fee—at least according to the man. Sanderson figured that in the worst case he might be able to steal a supply from the Institute, but he would only consider such an approach if nothing else worked.

Sanderson, in the bright light of day, asked himself what he thought he was doing exactly. Helping Jennie escape would spell the end of his career, one that had just started. He would never be employed as a nurse ever again. He might even be facing prosecution. What he was doing was dumb, there was no doubt about it. Yet, it looked like he was doing it.

Felicity.

He almost laughed out loud at the silliness of it all. Because he still had a crush on his first love, because he still obsessed about her, he was ready to sacrifice his life for this perfect stranger, this mental patient. He should go to the authorities, expose Gutierrez, do something, anything, but not get involved in what he was getting involved in.

And yet, even as he told himself that, he knew it was already too late. He would help Jennie. Was it love? Was it lust? Was it guilt? Was it a helpless hope for the One That Got Away? He did not really know. All he knew is that he felt alive, felt like he was doing something, unlike when Felicity left him, when he just stood there and did nothing.

Beatrice was not at the admission desk. He found Jennie in the recreation room, sitting quietly in a corner, a small tablet computer on her lap, typing away methodically.

He did not go to her directly despite his wish to do so. He first walked around the room, greeting the patients and the other nurses, making conversation. He hesitated a second before approaching the patient named Allison—he remembered her distinctly from the Gutierrez party.

He felt a surge of arousal shoot through him as he thought about her on her knees in her evening dress, sucking him off with skill and expertise. He had not had many blow jobs in his life, but he doubted he would ever have one again that was so great. Fucking Jennie when she was lust wild and the other day when she was back to normal had been incredible, but what Allison could do with her mouth, it was indescribable.

She looked up, a lollipop in her mouth, and smiled at him. He smiled back, waved. He felt self-conscious around her ever since that night, but she did not seem to remember anything. None of the girls, including Jennie, seemed to remember anything about that night. Cassandra had said, at some point during Gutierrez’s party, that when their medication were removed, the girls would be swallowed up by their lust and whatever delusions their illness would force upon them, and that swallowing up was so complete and so thorough that it overwhelmed them and they remembered nothing, except possibly as dreams or as flashes of fantasy.

“Good morning, Allison.”

“Good morning,” she responded, looking up at him. She was reading what looked like a mathematical book. He chatted her up a little, making sure she was okay, and then continued making the rounds. The image of Allison’s tongue swirling around the lollipop in her mouth made it impossible not to imagine her tongue swirling around his dick before she engulfed it wholly, her red hair swaying with the back and forth movements.

He shook his head as he walked, trying to clear it. Sex was on his mind like nothing else since he took this job, it was scary. Of course, he was working in a ward for hypersexual patients, so that was perhaps hardly surprising. But between Gutierrez’s party, between Allison, Cassandra, Jennie, even his roommate’s girlfriend the previous night, things were getting out of hand. And later this week, Beatrice. He did not know just where to pay attention.

By the time he circled all the way to Jennie, Mouse was seated next to the tall brunette, quiet and still, her hands between her knees.

“Hello Lillian,” he told the waify woman.

“Hello, sir,” said Mouse in response, watching him from below.

Jennie looked up Sanderson, her eyes lost in some internal world. She had a frown on her face that made Sanderson’s heart ache. “Jennie’s looking for a word that means sisterhood, or something like that. The name of a community of religious women. Needs to start with a C.”

Sanderson, caught by surprise, pondered for a second. Nothing came to mind.

“Covenant?” Mouse’s voice was soft.

Jennie thought about it for a second, then smiled. “Perfect.” She continued typing away on her tablet, once in a while cursing at the lack of response from the touch screen.

“Huh, what is she doing?” Sanderson asked Mouse in a conspiratorial tone.

“Jennie’s writing a story,” responded Jennie, without looking up form her tablet.

“It’s very good,” said Mouse in her soft voice.

“Huh, can I read it?” asked Sanderson, curious. Of all the things Jennie could be doing, he thought, writing a story would not have been high on his list of guesses.

Jenn look up at him, with a twinkle in her eye, and a flirty smile on her lips. She eyed Mouse, and winked at her. “Maybe when it’s done,” she said. “If you’re good.”

Mouse let out a little giggle at the notion, and she blushed, sharing a glance with Jenn.

What is she writing? Sanderson wondered, and he reminded himself to ask about it again later.

After a few minutes, with Sanderson standing silently and almost awkwardly, Jennie spoke up again, without looking up from her tablet.

“Jennie's had an idea. A plan.”

“You did?” He gave a glance toward Mouse, unsure they should be having this conversation here.

“Don’t worry,” said Jennie. “She knows.”

“She does?”

“She figured it out.” Jennie looked at Mouse. “She’s quite sharp.”

Mouse blushed again, and Sanderson could swear her head disappeared into her neck.

“And she promised not to say anything.”

Mouse nodded.

“Okay then,” said Sanderson, sitting down next to Jennie, opposite Mouse. “Tell me, because I’m stumped. Though,” he added, proud of himself, “I think I figured out how to get a supply of the meds.”

“Great,” said Jennie, putting her tablet to sleep and laying it down on her lap. Sanderson looked in her grey eyes, luminous and full of life, and felt a surge of desire. His mind went back to the last time they were together, in that room off on the second floor, on that bare mattress, their bodies close together, a moment of tender love as opposed to the animalistic fucking at Gutierrez’s party. Both were incredible experiences, and Sanderson, if he were honest with himself, would have a lot of difficulty deciding which Jennie he preferred: the loving girlfriend, or the hungry slut.

“The Pig’s party,” Jennie said, which made Sanderson blush. Does she know what was thinking about? He still felt bad about having taken advantage of her during the party, while she was under the influence of whatever ailed her, even though Jennie herself told him that she did not hold it against him, that she could not hold it against him.

“What… what about it?”

“That’s when Jennie and you can make your move.”

Sanderson looked at her without understanding. “Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, there’s going to be lots of people around.”

“Think about it. You told Jennie that Gutierrez invites people over for his parties, and that they happen here.”

Sanderson nodded. There was no easy way to move the patients to another location, and therefore it made sense that Gutierrez would hold his parties somewhere in the Institute.

“Well, those people that he invites over, there has to be a way for them to get in and out of the building, without passing through security.”

Sanderson’s eyes lit up. Of course. If they could find out how Gutierrez’s guests got in, it would provide for a way out.

Jennie saw that Sanderson understood, and continued on excitedly. “And in fact, when there is a party, that entrance that the guests use will not be guarded, while it might be at other times. So if Jennie and you time your escape during a party, there is a chance that you can get out.”

Sanderson frowned at the obvious flaw in Jennie’s plan. “Wait. You mean you want to try to do this during a party? How are we going to know where the party is held?”

“Jennie and you join the party.”

“But if you join the party, that means that you’re going to be off your meds, and… you know…” He did not want to point out the obvious. Without her meds, Jennie would be reduced to a creature of lust, living only to satiate her needs.

Jennie shrugged. “If you give Jennie some meds before the party, then she will attend the party without losing her mind.”

“But you’re going to have to act like you’re… like you’re crazed even though you’re not!”

Jennie made a face that Sanderson could not read. “Jennie can fake it.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, I mean, it’s REALLY crazy.” Sanderson looked around with a worried glance when he realized that he had nearly shouted that last statement. He lowered his voice, and leaned in toward Jennie. “You’re gonna go in there and act like the only thing you’re living for is to fuck and get fucked.” He hoped his crassness would emphasize his point.

Jennie looked at him calmly, and merely repeated herself. “Jennie can fake it. She’s had a lot of practice.” The way she said it made her sound much older than her age.

Sanderson shook his head, not knowing what to say.

“The only thing left to figure out is when the Pig’s next party is.”

“Next week,” said Mouse, glancing at both of them before looking back down.

“What?” asked Sanderson, trying to keep up. Everything was moving too fast.

“Gutierrez is having a party next week.”

“How do you know?”

“Cassandra told me last night.” Her voice was nearly a whisper at the end. She did not add any detail.

“Great,” said Jennie. “So next week then. And you need to talk to the Pig and make sure you’re there too,” she said, looking at Sanderson.

He nodded, unsure about the whole thing, but unwilling to contradict Jennie’s irresistible drive. He was about to voice some further hesitation, when a voice from behind them made him almost jump.

“What are you three conspiring about?”

Cassandra circled the couch and plopped herself down next to Mouse. She put her arm around the small woman, crossing her legs. Her eyes were lined out with dark mascara as usual, her hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, a smile that was almost a smirk on her face.

Sanderson blocked, wondering how long Cassandra has skulked behind them, and how much she had heard.

She revealed nothing, merely looking from him to Jennie, completely ignoring Mouse aside from having her arm around the woman’s shoulders.

“Hey Brown Eyes,” she winked at Sanderson. “You’re looking good, Biff’s Toy,” she told Jennie, a little smile on her face. “Being awake agrees with you.” Before Jennie could retort to the implied insult and challenge—through the obvious reference to the tattoo she harbored over her pussy, the origin of which the object of much rumors—Cassandra continued as if nothing had happened. “Still writing, I see?” She nodded towards the tablet on Jennie’s lap.

“Keeps Jennie sane,” Jennie responded, shrugging slightly.

Mouse remained silent.

“So what’s new, Cassandra?” asked Sanderson, taking advantage of his arguable position of authority on the Institute’s staff to help reduce the friction, and also to move the conversation away from what they had been discussing.

“Nothing much. Just wondering what it’d take to steal you away from your new girlfriend.” She looked him in the eyes, her smile widening and the tip of her tongue gingerly touching the tip of her upper lip. Her hand was caressing Mouse’s upper arm suggestively. “I bet I’m tighter,” she said, her smile widening. “If you manage to subdue me enough to get it inside,” she said in a teasing and challenging voice. “Perhaps we can even get Allison to join us. She’s got one sweet mouth, don’t you think?”

Sanderson shook his head, and stood up. “Well, it’s been fun, ladies. Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.” He hesitated for a second. He felt bad leaving Jennie with Cassandra when the latter was in such a mood. He did not doubt that Jennie could take care of herself, but he could make things easier. “Come on, Jennie. Let’s take care of your meds.”

As Jennie followed him, clutching her tablet, Sanderson could feel Cassandra’s eyes following them, her smile still on her lips. Mouse was still silent, in the dark brunette’s arms.

* * *

After making sure that he could afford to take ten minutes out of his schedule, Sanderson headed out to find Gutierrez. But even though he knew the older nurse was on shift, he did not know where to find him. The nurses he passed had not seen him.

Sanderson headed to the main desk, with the hope that the administrative nurse in charge could direct him to Gutierrez. He also hoped, because more complication to his day was just what the doctor ordered, to find Beatrice there, to chat her up a little bit, and question her about their mysterious date in two days.

When he turned the corner, even before reaching the admission desk, he stopped and retreated back behind the wall.

Around the corner, Beatrice and Doctor Michael Dante were arguing. At least, Dante was arguing. Beatrice was spoking in a calm voice, but her crossed arms and head held high belied what looked to Sanderson like anger.

“I told you I had a good reason!” Dante was almost shouting, his hands moving rapidly.

“Keep your voice down,” Beatrice hissed. “And yes, you told me you had a good reason, and maybe it is actually a good reason. I’m not mad. Well, I WASN’T mad...”

“Then why are you going with that… that…”

“He’s a friend, Michael,” Beatrice said, a stubborn tone creeping into her voice. She sounded like she was speaking to a petulant child. Which Dante did resemble at the moment.

“A young, attractive, and unattached friend.”

“Okay? So what? Look, it’s you that said that this, us, was just for fun.”

“But why him? I mean, him? Bea, come on.”

“Oh that’s priceless. You’re jealous? You? YOU? You’re something special, Michael Dante. Go to your meeting, or to your wife, I don’t fishin’ care. And listen to me—no, listen to me: I’m going out with Richard this weekend. You can be happy about it, or unhappy about it, or uncaring about it. That’s on you. But you’re not going to bug me about it, or you and I, it’s over. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”

Beatrice’s tone of voice admitted no retort, and she walked away with a decided step, leaving Dante speechless and somewhat fuming, his hands hanging uselessly by his sides. The poor man looked lost.

Sanderson waited for Dante to move away before moving himself. They had been talking about him, that was clear. Attractive? he savored the flavor of the word on his tongue. Beatrice had not confirmed, but she had not denied either. Which Dante must have picked up on. Sanderson certainly had.

When the coast was clear, Sanderson headed to the main desk, was a bit disappointed not to find Beatrice there, and enquired as to Gutierrez’s whereabouts. The nurse in charge pointed Sanderson toward the induced-catatonia wing of Blue Ward, and asked him whether he wanted her to page the older nurse, but Sanderson thanked her with a smile and said not to worry, he would find him.

Gutierrez was in a room with a catatonic woman in her mid-forties that Sanderson had never interacted with. Like all the women in the ward, she was beautiful, with an elegance about her that overcame even the merciless fluorescent lights and the apathy of sedation. She must have been a stunning woman in her prime, and Sanderson wondered what her story was.

“What do you want?” Gutierrez asked upon seeing Sanderson enter. He was replacing the pillowcases. His voice was abrupt—he sounded nervous, bothered, worried. There was a frown on his dark face, and Sanderson was pretty certain it had nothing to do with linens.

“Hey,” Sanderson said, raising a hand. He had thought about the problem of how to broach the topic of the next party to Gutierrez, but at the last moment, sensing the man’s trouble, he decided to follow his gut instead.

“Huh look,” he said, looking down, left, right, as if unsure of himself, before looking up to Gutierrez, vaguely embarrassed. “I… want you to know that… Well, that I realize how big of a deal it was for you to set up that… initiation for me a couple of weeks back, and… well…” He hesitated again, almost stomped in place, as if fighting the urge to run away. He worried for a second he was laying on the sycophancy too thick.

Gutierrez stared at Sanderson, fluffing up the pillow he was holding, and gave a sly grin. “Yeah, it was nice, wasn’t it?” He lifted the head of the woman on the bed, surprisingly gently, and slid a pillow underneath before laying the head back down. He arranged her pale blonde hair like a halo on the white linen with studied care.

“Yes, yes it was,” said Sanderson. “I… well… we… Okay, look, I’m going to come out and say it, okay?”

“That’d be nice.”

“I sorta… want another go. One of the… huh… girls, well, she sort of… I…” He stammered, trying to sound too embarrassed for words. God, he thought, if my high-school drama teacher could see me know, she’d have a stroke.

But Gutierrez did not seem to suspect anything beyond what he was seeing and hearing. “So one of the girls got under your skin, huh?” he said, his smile turning into a near grimace. “That brunette chick they just woke up? The one I introduced you to? Biff’s little Cunt? You got a sweet spot for Biff’s Cunt?” Gutierrez almost spat out the name, using it as a swear word, a whip with which to strike Sanderson. Having just witnessed a display of jealousy not a half-hour earlier, he could recognize one then as well. He had to deflect Gutierrez’s anger, move the focus away from Jennie. Does he know that I’m the one that woke her up? Why would he care anyway?

“No… Well, I mean, yes, she’s pretty sweet, and she’s… huh… well, she’s a great fuck,” he shrugged as if dismissing it, as if the act, as the word, was worthy at most of a high-school giggle or a snort, “but it’s the other one that… well… that I’d give anything to have again.”

Gutierrez looked surprised. “The other one?”

“The redhead. Allison. She… well she gave me two fantastic blow jobs and… fuck, man,” Sanderson ran his hand through his hair as if giving up, “I love her mouth. I just love her mouth. You don’t understand, I dream of that mouth at night, sliding inside it, feeling her wrap her lips around me, run her tongue around me, suck me in and out and fuck it’s driving me crazy!”

Gutierrez was smiling, and this time his smile was genuine, though it still held an edge of slyness to it. It was the smile of someone who saw an opening, an opportunity for taking advantage.

“Oh, I understand. Allison’s an expert at pleasuring men with her mouth, especially when she’s in the throes of the Syndrome. It’s no wonder you’re smacked up.”

Sanderson nodded emphatically. “You gotta help me. It’s driving me nuts. I gotta have her again. I gotta know what it feels like to.. you know…”

“Fuck her,” completed Gutierrez, now smiling fully, relishing the harsh word, as if punishing Sanderson for angering him earlier.

“Yeah.” Sanderson tried his best to sound dejected, as a man that had lost all hopes of resisting whatever dark impulses were inside him. Not too far from an accurate diagnosis, actually, he told himself, pushing the thought away for future consideration. “I’d do anything. Anything.”

“I’m sure we can arrange something.”

“Soon?” Sanderson managed to sound like a kid being promised an early Christmas present. “I’ll…” he lowered his voice, looked around to make sure no one was there, more for show than anything else. “I’ll even pay if you want.”

Gutierrez laughed, a deep laugh that sent shivers down Sanderson’s spine. “No need, no need. Look, you’re lucky. I’m putting together another party soon.” He laughed again at Sanderson’s expression of naked eagerness. “It’s probably time for the second part of your initiation. I’ll show you around a bit. Show you the ropes. And, of course, we’ll make sure SHE’s there to take care of you.”

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Sanderson decided to dropping to his knees would be pushing the envelope.

“But…” said Gutierrez, raising a hand.

“But?” Sanderson held his breath.

“But you have to do something for me.”

“Anything.” Sanderson had no idea what to expect, and it made him nervous.

“You have to convince the doctors to put Biff’s Cunt back under sedation.”

Sanderson tried to hide his shock. “But I don’t know how… I mean, they won’t—”

“I don’t care how you do it. You just get it done.” If Gutierrez’s tone of voice had not been so unambiguous, the look in his eyes would have settled it.

“But—”

“Next party, Allison will suck you off. Maybe even strip, show you the goods. But no fucking. When Jennie’s back down under, then I’ll get Allison to part her pretty legs for you.” Gutierrez grinned. “And believe me, if you think her mouth’s hot, wait till you slide into her fucking steaming hot cunt.”

* * *

Allison Scaglia sighed as she pushed back from her desk before stretching. She could not help smiling to herself. It had been a long night, a very long night, but it had been worth it. The firewall and intrusion detection system protecting the deep intranet of the Swiss Consolidated Bank was state-of-the-art if not a few notches above that, but in the end, it had yielded and crouched at her virtual feet like an obedient broken puppy, whimpering and exposing its belly to its mistress.

“In your face, CrashMaster,” she said out loud into the silence of the small van she used as a base of operations.

Outside, the sun was slowly peeking out, announcing a warm sunny day in Los Angeles. Allison stood up and stretched some more, pulling away the curtain hiding the one window that was not blacked out, smiling at the rising sun.

Los Angeles at sunrise. The one thing in this world that brought her more joy than an elegant hack. She figured she had a good three hours before meeting her client. Three hours in which she could get a shower, and possibly even put in a run through Griffith Park.

Allison allowed herself another smile of self-satisfaction, and reached over to the bowl of wrapped Blow Pops she kept on her desk. She chose a grape one, and plopped it into her mouth, waiting for the assault of sugar on her tongue that always sent a chill down her spine.

Why should she not feel self-satisfied? She had just broken into Swiss Consolidated Bank, at their behest, in a contest they held to test their security—they had hired a group of hackers from all over the world and offered a generous bonus to the one that managed to break through their defenses.

Allison was one of a half-dozen hackers, all of whom she knew but one, a newcomer that went by the name KaliSword, who was good. Not as good as she was, of course, but hot on her heels throughout the contest, and way above CrashMaster. She had gotten curious about the newcomer, of course—who wouldn’t?—but could find out nothing about him except for the fact that he was connection from somewhere in the Northeastern US, north of Boston. So somewhere in New England. He also ran his connection through a university backbone. She had not pursued it further, needing to concentrate on the Swiss bank penetration, but she promised herself she would investigate KaliSword further when she had some time.

Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at it. A text message. Her grin grew broader when she saw it was from CrashMaster. She had figured he would need a few hours to finish simmering down before contacting her—CrashMaster may have many qualities, but being a fair loser was certainly not one of them.

“F U SR,” said the message.

She laughed out loud. The F U was obvious, and SR was what CrashMaster called her, a shorthand of her handle SoaringRed, which he had always found corny. As if CrashMaster wasn’t worse; it made him sound like a third-class X-men villain. And her red hair had been one of the things he had loved most about her when they used to date, a couple of years back.

She had had to break it off when CrashMaster became more and more unhappy with, well, not being as good as she was. And she had had enough of that tension crap growing up in her fucked up family to tolerate it in her love life. And so, arrivederci, CrashMaster.

She responded to the text message, the grin still on her face. “Fr smn lwys lsng y sr dnt tk t wll.” She always texted without vowels. It was one of her things.

She still hung out with CrashMaster, of course. The hacking community was not large in LA, and they were among the best. And she had to say that CrashMaster, when he wasn’t pitching a hissy fit, could be a lot of fun.

The text back surprised her. “Bkfst?” He responded in her style, which she could only interpret as some form of peace offering. Unless he was mocking her, but he usually used harsher words when he did.

She hesitated for a second, and then realized that she was, in fact, starving. And a celebratory three-eggs-and-sausage with too much ketchup sounded just about right.

“Stt Strt Dnr n twnty?”

“gr8 C U in 20.”

State Street Diner had been one of their main hangout spot when they dated, and Allison still had a soft spot for the place. That it managed to maintain an unironic old-fashioned atmosphere despite the current postmodern and hipster trend pleased her.

CrashMaster was already there when she arrived at the diner, flirting with the waitress, a pretty and very young blonde little thing. Allison sighed. CrashMaster always fancied himself a Don Juan, despite not having the poise or the class to pull it off smoothly. He was good looking and he was funny, but he could also be abrasive, and he was certainly more comfortable with computers than with people.

Although he seemed to have managed well with the waitress, as she let him hold her hand—he was doing his palm-reading routine, Allison noted with amusement. He had no idea what he was doing, of course, but the waitress seemed completely entranced by his words.

When CrashMaster saw her, he quickly shooed the waitress away, and gave Allison a big smile.

“Red!” He seemed genuinely happy to see her. He leaned back in the booth and spread his arms wide.

Allison frowned. CrashMaster looked like he was astonishingly pleased with himself, which under the circumstances was suspicious. A sudden doubt seared through her. Did he manage to hack into Swiss Consolidated Bank before she did? But that was impossible. She knew his signature, and he had been nowhere near the inner intranet when she found the way in.

She sat down, gesturing to the waitress for a coffee, black. “Hey CM, you look happy,” she said, leaving the obvious question hanging in the air between them.

“I told you to call me Master, Red,” he told her, his shit-eating grin that usually indicated he knew something she did not stamped all over his face. He was a good-looking man, she had to admit, with a definite boyish charm—if only he wasn’t such a competitive asshole, she thought.

“Ah! You wish!” she replied, thanking the waitress with a smile as she took the coffee cup, a welcome sight and smell after the long night crashing through the gates of the banking industry. She did notice that the waitress barely acknowledged her presence, and was making eyes to CrashMaster, who merely dismissed her with a wave of the hand. What the hell was going on? Allison’s warning radar was flashing, but it was too slow.

CrashMaster took her hand between his and leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Oh, I do wish, Red. I so do wish.”

Allison felt the tingle in her hand. She wanted to pull away, but found she could not. And despite her inability to move her hand, she did not feel scared, or even apprehensive.

A warmth spread to her whole body, from her hand and up her arm. When the wave reached her head, her vision swam for a few seconds, and a deep fog descended upon her, a thick fog through which she was only are of CrashMaster’s presence, and his voice.

“Oh yeah,” she heard him say. CrashMaster chuckled to himself. “Open your eyes, Red. Look at me.”

She did, not even realizing she had closed them. CrashMaster was looking straight at her, his shit-eating grin still on his face, a slightly maniacal gleam in his dark eyes.

He called her Red, the way he had when they were dating. The nickname used to bother her—it reminded her of all the times she was teased as a kid because of her red hair. But it did not bother her anymore, not now. Nothing did.

“I’m gonna drink this up, Red. You got no idea. No idea.” He closed his eyes and laughed to himself, releasing long pent-up tension. “You got no idea,” he added, almost with a snarl. “You think you’re so hot, Red, so cool, so much better than everyone else—so much better than me.”

He opened his eyes and stared at the motionless Allison, his hands clenching on hers. “You are going to call me Master, Red. Oh yes. You’re going to call me Master—you know why? Because I’m going to be your Master, Red. I’m going to be your Master, and you are going to be my obedient little slave girl.”

Allison could feel the heat burning through her nerves from her hand up to her spine and up to the back of her neck. And she could feel herself changing—she could feel her mind align itself with CrashMaster’s words and more importantly, his feelings—no, not CrashMaster—just Master—her Master—her Master.

CrashMaster was looking at her steadily, his grin lopsided now, his eyes wild. “Don’t worry, Red. You’ll still be able to play your little games with computers. It’d be a shame to waste your skills, as meager and pathetic as they are. You’ll still hack. Of course, you’ll do it with my handle. You’ll help spread the supremacy of CrashMaster throughout the world.”

He let go of her hand, and leaned forward, running a finger on the side of her face and leaving trails of fire where it touched her. The finger ended over her drying lips.

“You still got your oral fixation, Red? Still sucking on those lollipops of yours? You know what guys think when they see you doing that, don’t you, Red? They imagine it’s their dick between those fat sucking lips of yours. You got blow job lips, Red—and I think I’m gonna make this world a better place by making sure you fulfill your potential in that respect. How about we make your oral fixation a full-fledged oral fetish, Red? How about it? Can you feel your pussy getting wet?” He grinned again, and pushed his thumb through Allison’s lips and into her mouth, and she dutifully started sucking, because she knew that was what he wanted.

“That’s right, Red—suck like a good little girl. We’ll see how high and mighty you get when you’re on your knees worshipping cocks left and right. And I’ll make sure there’ll be plenty of cocks to worship, believe me, my sweet little cocksucker.”

Allison sucked on CrashMaster’s finger, feeling her pussy tingle with pleasure, aroused because it was what CrashMaster—what her Master—wanted, unaware that her whole world had just flipped upside down, and that nothing would ever be the same again.

The Special known as CrashMaster kept on grinning.

* * *

That Friday night, as he emerged from the cab in front of the Marriott Hotel, Sanderson straightened his tuxedo, unused to the way the garment fit on his body. The last time he had dressed up in anything even resembling that penguin suit was at his prom, with Felicity as his date on his arm, hanging on to him in a whirlwind of a fuchsia and a radiant smile on her face. The memory made him grin, and he closed his eyes to savor it. The cab speeding away shook him out of his reverie.

His life had decidedly taken an odd turn. Before starting to work at the Institute, he was just a kid from the midwest, the very definition of wet behind the ears, pinning for his high-school girlfriend. Now, he was still just a kid from the midwest, still with damp ears, but enmeshed in a little racket at work pimping out mental patients for sexual favors, cavorting with beautiful women, in lust with a young woman that he was trying to break out of the Institute, and about to head out on a date with a colleague just as beautiful than the rest of the women he was surrounded with daily.

He tried to clear his mind and concentrate on the evening ahead. Beatrice had asked him to meet her at the bar inside the hotel, whence they would head to the reception, as she had called it. He still had no idea what this was all about—the dinner seemed to have morphed into a full-fledged reception—and Beatrice had remained coy about the whole topic on the phone when he had called her earlier that day.

The hotel was buzzing with activity, people dressed in their best, and try as he might, Sanderson could not determine what everyone was there for. He debated asking someone, then simply decided to find Beatrice.

The bar was filled with an combination of people dressed up for the evening’s event and run-of-the-mill business people getting a last drink to either close out a deal or simply unwind from whatever high-pressure work had brought them to the city. There were no tourists, for which Sanderson was grateful.

He stopped at the entrance, and looked around for Beatrice. He ventured inside, his presence barely registering on the people around him, except for a few businesswomen that appraised him obviously and tried to catch his eye.

And then Sanderson saw Beatrice.

She was on the far side of the U-shaped counter in the middle of the bar, surrounded by a trio of businessmen with their ties undone and vying for the attention of the stunning blonde.

For Beatrice was stunning. Sanderson had only ever seen her in her mostly unflattering nurse’s scrubs or in the relaxed jeans that she often favored when leaving the Institute and heading home, her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail.

But tonight, Beatrice was dressed to underline her features. Her blonde hair was folded up in a fancy style that completely freed her neck and shoulders and emphasized their slenderness and their grace. Her elegant green dress was skin-tight and held up by two thin straps that enlarged in the front to cover her breasts but still exposed an incredible amount of skin in the process. Long glittering earrings dropped down and paralleled the straps of the dress.

The men around her were obviously flirting, and Beatrice was nursing a drink whose color matched her dress, giving flirtatious looks of her own to one man after the other, smiling, teasing, orienting her body to offer the best view to whichever man happened to be talking. Sanderson wondered what the dress exposed from the waist down for he could see the men lower their eyes regularly when Beatrice was not looking with an expression that bordered on raw hunger.

Sanderson hesitated, wondering whether he should disturb her. Beatrice clearly seemed to be enjoying herself. But that hesitation was dashed when she lifted her head and saw him.

She smiled, a broad smile that was nothing like the teasing smiles she had given the businessmen buzzing about her. She interrupted the man to her right who was trying to run his hand down her arm as he talked, and apologized before pushing back from the bar and walking toward Sanderson.

She slunk, she glided, she wafted across the floor. Her dress hugged her body down to her ankles, exposing a pair of open-toed high-heeled sandals. Through a long slit that went all the way up to her upper thigh, he could see her nude leg with every other step she took, the skin white and flawless.

Sanderson barely had time to take it all in before Beatrice slipped into his arms and pulled him close and kissed him, lips merging with lips, body pressed again body. There was just a hint of movement to her hips and to her chest as she dove tongue first into the kiss. Sanderson, taken aback for a second, melted and pushed every thought aside but that of the feel of Beatrice’s body and her perfume storming about him. He tasted the sugar and the alcohol on her tongue.

“Mmm…” she said, her voice a low growl. “You taste delicious.”

“Huh… so do you. And you look…” He shook his head. “Just amazing.”

“Well thank you, kind sir,” she giggled, still in his arms. “You clean up nice too.”

Sanderson looked up to see the angry looks that the three businessmen that had been hanging out with Beatrice when he arrived where throwing in his direction. He smiled back with a little shrug, unsure how to behave, but not letting go of the beautiful blonde.

“I think your admirers are disappointed,” he said, looking back into Beatrice’s blue eyes. Thoughts of Felicity, of Jennie, of Allison banged about his head, and he pushed them away relentlessly. He kept comparing woman against woman, and that way lay madness, he knew. But he could not help it.

Beatrice laughed again, a clear laugh that he wanted to hear over and over again. It was a laugh that reminded him of Felicity when she was caught by surprise, delighted by something or other. He closed his eyes, dreaming of Felicity.

“Come on,” she said.

He followed her back to the counter, where the businessmen were still dejected and scowling.

“See boys,” Beatrice told them, as she sneaked her way through to grab the glass she had left behind, “I told you I was taken already.” She gave them a broad smile before downing her glass and putting it down on the bar. “Thanks for the drinks. You all behave now.”

She turned back and headed back to Sanderson, waiting for him to offer her his arm, as the men looked caught between stunned and upset, their eyes dropping her ass as she sashayed away from them.

“Shall we?” she asked him.

“Lead the way.”

As they emerged from the bar into the lobby of the hotel, Beatrice led them into the throng of people heading up to the floor above. She nodded to a few of the people about them dressed up to the nines, her face radiant.

“That was cruel,” he told her as they made their way up the escalator.

“What? In the bar?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugged, but Sanderson could see she was pleased. “Oh, they’ll survive. In fact, given the game they had, I’ve probably made their night. I mean, they were not the most polished of players. Even somewhat crude. It was pretty clear what they wanted.” She leaned over to whisper in his ear. He could smell the sickly sweet alcohol on her breath. “I’m pretty sure they wanted to do me all three of them at the same time. Can you imagine?”

The look in her eyes was undecipherable, but her voice held only fake shock and outrage.

“The bastards,” he responded in the same tone of voice.

“Well boys will be boys, I guess.” Beatrice shrugged, a little smile on her face. “They weren’t my type anyway.”

Sanderson looked at her from the corner of his eye—her perfectly made-up face, her professionally done hair, her thin lips sparkling in a deep red that contrasted with her pale skin. She looked almost doll-like, fragile. But at the same time she looked fierce, tense, belying the levity she affected about her encounter with the businessmen in the bar.

“Huh, Beatrice, is everything okay?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, giving him too broad a smile. “Why do you ask?”

Sanderson wondered just how much drink she had had already. She had a glint in her eyes.

“Never mind,” he said. “Huh, say, do you think now you could tell me where we’re going?”

“Right here, dummy,” she giggled, leaning on his arm. The touch felt good.

“Okay…” They passed a sign announcing the Godot Awards Reception down in the Lancaster Room. They seemed to be following the well-dressed crowd headed that way.

“The Godot Awards?” Sanderson looked at Beatrice askance, but a voice rang out before she could say anything beyond giving him an enigmatic smile.

“Bea! My God girl! You look positively smashing!”

The voice belonged to a large woman that elbowed her way through people around them to post herself right before Beatrice, looking her up and down. She then turned her gaze to Sanderson.

“And what have we here?” She looked him up and down as well, and Sanderson figured that he must have passed whatever sort of test she gave him because her smile grew wider and naughtier. “Is this the mysterious doctor that you’ve been telling us about for the past year and that we’ve never seen yet? Have you finally decided to exhibit him? He’s indisputably adorable!”

Beatrice winked at Sanderson. “The one and only. Baby, this here is Theresa, the best Blanche this side of the Mississippi.”

“Nice to meet you,” replied Sanderson, trying to catch up. “Huh… Blanche? Is that…”

“Streetcar, of course,” replied Beatrice, smiling at Theresa.

“Duh,” said Sanderson, smacking his forehead theatrically. “Don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight… Sorry about that.”

“Oh honey,” quipped Theresa, looking at him meaningfully, “looking the way you do, you don’t need to have a brain. In fact, it’d be an undeniable shame!” She turned to Beatrice. “I have to go and find my own beau before the ceremony starts. Break a leg, Bea. You deserve that award like no one else this year.”

Sanderson watched her make her way through the crowd again, working her elbows with gusto, before turning to Beatrice. “Mysterious doctor?”

Beatrice, to her credit, blushed, her skin tone contrasting perfectly with the green of her dress. “Let’s talk about it later, okay. Let’s go in, it’s about to start.”

“So what is it then? Streetcar? Rings a bell. I think some of us read that in school. Is that a play? And you’re up for an award?”

Inside the large reception hall that occupied two floors of the hotel—the floor above cut out into a balcony that circled the entirety of the hall—a long stage held a large backdrop filled with larger-than-life black and white pictures of various people in various theatrical productions.

“Yup,” said Beatrice, grabbing a cup of sparkling wine offered by a passing waiter and sipping it as she made her way towards a table with a number nine written on a pole sticking out of a flower arrangement. “The Godot Awards are state-level awards for amateur theater companies and productions.”

“Huh—wait—you mean, you’re an actress?”

Beatrice’s blush returned, but this time there was pride in her eyes. She nodded. “Well, I guess actress is a bit strong. But I do act in plays with my company, and if I may say so myself, I was a pretty wicked Miranda last Spring.”

“Miranda? Nice.”

Beatrice laughed as she sat down at the table where the few people already sitting welcomed her. “You have no idea who that is, do you?”

“Huh… no, not really. I was never really into the artsy stuff.”

“It’s okay,” she said, while greeting the people at the table. “Don’t worry about it. Actually, it’s a nice change.”

“Nice change from?”

Beatrice merely shrugged before sipping from her wine glass again.

Sanderson sat down and a glass of sparkling wine appeared before him as if by magic. Beatrice introduced him to the people around the table, who all belonged to her company. Everyone seemed quite congratulatory, and everyone seemed exceedingly proud of their Bea. Everyone was enthusiastic, but they felt to him as though they were playing at being grown-ups. Most everyone seemed uncomfortable in their fancy clothes.

“Are you all professional actors?” he asked around the table, genuinely curious. He had been a biology nerd at University, generally stuck in a lab until the small hours of the night before focusing on nursing, and had had precious little time for extracurricular pursuits.

“Oh dear Lord no,” replied the jovial-looking man sitting to Sanderson’s right. “It’s just good fun. I’m a plumber by day. An actor only by night. And even then—really just little roles and once in a while an understudy. But I should be able to tackle bigger roles soon. I’m getting real good real quick, believe you me.”

Beatrice drank some more, and chatted with people around the table, bringing Sanderson into the conversation fairly seamlessly. Sanderson had the distinct impression she was showing him off, and it made him a little bit uncomfortable. People were referring to him as the doctor, and he guessed that they though he was Michael Dante, and Beatrice did not correct them, although they did tell them his name.

Not that it really mattered, he thought when he felt her hand on his thigh underneath the table, caressing him up and down gently and promisingly.

He looked at her only to find her still talking to a friend, a little smile on her face. Her hand felt good—it felt very good.

The evening turned out to be quite pleasant. The whole event had a endearing amateurish quality to it, but the master of ceremonies was a local celebrity that Sanderson had seen on the news sometimes, and he acquitted himself perfectly well of the job, keeping the evening light and making all the appropriate jokes at the appropriate moments.

Sanderson was amazed at the dedication these people showed to their craft, which was hardly more than a hobby for a great many of them, as clips were shown throughout the ceremony. He recognized Beatrice in one of the clip projected on the large screens on either side of the stage, and when he turned to grin at her, he found her fetchingly blushing again.

When the time came to award best actress in a leading role, Beatrice was up for her role of Nora in A Doll’s House. She shrieked out loud as her name was announced as the winner, and she hugged Sanderson long and hard before making her way to the stage and accepting her award. Sanderson, with everyone at their table and the rest of the audience, clapped and cheered with genuine joy.

Beatrice came back beaming, clutching a little statuette that looked to Sanderson like nothing but a heavy gold-plated figure of a hobo.

She picked up another glass of sparkling wine and practically downed it after she sat down, her face flushed, beaming with happiness.

“Congratulations,” Sanderson said, matching her smile. The feeling was voiced by everyone else around the table.

“Thanks!” She motioned for another glass, which was promptly delivered.

“Huh… Maybe you should take it easy?” Beatrice, beyond the flush from her happiness, had reddish cheeks.

“Why?”

“Huh… Well…”

“This is my night, Richard. My night. For once.” Her eyes were glittering. “And I want to share it. Do you want to share it with me?”

“Of course I do.” There was no hesitation in his voice.

“Good. Then come.” She stood, and extended her hand. She carried her award in the other.

“Huh… where are we going?” he asked her as he followed her trail, as she pulled him after her, fending off congratulatory nods and handshakes and returning them with smiles and the occasional hug.

Beatrice did not respond as she looked around the hallway outside the reception hall, and pulled him towards the stairs that led to the balcony. Her high-heeled sandals clacked on the wooden steps, and Sanderson had a perfect view of her legs as her dress’s slit parted with every step.

Beatrice led them through a door onto a balcony that overlooked the crowd and the presenter’s stage and was filled with seats as if it were a movie theater. The balcony was empty and shrouded in darkness, all the spotlights having been turned toward the stage and the tables in the hall.

Beatrice made it the ledge of the balcony and leaned over, looking at the crowd mingling at the tables, at the sea of people underneath them, and Sanderson had a prime view of her ass hugged tight by her dress. He could not help but wonder if she had underwear on. He felt bad for such a crass thought, given what the evening was about, but he could not help it. Ever since starting at the Institute, he had had sex on his mind.

When he shook himself out of his quasi-stupor, Beatrice was looking at him over her shoulder, still presenting her rear to his appreciative gaze.

“I like your eyes on me,” she said, gently swaying her ass left and right.

“Huh, sorry—I was—”

Beatrice straightened up and walked up to him. “Don’t apologize,” she said, her voice now throaty. Her eyes were still glittering. She put a finger across his lips. “I said I like your eyes on me.”

She kissed him, a long hard kiss that she led with her tongue. Sanderson did not resist—he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, relishing the feel of her body against his, the press of her breasts against his chest. He tasted the sparkling wine on her tongue even as that same tongue sought to lick out his tonsils.

Sanderson pulled back, images of Felicity and Jennie mixing up in his head, prompted by the feel of the blonde’s body, by her mouth, by her hands that were now holding on to his head as she deepened her kiss.

“Huh… Beatrice… hold on…”

“Don’t you want me?” Her eyes were shiny in the dim light. Below, the crowd cheered for another award.

“Of course I do. I mean, you’re amazing—but look, you’re drunk, and—”

“I’m not,” she spat out, slapping his chest. He did not let her go. “Well, maybe a little bit. Just a bit. But I don’t care. It’s my night!”

“It is. It is your night. Most definitely your night. And I don’t want to ruin it.”

Beatrice slapped his chest again. “Fuck you,” she growled. “You’re just like him. Just LIKE HIM!” Her slaps were now punches. “Well fuck you and fuck HIM!” She wiggled out of his embrace, and almost lost her balance. “I’m gonna go down and find those guys in the bar. I’m sure I can get THEM to fuck me tonight. Get some CELEBRATING going.”

She lifted her award, and swayed again on her feet. Sanderson reached for her to steady her, and she clung to him. Tilting her head to the side, she kissed him again, even harder this time.

She lifted his hand to her chest. Then, looking him straight in the eyes, she thrust his hand onto her breast, and Sanderson let out a sigh as he palmed the soft flesh he could feel warm underneath the dress. Beatrice’s breasts were not large by any stretch of the imagination, but they felt nice in his hand, and he could feel a thin hard nipple teasing him with its presence.

“I like your hands on me even better than I like your eyes on me,” she said, with a hint of a growl.

Sanderson swallowed. “Dante’s an idiot for missing this,” he said without thinking.

Beatrice snorted, and pressed his hand harder on her breast, massaging it. “Fuck HIM. He can’t be bothered to be here with me? Fuck him. Fuck him and his fat bitchy wife.” She made a face, and deepened her voice to imitate the doctor. “He’s all ‘Sorry Bea, but I’ve got this really important meeting to prepare for next week, some big wigs coming to the Institute to talk about funding and I can’t attend your cutesy little award show.’ Well fuck him! It’s not like he would have come anyway—he thinks it’s all bunk, theater, arts—just something silly to keep his little mistress busy while he does Important Things! Ah! Fuck him!”

Sanderson had no idea what he should say, and merely kept on pawing her, feeling somewhat guilty about it, but unable to deny that she felt good. He had not had any release for his sexual frustration ever since that tryst with Jennie the previous week, and his dick was raging in his pants wanting things to proceed further, faster, and harder.

Beatrice, unaware or uncaring about the thoughts bouncing around Sanderson’s head, grinned at him. “This can be your lucky night, Richard Sanderson. Do you want to fuck me?”

Sanderson swallowed, and nodded. His hand was still grasping her breast.

“Good. Cause I want you to fuck me. Right here. Right now.” She kissed him again, and when she pressed herself against him this time she rubbed her body up and down, thrusting her hips into his groin, feeling his cock press against her stomach.

She was breathing hard by the time she let his lips go, and Sanderson’s head was spinning.

“Huh, right here?” he asked, looking around at the deserted balcony, but well aware of the crowd just one floor below.

“Right here,” Beatrice said with finality and a naughty smile. “Come on,” she said, sensing his hesitation. “It’ll be fun. All those people below, unaware we’re up here, but if they just look up, they could just see us. It’s exciting…”

Sanderson was not so sure, but Beatrice had slid her hand down between them and had pressed the palm of her hand against his cock, after feeling for it through his trousers, and he did have the willpower to resist her. When she licked his lips before kissing him again, his reluctance melted away.

Beatrice must have sensed it, for she grinned as she pressed his cock harder. “Good boy,” she said. With a surprisingly deft hand given her inebriety, she unsnapped his trousers before sliding her hand inside and grasping his cock, an act that caused him to moan out loud.

“Oh my,” she giggled, “this feels very nice…”

“Huh… yes, yes it does,” and he kissed her again. He ran a hand down her back and slid it over her ass, tentative, as if expecting a rejection, but Beatrice merely thrust her ass back to force contact.

“Tell me something, Nurse Sanderson,” she said in a low voice. “How does it feel to work in a ward full of sexy hot chicks? I’ve seen some of them, you know—and I can’t believe a guy wouldn’t go around wanting to bang them all the time.”

Sanderson froze for a second, wondering whether Beatrice knew about him and Jennie, but Beatrice’s eyes were closed, and her hand on his cock kept stroking up and down slowly. Her breathing was ragged. She was turned on. And she did not wait for a response from him.

“You know we hear stories, about the girls in your ward. About that mysterious syndrome they have.” Beatrice kissed his neck softly while her hand jerked him faster. “About how they’ve got these weird sex cravings that they can’t control and that’s why they’re locked up and drugged up. That they can’t control it. That they’re just slaves to their cravings, addicts aching for a fix.”

Beatrice’s breath was coming faster, and she was moving her hips with every thrusts of her hand on Sanderson’s cock.

“Beatrice—”

“I wonder what it feels like—to be a complete slave to some sex craving, to be unable to control your lust—I wonder if it’s like being in heat, if you’re just burning up inside until your kink gets satisfied.” Her voice was harsh, her breath warm in Sanderson’s neck. And her hand kept stroking him harder and harder, to the extent that he feared that he would not be able to control himself and just explode right there all over her hand.

“I fantasize about being a patient in your ward sometimes, Nurse Sanderson,” she continued, licking his neck. “Just a little fucked-up girl unable to control herself, aching for it, willing to beg for it, debase herself for it. Maybe catch the attention of a cute nurse to satisfy her urges? Would you help her satisfy her urges, Nurse Sanderson?”

“Huh… that would be… unethical.” Sanderson groaned as Beatrice looked at him from beneath batting eyelashes.

“I think it would be eminently therapeutic, personally. That poor girl, horny out of her mind, seeking relief. Do you know what her craving is, Nurse Sanderson? Do you know what that makes that poor little patient wet her tiny little panties?”

“N… no?”

“To get taken from behind by an authority figure. You know, like a doctor, or maybe a nurse. She just can’t say no. She dreams about being mounted like a little bitch in heat, hoping everyone around her might watch her being taken, point at her, laugh at her, muttering what a slut she is, what a helpless little slut she is.”

Beatrice ran a finger down Sanderson’s face while biting her lower lip, before letting go of his cock and turning around and stepping up to the edge of the balcony. She leaned down with her elbows on the balustrade, before using one of her hands to flip up the back of her dress.

Sanderson stared at her, silent, disbelieving. He stared at her bent over, stared at her holding up the back of her dress with one hand, stared at her baring her legs and her ass and offering it to his gaze, stared at the flimsy lime-green G-string that was little more than dental floss and exposed her round cheeks to anyone that cared to look.

Sanderson stared at her when she pulled the G-string down her legs and stepped out of it, letting it dangle around one ankle as she spread her legs. He stared at her as she ran a finger through the sparse blonde hair he could see between her legs, stared at her as she pressed that finger inside her, looking at him over her shoulder as she did so, the tip of her tongue between her lips, a wanton look in her eyes.

Sanderson stared, and took a step forward. Beatrice grinned. And spread her legs further and put her head down on her arm, while the crowd below applauded yet another award winner. It sounded as though they were applauding Sanderson.

Right behind her, he pushed his slacks down, as Beatrice reached between her legs and grabbed his cock. He gasped at the contact, but that gasp turned into a groan as she lined up his shaft with her pussy and pressed her ass back, impaling herself on him and letting out a harsh sigh.

Their coupling did not last long. The feel of her pussy around his cock—like a tight velvet sleeve clutching him and massaging him—the wet sounds coming out of their drenched groins, the groans escaping her lips that she tried to mute by biting her forearms, the sight of her ass cheeks bouncing with every thrust of his hips, the sheer craziness of fucking suspended above a large crowd in the midst of an awards show, everything conspired to drive Sanderson crazy.

When Beatrice came, a slow-burning orgasm that swept over her and threatened to make her scream out her pleasure to the delight of everyone below but instead made her shiver and shake so hard her knees almost buckled, Sanderson could not take it anymore, and his thrusts started losing coherence as he was torn between pushing his cock as deep inside the blonde as it would go and increasing his rhythm to generate even more friction.

When he went “Ghhhha” as he felt his balls harden with his impending explosion, Beatrice twisted her hips and pushed him and as he was about to protest she threw herself down on her knees between his legs and caught his cock with her lips and she sucked, hard, so hard that he had to reach down and grasp the balustrade so as not to lose footing himself.

Beatrice gurgled as she took his cock deep, so very deep inside her mouth, and Sanderson’s vision dimmed as his cock exploded and released jet after jet of streaming cum down in Beatrice’s throat, cum which she dutifully swallowed in long hard gulps that did much to keep him turned on in the final throes of his orgasm. Sanderson lost control of his hips, and pressed them forward into Beatrice’s face, as he clutched the wooden beam.

He collapsed down next to Beatrice, as she used a finger to wipe some stray cum from her chin. Her dress was askew, and her long legs were exposed to his gaze. The diminutive G-string had half-returned in position, hiding some but not all of her pussy, red and wet.

They remained in that position, exhausted, replete, for two award presentations.

“Sorry about the ending, but it just wouldn’t do to stain this dress,” she said, wiping her lips with a smile on her face. “Thank you, Nurse Sanderson,” she said, winking at him in an exaggerated fashion.

“Huh… it’s nothing…” he responded, catching his breath. “Glad to be of service.”

“Oh, we’re not done yet.” She stood up, and adjusted her dress, running her hands underneath to straighten her breasts in a move that Sanderson thought was both endearing and incredibly hot. “But we’ll talk about that later. Let’s go back down, shall we?”

After pulling up his trousers and making sure he was halfway presentable, Sanderson followed her on shaky legs.

* * *

“Why don’t you just tell me what I want to know and it can all end right here, right now.” Cassandra’s voice was caressing.

At exactly the moment that Beatrice was shivering in orgasmic release, Mouse was vying for the same outcome while being denied the opportunity.

“What’s Biff’s Cunt up to?” Cassandra asked in a sweet voice, as she lorded over the small woman tied up on the bed with stockings.

Mouse whined into the gag in her mouth, shaking her head, her hips twitching as the vibrator that Cassandra had stuffed into her pussy on an teasingly low setting hummed contentedly.

“I gotta say,” said Cassandra with a predatory smile, “I’m impressed with your fortitude. Do you like that word? Fortitude. Funny enough, I learned it from Biff’s Cunt and that stupid little story she’s writing. Who does she think she is anyway?”

Cassandra shook her head and reached down to pinch Mouse’s clitoris which stuck out almost obscenely due to the clip Cassandra had attached at its base an hour earlier.

Mouse screamed into the gag and her hips pressed upward seeking more contact from Cassandra, who pulled her hand away.

“Nuhu…” she shook her finger in the small woman’s face. “I told you, you don’t get to come until you tell me what I want to know. And don’t play coy—I know you just love what I’m doing to you right now. But that’s the thing, Mouse dear.” Cassandra leaned down to whisper in Mouse’s ear after licking it softly. “What one likes can also be what hurts one the most. It’s been what? An hour? An hour at the edge of coming, at the edge of release? I can keep going, Mouse dear, until you go out of our mind with want, and you’ll tell me everything I need to know just for me shove that dildo hard up your dirty cunt and a couple of fingers up that not-so-tight ass of yours.”

She straightened up, and ran her nails down the small woman’s face.

“Of course,” she said, “it hurts me to hurt you. It really does. I don’t like to be cruel, you know that. I’m bossy, yes—I can be… dominating… when I need to. But deep down, I’m a nice girl. And it really gets to me to see you like this, on the verge of exploding but only allowed to simmer.”

She walked around the bed on the other side, slowly, purposely, wishing she had heels so that her feet clacked on the floor—it always added to the effect.

She leaned once more over Mouse’s sweaty face. The small woman’s eyes were shifting between tearfully wide open and closed shut.

“Tell me what Biff’s Cunt is up to, Mouse, and I promise I’ll make you come like you’ve never come before. I’ll make all of your little submissive desires come true.”

Mouse shut her eyes, and Cassandra saw tears flowing down, even as the small woman helplessly flailed her hips to try to gain some traction or in some way heighten the feelings that the vibrator was sending up her sex.

Cassandra smiled and took off her pants, leaving herself naked from the waist down. She was wet. Seeing Mouse struggle and suffer, unable to find the satisfaction the goth woman knew she must been craving, was turning her on to no end. That she was in the full throes of the Syndrome due to Cassandra intercepting her medication and withholding it from her just added to the effect. I think I’m going to do this again, she thought. When she saw that Mouse wanted to speak, she grinned and pulled the gag off.

“I… I can’t…” the small woman said in her usual low voice. “Please, Cassandra—I’ll do anything you want—ANYTHING! Please let me come! PLEASE!” She managed to scream even though she never raised her voice, need and hunger chiseling every syllable.

“You can’t?” Cassandra asked.

“I… I promised…. I promised I wouldn’t talk… I’m sorry… I’m sorry Mistress!” The way she said that sent chills of pleasure up and down Cassandra’s spine. “Please!”

Cassandra stared at Mouse for a long time, deep in the smaller woman’s eyes, and then turned and stared at the wall. Anger seethed through her. How dare she?

On the bed, straining to achieve some sort of release, Mouse was crying, threatening at any second to start sobbing, unable to resist what Cassandra was putting her through, but also unwilling to betray she whom she considered a friend.

Cassandra turned to stare at her, her expression softening for one short second, her anger abating. She sighed.

“Look at you,” she said softly. She cupped the tied woman’s wet cheek. She did not say anything more, merely kept her hand there, watching Mouse.

She leaned forward. “I already know.”

Mouse stared at her.

“Biff’s Cunt is planning to run away at the next party. With Richard Sanderson’s help.”

Mouse stared at her, shaking slightly, not understanding.

Cassandra shrugged. “Allison. She overheard you guys talking. She broke a lot faster than you did.” She smiled with satisfaction. “And she broke deliciously, too. Do you know how I broke her?”

Mouse still stared.

Cassandra raised a hand holding an obscenely large black dildo, too large. It was attached to a harness. “This is Kong,” she said, lifting the dildo to Mouse’s face. “My new friend. Turns out that if you fuck Allison’s throat with Kong for long enough, she’ll tell you everything she knows and more. Though,” and Cassandra made a face, “I think the little slut liked it in the end.”

She kissed Mouse on the cheek, tasting the smaller woman’s tears of fear or frustration or both.

Mouse whimpered, and her hips twitched again in a futile attempt to increase the friction from the vibrator.

Cassandra smiled at Mouse. “Your loyalty is impressive. Misplaced, but impressive. And you must be punished for that. And then I’m going to fuck you with Kong, Mouse dear, until you pass out. Like I’m going to do to Biff’s Cunt. I’m gonna make sure that Kong ruins that little bitch’s mouth, and cunt, and ass—every single fuck hole she has will be stretched so wide she’ll whistle when it’s windy.” Cassandra stood. “Little bitch thinks she can steal you away from me?” she whispered to herself. “Fat chance.”

She climbed on the bed and straddled the smaller woman’s head, her lower legs pressing on Mouse’s arms. She lowered her ass to the smaller woman’s face. “Get to work,” was all she said.

She pressed herself down on the smaller woman’s mouth, and groaned with pleasure when she felt the swift agile tongue sneak its way around her asshole.

She would let Mouse rim her, and then she would let Mouse eat her out, and then she would play with the tied up woman some more, and eventually, when Mouse was shaking so hard it threatened to bring the bed down, she would indeed fuck her with Kong. And Cassandra, gasping when she felt Mouse’s tongue stiffen and drive into her ass, suspected that Mouse would enjoy it far more than Biff’s Cunt ever would.