"What's your name?"

She ignored the unwanted question. The questioner was an odd looking kid in black. Some kind of arty type she assumed in his turtleneck and black denims. And about fifteen years younger than she was. Tracey drew the newspaper toward her as the train rumbled to the next stop-her stop.

"Hey, what's your name, I asked." The voice was insistent and held an edge she didn't appreciate. She put the paper down, looking him in the eye. "Tracey. Tracey Hollis." Why she tell him that? Anyway the train stopped and she got up.

"Sit down. We're just getting acquainted," the kid demanded.

And her legs gave out from under her. Was she that tired? She didn't think so, but...

"Tracey, I'm Mr. Locke," the boy informed her-which was laughable, because he was all of twenty or so. Not a bad looking kid, but the ego was insufferable. "How about a coffee, so you can tell me more about yourself?"

She could walk back to her apartment from the next stop, but she wasn't getting up to get off with the rest of the riders. She remained sitting across from the kid. Tracey nodded limply.

They went to a Starbuck's, where he ordered a latte for each of them, but when it was apparent he wasn't pulling out a wallet to pay, Tracey reached into her own purse and drew out a couple of bills. "Keep the change," insisted Locke, pushing the silver back.

Pretty generous with her money! But she remained silent, content to follow, sit and begin drinking.

"I'm an artist. What do you do?" he asked. His smile was wide, friendly, confident-but his gray eyes were impenetrable.

"I'm an attorney with Browne, Taylor & Garrick." Soon to be a partner actually. Which was why she was working so hard and why she had managed to get herself at a Starbucks having coffee with a kid fifteen years younger than she was. She had to get home-

"That will be convenient. Your career that is."

What the hell did that mean? She cleared her throat. "I think you have the wrong idea about what is going on here, my young friend." Tracey gave him a forgiving smile and picked up her briefcase. "I've got to get-"

"What are your measurements?"

A gasp. Then, amazingly an answer. In a clear voice too. "I'm a 32B-26-32."

He chuckled. "You're a B cup? You look so small!" He didn't exactly keep his voice down and some other patrons overhead him and chuckled. Locke drank his hot coffee slowly, blowing on it. "I think you're an A cup. I think your titties look like As, just like," but he caught himself. "If you want me to believe you, you'll have to prove to me you wear a 32B size bra. Go into the bathroom, take off your bra and bring it back to show me the tag with 32B on it. Go on- be a good girl and do it. Or I'll leave right now."

Tracey was on her feet, rushing for the bathroom. Before she knew what she was doing, she had unbuttoned her blouse, unhooked her bra and confirmed what she already knew was on the tag: 32B. Just barely, but she was a 32B and she'd show him now, PROVE to him she was, before he left...

As nonchalantly as possible, Tracey slipped back into her seat and handed the balled up garment to him. Without hesitation, he held the slight white soft cotton garment up before him. Pairs of eyes were watching, colleges kids giggling at her predicament and Tracey flushed a deep red. He demanded loudly that she show him the tag and in humiliated silence she pointed out the small worn tag.

"Well, I guess you DO wear a 32B bra, Miss Tracey Hollis. But this," he flicked her Hanes For Her softcup bra on the table, "doesn't do a thing for your figure-does it?"

Why the Hell should it? It was for comfort, not lingerie! She screamed in her mind. Why had she done that, why had she taken off her bra-

"Does it?" he repeated, this time with impatience.

"No, not at all," Tracey Hollis answered immediately.

"I better take a look at the rest of your undies, Tracey. Let's go back to your place." He rose and she followed suit. Without thinking she reached out for the bra lying on the table.

"Leave it. It's boring."

Tracey Hollis was reeling, eyes avoiding the rest of the patrons as she followed him out. Three blocks later she was opening her door and allowing him in. While they walked, she tried to sort out what was going on, why she was doing this. To no avail. She was under his control. The doorman to her co-op brownstone looked oddly at the couple as Locke squeezed the older woman's ass through her skirt. The twenty-something sealed the humiliation by leering at him and winking.

"Why don't you get comfortable by slipping into your sexiest lingerie and high heels, fixing me a drink and then we'll get on with your undies inspection. Hop to it Tracey!" Locke slapped her playfully on the ass and she scampered to comply. Five minutes later, Tracey shyly presented herself in a pink babydoll and pink three inch heels.

Locke's smile was mocking. "God you need lots of work, Tracey! No boyfriend obviously-am I right?"

She shook her head in agreement. A doll. She was a damn doll with him!

"All right, forget what YOU think is sexy and go put on your sluttiest pair of panties and bra. Scoot!"

Swallowing hard, Tracey slipped on the cheap black lace thong she had received as a gag gift at a birthday party a couple of years ago and a black lace bra and tried again.

Locke was shaking his head. "Bra doesn't match Tracey-does it?"

"No, but it is the closest---"

He waved his hand imperiously. "Take it off then. Your titties hardly need a bra anyway, Tracey! But I do like that thong-more what I like than that silly babydoll. Get me a vodka tonic and "

Obediently, she slipped off the black lace bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her smallish breasts swayed slightly as she pranced in the heels to prepare his cocktail. Upon return, he ordered her to wear each and every piece of lingerie she owned. It was admittedly not a large collection. Tracey hadn't been in a relationship in a few years, concentrating instead on her career.

Strange what was happening, but maybe not so strange. Obviously some unconscious desire had permeated her and she had become infatuated with this kid though. Because it was feeling good to display her body for his pleasure this way. Ironic to her, because she had always considered herself to be an active feminist who hated submitting to a man. And yet here she was, pirouetting in her panties for his amusement.

"Like what you see?" she teased. She wanted this to happen. She could afford to be playful.

His gray eyes caught hers briefly. "Keep quiet. And put something else on."

She didn't like the tone, but did as he said. Finally she had worn every panty, bra, pair of stockings, camisole and other intimate garment she owned. They all lay at her naked feet on the floor in a pile of whites, blacks and pastels.

"Good. Now throw out everything that is made of cotton. Then every panty that is not a thong. Then every bra that is full-cut, padded or does not have supportive wiring. Throw out every pair of panty hose. You may wear what is left."

He wasn't kidding, because there was no smile on his face. Her lover wasn't kidding. She had had enough. This wasn't some sexual adventure any more. Tracey needed to assume control.

"Look, you're a good looking kid-that's probably why we're doing this. But let's just make love and cut the cute movie comments. This isn't 9 1/2 weeks and I'm not about to throw all my underwear out. I doubt this is going anywhere beyond a one night stand, so why don't YOU be a good boy, strip down and let's both go into the bedroom. Ok.? If not, hit the highway, Jack."

Locke put his drink down. Tracey wasn't surprised as she watched him take off his belt. But then he wasn't taking anything else off. She looked at the buckled over belt in his hands. It was a thick black mean-looking item. That's when she began to grow frightened. Truly frightened.

"You're a naughty girl, Tracey. You deserve a spanking for such sassy backtalk." He patted his knee gently. "Come on, Tracey-time to learn how to speak properly to your new boyfriend. I don't tolerate that kind of lip from a mere woman."

She didn't know if she pulled down her thong panty for her spanking or he did it himself. But it was his belt that crashed down on her bare backside and they were her tears that fell to the carpeted floor as the punishment accelerated.

Later she had been ordered into the corner, with thong around her ankles, and left staring into the wallpaper to contemplate her uncivil tongue toward her new boyfriend. Tracey rolled the word over in her mind. HER NEW BOYFRIEND. The one that had so casually taken her over his knee and spanked her like a little girl-despite the fifteen years that separated them. Despite the hate she felt for him.

"You can pull your panties up now Tracey. Learned your lesson?"

Tracey yanked the black lace thong up, happy for even the small modesty it permitted. "Yes, I did," her voice replied, curiously laced with deference. Why? She despised him. Yet she was smiling in a simpering way now, eager to please.

"Throw out those unsexy undies now."

She gathered them up and did so, tossing the perfectly good underwear into her trash. As she pushed them into the bottom of the kitchen trash bin, Tracey thought about what was happening in her apartment and wondered.

Returning to her living room, she stood before him quietly. Somehow it was natural that she should keep her head bowed, eyes averting his as she spoke to him. "What is going on here?" It wasn't asked accusingly, but honestly.

"Oh, that. Well," Locke ran his palms against her bare thighs, "I guess I own you now."

She shook her head. "I-I don't understand what you mean. You mean that we're...involved?" It sounded stupid to put it that way, but Tracey didn't know how else to describe it.

Locke's pale angled face tightened with hilarity. "Involved? You're hysterical. No-I mean you're my property." His gray eyes and lipless mouth widened at Tracey's incredulity. "Can't believe it? Then why have you acted the way you've acted all afternoon? You-Tracey Hollis, the great lawyer extraordinaire and defender of women's rights?" He hopped up and gently pushed her into her bedroom. As he stood behind her, they both looked at the near nude woman looking sheepishly back at them from the full-length mirror.

"Look at her-recognize her? She's Tracey Hollis. Thirty-five, successful lawyer, Dartmouth undergraduate, Duke law school. Almost a partner in Browne, Taylor & Garrick. Makes about one hundred twenty-five thousand a year. Drives a Range Rover-very chic! Owns this condo. Virulent feminist-local NOW chapter leader and liberal Democrat fundraiser. That's the public Tracey Hollis. But NONE of that is important in the least to me. What is important to me is how my new possession can amuse me. Let's talk about Tracey, Mr. Locke's sextoy. "

She shivered as he ran his fingers along her cheeks.

"Look at her face. She is not pretty. Tracey is too intense to be pretty. Look at her deep set hazel eyes. With those naturally thin eyebrows and high cheek bones, she looks almost angry. Intelligent eyes, always searching and sizing up the world. Look at that nose-thin and upturned, from down which her eyes are constantly judging and evaluating. So superior. And her lips don't help-too thin, never painted enough to give one the unspoken promise of kisses- the mouth too tight, too determined. Her complexion is perfect, if far too pale. And of course her trademark auburn hair-a short slightly flipped pageboy that is all-business and easy to maintain."

Locke caressed Tracey's wan cheeks as they examined her in the mirror like doctors. "No-not a pretty face. There is too much independence, too much defiance in it. Like the body. Her small breasts, her nicely toned body-running suits her as an exercise, though she'd never think twice about aerobics, would she? Running is serious, aerobics would smack too much of body shaping to suit her feminists tastes. Though her hard little body has fine shape for what it offers." He patted her backside appreciatively. "About 5" 7' and 125 pounds are we? Excellent for a woman your age. There are twenty year olds I know that would love to have your body, even with your tiny boobs. No-you're not pretty, Tracey. But certainly striking. There is something in you that dares a man to break your spirit. To make you submit. Because once you are properly broken in and tamed, all that independent will and energy would be refocused on pleasing your master. You'd be eager to learn new tricks to perform. You'd make quite a playful little bedmate once that happened, wouldn't you?"

Tracey didn't answer. If not for self-preservation instincts, she felt she was in danger of her mind tipping into madness. Maybe it was a dream, because certainly she couldn't be willingly submitting to this treatment, these comments, his chastisements. She would be acting: the police needed to be called, charges filed. Breaking and entering, attempted rape, kidnapping. A dream, certainly.

"I'm going to leave now. But first, I have some instructions for you." Locke held her head in both hands and Tracey thought he might be trying to strangle her. Instead he whispered in her ear. Nasty things, despicable things.

He patted her ass one more time. "Be sure to remember what I just told you. You wouldn't want to earn another spanking, now would you?"

The memory of the bright sparkly pain exploded in her head and Tracey shook her head vigorously. No, she definitely would not like to earn another spanking! And with that he left her apartment.

That had been a week ago and she had written off the whole episode since then. Why not-she only remembered it as a daydream, one she must have had on the bus. Weird but people have weird dreams, don't they. It wasn't like there was any proof that her mystery man was anything other than a figment of her imagination. Too much work-she needed to take a vacation, maybe go see her sister. And as the week had progressed, she made an absolute commitment to herself that she would take some time off. Because while the whole spanking dream was explainable (if real-seeming enough!), her new impulses were less so.

BUY NEW UNDERWEAR

Well, she had needed some things. That was easy to rationalize-Tracey was no clothes horse and she tended to hold onto things for years. Many of her panties and bras were showing their age. But the choices she was making seemed odd. She had never gone in for elaborate undergarments. It was a shame strategy that the male-dominated fashion industry used to goad women into buying whatever they were manufacturing-one she had never succumbed to. But now she found herself buying the skimpiest kinds of thong panties and little French-cut bikini nothings. All silk, lace or polyester too. No comfortable cottons that most of her old things had been. And the bras-matching push-up things she felt embarrassed about looking at, let alone buying. She was small-chested, but had never bothered to artificially boost her size up, except with some subtle padding. Now she was buying underwired half-bra things that made a small neat shelf of her once unremarkable chest. And that wasn't all. Because in addition to the new impulse towards more interesting bras and panties, she had also gone and bought a number of different colored garter belts and stockings. She had felt an uncontrollable revulsion towards her pantyhose and thrown them all out.

BUY TIGHT CLOTHES

That was strange too-she had always favored the loose casual Gap look. But now she was buying skirts and blouses that left less and less to the imagination. Not that she was going crazy-her new clothes were quite acceptable. Well maybe that blue skirt was a bit too short for the courtroom and the sweater too form-fitting, but most of the new purchases were o.k. It was on Thursday when she found herself asking one of the secretaries where she had bought her black leather mini that Tracey realized she was dressing more like one of the firm's younger secretaries than the other lawyers or partners.

SHOW MORE SKIN

Well, so she left a top button undone. Or two or three. It wasn't such a big deal. And she didn't deserve the stares she had received when she had come in wearing a cute new yellow belly shirt. She wasn't due in court and she wasn't seeing any of the firm's clients. One of the older partners had spoken to her about it and she had brushed it off. And rightly so-she could dress any way she damn well pleased! None of the new impulses were that out in left field. Though the last one nagged her because of the frustration it was causing her.

DO NOT MASTURBATE

Tracey was a thirty-five year old single woman. She was too busy to indulge in any affairs, so masturbation was something she did on a regular basis. Hell, she could make herself come. It wasn't something she was ashamed about. But now every time she felt the urge-before bed or in the morning-the impulse denied her. Like her trusty fingers had turned to cold iron. And though the impulse denied her release, it hadn't taken away the urge or need. She was horny as hell and all she could think about was scratching the itch.

"How have we been this past week?" The voice was sly, knowing. She spun around. It was Locke. She had just come home-- her door had been locked. Had she fallen asleep in front of the teevee? Was she dreaming again? Must be. Though it was still light outside, she couldn't get herself up. She looked up.

"Stand up, Tracey. Let's see if you were paying attention to me last week." He gestured her to stand up and present herself for his perusal.

It was a dream, so naturally she obeyed him, easily rising up off the couch. HE nodded as he approached her. Without hesitation, Locke reached out to cup one of her breasts.

"Cute halter top-- bet this got the attention of your fellow attorneys!" He squeezed her small breast and she moaned softly. "A perkier look for your little bumps too." He yanked down the pink halter to reveal an electric pink strapless push-up. He plucked at a tag in the back. "Wonder Bra-- good girl! At least there's a little something to hold onto now." He callouslessly unzipped her teeny black spandex mini. It slipped down her legs, revealing a matching electric pink lace thong panty. The tiny thing barely concealed her sex. Locke brushed his fingers against the brownish-auburn curls that peeked out from the lace panel. "Unslightly, young missy, very unsightly! But your taste in skimpies has vastly improved so I'll let it pass-- this time. I'm sure," he chuckled, "you won't let it happen again."

She remained silent-as she always had in these strange dreams. Tracey wanted to, but ever since the spanking she had received from her dream visitor last time, she dreaded another such taste of his displeasure.

He snapped her thong panty. "This should be on the outside of your garterbelt, in case I might wish to use you. Always keep yourself accessible to your owner."

The words rang hugely in her head. She noticed now that when ever Locke uttered a command, it filled her mind to the extent of overwhelming every single other thought. He acted with such much natural propriety about her, it seemed reasonable that she should hang on his every word or touch.

"Your body is trim of course, but you must pay more attention to bringing out those feminine curves of yours. Dressing appropriate will help-but you'll receive other instructions about that. Hmmm. So far so good for the first week. Are your superiors taking note of your changes?"

She nodded, a bitter smile on her red painted lips. "Yes. I've been given a warning about wearing acceptable clothing."

"And you've ignored it of course-because dressing like a little tramp IS appropriate for you NOW."

She nodded. "Oh, yes."

He snickered. "So the partnership is out by now."

Tracey's intelligent gray eyes blinked. "Oh, yes. In fact, I doubt I have any future with the firm at all at this point. I have been a big disappointment to them-I can see it in their eyes." She was not bitter about this-it was the price of the dream that she remain nonplussed.

"Good. You've probably got another week before ruining your legal career completely with your slutty attire. Just enough time to get a few more things done before we move on to the next phase. But before we do that, I must congratulate my little slavegirl on her complete, unquestioning obedience. Such behavior deserves a reward-even from a cruel master like myself!"

Tracey found a wide silly grin blossoming on her lips. He was pleased with her-that was a good thing, she was sure of it!

Locke seated himself on the couch and pointed at the carpet before him. "Assume the position little bitch."

Tracey dropped to her black silk stockinged knees, the toes of her black high heels perfectly perpendicular to the floor. With a small effort she spread her legs as far as she might, clasped her hands behind her back and kept her head bowed (THE POSITION).

"My obedient little bitch is accepting her training well. Soon you shall be a tamed little ornament for my strange whims. I am pleased. You may finger fuck yourself bitch."

Trembling with lust, Tracey dropped her right hand between her legs, underneath her pretty pink thong. Her index finger found her pussy warm wet and waiting. She gently began pumping herself, hips rocking with increasing pleasure as she did.

"Keep your eyes open and look up at me little bitch. I want to see love and gratitude for me for permitting you such slutty play."

She focused on his eyes. They mocked her, degrading her with their superior inspection. It would have been better had he allowed her to do this in private. It was so humiliating having to do this before a boy fifteen years younger than herself. And yet those were the rules...HIS RULES. She smiled gratefully up at him.

"Pretend I'm fucking you. Show me how excited you'd be. Go on-my cock is invading you."

Tracey moaned and gyrated wildly. Her finger was pistoning now and she whipped her hair from side to side. Being penetrated by this man gave her life meaning; it meant she was important! Dirty leers crossed her wild flushing face-the cock was inside her now...

"Go on-finish off little bitch. I grow bored with your performance. You have fifteen seconds to bring yourself to orgasm." Locke's eyes pointed to his wristwatch.

It wasn't long and she had no idea when she might be permitted such an opportunity again. She began plunging her finger faster and harder, and found her puss wetter and hotter...

"Seven, six, five..."

God no! She had to try harder! Tracey moaned harder and louder, her hips on fire as she bucked them against her slender finger...

"...four, three, two, one...STOP." Locke savored her disappointment as his kneeling slavewoman yanked out her finger with a liquid plop! "Can't cum? That is because only I determine when you are permitted to cum. Only I can allow pleasure into your life. And when you deserve to cum-which is the greatest accomplishment a slut like you can achieve-I will be the one who gives it to you."

Perspiration made her pale face glow and her gray eyes were soft and round with unspoken pleading. All Tracey Hollis wanted to do was cum. She would do it on her knees before a college kid at his command like some ten dollar whore. She would do it however he liked her too-but she would do it if he let her. She prayed silently. She wanted so much to cum.

Locke's smile was narrow and evil. Looking down at the kneeling woman, he snapped his fingers. "Cum, little bitch."

Tracey felt her pussy explode. The snap echoed through her body, which immediately responded with a rocketing orgasm the like which she had never enjoyed. Vaguely she wondered if this was a wet dream and if her panties would be soaked when she woke up. Probably-who cared? This was heavenly! The pleasure might have lasted forever, when he snapped his fingers again and the warmth dissipated.

"Good. Now clean yourself."

Tracey looked uncertainly at Locke then started to rise. He pushed her back down. "No-not in the bathroom. With your mouth."

What did he mean? Then she looked at her sticky right hand. It glistened with her pussy juices, which coated the fingers and the palm which she had used to push deeper. A frown of disgust creased her pale face.

"Oh yes little bitch! The price of your naughty slutplay is cleaning up after yourself! Have you never tasted yourself?"

Tracey shook her head slowly. "No- never. It's...gross."

Locke ignored the comment. "I won't repeat myself because I'd love the opportunity to take your over my knee again."

Her tongue darted out, hesitantly, to her right hand. It was tangy, sticky, awful. She continued to lick.

"You'll do this on your knees before me everytime you are allowed to touch yourself. When you cum this way, I want your pretty mouth to be filled with your little bitch taste. Soon you'll know your taste very well."

While she dutifully lapped at her fingers and hand, he spoke to her. "Now listen carefully..."

"So that's it Doctor. These dreams are getting stranger and stranger and it is like I'm a prisoner of them. Like they're REAL."

Dr. Kelly shook her head, took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. In ten years of practice, she had never heard this one before. "Now you say he's asked you to do some things this week for him. Tell me about that."

Tracey shot her a look. "Not ask-he told me to do these things. I told you he's not my lover so much as my...master." She ignored the disgusted look on the doctor's face and went on. "This week he ordered me to quit running. Said it was stupid because it didn't help me build up curves in the rest of my body. He also said it wasn't very feminine to run around. Instead he told me to join Bally's and concentrate on aerobics."

Kelly ran herself everyday and found it to be much more liberating and thoughtful that gyrating in some meatmarket in spandex. She made notes on her pad. "How do you feel about this change in your exercise?"

Tracey shrugged. "Well, I hate it of course. Those places are all about making woman self-conscious about themselves. Their about invoking body-shame so that women will do anything to shape their bodies into some fantasy men have. It is awful and embarrassing-especially when men at my office see me there tricked out in my leotard."

"Then... why do it? Afterall, like Gloria Steinem said, 'Women need men, like fish need bicycles'. Even dream lovers like yours are hardly worth the effort-either in real life or your fantasy life.."

The attorney looked up exasperated. "Fantasy? I suppose it is though it seems so damn REAL! Anyway, I already said-he told me too. He doesn't care about my feelings on the subject. I think," she paused at the epiphany, "that he likes making me do things precisely because I think they are humiliating to me as a woman."

"Go on," Kelly said tightly. "What else has he made you do?"

"He ordered me to shave myself. He didn't like me with any hair down there so he wants me to keep it shaved regularly." Tracey sat, flushed and looking away, trying to ignore the distaste now radiating from the therapist.

"I see. Now this dream lover of yours...can you describe him?"

"Young-I mean younger than me. I'd say twenty maybe. Pretty nondescript. Not someone you could pick out of a crowd easily. Smart. An artist I think. He likes to dress in black."

Kelly put her pen down. "Not someone you'd be likely to throw yourself away on, is he? In your fantasies, are you passionate? Do you make love? What does he say to you? Can you remember any of your dreams?"

Tracey smiled wanly. "I can't say he's very affectionate. He hasn't made love to me-he says it isn't time for that yet-but he has allowed me to do, uh, other things if I've been good and done every thing he'd told me to do."

"Tell me about these things," Kelly pressed her patient.

"I'd rather not, if that's o.k. Even talking about them makes me feel...ashamed. I mean he lets me do them and I feel pleasure doing them but I know they're dirty and humiliating even while I'm doing them. He knows it too. He enjoys it. Enjoys having power over me." Tracey shook her head. "Quite a bit of a dream, don't you think?" She smiled bravely, but the attempt only showed how helpless she felt in the grip of her psychosis.

Kelly switched topics. "How's work going?"

But that was the wrong path to take, because her new patient's depression only deepened. "Terrible. I'm on warning and probably will be out of a job if something doesn't happen to get me out of the doghouse."

"What is the problem? I had heard you were a top-notch attorney-"

Tracey waved it of. "Do I look like a top-notch attorney to you Doctor?"

In point of fact, she did not. The woman sitting across from her was dressed in a tight pink poodle miniskirt, white seamed stockings, a pink ribbed half-tee and three inch pink heels. Her auburn hair was trussed up into a topsy ponytail, held by a red bow. Her pale face was punctuated by bright red lipstick and a foundation that made her naturally wan complexion sparkle with artificial excitement. She looked less like a thirty-five year old attorney than a seventeen year old obsessed with the boys.

"Well, now that you mention it. Tell me more, please."

Tracey sighed. "He likes me this way. You see, women are just ornaments to him. He's very specific-extremely specific-about what kinds of clothing he wants me seen in. No matter if it makes me look ridiculous. I know I look like something out of TeenBeat. But this is one of my day outfits-this is as serious as he allows people to see me-like some little feather brained bimbo. Night time it is much worse. Much worse." She stopped for a moment then continued. "Everyone at work thinks I've gone nuts. You see he makes me go into the firm this way, argue cases this way. Of course I've lost every case since I started dressing this way-what judge or jury could take this seriously? So I've been put on warning. If I continue to come into the office this way, I'm out. Jesus, law school, all the hard work, almost making it to partner and then this." She sobbed quietly.

Kelly handed her a tissue, then bundled her out before writing up her initial prognosis.

Ms. Hollis is reacting to intense stress, probably work-related, in the form of a highly regressive nymphomania. The condition, heavily masochistic, is no doubt a reaction to this highly competitive field. Her "dream master" is a manifestation of this self-destructive instinct common among successful women, as noted in Jaeger's Monograph (New York, 1979) on the same subject. The psychosis is operating on many levels...

****************

Friday. The worst day of her life. She had lost her position-everything she hard worked so hard for. Honor student in high school, Magna Cum Laude Pre Law, then taking her JD. Passing the Bar. Steadily heading up the ladder. Gone in an instant.

"You were fired today?" She started, then saw Locke sitting comfortably in her favorite-now HIS-chair. All in black as usual. The hallucinations begun again.

As always, she drifted into her fantasy life seamlessly. "Yes," she answered dully. "I was...fired." She stood before him, as was understood to be the rule, with head bowed, eyes averted.

"The lacy bimbo socks did it, I bet," Locke mused casually. "With those five inch red heels, you look like you'd be ready to ball the entire jury for a favorable verdict. Oh well, thank goodness that career nonsense is over. With your reputation as a little courthouse cocktease, I doubt you could get a job as a paralegal. Though I'm sure there are plenty of male attorneys who might consider you for a secretarial position." Locke winked lewdly.

Tracey felt her face go crimson. The shame never got easier to accept in her weird Locke-driven fantasy world.

"Anyway, I've got other plans for you baby. When I'm finished with you, you'll DREAM of being some little office tail. We've got lots to do, including some redecorating. For which we'll need some money. You took care of the financial errands I gave you?"

She nodded, handing him a bank envelope containing her life savings, the deed to her , the paper on her car-all she had in the world. Even the remainder of her parent's inheritance to her. There was nothing left.

He took the envelope and without opening it, slipped it into his pants pocket. "I'm happy to relieve you of all that money. The bank teller must have thought you were a working girl getting ready to split town! You needn't worry that empty little head of yours-I'll handle this. It will bankroll us for our remodeling. Now, one last worrying thing." He turned, serious now, to her and folded his hands. "Where were you last Wednesday?"

She struggled to keep silent. Her subconcious told her that her meeting with the therapist must be kept from him. It was a lifeline! If the therapist could help her escape from this sick nightmare, he mustn't know about it.

"Tell me." It was soft and easy-but it was a command. And Tracey broke and told him everything.

His young eyes graced her with a patronizing glance. "It is well you told me. It shows how deeply I have come to control you. But I knew already. Your simple mind is such a child's puzzle to me-bright, colorful, obvious. But you told me. So that will have some bearing on your punishment."

Tracey kept her eyes on the floor, but was secretly relieved. She knew he'd find out...it was good she had been honest...he might have some mercy now... Her eyes widened as he drew a long object out of his coat pocket.

"When I discovered your naughtiness, it became obvious that mere spankings wouldn't suffice to make you mind your manners. So I purchased this-- a new implement with which to keep my pet in line," Locke explained. "You know what to do now little bitch."

Tracey stifled a cry as she hurriedly unzipped her miniskirt. Though her bannana thong panties offered no protection, she kicked them off per the rules of punishment-always bare bottom. She draped herself over his knee, waiting for that new awful punishment tool to begin its descent.

Locke smiled, raised the riding crop and began to teach his slave another lesson in obedience.

Dr. Karen Kelly was astonished how much could change in a few days. Ever since that wonderful Doctor Locke had come to visit regarding the Hollis case that morning. Evidently he had been handling the Hollis case. He had looked so young at first-not more than twenty if she had to guess, he looked like a college student actually- that she was actually suspicious. But then she realized she must have been mistaken, because his knowledge was so much greater than her own. And she had been practicing for ten years!

After he had explained that he was already treating Tracey Hollis, she gladly handed over the case file. It was something she never did, but then he was a professional of the highest order. A brilliant man. Not that he had said anything in particular about the case, but he gave the impression of such confidence, she wouldn't dream of gainsaying him.

He was about to leave then, but she found himself asking him if he'd like a cup of coffee. He had stayed for an hour, forcing her to cancel a scheduled appointment-but it was certainly a good investment in time. Because as a therapist, he had been kind enough to talk to her about her own problems. Like Glen.

Good old philandering, perverted Glen. The papers had arrived the end of the previous day by courier and were actually in her desk drawer waiting to be signed. All the misery behind her with the stroke of a pen. Divorce after a long three years had seemed so close. Images of his indiscretions, his cheap affairs with the young receptionists and secretaries that he preferred most as conquests, crowded her brain for a brief moment. He hadn't denied the affairs-said they were his right as a man-but was furious at her insistence for a divorce. He had fought it up to a point, then wearily walked away. Still she could list the disgusting degrading demands that he made of her in bed-all refused. So overbearing. So arrogant. So male chauvinist. So Glen.

But that was this morning. Because after Dr. Locke's visit, she had torn up the papers without a second thought, informing her lawyer that she had had second thoughts. Her lawyer was mystified but had acceded to her wishes. How could she know how much the thought of Glen's cock dominated her mind, how she had thought of nothing else but pleasing her husband like the dutiful little wifey he had expected her to be-and she had fought so hard against? Dr. Locke had kindly corrected her thinking about Glen-how their marraige meant everything to her (her new motto- "A woman needs a man like a fish needs water"), how husbands-not wives-made the rules, how the husband must be honored and obeyed in ALL things. She shivered when Dr. Locke had carefully pointed out these facts, shocked at how far she had strayed.

When he left, she had an idea of how to make it up to Glen. Her heart told her it was her last chance, so she must go for broke. If it was cheap and sleazy Glen wanted, it was cheap and sleazy Karen Kelly would be. Afternoon appointments were cancelled and Karen dashed back to her apartment-the one she had foolishly taken a lease on after the separation. She reminded herself she must get out of that horrible empty place-the thought of being alone in that apartment without Glen's cock... She had prepared quickly for her surprise meeting with Glen, dressing to surprise him. Karen thought briefly about not making her first stop, then forced herself to make it. If it was what Glen wanted, she would accept it as the price of being a good little wifey. How she had hated that expression, when he had called her that in front of her friends. Now she only hoped he might call her that again!

She parked the car and took the elevator up to Glen's executive suite, the one from which he ran his real estate business. She brushed into his office, gathering her courage up and looked up. He was outraged at first, but the pleading expression on her face sent a message he understood at once. "Well, well, well. Miss Snooty Feminist Bitch Therapist here to ask for a break on the settlement? Well, forget it!"

She shook her head. "No, no! I'm not here for that. In fact," she stopped talking, then placed the torn-up divorce agreement before him, letting it finish the statement for her. Then as his jaw dropped, she slipped out of her raincoat. Underneath she wore nothing but the black lace Merry Widow he had bought for her and a pair of black patent leather high heels. She had never worn it before now.

"I, uh, was hoping you might consider taking me back. I, uh, know that I've had a bad attitude problem, but I promise I'll work hard to make you happy."

Glen's voice wavered for a second. "And the affairs?"

Karen blushed. "What can I do? You're the man. I'm just the good little wifey. But I'll try harder to make you happy. To do the things that I hope will keep you happy with just me."

With that, she placed her last purchase on the desk. Glen looked up at her smiling. "O.k.," he said as he unbuckled his belt, "But this time I'm going to be a lot tougher on you than I have been. I let you get away with too much." He reached for the KY jelly as Karen bent herself over the desk. As he entered her in that way for the first time, her heart leapt. She had earned his cock-and she would never willing walk away from it again. No matter what she was told to do.

********************

Brandy had spoken to her little sister only six hours earlier, but she had managed to catch a flight and was now almost at her door. What the hell was going on? She had wondered frantically on the flight from Logan to LaGuardia, wishing the 737 to cut through the fog over Long Island Sound. The taxi was moving now, finally, through the Queens traffic. She had only thirty minutes left to figure out what the hell was happening.

The scary thing was that she had forced the issue. She hadn't spoken to her in a few weeks- work for her Boston College courseload had doubled, now that she was a full professor. The number of her art history courses had doubled over the Break, keeping her hopping. So when she called Browne, Taylor & Garrick, she was astonished to discover she was no longer with the firm. And something about the snickering way she was informed of this by the receptionist told her the departure was not voluntary. A call to her home found an odd sounding Trace on the other end. The timid tone, not at all the fast talking, all business Tracey, said she'd like her to come down. It was an emergency, she said, nothing more. Obviously a breakdown had occurred somehow.

Amazing-Trace was in her own way as driven as she was. While she had scored big in the vicious wars of academia, Tracey had taken on the legal eagles of her own calling. Both sisters were overachievers, focused on their respective fields. Neither had ever allowed a man to come between themselves and their ambitions. Though separated by only two years-Trace was thirty-five and she thirty-seven, they had many of the same characteristics. Both were single, professionals, ambitious, feminists, single-minded. What had happened then?

Brandy had to remind herself that though this was the case, they had many differences, many of which kept them from being too close. She secretly considered Tracey shallow and materialistic-a bit of a bitch. While she was herself very aloof, Brandy didn't need to be the boss all the time the way her sister did. It was annoying. If pressed, she had to admit she wasn't completely sorry about Tracey's reversal of fortune. Might teach her a lesson. Brandy was honest about the competitive nature of the relationship with her own sister. A little voice promised a lot of satisfaction if in fact Brandy needed to fly down and save the day for Tracey somehow.

The taxi stopped. She knew the driver had been staring at her through the rear view window during the trip and she enjoyed it. Though she never went out of her way to attract male attention, she knew her tight frame, well-scrubbed athletic face and inquisitive green eyes did a lot to draw it. Not that she was a knock-out-her figure was too small on top if tight below-but she had had her share of lovers over the years. She brushed an medium length chesnut tress behind her ear and told the driver to stop. After she had him unload the luggage, she was delighted to shortchange him-what a creep! How dare he stare at her that way!

She totted the small bag to Trace's and knocked on the door only to find it open.

"Trace?"

No answer. Weird. The place was dark and she wasn't at all familiar, having never been to the new place her sister had bought a couple months ago. It took her a moment to find the lights, but there wasn't anything particularly unusual about the place. Except maybe some of the art on the walls. It looked familiar but didn't strike her in any specific way.

"Tracey?"

Still nothing. She walked into the kitchen, then the bedroom, where her concern began to flare. The place looked like something out of a New Orleans bordello. Mirrors on the wall over the bed, which itself was a deep red king-size waterbed sporting a brass frame. The bed sheets were leopard skin. A television VCr unit waited to be turned on at the foot of the bed and unbelievably a camcorder, mounted for use! Really Trace! she chided her sister mentally. Turned into quite the vixen did we? A thrill of superiority flashed through her. Well, well, well. Little sister was kinky!

With a quick look around to ensure she was alone, Brandy opened the top drawer of the dresser. Normally reserved for underwear, this drawer was filled with dildos and vibrators of all descriptions. Butt plugs too. She opened the other drawers. It was like her sister had won a shopping spree from Frederick's of Hollywood. There were all kinds of brazen little nothings-thong panties, push-up bras, teddys-and none of it was particularly tasteful. Cheap, overly revealing and in all materials. Lace, silk, cotton, polyester, leather and latex. What had her little sister gotten herself into? Brandy would NEVER let her live this down!

She jumped at the sound of the door shutting.

"Trace?"

She walked out into the kitchen and saw the door she had missed before. Evidently a basement of some sort. She tried the light but this one refused to go on. Carefully she made her way down into the abyss of the light starved underground room. There were no windows, but some light from the kitchen faintly followed her and she could make out the steel cages on the wall. Her last thought was that Tracey must have bought a dog to keep in this basement kennel.

Brandy woke with a start, rubbing her eyes furiously. She felt as if she had been unconscious for a week. Feeling a cold hard surface underneath her, she rolled over on her stomach, instinctively feeling for the bump on her head, the blow that had knocked her out. But there was none. It was dark and it took her a moment to realize she was inside one of the dog kennels.

"Tracey!" she yelled.

A "shush!" responded to her from the other cage. In the gloom, she could make out her sister Tracey-nude but for a dog collar!

"What the hell is going on here?" she demanded. "What are you doing in there?" But Tracey shook her head, unable or unwilling to speak. She desperately pressed her fingers over her mouth indicating she should be quiet.

"Ah! Ms. Brandy Hollis! Welcome!"

The voice. She had heard it before. At school. Her mind leapt forward. The art upstairs. It all fit.

"God damn it, it's you Locke!" She shook the locked cage door. She began to stand but the kennel ceilign allowed for no more than kneeling. "Justin Locke!"

The figure approached from the murk. "Yes. You have a wonderful memory. A high quality mind and impressive talents. But like your sister, I doubt you'll be taking advantage of them any more. Other...talents will become far more crucial to your new role than those."

"Look, I'm sorry I flunked you, but this is insane. Let me out and maybe they'll be an arrangement of some sort-get you some help..." There wouldn't be-he do hard time for this, she'd make sure of it, but she had to get out of the cage.

"You can leave your kennel anytime. Go ahead-the door isn't locked despite what you think. See?" He opened the door and shut it again lightly. But when she attempted to do the same, it was impossible!

"You can't get out because I haven't given you permission. You may now though."

She did so, automatically. "Look Locke-let my sister out of there. You're a nut-don't make it worse on yourself. All over a course failure-Jesus! That was last year!"

Locke smiled. "I'm not doing anything-other than everything I've always wanted to do to you. You see, I was pretty bitter when you failed me-my paintings are, despite your opinion, marvelous. I could have used my powers to change my grade. But when I entered your mind, I found a spirit begging to be dominated, humiliated and broken. Brandy Hollis-a willful little cocktease that tormented her male students, a bitch that needed taming. And then imagine my surprise to find you had a sister with just the same kind of temperment as yours! As you know I'm an artist and a wonderful idea came to me-an idea that will now come to life. But you'll know all this soon enough. Strip off those clothes for your master now...little bitch."

Tracey thrust her face outside her kennel to watch as the young man began the process of mastering her older sister. An unmistakably hot pang shot through her, a vicious pang, as her sister dumbly unclothed herself. Brandy's face was a portrait of shock-at herself, at Locke's ability to command her, at the hell she now faced.

"Good. Small like your sister-just as I remember. Your sister has all kinds of advice on that subject-making her titties look bigger than they are is very important to her. She'll be helping you out with things like that, teaching you the rules and so forth."

"Rules?" Brandy kicked off her panties now, but her mouth still seemed to belong to her.

"Oh yes. The rules. Very important to follow the rules. Else..." Locke switched on a light, revealing the rest of the basement.

Brandy held herself upright with all her strength. It looked like the Marquis De Sade's playroom.

"Let's start, shall we?" And Brandy felt her will being bent to his, changing it, refashioning it like an artist.

************************

NOTICE:

The following courses have been cancelled or reassigned. Please check with the Registrar's Office to rearrange your schedule as needed:

French Revivalists Intermediate Studies 307 The Russian Naturalists 423 Dutch Humanism and Art of The Reformation 356 Graduate Russian Imperial Studies 501

The Dean signed his name to the memo, not at all pleased with Professor Hollis'es announcement that she would not be returning to teach the courses noted.

"You won't make tenure with this on your record," he informed her grimly-and truthfully.

The click on the other end of the line ended the matter for him and he dispatched a note for immediate termination of Brandy Hollis'es contract.

****************

Locke awoke to the soft slurping of his bitches, who were lapping at his cock. He had allowed them to sleep on the floor by his bed, leashed to the bedpost of course, instead of ordering them to their kennels as was the norm. He gathered up the leashes in his hand and watched their tongues darting below him, one over his cock and the other working diligently on his ball sac. With their new identical look-long brassy blonde curly hair-it was hard to know which was which was servicing his cock. A pair of scared green eyes looked up-ah, the older sister. He lowered the leash, allowing her to return to her duties. Her tongue responded with gratitude- the privilege of pleasuring him was preferable to a punishment of some kind. His bitches never knew whether they would be used or 'corrected' by their owner.

He closed his eyes, feeling his groin tighten with pleasure as the sisters continued their task. It was fine that he had allowed them the honor of sleeping at the foot of his bed-they were so excited about the rare privilege that they were working extra hard to make this wake-up call of theirs one he would remember. As well they should-if he were so much as one iota dissatisfied with either of their efforts, one or both would be spanked, cropped or worse.

Locke had been pleased with their play the previous evening. He had bid them to a bout of strap-on wrestling and he had watched as the two had prepared themselves with anticipation. Hot oil lathered over their glistening bodies, then the latex waist cinchers and the thigh high latex high heeled leggings, topped off with the omnipresent dog collars and they were ready. Strap-on wrestling was difficult as neither was allowed to scratch, choke or punch the other. It was more a silly spectacle of hissing, slippery grappling, nipple twisting and hairpulling-the epitome of catfighting.

The older bitch had triumphed. She was a bit taller, a bit hungrier and at last she had forced her little sister on her back, with hands pinned and her hot wet crotch in her face. Randi (she was Randi now and the younger one Lacey-both sufficiently artificial names that gave males the satisfaction of knowing these women had changed their names to too-obvious double entendres for wry masculine amusement) had looked up with some expectation at her master, but he shook his head. Randi would be allowed her prize but no more. With a pout she rolled off her sister, slapping her rump as she did.

"Get ready-I won this time!" The command sent the nude now-disbarred attorney off to her dresser. Randi needed only one item to continue the fun and she found in the girl's toybox, eagerly choosing a long, sleek black strap-on to present to him. He nodded and she belted the nasty dildo around her waist, now waiting for her sister. Lacey similarly held up some items which Locke likewise approved. As she readied herself, Locke flipped on the video camera-he would record this tryst for commercial release.

At last Lacey offered herself up to her conqueror, a prettily painted up prize wearing a dainty white lace thong panty, strapless push-up demi-bra and white 5 inch heels. Locke was gratified to see how quickly Lacey had come to know the drill. She kept her head bowed, lips pursed and arms behind her back, all the while with her small chest thrust out. But Randi, who was increasingly the victor in the strap-on wrestling matches, displayed little interest in soft cuddly foreplay. She wanted to use her defeated sister without the slightest bit of romance. With both palms, Randi pressed Lacey's shoulders downward. The bested redhead understood what her mistress desired and complied immediately. Should she displeased her conqueror, Locke's rules were hardfast-the winner would be permitted to punish the untamed loser with the implements of discipline that Locke's dungeon was so well equipped with. Lacey had no wish to find herself both raped and punished and she took the ebony dildo in her wettened mouth and began to slowly deepthroat the prong. Randi stroked her sister's longish red-brown hair, occaisionally directing her subservient sister's mouth to some under-worshipped region of her proud black prick.

With the clap of her hands, Randi barked the inevitable command. "On your fours!"

Lacey scampered to obey, the thirty-five year old attorney offering up her ripe boyish ass to her sister's urgent lust. Locke grinned as the subjugated vixen's eyes closed shut as the thong was yanked aside and the cock stuffed inside her. The pained expression was evidence of how much the forced entry was to be avoided. And yet the little bitch was being defeated more and more, as Randi had begun to assume a dominance over the pair. A tear trickled out, then another as the older chesnut haired filly in latex began to truly ram her cock home, deep into her slave sister.

Locke wandered into their minds. He relished Randi's exuberant mastery, the disdain she felt for her younger sister and the flame of dominant lesbian lust that was attached to it-attached by her master three months ago. He searched for any residual spark of sibling love and found none. He had crafted this one well-she was all bitch, living for the opportunity to first please her master, then use and dominate her sister or failing these three, pleasuring herself as her master watched on. To Randi, there was nothing else in life.

Lacey was enflamed with humiliation and pain at being raped by her sister this way. She bucked her hips in an attempt to ease the thrusting against her tender insides, but to no avail-- Randi would have no mercy on her. Despite her loathing of her latex mistress, Lacey could not help from becoming aroused by her sister's fondling of her peach-sized breasts. They were growing hot, her nipples both saluting hot little buttons of flesh as the exquisite nails of her sister scraped over them, twisting them cruelly through the guazey white lace of her brassiere. She was ashamed at becoming so hot for her victorious sister, but her puss was wettening rapidly. Naturally-- Locke had laid in quickly sexual responsiveness to such lewd lesbian caresses.

Locke kept the camera trained on the two as eventually Randi "came" into her prize piece. He would entitled this one "Battle of the B Cup Bimbos" and sell it on the speciality lesbian market. Sister lezzie acts, especially where one wore shiny black latex and the other frilly white lace, attracted lots of interest. He had every anticipation that it would sell well. Not great-- they weren't pretty-- but well enough.

As had "Dildo Debutantes." And "Sizzling Sisters' Slitfest." And "The Mistress'es Naughty Maid." The Hollis girls' videos always grossed respectably well. Not that the movies were their only areas of expertise. When he had started them on their new porn careers, he had first insisted they break all remaining ties by demanding they call their old colleagues and bosses. He devoured the sight of his little bitches as they whined on the phone to those in their old lives.

"Please Danny...I REALLY need the money. I'll pose anyway you want me to! Only a dollar per polaroid-- I have LOTS of sexy things to wear for you! You don't have to buy any you don't want to keep. Please Danny? Didn't you like me when you were in my class Pretty please?" Randi writhed, furiously fingering herself as her Master watched. Her face was red-- from lust or humiliation?-- as she begged to sell her old student compromising snapshots of herself.

Lacey humped herself hornily as she pleaded to be allowed to speak to her old boss. "Please Ma'am! I just HAVE to speak to Mr. Garrick. I have all kinds of pictures of me in my pretty panties that I KNOW he'd like to see me in! Please, may I speak to him? Can't you please just pass on the message?"

He'd made them call each and every former male friend, associate, client or even mere acquaintance to make the shameful offer of selling posed polaroids of themselves. Many took them up on the offer, anxious to see the haughty bitches displaying themselves in film on their specific commands-- all for the price of a few dollars. Not a few were interested in more and Locke horrified his bitches by considering the offers for as long as a day. But it wasn't necessary-- he had no fear of using them that way (they were only playthings), but didn't want to wear them out too soon. There were so other many uses to put them to-- and after the photo-calls were made, their reputations were destroyed and he was free to explore them.

The website, sistersluts.com, kept them busy. For $3.95 per minute, you could watch them play together at 28.8k. The offers from the skin mags were frequent too. Not the top-end porno mags, mind you, but the Hollis sisters did get lots of work from specialty books like "Lesbo Lickers," "Lil' Titted Twats," "Leather Lezzies" and others. They didn't pay terrifically well-- a few hundred bucks a shot-- but these were the best gigs his bitches could get.

As they lapped obediently, he looked at some of the better shots that were immortalized in frames around the room. In one, Lacey was nude on her fours, a leash tightly clipped to her dog collar and held by Randi, who knelt behind her, spreading her sister's holes for use by the reader. In Randi's other hand she held a riding crop, ready to chastise her sister should she fail to please. Lacey for her part looked back with terrified eyes, a fear so strong it was giving him an erection as he looked at it. A tongue lingered, then went back to work with greater vigor.

In another, the two sisters were locked in a passionate 69, clutching each other's thighs, but looking up innocently as if caught by surprise with lips formed in perfect Os of surprise. Two naughty maids found fondling without permission, with black crisp skirts pulled high and black lace panties pulled away from slick tight pusses.

Now Lacey was on her knees before Randi wearing a petite red lace bra and panties, her long lank auburn hair held tightly by her sister. Randi looked down at her clad in a latex bra and thong. She was less an older sister, more a stern and selfish lover hot for pleasuring by her pet. Lacey's tongue was extended, eyes closed. It looked as if she was scared and she had been. Locke insisted the girls frolic in fear, always in fear-- of him and each other.

His erection had returned. He cupped his sluts' faces, patting them lightly. They nervously snuggled together, staring down at his crotch humbly and their faces wet with their lascivious chore. There was something about his former professor's countenance that demanded degrading-- perhaps too much a sense of superiority over her bitch sister, perhaps having assuming too much self-importance. She needed reminding of what she was, what her role was in life now. Then he slipped a finger around her collar and pulled her forward. Holding her tightly, he shot a load of white creamy goop across her stern, intense face. She closed her eyes as the sticky ropes landed with a plop all over her aristocratic mien, thin lips bent in angry shame. But she dared not display such arrogannce and the expression melted into false gratitude. Lacey understood what he had done and snickered.

"Clean this bitch off-- and share every drop with her or I'll tan your hide but good!" he commanded. The thirty-five year old disbarred attorney, now a cum-hungry whore, began lapping the come off her sister's sticky face. Then, as she accumulated a mouthful of goo, she shared a deep soul kiss with the thirty-seven year-old former art professor, not cum-splattered sextoy. The two continued their oral lustfest til each other's tummy was filled with his salty jism.

"Sixty-nine."

They obeyed the familiar order without pause. In perfect synchronicity-- like mechanical dolls. He smiled. His living art was a masterpiece. And he had so many great works still within him.

The End