She stood in front of him, trembling. She would not look at him. Instead, she looked at her own feet. She could see her cheerleading sweater and the matching skirt only going halfway down her thighs. Her feet were encased in saddle shoes and bobby socks. She twisted her fingers in front of her. What was she going to do?

What choice did she have? The pictures were damning. She felt the pressure of her reputation. And her parents! If her father saw those pictures ...

She looked up at him, tears pouring down her cheeks. "What do you want?"

He had her. He knew he would. He smiled his satisfaction. "For starters, you're going to suck my cock," he told her bluntly.

"Here? Now?" she asked him incredulously. They were underneath the bleachers. The rest of the squad would be wondering where she was. Halftime was about ten minutes away.

"Here. Now. You better hurry, unless you want your friends to watch."

She dropped to her knees. She fiddled with his zipper, feeling him already hard underneath his pants. She unzipped his pants, and pulled aside his boxers, freeing his engorged cock. It was thick and long, and she wasn't sure she was going to be able to take it all in her mouth.

She didn't have much choice, however, and she began licking at it. He sunk his fingers into her thick, wavy brown hair, pulling her ponytail free. He pulled at her head, forcing his cock deep into her throat. She gagged in pain and humiliation, but managed to maintain control.

He began thrusting into her mouth, holding on to either side of her head. She caressed him with her tongue, squeezing her eyes shut. The head of his cock slammed into the back of her throat. She could feel it throbbing, and knew he would come soon.

When he did, it was all that she could do to keep it in her mouth and swallow it all. As it was, there was too much, and a small bit of semen dribbled from her lips, down her chin, and onto her uniform.

He pulled away from her, and stood looking down at her. Her hair was tumbled all around her shoulders. She was on all fours, panting from her exertions. Her lipstick was smeared, her mouth wet with saliva and his semen.

"Meet you here tomorrow promptly after school," he told her.

She looked up at him. He grew indistinct. A gray fog was surrounding them. His image wavered.

She reached out and ran her fingers through the woman's blond hair, so strikingly different from her own dark hair. The blond was beautiful, and timid. She moved closer to her, eager to feel the heat of her mouth.

She cupped her head with both hands, and leaned over to kiss her. The blond looked at her with frightened eyes, but yielded to the pressure of her lips. Soon the two women were exploring each other's mouth passionately. They embraced each other, never parting lips. The blond's body was soft and compliant.

The brunette broke the embrace, and began slowly undoing the other woman's blouse. She looked to one side of the bed, where a man was seated. He was watching their movements with great interest, and stroking his cock. She smiled at him, and he returned the look, encouraging her to continue.

The blond woman was panting slightly, her eyes closed. The brunette continued to undress her, until at last she was naked. She shed her own clothing quickly, once again joining the other woman on the bed. The feeling of another woman beneath her sent waves of pleasure through her body.

The brunette began to explore the blond's body with her hands and mouth. She suckled hungrily at one of her pink nipples, which grew firm and insistent in her mouth. One hand moved gently down her body, until it was between her legs. She could feel the woman's slick desire, and she encouraged it, rubbing at her clit and slipping two fingers inside her.

The blond moaned, and pushed at the brunette's shoulders. She was only too happy to oblige, pushing the woman's legs apart. She leaned down and licked at her clit teasingly, until the blond grabbed her head and pulled it to her forcefully.

>From the corner of her eye, the brunette could see the man pick up his pace. He was excited by what he was witnessing.

She continued to lick at her friend's pussy, but she moved her body around so that they were in a sixty-nine. Soon the two women were pressing their faces into each other's crotches, panting like wild things. She could see his arm reach a fevered pitch, then heard his cries as suddenly he came.

The room wavered.

She woke, and turned over in bed. He was leaning on one elbow, looking down at her. The sun was streaming through the window, warming their bed as only sunlight can. She felt the pressure of her love for him drift through her chest.

"Hi," she said sleepily, moving closer to him and lining her body up with his.

"Good morning," he said, putting one arm around her and stroking her hair. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah," she responded. "But, I had the strangest dreams." She blushed, remembering them.

"Oh yeah?" he asked as he traced the lines of her face with his fingertips. "Tell me about them."

"I'm embarassed," she said, pushing her head into his chest. "They were, um, sexual in nature ..."

He grew silent. Afraid she had upset him, she looked into his face. "What's the matter?"

His face was grave. "Darling, look around you."

She turned from him and leaned on one arm, looking around the room. It was very strange. Everything was in shades of white. There didn't seem to be any line where the wall met the floor. There was a desk, or at least it was in the shape of the desk. There were no drawers where the drawers should have been. The door did not have a doorknob.

"How odd," she said, feeling slightly disturbed. "I must still be dreaming."

He pulled her around to face him. She saw that *he*, at least, was crystal clear. She could see every line in his face, every hair on his head. There was a small mole near the left corner of his mouth. He was solid.

"You're not dreaming," he told her gently. "You *are* the dream."

She just looked at him as if he were crazy. "I don't understand, what are you saying?"

He tried to pull her into an embrace, but she pushed away from him. "What are you trying to tell me? I don't understand!"

"What is your name?"

It seemed a ludicrous question. She reached into her mind for the answer, and found nothing. She found only him. He was there, in her mind, as well as their love. But there was nothing else. No history. No timeline. No *name*.

She began to sob, and this time he succeeding in pulling her close to him.

"Shhh," he said. "You don't usually remember. We've been together before, but you don't usually remember. You're a stock character, darling. You are there whenever a male fantasy requires a tall slender woman with long, dark hair. I'm so sorry ..."

She clung to him. She felt comfort coming from him like something tangible. He was holding her tight and stroking her hair, making soft sounds. She could feel his will, the will that said that he was to be successful, that she was to be comforted. Soon she could feel the effect of it. She gave up her own will to his, and stopped crying.

Soon she fell asleep against him, exhausted. He remained awake, stroking her hair gently, until at last he too fell asleep.

She was kneeling on a bed, her chest pressed into the mattress. She was naked except for a pair of garters attached to stockings which ended in high heels. He hands were stretched out behind her, gripping her ass. She was spreading it wide for him.

"Please, fuck my ass. I need it so bad!" she heard herself saying. She felt his hands at her hips, and felt the tip of his cock at her ass. He pressed into her, and she grunted at the feeling of pain and pleasure. "Oh yes," she moaned, pushing back at him. "Fill my ass with your cock!"

She turned her head so that he could see her expressions of lust as he pumped into her. Her body trembled with ecstasy, and she bucked back at him.

She looked around her even as she screamed with her first orgasm. There was no room beyond the bed, only a standing lamp that had neither a cord to plug it in nor a switch to turn it on.

He began to buck at her even harder, and she met every thrust with one of her own. Her second orgasm ripped through her. The feel of her ass quivering around his cock tipped him over the edge, and he began to come, shooting into her. He pulled out of her, and the last ropes of his come landed across her ass. She scooped up a bit with her finger, and brought it to her eager lips. He collapsed next to her on the bed, closing his eyes.

The bed slipped out from underneath her.

She was walking down an aisle of a movie theater. The light from the flickering screen touched her body lovingly, showing every curve of her body, which was encased in a body-hugging black dress. It was the back row, and she had it all to herself, except for a one man.

She sat two seats down from him. She looked around the theater. The images that were projected on the screen were indistinct at best. She could distinguish nothing in the soundtrack. It was simply noise. The theater was well populated, but she noticed that all the people looked the same. They had no features, just eyes that stared at the screen.

She turned her attention to the man seated near her. She saw that he was looking at her, and she smiled at him invitingly. He raised his eyebrows, and she licked her teeth. He smiled at her knowingly. It was all the invitation she needed.

She stood up and moved closer to him. She saw that he was already fumbling at his pants. She licked her lips and dropped to her knees. She could feel the sticky floor, and bits of discarded popcorn pressed into her legs. She got between his legs as he pulled out his hard cock. She looked into his eyes and again licked her lips, feeling the slick smoothness of her lipstick.

Eagerly she leaned forward and encircled his cock with her mouth. He buried his hands in her hair, but let her keep her own pace. Feeling the lust grow inside her, she began bobbing up and down on him. Despite her fear of being discovered, she moaned hungrily as she slurped him. She buried one hand between her own legs.

He was moaning, thrusting slightly into her mouth. As the first spurts of his come landed on her tongue, she came. She sucked him deep into her mouth, milking him and swallowing hungrily. As his orgasm subsided, she gave him one last gentle lick. He looked down at her, and she smiled up at him in satisfaction.

She stood. Giving him one last hungry look, she walked back down the aisle. She could feel his eyes on her, and she let her hips swing with every step.

The theater filled with fog.

"Good," she said, grinning. "Then we understand each other. I expect your letter of resignation tomorrow." She was looking into the face of an angry man seated before her. He was dressed in a business suit, and had carefully trimmed hair. An employee. She felt the story flood her mind. She felt her powerful position, her contempt for those who worked for her. She felt her own ambitious climb to the top, her backstabbing, her lies.

"That will be all, I think," she told him. She smoothed her ladylike business suit. She could feel her hair pulled up into a twist on her head, the thin glasses perched on her nose. Her skirt was perhaps a bit short for a business setting, her heels perhaps a bit tall.

She turned away from him, dismissing him. Facing her desk, she noticed a book sitting there. The title was illegible. She opened the cover and ruffled the pages. They were all blank.

Suddenly she felt hands behind her, pushing her until she was laying across the desk.

"You bastard! Let me go!"

But he didn't let her go. Instead he held her struggling body against the desk effortlessly. As she tried to free herself, she felt her glasses fall to the floor. The twist in her hair came loose, and her hair tumbled in waves across her shoulders.

He pulled at her blazer until her arms were pinned behind her. He yanked at her blouse, and she heard the buttons bursting. He grabbed her bra and ripped it free. Her breasts were exposed to the air, and she felt her nipples harden.

She felt him pushing her skirt up around her waist. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Keeping one hand on her hip, he began fondling her breasts with the other. She cursed him and struggled, but she was helpless. Her hands were still trapped behind her, and her feet didn't quite reach the floor.

She felt his cock probing her, and suddenly he was inside her. "You bitch," he grunted as he began to fuck her violently.

Against her will she felt the lust build inside her. The idea came to her suddenly that it had been a long time since she had had sex. She had been too busy with her career. Instead of struggling, she began to push back against him. Her cries of rage turned into cries of lust. Her body rippled with what seemed like an endless stream of orgasms. She didn't even notice when he pulled out and slammed back in, this time in her ass.

Soon he was coming inside her, pounding her hips into the edge of the desk. When he was finished, he pulled out of her and zipped up his pants. He left the office with her still panting and writhing on the desk, her skirt bunched around her waist and her hands trapped behind her back.

Just as her secretary discovered her, the office grew hazy.

She was walking on marble tile. She looked at her feet, wondering just how tall the heels were this time. But her feet were encased in soft leather sandles. A flowered skirt swirled around her ankles. A dark cabled sweater was pushed up slightly to her elbows. It hung down to just below her bottom.

She felt pressure in her hand, and she turned to see what it was. She recognized him immediately, her heart squeezing out a happy rhythm. They were holding hands. He was smiling at her, and she felt his love flowing through the palm of his hand.

"Hello!" she said. He gave her a strange look, but said, "Hello."

She stopped and took his other hand as well. "You were right," she said earnestly. "I didn't believe you, but you were right."

He nodded at her. He led her over to a bench and the two of them sat down. "You remember?" he asked her.

"Yes, I remember all of it. But I don't understand, what am I doing here with you?"

He laughed gently. "You're my fantasy, of course."

"But, you don't ..." She blushed, thinking of the flickering lights of the movie theater.

"Oh, I'm not so innocent," he told her. "But right now ..." He looked sad, and slightly embarassed. "Right now I'm lonely. I'm craving something more than the flesh."

She nodded. She felt the story--his story for her--pressing into her mind. Long conversations, candlelight dinners, warm feelings.

"What is your name?" she asked him, his answer suddenly very important to her.

He smiled. "Michael."

"You must give me a name."

"Oh, I, I'm no good at that. A name? You choose one for yourself."

"I don't know any names ..."

She felt a press of names invading her mind. She was frightened, and tried to feel for a preference from him, but she felt nothing. She had to choose alone.

She put out her hand, and they shook hands. "It's nice to meet you, Michael," she said. "I'm Julia."

"Hello, Julia." He smiled at her.

She looked around. The walls were stark white. Track lights shined brightly on canvasses that were hung here and there. People stood in front of the paintings, examining them. "Where are we?"

"In a museum," he responded. "Corny, maybe, but, I don't know." He shrugged. "A nice intellectual activity."

"Which museum?"

"I don't know. What kind of art do you like?"

She laughed. "Michael, I don't *know* any art."

She felt a flood of art history. It was eclectic, highly rich in some areas, deficient in others. He smiled at her apologetically. "It's all I know."

"Sculpture," she said. "I think I prefer three dimensions."

The room around her changed. Statues stood where moments ago canvasses hung. The people didn't seem to notice, and went on studying the works.

Delighted, she stood and walked over to the nearest one. "The Prodigal Son," she said to him, looking over her shoulder. "Rodin."

He grinned. "I wrote a paper about it in college."

Hand in hand they walked through the museum together. It was warm and comfortable between them. She became aware slowly that the sculptures were becoming less distinct, more general. When she was sure of it, she turned to him.

Inexplicably, he was standing on a dock. The museum faded, leaving statues on the beach. "I kicked my goggles into the water," he told her. "I better go fetch them."

"No!" she cried, reaching out for him. "Don't fall asleep!"

But it was too late. He had turned, and was diving into the water. A wave overtook her. He was gone.

Heels again. This time, fishnet stockings ending in rubber garters. A tight rubber bra was wrapped around her chest. Her nipples protruded through thoughtfully placed holes. She felt some kind of collar around her neck.

Her arm was raised above her, mid-swing. In front of her was a naked man bent over a bar. His wrists were cuffed to his ankles. Before she knew it, her arm came down. She was gripping a riding crop, which now made contact with his bare ass, leaving an angry red stripe. His body shuddered, and she heard him grunt.

Rather than lift her arm again for a second stroke, she stood looking at the crop in her hand. She felt the collar at her throat. It had sharp spikes coming out of it.

She looked at the man. He was waiting tensely for her to continue. She could see the muscles beneath his skin twitching.

"This is ridiculous," she said, throwing down the riding crop. "I don't want to do this!"

The man stood up, his wrists seeming to melt through the cuffs, and leaned on the bar. He looked at her in angry amazement.

"What?" he sputtered, incredulous. "What did you say?" He looked as if he though she were crazy, or worse, as if *he* were crazy.

"I won't do this," she said. "I don't want to stand here and *beat* you like some ..."

She was on a table. Her knees were spread wide and strapped into stirrups. Her wrists were cuffed together and held far above her head. She was naked, except for a pair of mean-looking clamps that were secured to her nipples.

She looked up at her wrists. The handcuffs that she wore were bright and shiny, but she noticed with some amusement that there were no keyholes. She gave a snort of contempt.

She looked between her legs. There was a man standing there looking at her. He was grinning cruelly. He was naked, and his erection was enormous. His cock was at least a foot long, and what seemed like half a foot in diameter.

"Are you insecure about the size of your penis?" she asked him calmly, trying not to laugh.

He could say nothing. He just looked at her with dumb amazement. As she watched, the image of his cock changed. It grew smaller, thinner, until it was a normal size.

She couldn't help herself. The folly of men! The myth of size! She began to laugh. Tears were pouring out of her eyes. She laughed and laughed, as the man stared at her. The room began to fade.

"No!" she cried, no longer laughing. The room came back into sharp focus. "I want out," she told him. "I want out of here."

The fog was rolling into the room. "NO!" she screamed at him, as he was backing away from her. "I want out of here!" She was holding him there. She could feel his mind struggling, trying to free himself of her. She held on to him. The fog was growing thicker, but it was pierced here and there by bright stabs of light, and indistinct sounds of--sounds of what? He was pulling from her, but she held strong. The sounds were clearer. There were cars. There seemed to be a lot of

traffic. She was seated at a small table on the sidewalk in front of a cafe. There was a single strand of hair that was tickling her face. She brushed it aside.

On the ground by her feet was a large purse. She knew--she didn't have to look--that inside the purse was a wallet. There were keys as well. An old hairbrush. A wrinkled kleenex.

On the table was a glass filled with cold dark liquid. There was a book. Gingerly, she opened the book, and saw the pages filled with print. Legible print, with meaningful words. She turned the pages, and saw that they were numbered, one after the other, the odd pages on the right-hand side.

She lifted the glass to her lips. It was sweet, and she was not prepared for the funny tingle of carbonation. She took another swallow. "Coke," she said out loud, almost laughing. "It's just coke."

People were looking at her. She smiled at them self-consciously. She could feel the strap of her bra digging into her shoulder. The heel of her shoe was hurting. The wind was rustling the leaves. Soon it would be too cold for out-door cafes.

She knew that the keys in her purse were for an apartment nearby. She knew that the bed was unmade. She knew that she had left some dishes in the sink, and that the cat had enough food for the day.

She adjusted the offending bra strap. She wondered to herself if men considered that. Did they consider that a strap could be uncomfortable? That it could dig into the skin?

"Excuse me, mind if I join you?" She hadn't seen him approach, but she knew him instantly.

At first she was too startled to respond, but finally she managed, "oh, please."

He sat down. Every detail was perfect, every hair, every wrinkle. Even the mole near the right corner of his mouth. "My name is Michael."

"Hello Michael, my name is Julia. Nice to meet you."

He looked surprised. "That's funny ..."

"What is it?"

"Well ... Look, I know how this is going to sound, but I had a, um, dream, about a woman named Julia. She looked remarkably like you. That's one of the reasons I came over here." He looked embarrassed. "God, that sounds like a terrible come-on, but I promise you it's true."

"Sounds like you're prophetic," she said, soothing him.

"Listen, when you're finished with your coke, would you like to go for a walk? I mean, if you have the time. It's a beautiful day, and this weather won't be around for long ..."

"I'd love to. I'm finished now anyway." She lifted her book and put it in her bag.

"Rodin, huh?" he said, catching the title.

"Yes. You familiar with his work?"

"No, not really. I wrote a paper about one of his pieces in college."

"Let me guess, The Prodigal Son."

"Yes! But how did you ..."

"Lucky guess. Shall we?"

They rose and made their way through the maze of tables. She saw a man staring at her intently. When she took a second look, she began to laugh to herself. Diverting her path slightly, she went over to his table. She leaned towards him, and whispered in his ear, "Handcuffs have keyholes."

When she rejoined Michael, he asked almost jealously, "What was that?"

"Oh nothing," she said, taking his arm. "Just an old friend."

The End