Writing fiction doesn't pay much, and you give up a lot when you try to be a writer. Money, the things other people have, even family—you can pretty much kiss all that goodbye. But there are compensations. Your life's maybe not as wide as most people's, but it's deeper, and sometimes it's more interesting. You're always trying to explain and describe things to yourself, and so you see things other people miss and feel things most people are too busy to bother with.

I know, because when this story takes place, I was living in an unconverted loft in a seedy part of the city, right smack up against the L tracks. So close that I could stand at my window in my underwear and stare eye to eye with the people riding to work in the morning and coming home at night, and I could see their eyes didn't go very deep. I was writing mostly porn at the time, and I knew they were reading it, but you couldn't tell from their eyes.

I was also teaching a survey course poetry at Crane Community College to pay the bills, and that's where I met Emma. It was a summer session, a small class of maybe 20 students in a funny kind of miniature lecture hall, a semester's worth of work crammed into six weeks, and I was just there as temporary help—an adjunct instructor—because none of the real faculty wanted to waste their summers teaching kids who were just trying to blow their way through a survey course. Emma was a returning student in her mid- twenties. She'd dropped out of her regular four-year college for whatever reason before graduating, had done whatever she'd dropped out for for a few years, changed her mind and now worked in an office during the day and took courses at night to finish her degree.

I liked returning students. They know why they're in college and they take it seriously. They've also been out in the real world long enough that they come into the classroom with some real questions, but they're still naïve enough to think that they'll get some real answers.

Still, I never expected to connect with Emma. She seemed a bit too vain, a bit too good-looking and fashionable to have any intellectual ambitions, and her glowing tan didn't inspire a lot of confidence in her academic dedication. She was tall, very nicely built, with a lush and sumptuous woman's body—long brown hair and brown eyes, and she always dressed well. She took care of herself. She looked like a girl whose main interest was men, and who knew her own worth and thought pretty highly of herself. I had her pegged for an upper middle-management husband in a year or two, two kids and a McMansion, and incipient alcoholism starting about age 40 when she learned about her husband's affair.

That is to say, she seemed like a perfectly normal suburban girl to me. In light of what happened between us, that's important to keep in mind. She wasn't a freak, or a loser or a geek, or neurotic in any meaningful way, and in fact the work she turned in was very good. She knew how to use semicolons, which is a rarity these days bordering upon the freakish. She was a very smart girl and could have coasted through the class but she really wasn't interested in being smart and apparently had never found much use for it. What she was was something else that I still don't know how to define. Sensual? Sexual? Feminine? Submissive? Obsessed?

Some of my former students tell me I'm intimidating at the beginning of the semester, and I do like to start out pretty tight and relax as I go along, so maybe that's what got her. Or maybe it was when we started talking about Beat poetry and the sexual license and drug-use of the Beats. Maybe my own acceptance of these kinds of behaviors came through. But soon Emma was coming down the steps of the lecture hall after class to hang around the lectern with a few other students to continue the discussion or just schmooze as I put my notes away. Sometimes I'd end up walking her out of the building.

By that time she knew I wrote and was published, and when she asked me one night after class what kind of stuff I wrote, I stopped wiping down the white board and told her: "Romance". 

That wasn't entirely true, because as I said, what I was really writing at the time was pornography, BDSM mostly, savage and passionate and very graphic, pouring all my own sexual frustrations into it. I wasn't proud of this, and normally I avoided the question altogether, but that night's lecture had been about Kerouac and Ginsberg and Burroughs, drugs and sex and homosexuality, and Emma seemed to have a breathy, spellbound look about her that I wanted to be a part of, so I told her. A community college poetry instructor doesn't get many chances to impress his students.

Then she asked me if I published under my own name and I did the unthinkable. I gave her my pen name—my porn name—and I told her my stories were on the web. I even told her where to find them. 

It was an idiotic thing to do and I'm not sure why I did it. I guess I knew that I was an adjunct instructor at a crummy community college and would never have the money and prestige someone like Emma would respect, but I wanted her to know who I was inside. I wrote porn, but when I wrote it I poured my heart and soul onto the page and I knew it showed. It was powerful stuff. I guess I wanted her to know that about it.

And on top of that, I had to admit I was attracted to her. That's not uncommon when you teach college, but this was an unusual attraction. I'm a sexual dominant by nature. That doesn't mean I walk around with a whip and Nazi jackboots on, but I have a special sensitivity for women who are attracted to my type. Emma gave no sign of being submissive, but those labels are misleading anyhow. There was something about her, something I felt—maybe the way her pupils dilated when I grew stern or irritated, or the way she toyed with her hair during lecture—but I felt it.

In any case, I was there for the summer only, so what did I care? If she read my stuff and got shocked, then the hell with it. At least I'd have the pleasure of scandalizing her. Odds are she wouldn't even remember my pen name or wouldn't bother looking up my stories anyhow.

There happened to be an hourly exam during the next class session, so I really didn't get to talk with her before then. I just passed out the blue books and they got to work. She kept her head down and began writing, and I leaned against the lectern and kept a casual eye on the kids, but I couldn't keep my eyes off those long legs now, or the heavy thrust of her breasts against her cotton tee, the way she twisted her hair in her fingers as she concentrated. One time she looked up and caught me staring at her, and she seemed to hold my eyes a bit longer than necessary before returning to her test. There might have been a slight smile on her lips or I might have imagined it.

The students turned in their bluebooks one by one and filed out, and Emma kept her eyes down discreetly as she slid hers onto the pile, but when I got back to the office I was using, I turned to hers first, and on the second page, outlined in a square of pencil with hearts in the corner it said. "I read your cheerleader story! It was incredible!!! Is it for real??? --Curious!!! M."

The "curious" was underlined three times.

I sat there in the office with my heart in my mouth. I knew the story she meant, of course. It was a toss-off—no real plot, written for a BDSM site: a teasing college cheerleader is abducted and tied up in the deserted gym by the football coach who slowly strips off her clothes and does all sorts of thoroughly rude and nasty things to her, which she of course loves. It wasn't my greatest piece of work, but the parallels to our current situation gave me chills.

I graded the other tests quickly, hardly concentrating as I turned over various responses in my head. By the time I got to Emma's test, I went to her little message, and where she'd written, "Is it for real???" I wrote in red pen, "As I've been telling you all semester, one writes what one knows."

It was a good test but no better than a B. I gave her an A minus and, with my hand almost trembling, wrote. "This grade is negotiable."

I left the tests outside my office where the students could pick them up

The next class she came in wearing a short sleeve blouse that was a bit snug and opened perhaps just one button too low, revealing the slopes of her breasts. She was wearing a skirt too. That wasn't unusual—a lot of the kids came to class straight from work, as did Emma. Maybe I'd just never noticed before.

She didn't sit in her usual place either, high up near the aisle. The lecture hall was a miniature auditorium that had seats and tables bolted to the concrete floor, rising in steep tiers, and Emma slid into a seat in the center of the fourth tier up so that her knees were on a level with my eyes. Her placement was so blatant it was almost comical, and I might have laughed had we been alone or further along in our relationship, but at this point there was nothing between us, and when I'd look up from my lecture and see her knees casually apart and the hem of her skirt up as she idly scratched her thigh, I'd actually start to stutter.

She wasn't taking notes though she pretended to be. I could tell. She'd doodle on her pad, or lean back and stretch and push her shoulders back, straining the buttons on her blouse. She'd cross her legs and pull her skirt up, and her knees and the bottom of her thigh seemed to itch a lot. Whenever I'd look up at her, her head would be down, but she did everything except fellate her pen and put her hands between her legs.

When the class ended, I said, "Emma? Could I see you for a few minutes?"

She had to wait while I explained some other students' grades to them, and then she gathered up her books and slid out of her chair and came down to the podium. Maybe my description of her behavior and clothes made her sound cheap, but I assure you, she didn't look cheap. She was beautiful—perfectly made up, just the faintest hint of perfume.

"Yes, Mr. Devlin?"

I collected my notes. "So you read that story?"

Her eyes lit up with a smoldering glow. "Yes. I read more too. You have a lot. That beach one and the one about the girl in the basement, and the clothes, and the one with the girl who gets kidnapped..."

I nodded, then looked her in the eye. "You know, I only told you about those stories because I trust you."

As I said, people tell me I'm an intimidating guy. I don't notice it. I'm big and strong, and I know I have a lot of anger inside, and maybe that shows when I'm being serious. But I'm not mean, and I don't mean to scare people. But something inside me felt Emma starting to respond. I couldn't say what it was—whether her breathing changed or something in her eyes or the attitude of her body, but she seemed just a little bit scared.

"Of course," she said. "I wouldn't tell anyone else, Mr. D. I mean, I don't think anyone else would understand."

"No. They wouldn't." I snapped my briefcase closed and gestured for her to follow me. "But you understood, Emma? What did you think of them?"

We walked up the stairs of the lecture hall. She was just behind me. "Well, they're very good stories. I mean, you know. They're very good. I just wondered... I mean, they're not real, are they? Those things the men do in there, the things they do to the women..."

We were at the head of the stairs now, at the exit. I snapped off the lights, leaving just the spotlights shining down on the empty lectern.

"They're real enough, Emma. They're all based on things I've done. Things I do. I've changed the settings. I've changed the characters—their names, their ages. But why do you ask?"

We were standing by the open door to the corridor. It was late, almost ten o'clock and there was no one around. Even the parking lot was deserted. Emma was standing with her back to the cinderblock wall, not knowing where to put her eyes.

"Darkness stirs my soul," I quoted. "Desires whose name I cannot speak. His flesh is within me, his raging lust upon me. I am his anger and his joy, his sickness and its cure. He shames me with my pleasure and tames me with his rage, till all dissolves between us and he sees me as I am."

"Who wrote that?" she asked nervously.

I ignored her question. "Is that how it is?"

She didn't answer. In the darkness I saw her breasts rising and falling.

"Is it?" I repeated.

Again, no answer. That was answer enough.

I put down the briefcase and swung the door closed. The hydraulic door-closers hissed softly and then the lock caught and clicked firmly shut. I knew no one would be coming in here till after midnight, and suddenly we were in this enclosed space together, a magical circle of sexual threat. Things began to work in our bodies we had no control over.

A certain amount of light still spilled from the glass panel in the door into the darkened auditorium, but that just made the real world feel that much farther away. I put my hand on the wall next to her head and leaned over her. I had no doubt about her now, and I knew my eyes were glowing as I stared at her. I knew who she was like a fox knows a rabbit.

"You've been like this all your life, haven't you?" I asked. "The things that were in those stories, they've been exciting you since before you even knew what sex was."

The rabbit looked at the fox and saw there was no point in lying. "How did you know?"

"Because I'm the same way."

I took the books from her hands and tossed them on a table.

"Come here. Away from the door."

I led her a few feet into the auditorium, away from the square of light from the door. She was still standing with her back to the wall and I leaned over her again, keeping her trapped. Her eyes were shining with something between fear and excitement, her lips parted and glistening.

"Lift up the front of your skirt," I said.

"What?! Mr. Devlin—!" She looked shocked.

"Just do as I say. Lift it up and it hold it at your waist."

There was a moment where our wills collided and we just stared at each other, but I knew in my heart that she wanted this. I don't know how I knew, but I knew. I felt my will overcome hers and felt her give in, like a fist closing over her. Her hands went to her skirt and she began to gather up the fabric.

"All your life you've been dying for someone to know," I said to her. "You've needed to tell someone, you've prayed for someone to treat you like this. You've ached for it, Emma, haven't you?"

Her skirt was gathered above her panties now, and my right hand made contact with her bare thigh, midway between knee and groin, smooth and warm as the summer sun. She closed her eyes. Her nostrils flared.

"No," she said. "No."

"You've dreamt about a man who would show you what you are inside, who would make you feel what you're capable of feeling, because you know there's so much inside, don't you? You know there's so much more..."

My fingertips slid up her thigh, slowly working around to reach the inside as I approached her crotch, stroking first one leg, then the other, petting her as if she were a frightened animal. My body was very close to hers now, almost touching her. I could see her breasts rising and falling in the dim light.

Suddenly she put her hands on my shoulders and her skirt dropped over my wrist like a curtain. I kept my hand where it was between her legs.

"No," I said quietly. "There are rules here, Emma, and the first one is: you don't touch me. Not without permission. I touch you, but you don't touch me, understand? Now pick up your skirt."

She took her hands off my shoulders and lifted her skirt again, revealing her snug panties and the smooth plane of her belly, tanned as dark as her legs.

I brought my hand up and stroked her pussy through the smooth synthetic of her panties and she shuddered. I felt her legs quiver. Her cunt was warm and soft and humid and I could feel her anatomy perfectly through the thin fabric—her swollen labia, the bump of her clit.

"It's good to be touched, isn't it?" I asked her. "It feels good to have someone else touch you, someone who knows what he's doing. She likes me. She likes being touched. I can tell because she's getting wet. She's getting wet and she's opening like a little flower."

I pushed my finger against her and felt the fabric give over her hole. It was warm in there and hot, and a thick, sticky oil began to moisten the thin fabric. Emma leaned against the wall standing perfectly still, breathing fast and shallow, holding her skirt up as I'd ordered, exposing her pussy to my depredations. She had beautiful hands and elegant nails, but now they were squeezing the skirt so hard they were almost shaking. It was so quiet I could almost hear her clothes move as she breathed.

"What are you going to do?" she asked nervously. "What are you going to do to me?"

It was fairly obvious what I was going to do standing there with my fingers on her pussy, but I knew she wanted to hear the words. That's no problem., Words are my specialty.

I slid my fingers up and down her slit, forcing the fabric against her cunt. I found the bud of her clit and bore down on it, then eased up and let my fingertip flicker against it like a little flame. Emma moaned and then took a deep, shuddering gasp.

"Oh yes!" she hissed. "There! Right there!"

"Who's giving the orders?" I asked, pretending to be offended. I stopped flicking and started a slow, gentle massage of her clit, alternating it with stroking the length of her pussy.

"This is between me and your pussy, Emma," I said. "You're just along for the ride, because you're attached. But me and her, we have an understanding. She likes what I'm doing and she knows I'm going to make her come, and she wants to come very much. She wants to come right in my hand as I play with her, and that's what we're going to do, right here, right in this class room. I'm going to play with that little whore pussy and make her come, Emma, and make you come too, understand?"

"Oh God!" she moaned, clenching her teeth against the pleasure as I rubbed her clit.

It was terribly lewd, just filthy, this beautiful young woman leaning against the wall of the darkened classroom with her legs apart, holding her skirt up for me as I masturbated her. I pushed the crotch band of her panties to the side and my fingers touched her naked flesh, soft and dripping. Emma was panting now, and I could feel her buttocks flexing unconsciously in a reflexive fucking motion as I fingered her clit and teased the inside of her cunt.

"Take your right hand," I said, "and unbutton your blouse."

Her fingers were shaking as she did as I said.

"Another button."

The second button was at nipple level. The inner slopes of her breasts were visible now, full and ripe, encased in a smooth, sexy bra. My fingers were still playing in her pussy, holding the crotch of her panties aside with my ring finger while my middle finger played in her hole and my thumb and first finger slid around her clit. I leaned my head down so I could smell her perfume and began to lick the warm smoothness of her breasts.

Emma was perfect—perfect. She stood there and let me play in her soaking pussy and lick her tits, holding her skirt in her hands, either afraid to move or too enraptured—too thrilled by the way I toyed with and manipulated her. I'd been right. My feelings about her had been totally right. She was a woman who needed to be used, pleasured, violated, one of those women who can only give when it's taken from them—the kind of woman who drove me absolutely crazy.

"How is it, Emma? How is it?" I asked her, as I slid my fingers into her cunt. "You're going to come, aren't you, bitch? You're going to come for me, right in my fucking hand."

"Oh God," she moaned. "No! No!"

But her hips were bucking up at me now as I fingered her and her thighs were flexing, pushing that soft hairless pussy onto my plundering fingers, giving it to me, a perfect whore for what I was doing.

"You love it, don't you Emma! You love it!"

She looked at me in panic and I saw she was losing it. The excitement of being fingered and played with like a hot little whore was more than she could stand, and the hidden slut was coming out, wild, hungry and uninhibited.

It's magic when you have a woman like this—absolute magic. The hotter she gets, the more you want to do to her because you know it's turning her on, the shame, the loss of control. I wanted to give her more, so I reached behind her with my other hand and lifted the back of her skirt, worked my hand under the back of her panties and pressed a finger against her puckered asshole.

"Oh, Mr. D! Don't!" She gasped, pressing her head back against the wall, but I could feel her buttocks clenching on my finger as she fucked her pussy against me in helpless excitement.

"Give it to me, bitch!" I hissed as I leaned my weight against her. "Give it to me! Look at what I'm doing to you. Go on, look!"

I moved back enough to give her room so she could look down and see the way her hips were pushed out and pumping obscenely as my fingers slid in and out of her cunt. "Oh God!" she moaned, shamed by the sheer lasciviousness of her own degradation.

I grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, making her arch her back as my fingers stroked her cunt. I studied her face, seeing her lose it, seeing the look of raw animal lust on her features.

"Hold onto me now, Emma! Hold onto me as you come!"

Her thighs were trembling, her legs growing weak. She dropped her skirt and held onto my shoulder with one hand, while with the other she grabbed the hand that was fucking her pussy and used it like a dildo, fucking herself, far beyond self-consciousness or shame.

"Yes!" she screamed. "Yes! Yes! YESSS!!!!"

I was afraid her screams would attract attention, so I took my hand from her ass and covered her mouth as she shrieked out her obscene pleasure, her pussy pumping, her internal muscles pulling at me as she humped and jerked and came. And came and came and came.

Chapter 2

For a long, expectant moment Emma clung to me, in the darkened auditorium, her hips still writhing in the aftermath of her orgasm, her eyes closed and yet a look of unmistakable sensual satisfaction spread across her face. It was almost as if she were two different people, as if her pussy no longer took orders from her mind. I could feel her sense of relief, not only at her orgasmic explosion but that her secret was out at last, that I'd seen her most hidden needs, but covering that was a deep shame and quivering fear of what I'd think of her now that she'd revealed herself. Perhaps her pleasure had been worth it, but now it remained to be seen what I thought of her and how I'd treat her—whether I'd lost all respect for her.

She opened her eyes cautiously, her chest still heaving as she gasped for breath, afraid to look at me, afraid of what she'd see, and I knew that if I wanted to throw her down on one of the tables and fuck her blind like my body was urging me to do right then she could hardly stop me, but that would be the end of things between us. She'd see the whole experience as nothing more than a seduction and semi-rape and write me off as someone who saw her as nothing more than a slut and a whore and an easy piece of ass, and that was the last thing I wanted.

"Are you all right?" I asked her.

She nodded uncertainly. Her hand was still clutching her skirt up, and now I pulled it from her grasp and lowered it, then smoothed it over her thighs. I reached up and she flinched as I started to button her blouse, then she took over for me and finished it herself.

"Are you ashamed?"

She shook her head in denial, but I could see tears in her eyes.

To have said anything more at the time would have been wrong, would have seemed patronizing. To have held her against me and let her feel my erection and need would have been wrong as well, but to hold her protectively, to shield her from her own feelings—to at least try—that I could do, and I put one arm around her and cradled her head against my chest.

She was stiff and brittle and I felt her heart racing against me.

"This isn't the casual thing you think, Emma," I said. "You don't know how long I've been thinking about you, wondering if you might be the one, if you had the gift."

"Gift?" Her voice was small and uncertain.

"Yes. Gift. What you gave me tonight was a gift, and you have no idea what it means to me. I don't want this to be a one time thing. I don't want this to be the last time."

She lifted her head away from my chest and looked at the floor. "No," she said. "It's wrong. There's something wrong with me and I know it. I shouldn't be like this and I shouldn't want these things and I try not to. I try not to think about them because I know they're wrong."

"No," I said. I grabbed her head and made her look at me. "It's not wrong. It's not wrong at all. You read my stories, They're real Emma. Maybe not what happened in there, but the feelings are real. Like poetry. Is there something wrong with me too, then? Is there something wrong because we feel so deeply?"

"But no one else—"

"Fuck everyone else. What do they know? You've seen those zhlubs in class, how the words go right by their heads. What do they know? What do most of the people in the world know? You feel, Emma. You feel much more deeply than most of the people in the world do, and it's a gift. You think it's a sickness but it's a gift, and I want to show you how to use it. You don't know what kind of treasure you have inside, but I do. Look— Grab your books and come with me. Come on..."

I picked up my briefcase and Emma took a moment to wipe her eyes and straighten her clothes, then retrieved her books and I held the door for her. We walked out into the hallway where the lights were already mostly off for the cleaning crew. Far down the corridor someone was vacuuming the carpet, and now that we were out in public our recent intimacy seemed to tie us even more closely together.

I walked her over to one of the plate glass windows that looked out onto the woods beyond the parking lot and the glow of the suburbs, the strings of highways lights leading off into the darkness. The moon was up, looking pale and confused.

"You look at that and what do you feel?" I asked. I didn't wait for her to answer. "You feel the night inside you, something dark and delicious, full of secrets and beauty, something beyond words or your ability to express it, don't you, Emma? I know you do."

She stared out the window, her eyes large and luminous. "Yes." She nodded, then smiled privately. "But I've always been weird."

"Yeah. And I've always been weird too." I smiled back. "But those feelings are real, and I can show you how to reach them, how to experience them. I can bring the night inside, Emma. All those things you've dreamed of? I can make them real, and you know what? They're even better in reality than they are in your imagination. They're much, much better."

I took her arm and led her down the corridor to my office and unlocked the door. She stood in the corridor looking nervously inside, and I knew all I had to do was order her inside and she'd follow. I'd lock the door and keep the lights off and tell her to lean over the desk and she would, then I'd open my pants and take out my aching cock, push her skirt up over her hips and pull her panties to the side and thrust it into her. God, I'd go in so smooth! She'd still be wet and ready and she'd gasp. Her knuckles would grip the edge of the cheap metal desk and she'd start to rock back and forth as I fucked her, moaning softly, and she'd drop her head in female submission as I held her hips and guided her up and back, plundering her pussy with my thick tool before I threw my head back in rapture and shot my heavy load into her.

Yeah. I could have all that right then and there, and my dick was aching for it, but that's not what I wanted. I wanted a lover, not a piece of ass, someone who was in this as deeply as I was, and for that, I needed for her to want me too. I had to leave her wanting more.

I put my briefcase down on the desk and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind me, and saw the trace of disappointment on her face as the lock clicked shut. She wanted it even though she knew she shouldn't want it, and that was perfect.

"Come on," I said. "I'll walk you to your car."

"I'm parked right outside."

"That's okay. I just have something to tell you."

The lots were empty for the evening classes during the summer, so we were pretty much alone. Emma drove a nice car, white and sporty. The summer air was warm and balmy and the wind rustled through the poplars. It all looked so normal and suburban and collegiate.

"Next class," I said, "Wear a skirt and no panties, understand? If you want to go further with this, if you want me to show you what I know, wear a skirt with no panties and sit where you've been sitting so I can see. That's how I'll know you've agreed. Can you do that?"

She looked at me and I saw her nostrils flare slightly. "You're serious?"

"I'm very serious."

"But you don't know anything about me."

"I know enough. The rest I really don't care about. Who do you live with? Your parents?"

"No," she said. "Some girlfriends. We share an apartment."

"Well tell them you'll be late next Thursday. You're going out for drinks after class."

Emma opened her car and stopped. "I don't know anything about you either."

"Like what?"

"Are you married? Have a girlfriend?"

"No and no."

"How can I get a hold of you?"

"You can't. I don't want to be chatting on the phone and trading life stories, but here, I'll give you my address and cell number. Just don't use them except in emergencies, okay?"

I write them down in her notebook as she watched.

"You live in the city?" she asked.

"Yes. In a loft. It's nice. Maybe you'd like to see it sometime?"

Emma closed her notebook and gave me flirty smile. "Yes. Maybe I would."

I watched her red tail lights as she drove away, then I went back into the building and into my office. I kept the lights off, spun my chair away from the door, unbuckled my pants and pulled down my zipper. The fingers of my right hand still smelled like Emma's pussy, and the memory of her soft, slippery flesh was still upon them. More, I could clearly see her face as she struggled to hold onto her composure as I masturbated her, see the female animal within her struggling to break through the inhibitions and the smooth, American-model California perfect make-up. I could see the dark female need behind that sunny artificial wholesomeness—the even white teeth that needed to bite, the painted and glossed lips that needed to suck and open in a scream of ecstasy, the sloppy, throbbing cunt beneath her cute, up-to-date clothes.

That was it—the savage, the wild, feral female, lust-crazed, dizzy with orgasm. That's what I wanted, and my hand pumped my cock as I thought of her arched in pleasure, tied hand and foot, surrendering to the sensations I caused her, pushing out her orgasms at me one after another like something she had to get rid of, and then the burning, tingling, ecstasy was on me and I spurt my come for her in hot, impotent bursts catching the jets in my other palm to keep it from splattering all over my pants.