TRIGGER WARNING:

SELF-HARM

Discussion of SUICIDAL IDEATION

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Foreword and Acknowledgements

As I mentioned, Arie and Brandon  was my first real brush with success as a purveyor of internet smut. (It wasn't my first such story, or even my first such story to be released, but the others aren't worth mentioning.) As I continued to work with these characters, I got more and more ambitious with what I planned to put them through and how I planned to relate it. I remember sitting down and making an outline, almost a spreadsheet, for this story: I took each of my six plot threads, chopped them up into segments, and then put those segments together to get a single day of story. It resulted in something similar to how modern television handles its season-long arcs: gradual but steady motion, touching upon each plot thread but not necessarily progressing it much. At the end of the day, this was—in fact, it still is—the single most complicated story I had ever attempted, and I'm proud of how it came out.

This story solidified my need to outline. I've since tried writing stories where I didn't have a clear sense of where it was going: most of the time they collapsed and I abandoned them. (Heck, sometimes even when I do  have an outline, it still isn't enough.) That said, my outlines typically consist of only a couple of sentences per chapter, which gives me a lot of freedom in the execution. I know where  I'm trying to go, but the route itself is unplanned, which can yield unexpected and surprising results. For instance, the outline for the seventh part of Saturday is just, "[Arie] Makes up with Derek, and they sneak off together for some make-up sex." The scene as it actually landed on the page is a lot different... and, in my opinion, a lot better. I'm glad I left myself space to do something more interesting.

That said, this is where I started really butting heads with the format. The fact that I was dropping in on these characters for a mere seven days meant that everything of consequence needed to happen during  those seven days. (Here's another reason why spacing out the resolutions, or coming into certain plotlines already in motion, would have been interesting.) I always tried to have a vaguely realistic cadence for my characters' progression, but the conventions of the format still mandated some implausible swings. It also limited my ability to make certain statements or show certain things that require long exposure to really describe.

Another problem I had with the format was handling chapters. These days erotica has leaned into the subscription model: Nick Scipio and Jay Cantrell release a certain number of words per day on a very regular cadence, which is effective at creating routine and habit. But back in '04, we'd release all the events of a single day in one huge novella. But the novellas were still meant to be treated as one larger work. This results in situations where the first chapter of the Tuesday novella is, say, Chapter 7, which drives my OCD nuts. So I did the name-of-day, chapter-of-day thing. Apparently, these are my calling card: some of the emails I got on my stories were complaints about them! Oh well: if that's all someone can complain about, I'm doing a pretty good job.

But I still wasn't in the clear. Remember, the original NIS stories had only one main character, one narrator, per story. Don Lockwood's revolution was to add a second narrator, immediately giving himself more narrative options... but also logistical complications in making sure The Reader could follow the story from narrator to narrator. Don solved it in two ways. The first was to switch narrators at every chapter break. His other method was to arrive at (or perhaps borrow) the same solution George. R. R. Martin employs in A Song of Ice and Fire : he named each chapter after  its narrator.

My problem was that both of these solutions were at cross-purposes with my own goals. From the start I was playing with structure: the first day of Arie and Brandon  is narrated solely by Brandon, and the last solely by Arie. This was intended as a way of passing the baton—between the two, Brandon is much closer to the audience's expectations of an erotic-fiction protagonist, whereas Arie encapsulates of the tone of my contributions to NIS—as well as to hide my concerns about my ability to give Arie a consistent and believable voice. Meanwhile, the naming solution was out because I wanted the freedom to not tell The Reader who was narrating until I  was ready for them to know. This brought me naturally to the practice of having each character introduce themselves within the first few paragraphs of their chapter. I'm not sure I like it better—it raises metaphysical questions about how we're getting this testimony out of their heads, which the whole "We're writing a log afterwards" idea —but it opened the door to this  story, in which Arie and Brandon narrate chapters despite not being title characters. (To underline their status as supporting characters, I restricted them to a single chapter during the school week. The weekend is divided evenly amongst the four of them.)

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A huge big thank-you to fellow author and native French speaker Alienor  for saving Monday's dialogue; I tried AltaVista Babelfish originally and was assured that it produces total gibberish. (Remember, this was written in those ancient bygone days before Google Translate.) Ali was kind enough to provide more appropriate translations. Also, the Dr. Moreau reference was pointed out to me by a fan, and I've decided to use it. It wasn't intentional, I just named the character that because I liked it; but that's how it turned out. A big IOU to Nick Scipio , who allowed me to, ah, borrow  the name "Faith Bennett" for my character. "Good writers borrow, great writers steal," is how he put it. (Amusing how his Faith Bennett is so different from mine.) Finally, a huge thank-you to my friend VWL for adding a woman's touch to Arie's conflict with Trina.

Things you can quote me on: Derek isn't joking about the Transformers thing. The dimension is generally known as Hammerspace because anime  heroines frequently produce Cadillac-sized mallets from a similar source. (This may explain why Michael Bay redesigned them so thoroughly.) There is  a Male Pill being worked on, and it would work as described in this story, but other things--particularly the Vasalgel polymer injection and the Bimek SpermSwitch--are further along in development.

Do not  quote me on my daily sperm production figures; those are pure conjecture. The listed failure rate of the Female Pill (1 in 10,000) is also purely fictional and exaggerated to account for the Naked In School universe's advanced medicine; the Pill we have today fails quite a bit more frequently, though it is still the most reliable form of contraception aside from surgical sterilization. And some of the material brought into the Wednesday debate is my own speculation, though a lot of the rest of it is relatively-trustworthy scientific theory.

The Reference game continues. Bonus points to those who know the following things: the significance of the name Brandon's parents accidentally apply to Meredith; who Meredith's parents are named after; who Brandon's housekeeper is named after; who originally confused "Brandon" and "Bronson"; who originally gave off Faith's "green tree" exclamation; where Derek's garbled explosion of consonants on Thursday comes from; who invented the fictional play he's studying; who can guess who's going to star in my next two stories; and what noise a giraffe actually makes!.

An enormous thank-you to readers guns97  and Rick in Eureka MO , who each provided a comprehensive list of spelling & grammar errors and suggested corrections. I can write well enough to get by, but seriously, sometimes it's the readers who make the difference between "well enough" and "good". A thank you to you all, but to these two especially.

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M.1

Being naked is a lot less simple than it seems.

Of course, I didn't know this at the time. I rather blithely signed up only a few months after Brandon and I got together; I think I had some mad idea of boiling his blood in his veins. Which was a perfectly good idea, of course, and still is; this was during the time, you realize, when we were essentially drunk on each other. People frequently told us to get a room. Which, sometimes, we did. But in any case, I signed up in October, but got called in later May, right before my birthday, when enough time had passed and things between Brandon and I had cooled down a little—which is not to say that our love had soured, just that we had gotten a little more used to each other by then—and besides, things at that time were a lot more complicated than I expected.

Hello. My name is Meredith Levine. I'm Naked In School.

Dr. Zelvetti's office was about two-thirds full; aside from the monarch herself, the only face I recognized was Jeff Gainesborough's, whom I used to be much better friends with before Brandon came into my life. There were no other juniors in the room, so I had no idea who my partner this week might be.

That question was quickly answered when the door swung open and Derek Strong came in. Aside from Stasya, he's probably my best friend; we talk a lot online nowadays, especially where our respective significant others are involved. He grinned and sat down next to me. "So, ready to strut your stuff around for a week?"

"Me?" I said, amused. "Stuff? What stuff am I going to strut, exactly?"

"All right," he admitted, "maybe the wrong person to say that to. But I really don't think you're going to be totally ignored either."

I thought about Brandon. "No, I don't think so either."

"Does he know you're here?" Derek asked me.

"I decided to keep it secret from him," I said, smiling. "Does Arie know you're  here?"

Derek shook his head. "No time. I just got the call last night and after I got to school I had to come straight here."

You may notice that we basically assumed we'd be partnering together. We assumed this because we both knew who our real  partners would be, and it wasn't the ones Dr. Zelvetti was going to assign to us. So why bother breaking up two pairs instead of one?

At that moment, the doors opened again and the remainder of this week's contingent of juniors entered. I don't know which one startled me more. "Faith Bennett??" I said, staring.

"Bernard Castagne?" Derek said in tones of total incredulity.

"Must be parents," I said, alluding to the option for parents to put their kids through The Program.

"Must be," Derek agreed. "But that's gonna suck, isn't it? I mean, you know... Faith."

"No kidding," I said. Faith is a beautiful girl by anyone's standards—long blonde hair often looking somewhat windswept and tangled, as though she was constantly at the mercy of the elements; wide, blue-gray eyes and a smile like the breaking dawn. But she didn't have the sort of super-sized female accoutrements that seem to be in style nowadays. She's... Well, a beautiful girl , really. As opposed to, say, last week's Erica Taylor, or Stasya, who are very much beautiful women .

"And pairing her with Bernard?" Derek said. "That's gonna be harsh. If anyone looks at him crosswise he practically darts under a table."

"And sometimes he has trouble holding onto his temper," I murmured.

"Yeah, if by 'Sometimes' you mean 'Always,' " Derek said, which was unkind but entirely accurate. "Not to mention you can't tell what he's thinking. Those are the biggest glasses I've ever seen."

"You can't even call them glasses ," I said. "You have to call them spectacles ." They were simply too large, and, along with the world's most virulent case of acne, they dominated his face.

"That'll be a nasty pairing," Derek said. "I wonder what Dr. Zelvetti's thinking."

We should have known better.

Within a few moments, most of the remaining participants had filtered in, and Dr. Zelvetti began the proceedings. She handed out whistles and pamphlets and went over the four rules: enforced nakedness; mandatory participation in class activities structured to take advantage of one's nakedness; the infamous Reasonable Request; and, last but not least, Relief. The Pamphlet had been updated with a fifth rule, involving the use of the safety whistles. She also explained the personal accounts we'd be required to write (this thing, in other words) and turn in, a tradition that had been born out of the firestorm surrounding Arie's and Brandon's experiences in The Program. Then she began naming off Program partners. As each person's name was called, they would stand and drop trou (and just about everything else), and then meet their partner. I wondered why Dr. Zelvetti had chosen to do it that way, creating a situation of inequality—one Partner naked and one clothed when they first met each other. Admittedly it was a very short interval, but nonetheless.

The seniors went first; the four of them were checked out quickly. Then it was our turn.

"Meredith Levine," said Dr. Zelvetti.

And so I stood up, shrugged off my backpack, stepped out of my shoes, took off my shirt and pants, took off my bra and panties, put them all in the juniors' clothes box at the foot of Dr. Zelvetti's desk, returned to my seat, and, conscious of the fact that everyone could see my pubic hair, waited for Dr. Zelvetti to call Derek's name.

She did... But she mispronounced it "Bernard Castagne."

Bernard stood up and shucked off his Star Trek t-shirt and pants and underwear. And that was it. Except for Derek's surprised stare.

There wasn't much of a crowd outside the Homer building, which honestly didn't surprise me; Dr. Zelvetti had set a trend, back when she picked Arie and Brandon, of paying special attention to the outcasts, the minorities, the non-entities around this politic and well-governed body we call high school. Nobody was interested in the geeks and the nerds and the throwbacks. So there was a small crowd hanging around waiting for us—mostly guys (and a few girls) hoping to cop a quick feel—but not much else.

The most unnerving thing happened at that point. Bernard and I successfully navigated the gauntlet of the lecherous, which wasn't as hard as it sounds; most of them were deterred by Bernard's total lack of physique and my total lack of boobs. So, in a spare moment, I said to him, "So tell me, Bernard, how'd you get into The Program anyway?"

In general, when one starts a conversation with somebody, one expects to be answered. So I was understandably irked when I received no answer. I turned, meaning to drive my point home— And realized he wasn't standing next to me anymore. A very quick scan of the vicinity revealed that he wasn't anywhere there either. It was like he had just gotten swallowed by a hole in the ground, except that there were none nearby, or dove into a bush, except that there were none of those  nearby either . It was extremely disconcerting. I felt like a tumbleweed should have come rattling by.

When Faith and Derek came out, I was leaning in what I hoped was an unconcerned manner against the railing, trying to look like everything was normal. Derek, likewise a casualty of underdeveloped physique, was regurgitated by the crowd quite quickly and came over to see me. "Hey. What happened? Where's your partner?"

"He's disappeared," I said. "He may have turned invisible."

Derek blinked at my matter-of-fact tone.

"Where's yours?" I asked.

"Still in there somewhere," Derek said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

"Err. Derek, I hate to be a worrywart, but... Is that safe?"

A startled look flashed across his face. "You know, you've got a point, she being who she is... Hey. Hey! Excuse me, let me through, I'm her partner..."

Derek waded into the sea of humanity and was quickly lost to view. Only a moment later an unexpected set of arms circled around my waist. A voice growled in my ear: "God, I love the smell of fresh girl in the morning."

I burst out laughing. "You what! "

"Well, sorry , I only had about three seconds to come up with a pick-up line," and Brandon and I laughed together.

Arie was there too, looking around in confusion. "Where's Derek? Shouldn't he have been let out already?"

"Derek's somewhere in there," I said, waving my hand haphazardly at the crowd. I wasn't going to be put off by Arie being a worrywart. I was standing next to the man I love, and his hand was in mine, and his smile was just off to one side; everything, suddenly and quite pleasingly, was now right with the world. Though he doesn't know  he's the man I love yet. We agreed, way back at the beginning, not to use the L-word until we were sure we meant it. (This was mostly because we saw Derek and Arie just flinging it around like poisoned water.) I have  meant it, for quite a while now; I just haven't said it. I wonder if he's felt it on the tip of his tongue for months the way I have.

"Derek, huh," Brandon said. "He's your partner, then?"

"No, actually, he isn't," I said.

A fleeting look of panic crossed Arie's face. "Who is his partner, then?"

"Faith Bennett," I said.

Brandon and Arie gave me identical looks, as if someone had just punched them between the eyes. " Faith Bennett, " Arie repeated.

"I know," I said, " I  didn't believe it either."

"Look, here comes Gavin," said Brandon, pointing—and, indeed, Gavin Strickland was detaching himself from the crowd around Faith and Derek. Brandon waved, and he came to join us. His new girlfriend, Erica Taylor, also wandered over from where she'd been loitering near Stetsen. "Hey guys. What's up?"

"Is that really  Faith Bennett in there," Arie asked immediately.

Gavin put on the aspect of a news reporter. "Well, Arie, eyewitness reports are sketchy, but it does appear to be Faith Bennett—"

"Faith Bennett," Erica said incredulously.

"You know," I said dryly to Brandon, "I hope we're not getting tired of hearing that name, because it's going to be blurted out many, many times before the day is done."

"How'd she get into The Program anyway," Arie asked. "It's not like she has brain cells."

"Oh, that's  nice of you," Brandon said.

"No, seriously," Arie said, wide-eyed innocence. "It's not a putdown or anything. I mean, obviously, she's still breathing and her heart's still beating, so some thing's in charge, but it's not a brain. Or else, she wouldn't be so... I dunno, out there ."

"You know, actually," Brandon said. "That's a good point."

"See, told you," Arie beamed.

"Is Faith your partner," Gavin asked me. He and Erica were another Program pairing that ended up dating. They had gone just last week. I wondered how often they  ended up sneaking off to get a room.

"No," I said.

"Well, I don't see any other naked juniors," Arie said.

"Who is  your partner," Brandon asked.

"Bernard Castagne," I said.

"Old Geek-Breath," Arie said.

"Didn't the school, like, hire him to rebuild their website," Gavin said.

"Where is he," Brandon asked.

I shrugged. "He disappeared. One minute he was standing there, the next he was gone. I guess it's some kind of nerd thing. Remember that guy with the glasses in that game we were playing, who could turn himself invisible?..."

Brandon rolled his eyes. "Meredith, dearest, how many times do I have to tell you? Video games aren't real ."

"Well, shoot," Gavin said immediately. "So that means touching flowers won't  let me throw fireballs?"

"Don't make me dump you," Erica said, sticking her tongue out at him. "Isn't that Jeff?"

"That is indeed," Gavin agreed. "Catch y'all later."

"Faith Bennett," said Arie again, once they had gone. "Will wonders never cease."

Brandon put his arm around me: "I don't know, they seem to be working out well as it is." I leaned in next to him, remembering my earlier resolution to boil his blood in his veins.

Arie gave us a glance and then rolled her eyes in exasperation. Children.  Brandon and I giggled and kissed again.

The crowd was finally starting to break up around Derek and Faith, probably due to Jeff Gainesborough's Program partner, who was a certified babe. Though she had the misfortune of being named Evergreen. Evergreen Forrest. We really wonder what her parents were thinking. In any case, Derek finally emerged from the chaos, Faith trailing behind him, most likely because he was holding her hand.

Brandon and I traded glances. Arie wouldn't like that.

"Hi guys," said Derek.

"Ahem," said Arie.

"What," said Derek.

" Ahem, " said Arie, this time glancing conspicuously at Derek's hand.

Derek looked down, seeming to notice for the first time that he was holding Faith's hand. He let it drop.

"Thank you," said Arie. Derek rolled his eyes.

"All right," Brandon said, "I think we got off on the wrong foot there. Derek, start over."

"Hi guys," Derek said obediently.

"Hey hon," Arie said pleasantly. "Where'd your clothes go?"

"I'm in The Program now," Derek said. "Dr. Zelvetti has 'em."

"And who might this fine specimen of girlhood be," Brandon asked brightly, giving a significant glance at Faith.

"I have no idea," Derek deadpanned. "But this  is my Program partner, Faith Bennett. Everybody say hello."

"Hello," we chorused obediently.

Faith turned. She had been staring at the sky. "Oh, hello," she said.

"How are you, Faith," I asked.

"Oh, I'm just fine," said Faith. "The sky makes me tingle."

We blinked at each other.

"What's so interesting about the sky anyway," Arie asked.

"It's different," said Faith, her eyes heavenward again.

"Why, is it orange?" Arie said.

"Noooo," said Faith, wide-eyed innocence. "It's tingly."

"Maybe it's because you have no clothes on," Derek suggested.

"Maybe," said Faith. "I think the sky is always tingly, but you can't feel it if you have clothes on."

She had something of a point. It's very different to stand outside with no clothes on. I was certainly feeling a tingle. Though, of course, that might have had more to do with how close Brandon was standing.

"I'm just glad it's not cloudy," I said. "Remember last week? I don't know how Gavin managed." He and Erica and Stasya and the entire crop had gotten rained on a couple of times. I'd spent the entire weekend checking Weather.com and praying fervently to the sun. So far it looked okay, but we hadn't even had our first class yet.

"Rain tingles even more," Faith said. "It's like Bobby Crestmore."

The four of us traded glances again. Bobby Crestmore was a cute freshman, but I don't think any of us quite understood how he resembled or might be made to resemble rain.

There was no time to ask, though, because right about then, the bell rang, and we were due in class. Giving Brandon a single last kiss—pressing myself against him—feeling his arms around me, the beating of his heart, the quickening in his breath—I thought to myself, This is going to be a week to remember.

And it was. But not quite in the way I expected it would.

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M.2

Being naked is a lot less simple than it seems.

Now, pretty obviously, this is one of those things you just have to live through to understand, so I hadn't the slightest idea what I was getting into when I signed up. It was mostly Arie's idea. —No, that's a lie, it's not like she signed me up, I  signed up. But it was mostly Arie's idea . "Hey, Derek, wouldn't it be cool if you were in The Program?" "Why would it be cool, Arie?" "I dunno, it just... Would." This while we're lying in bed after some great sex. "Why don't you sign up?" And when you've just had great sex with your girlfriend, you'll agree to just about anything she says. And so there I was.

Now, this isn't to say Arie set me up or anything. I don't think she thought about the consequences either. It was just an idea she blithely tossed up and I just as blithely agreed to. Neither of us quite knew what we were getting into. Not in the slightest.

Hi, I'm Derek Strong, and I'm naked in school, and I think we should blame Arie. Not that it's really Arie's fault that I got set up with Faith Bennett. But, I mean, she's convenient to blame, right?

"This is all your fault," I told her over recess.

"What, what's my fault?" Arie asked, startled.

"This," I said, indicating myself.

Arie gave me a critical eye. "You look about the same as you did yesterday."

"He does," Sajel agreed. "But... Something's missing..." She put her finger on my arm. "I just can't put my finger on it..."

"Might it have something to do with the fact that I have no clothes on?" I said. Sajel managed a very effective double-take.

"Well, besides  that," Arie said. "And besides, how could that be my  fault?"

"Did you steal his clothes," Christa asked.

"Nooo," Arie said. "He's in The Program!"

"Well, that must be your fault then," Zach said. "Did you, like, dress up as him and sign him up in secret?"

"No!" Arie said indignantly. "Why would I do that ?"

"Okay, Derek," Sajel said, turning to me. "Why's this her fault?"

I shrugged. "She's easy to blame."

"Hey!" Arie said.

"Oh, okay," Sajel said. "Arie, this is all your fault!"

"What!" said Arie.

"You heard me!" Sajel retorted. "And it's probably your fault that Mr. Cavanaugh gave us that pop quiz this morning too."

"And that Meredith's in The Program too," Zach said.

"And that Zach's cum tastes so bad," Christa said. "What exactly have you been feeding  him lately!"

"Okay, yuck," Sajel said. "TMI. Minus fifty points."

Arie was staring at us, stricken.

"But it's okay," I declared magnanimously, striding forward and wrapping her in a hug. "We love you anyway."

"And I hate you!" Arie protested, but she hugged me back. Behind me, Zach and Sajel and Christa snickered.

"So, who's your partner then," Sajel asked me once Arie and I had untangled ourselves.

"Faith Bennett," Arie said.

"What!" said Zach, Sajel and Christa all at once.

I rolled my eyes. "Here we go again."

"And this  loser—" said Arie, giving me a shove. "—was holding her hand."

"Faith Bennett," Christa said again.

"Yes, Faith Bennett," I said.

" Faith Bennett  is your Program partner??" Zach said.

"Yesssss," I said.

"And he was holding her hand!" Arie said.

"You were holding Faith's hand," Sajel asked me.

I tossed my hands. "Is this going to continue? Seriously. How many times can you say one name?"

"Arie, there's nothing wrong with that," Christa said. "Faith is... She's like a kindergartener. You hold her hand when you cross the street because it's not safe otherwise."

"But Faith isn't five years old," Arie maintained stubbornly.

"Mentally she is," Christa said.

"She can't be," Arie said. "She doesn't have  a brain."

"So now she needs even more  help," I said. "Why, what should we do, let her get run over?"

"Darwin would approve," Arie said brightly.

"Arie, that's very cruel," Christa said. "That's very  cruel. You shouldn't even joke about that. Faith is no different than you."

"I have a brain!" Arie protested.

"Yes, and so does she," Christa said patiently. "But with both of you, there are... Conditions. Factors. Things that make it hard for you to act and survive normally."

Arie said nothing, her face blank.

Zach pitched in. "How would you like it if we  said, 'Oh, something's wrong with Arie, so we should just leave her to get killed by that wrong thing.' How would you feel?"

Arie's face softened, wrinkled, as if she had bit into something sour.

"So don't say that about Faith," Christa said.

"All right," said Arie softly. She gave a mock sniffle. "Any more of this and I might start thinking nobody likes me."

"Now, now, that's not true," I said, smiling. " I  like you."

"Yeah right," Arie sulked.

"I do," I said.

"Prove it," Arie said, and her face was about three inches from mine, so I did what any intelligent boyfriend would do. I turned her to face me and drew her to me and kissed her, soft and tantalizing, as much promise as I could offer. Behind me the others cheered and whooped.

Arie, with a speculative look, said, "Hmm, not quite enticing enough. Again."

"Pfft," Sajel said. "And here we have further proof of Arie's stupidity, when she receives the hottest kiss in the history of mankind, and still says—" And then her voice was lost to me in the touch of Arie's lips, the sound and smell of her breath, her arms around my neck, her body pressing to me, her hair tangling in my fingers as my hand went to her cheek.

When we came apart again, there was need in her eyes.

"Dude," Zach said judiciously. "Kisses like that mean only one thing."

"What?" Christa asked.

" Get a room, you guys! " said Zach.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Sajel grumbled. "Zach, don't say  that."

"Why shouldn't he say that," Christa asked, confused.

Arie's mouth was open, her nose almost brushing mine. I could see the question on her face; I knew she could see the answer on mine. Or perhaps simply feel it, down below, prodding at the material of her jeans.

"Because whenever he does," Sajel retorted, "they do . It's like a curse or— See, there they go." Her voice fading as our feet pounded the pavement. "Where do you think you're gonna find some privacy! "

I made to turn left, to head for the bathrooms, but Arie drew me in the other direction, deeper into Stetsen. "I have a better idea."

"Derek," said Mr. Trineer, opening the door to his classroom at our knocking. "Arie. What can I do for you?"

Arie opened her mouth to answer—and it was as if something got stuck. "Well— Uhm—"

Mr. Trineer took in the flush of her cheeks and my obvious state of arousal. "It looks to me as if someone is in need of relief."

"Yes, you could say that..." I said.

" Two  someones, actually," Mr. Trineer corrected himself, "despite one not being in The Program any longer."

"That— That could be true," Arie allowed.

"And you were looking for a place to... Shall we say... Attend each other's needs, I suppose?" Now there was a smile on his face, amused and hinting.

"Yes, that sounds about right," Arie said.

"Well, just remember, the bell rings in twelve minutes," said Mr. Trineer, and he locked the door and stepped out. We were alone in the room.

"Arie," I said, "you're brilliant!" Mr. Trineer was The Program's biggest sponsor before it was officially adopted here, and remains one of its foremost champions. And even if not, I doubt he would have turned us down.

"No," said Arie, "I'm not." She fixed me with a direct stare. "I'm horny."

"Well, all right, that too," I said, "but imagine if you hadn't  been brilliant. You'd still be horny at the end of recess. And you can't ask for relief like I can."

"Look, I'm not brilliant, I'm horny," said Arie.

I sighed. "All right, all right, be modest if you want."

"I'm not  being modest," Arie said, beaming. "I am  brilliant." Then she moved forward, a hunter stalking her prey. "But right now there's something else I am, even more  than I'm brilliant. And I kind of need you to help me." She punctuated this by grabbing hold of my cock. "Does that make sense to you?"

I looked around for a coupling spot, and didn't find any—the room was dominated by the three long trestle tables at which students sat, and the rows of seats to service them. But Arie had better ideas. She sauntered over to the head of the middle table, casually undoing her pants. By the time she had arrived, her jeans were in a pool around her ankles, and the curves of her ass were showcased by white cotton panties as she bent over to present them. I could see the beginnings of a wet spot at the crotch of those panties.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled at me.

I gulped.

She giggled. "You like what you see?"

"Uh-huh," I said, gaping like a monkey. "I think you forgot something though."

"What?" she asked in feigned astonishment. "What'd I miss!" And so what's a guy to do, but reach out and tug her panties down?

"Oh-h..." said Arie. "Silly me.

I kissed both buttocks as I passed them, following her panties down, and then that most secret of places, deep pink and already wet with her juices. Arie moaned and pressed back to meet me. I traversed my way up one fleshy lip and then down the other—hairless now, as they had been for some time—and then, at the bottom, the little pearl bud that was the center of her pleasure, the reason we all lived. I gave it a lick with my tongue, and she shuddered, and a fresh wave of her juices broke forth. It was enticing, and I worked it with my tongue, feeling the way her hips shuddered as her knees threatened to give way.

"Derek," Arie moaned, "Now... Put it in me now..."

Gone were the days of underconfidence. Arie had trained me well—and besides, six months of with a nymphomanic girlfriend will do that to you. She was ready; I knew her well enough to tell that. There were no pants to take care of; just line up and dive in.

And then everything felt really good.

"Wow," Arie whispered. We stood there for a moment, savoring. "You've never gone this deep before."

"I guess we're horny," I replied. Every slight movement made my cock twitch inside her pussy, her pussy shift around my cock, and we had rushed into it a little too much. It was like I could feel everything down there: her pussy caressing the rim of the head of my cock, the ring of muscle around her entrance, her pussy lips clasping me on either side, even the faint bud of her clit, brushing against my balls. There was no way we could remain motionless for long. It was like hanging at the top of a rollercoaster, that quivering moment of equilibrium right before the drop.

"I'm glad I thought of a place," Arie said. She turned her head again to look at me over her shoulder. "I would've gone insane otherwise."

"Well," I said, "you could've just torn my clothes off and boinked me right there at Stetsen."

Her eyes went wide and her face flushed, and I wondered if I had hit a nerve.  "I would not have," she said primly. As primly as she could manage while stuffed full of cock.

"Oh real ly," I said, smiling. The idea had never crossed my mind until now, but I must admit, it had a certain... Appeal.

"I couldn't have," said Arie, wide-eyed propriety. "You weren't wearing clothes."

"Pfft," I said. I reached forward to her breasts, dangling but constricted by her white spaghetti-strap tank top, not to mention bra. " You're  still wearing clothes, for that matter." I felt her nipples hard even through the layers of cloth, and squeezed them between my fingers. "Maybe we should do something about that."

She moaned again, her body twisting (her pussy shifting—tingle tingle tingle); and then, recovering, said, "Now now, we'll have none of that." She reached between her legs, grabbed my balls, and gave them a tug. Involuntarily, I pulled back. And then we had other much more pleasant things to think about.

"I think it's time to stop talking," Arie said, and pushed back against me to take me back into her.

My hands left her boobs and moved to her ass, holding the corners of her hips, bringing us apart, and then together. We did a lot of, actually—sneaking away during school hours to fuck, since we don't have the sort of privacy or access Brandon and Meredith have—and doggy-style is uniquely suited to sex on the fly. Her breasts dangling down into my hands, full and perfect (regardless of what Arie herself might think), her small brown nipples burrowing into my palms, were hardly new to me, and I had grown very fond of seeing her rounded ass cheeks moving back and forth above my cock, her pussy lips around my cock as I moved in and out of her, her hips pivoting back and forth as she swung from side to side, bringing my cock into contact with new places in her pussy. Her fingertips brushed my balls—she was playing with her clit, pacing herself furiously onward. For a moment I could only marvel at the sheer impossible luck that had dropped her into my hands, this beautiful girl. Then I drove in again, and she bucked to meet me, and it was business as usual.

What was new were the sounds. Arie was being very vocal today, something different for her. (I gave a glance at the open windows before deciding that I didn't care if she didn't.) The gasps, the moans, the sighs, the slight, high-pitched squeaking as I moved inside her. I wasn't used to it at all, and it turned me on immensely.

We had only been rocking back and forth for a few minutes, but already I could tell I was close. Arie nodded and gasped, "Me too," and pushed back against me, her buttocks flattened against my hips, digging me as deep in as I could go. That was her signal, one we had developed—when I came, it was best for me to be as deep as possible, because (she said) nothing could make her come faster than the feeling of me cumming inside her, as far in I could go. Which was fine by me, because there was nothing I enjoyed better than the feeling of her pussy walls clasping me, consuming me as I came, drinking my cum and begging for more. (Thank God for effective birth control.) I started taking short, shallow thrusts, just barely within her pussy—I had read somewhere that the outer third had most of the nerves. It might not be true, but Arie had never complained before, and her vocal praise rose in concert with my thrusts.

But all too soon I felt the inevitable boiling up my shaft, and I lengthened my strokes, moving in as far as I could, as fast as I could, driving her towards the peak now that mine was at hand. And then all thoughts of altruism were driven from my head as the first rush of semen came up my shaft like a runaway train and I exploded deep within her, my cum going out into her pussy as she moaned and arced and shook and we spasmed together in waves of release.

When I came to, I was hanging over Arie, somehow still on my feet, and she was draped forward over the table, her hair in its ponytail fanned out around her head, her eyes closed. We were still together and every slightest movement sent quivering aftershocks through us. I reached out and touched her shoulder, and her eyes opened.

"That was intense," she said.

"Yeah," I said. It was an extreme mental effort to speak instead of nod.

"I don't think we've ever come at the same time before," Arie said.

"You came," I asked. All these words. How on earth was she managing? Must be a female thing.

She raised her head and twisted to look at me more directly. "Uh-huh," she said. "It was you coming inside me. I could feel you spurting."

"Is... that unusual?"

"Yeah, I don't normally feel it, actually. But this time, I did, and, I just... Lost it."

I smiled. "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

"Very much," she said archly.

The art room turned out to be a smart hide-out for one of the reasons we also like the bathroom: to clean up a little. There are sinks and paper towels, to facilitate watercolor experiments (and probably to clean up after spills). We found this out the hard way once—the clean-up, not the watercolors—when Arie left fourth-period Spanish one day with a visible wet spot at the crotch of her jeans, which had she had not had when she came in. Combined with the unmistakable smell of cum, it was obvious to half the class what had happened. (The other half must have fallen asleep in Sex Ed.) Arie had said it made her feel sexy, walking around full of my cum, but by the end of the day I bet she was just embarrassed. From then on it's been strict clean-up, which is fine with me. I think it's cool she'd want to keep me close by, but not with consequences like that .

As we scrubbed and daubed with paper towels (either too sharp or too cold from being wettened—not a great exchange), Arie looked at me with a strange expression. "Derek... Do you think I'm... Odd?"

There was no way to answer that. "In what spirit is the question asked?" Most people don't have a phalanx of scars on their arms, for instance. Likewise, I'm pretty sure we're one of the few couples in a school of two thousand students who sneaks away for sex during breaks. I guess we're just horny like that. There were a number of ways I could evaluate either situation. First, I wanted to know what she meant.

"About..." She blushed, looked away. "About wanting to strip you down and fuck you right there at Stetsen."

"Oh, uh..." I said. I hadn't realized she'd meant it. Joking is one thing, being serious is quite another. "Arie, everyone has fantasies. I don't think you're weird for imagining doing it."

"Yeah, but..." Arie said, "what if I really wanted  it?"

I blinked.

"Isn't it... Kind of odd to... To want to have sex in public?" Arie asked me earnestly.

I thought about my answer for a second. One thing was sure, a misstep could land me in deep water. She was dead serious about this.

"Well..." I said. "Arie, I'll tell you the truth, I like being seen with you."

She looked up, confused.

"I like it how affectionate we are in public," I said. "I like that you flirt with me, that you tease me, that everyone around us can tell we're going out. Because you're really special to me, you're really important to me, I love you— You're just the most..." Struggling for words now. "The most incredible person, the best thing that's ever happened to me. I want people to see that. I want people to notice you. I want them to look at you and see just how great you are. And if that means kissing you in public, well hell, sign me up."

A strange smile hovered about her face. "And if fucking in public is the next step?"

"Well, that's kind of a big  step," I said. "But hey: I bet it'd turn people on. You're also the sexiest  girl I know."

"And you want everyone to see it," Arie said.

"Arie, you deserve the best. You deserve to be admired and respected and, hell, even lusted after. Anything I can do to bring that to you..."

She smiled.

"But having said that... Sex in public is kind of a big step," I said.

"Yeah, true," Arie said, and suddenly I saw that she had had her reservations too. (Well, obviously; hence all this reassuring.) "It's funny. We've been naked in school, we've been fondled in public... But sex, we're not so sure of."

"Well," I said, suddenly reticent, suddenly remembering the sounds she made, the looks, the smiles... "I think it's nice to have some privacy."

"Yeah," she said. "And besides..." Now a warm smile, that rare but warming glow. "Everything you said about me, I could say about you . But I wanna keep you to myself."

I grinned. "Now that's  selfish."

She stuck her tongue out at me. "So I'm greedy. Is that a crime?"

"Well, the jury's kind of out of commission due to an especially potent case of post-sex delirium," I said, grinning, "so..."

"Hmmm," said Arie, smiling. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

"And for the record," I said. "Having sex in public is probably not as weird as it sounds. I mean, there's all sorts of other weird stuff."

"Like what?" Arie asked, intrigued.

"I dunno, like gerbils or something."

" Gerbils! " Arie said.

"Don't look at me, I just read it on the Internet," I said defensively.

"I'm going to keep a close eye on your porn sites from now on," Arie said, wide-eyed.

And after that, the bell was ringing soon, so we put our clothes back on—well, she did—and within minutes it was back to the daily grind. Sans wet spot on crotch, of course. But I thought about the conversation and was glad that something hadn't come up: specifically, Arie's anxieties. All the stuff about her being selfish would have been a perfect segue into how honestly clingy she is— she  tends to bring it up, mostly to guilt me over something. She worries (or says she does) that someone will come along and snatch me—maybe literally, if better boobs or a nicer smile or unmarked arms don't catch my eye first. And there's never anything for me to say when she brings that up, because I've said it as well as I can already—that I'm hers, body and soul; that you couldn't make me look at another woman to save my life.

But I'm also Faith Bennett's Program partner. It's my responsibility to look out for her. And I can already tell you, that could end up rubbing Arie the wrong way. Way  the wrong way.

---

M.3

The unofficial Program philosophy here at Mount Hill High has always been, 'Look Closer.' It's part of why Dr. Zelvetti keeps choosing the oddball outcast types to go into The Program. She wants everybody to have their fifteen minutes of fame. But the corollary to the philosophy statement is that, simply, things will happen to you that you would never, ever expect.

Hello. My name is Meredith Levine. I expected wrong.

It wasn't out of Brandon, to be sure. Brandon... Well, Brandon's like my other half, to be honest; I know him like the back of my hand, and he knows me like his. We're pretty predictable to each other by now. And on the way to 6th-period Pre-Calculus I'm pretty sure he got me all stirred up just so that he could give me relief, and Lord, what a ride that  was. No, Brandon's a known quantity; he isn't who I mis-predicted.

Bernard, on the other hand...

Despite his name, he isn't a native French speaker. I can tell because he's in French 3 with me and he doesn't do a good job. Madame Dambier is  a native speaker and she doesn't put up with anything; she can get away with ridiculing people publicly if their homework isn't up to par—and yet Bernard hasn't yet caught on to this. It's strange that a nerd can be so... Oblivious.

Whatever the case, we arrived at French 3, which was our first class of the day—wherever Bernard had escaped off to before school, he was here now. We ran into each other as we entered the classroom, and he gave me a glare, stopping me short. What, what had I done?

We were among the last students to enter, and Madame Dambier gave us distrustful looks. She's about sixty thousand years old, give or take a century, and this new-fangled sexual freedom nowadays has never sat well with her. She's an excellent French teacher, that's for certain, but that doesn't make her any easier to deal with when she gets up on a soapbox.

Like she did now. " Bonjour, Monsieur Castagne. Pourriez-vous nous expliquer la raison de votre absence de vêtements ? " Despite the formality of the statement, there was no welcome in her greeting.

I translated in my head. Could you explain to us the reason for...  Hello, Bernard, why are you naked? Maybe I'm an over-achiever, but Mme. Dambier expects us to listen to conversation even if we're not involved in it; no small number of students have been caught by surprise when she shifted focus to them without dropping the thread of discussion. The fact that I, too, was naked, only made it more likely that I'd be the next to tremble in Mme. Dambier's spotlight glare.

Bernard answered, stumbling (as usual) over even the most simple things. " Je  uhm. Je suis dans le Programme, Madame Dambier. "

Mme. Dambier gave him a hawk's stare. " De quel programme s'agit-il? " What Program, I translated. She knew; we all knew. She wanted to see Bernard scrambling for his vocabulary.

He did, like a beetle scuttling away from harm. " Le programme ... Le non-école  no that's not right... Le programme Nus à l'école, madame. "

Mme. Dambier's eyes could have cut glass. " Et Mademoiselle Levine également ? "

" Non, " Bernard said, sending a jolt through me, " c'est juste une cochonne qui aime se promener nue ! "

I'm a what-now!  Mme. Dambier had taught us the word cochonne ; God only knows why. It was a sort of slangy way of calling someone a pervert. I'm a...  My brain struggled to unpack the language even as I shrank away from Bernard, who was about five feet too near for my liking. ...I'm a dirty pervert who likes going around naked.

...Okay, where did that  come from!

If Mme. Dambier had cut glass with Bernard, then I was diamond, and she intended to slice me all the same. " Est-ce exact, Mademoiselle Levine ? "

" Non, bien sûr que non ! Je suis aussi dans le Programme ! " That, and I am going to have some words with my partner. He knows  I'm in The Program. Why on earth would he go around saying that about me?

"They're Program partners, Mme. Dambier," someone offered, in quite the wrong language.

" Merci, M. Stevens, " said Mme. Dambier mechanically, squinting at the pair of us, clearly deep in thought.

After what seemed like an eternity, she turned away from me. And towards my partner. " Bernard, votre réponse était insultante et déplacée. Présentez immédiatement vos excuses à Mademoiselle Levine. "

Bernard looked at me. " Pardon, " he said, apologizing as Mme. Dambier had instructed him to. Clearly his heart wasn't in it.

Mme. Dambier sensed it. " Aviez-vous une raison d'insulter votre camarade, " she asked, clearly intending to get to the bottom of this. I wanted to know too. What had I done to deserve such anger?

" Pardon, " said Bernard again. " Je fus en colère. "

"J'étais en colère , Bernard," Mme. Dambier corrected. English and French grammar aren't always the same; Bernard had messed up his sentence structure by attempting to speak English in French.

" J'étais en colère, " Bernard repeated obediently.

" Ça n'est pas une raison pour m'insulter, " I retorted. If everyone  insulted people when they were angry, this world would be a really ugly place. Self-control is really sort of an expected quality nowadays.

" Pardon, " said Bernard again, shrugging, " j'étais... En colère. "

You were angry about what, I wondered; but I decided to let it go. I'd rather just sit down and get the lesson over with.

Mme. Dambier appeared to have the same feeling. " Bien. Nous n'obtiendrons apparemment pas d'autre réponse de Monsieur Castagne. Nous allons donc passer au cours. Ouvrez tous vos livres à la page 192. Stéphanie, veuillez lire à haute voix, s'il vous plait... "

It bugged me for the rest of the day. It seriously did. Did people really think that of me, or was it just Bernard's bizarre little take on the universe? So I did what any self-respecting young woman would do: I asked my boyfriend.

"Brandon, do you think I'm a slut?"

Brandon, who had been walking with me to the south entrance so we could get my clothes, gave me a dubious look and said, "What on earth makes you think that ?"

" Do  you," I pressed, feeling an awful dropping sensation in my gut.

He blinked at me. "No, of course not. You're a perfectly normal woman. You happen to be highly sexually liberated, which I admit is something I enjoy about you, but I wouldn't call you a slut."

"Even though I slept with you on our first date," I said.

Brandon rolled his eyes. "What's this about, Meredith? Do you want  me to call you a slut? Fine, you're a slut. Alternately, you're not, if that's what you're looking for. Now, what's going on here?"

I smiled to myself. Typical Brandon—direct and to the point, as subtle as a hammer to the forebrain. As I dressed, I explained the French conversation.

"Don't listen to Bernard," Brandon said immediately. "The only naked women he's ever seen before were downloaded on his computer. He has no perspective."

"I know..." I said, feeling strangely safe now that I wasn't naked. Sexually liberated, uh-huh. "But, still. You didn't think I was... Too forward? On our first date? Or a month ago?"

Brandon colored at the mention of our six-month anniversary, but he plowed forward through the conversation. "Our first date was... Well, next to Arie and Derek, we seem relatively conservative, but... I dunno, I have to admit I was startled."

Now it was my  turn to blush. "Well. I hadn't planned on it happening, if that's what you're wondering. But..." I looked up at him; my hand twined into his. "It was like magic. It was like we knew each other already. I'm sure you felt it."

He nodded. "I did. It was like... I dunno, I felt almost like we were married already.

Wow, now that's  a sort of a jump. I pushed myself past my inner shock and pressed on. "When we got to your house, I think we both knew it was going to happen eventually , and pretty clearly we both wanted  it to happen now ..."

"So it's..."

"Perfectly explainable. From the outside, yeah, I might see somebody who slept with her boyfriend on their first date—three days after he broke up with somebody else, no less—and say, 'Yeah, she seems like a slut.' Or at least she's got ulterior motives. But there were extenuating circumstances in our case. It was special. I—" I love you.  Oh wait, yeah, I'm kinda not supposed to say that yet. "...Think you're really special," I finished lamely. Supposedly, six months or less is too fast. Even if you already know it's true. "We have something special together. Something strong. Of course  we're gonna get into bed on the first date. Who wouldn't, with something like that?"

"Sounds like a bit of self-justification to me," Brandon said, smirking.

"Oh shut up," I said. "Do you want me to never  get in bed with you again?"

"That would be fine," Brandon said, unperturbed. "We rarely if ever do it in a bed anyway. We're mostly on the couch."

"Oh, you."

We drove to this house, the wheels thrumming on the pavement, our music on the radio. It's kind of alarming how much time I spend there: it's gotten to the point where, if I don't come home after school, my parents assume I'm at his house. He's my ride to and from school in any case. It's an arrangement we worked out to save my mom some commuting time.

I've gotten used to the echoing, empty silences of that house of his, the icy calm of rooms whose last occupants were the carpenters and interior decorators who built them. Walking into those rooms is like walking through water; you can feel the solitude press on you. It's part of why I spend so much time there. I hate to think of Brandon alone in that cadaverous monstrosity of a home, the only voice beating against its walls, the only life pulsing through its halls. Of course, it's not much better with only two of us; but if we're together, maybe, just maybe, we can make it bearable.

Brandon, digging a soda out of the pantry, appeared to be having similar thoughts. "You know, we spend so much time together, people would start to think we were married or something."

I blinked at him. "And, uhm, Brandon, why did this occur to you?"

He shrugged, sensing my discomfort. "No reason. Just... Observation."

"Well, all right," I said. I know I love him, but sixteen is really a little early to be thinking of marriage. Three years of discarded menstrual pads tells me I'm ready for it, physically at least, but mentally , now... That's a little bit of a different story.

We did homework; we checked our e-mail; we talked and chattered. The room with the giant TV had become the center of our life at that house, mostly because of the ease with which things could be gathered to it. The room itself is practically half the size of some houses, so it's not as if we lacked for space. The silence was always oppressive, but with each other nearby, we were often able to forget it. Or, at least, with video games or the TV or some music, blot it out for a while.

As the sun dipped ever closer to the horizon, we found ourselves wrapped up on the couch, talking about randoms and nonsenses, enjoying each other's company. I remember back when we first declared our (love) interest for each other, right before the Open House—I remember the first time he put his arms around me, the first time he held me, and what a sacrament that was. Sometimes with all these other things you can do with a boyfriend, you forget just what a joy it is to hold him in your arms, to be held by him. I haven't forgotten with Brandon; I'm glad to say.

"So, honey, how was your day," Brandon asked.

I snickered. "'Honey'?"

He shrugged. "Would you prefer Pookie-snuggie-kins or something?"

"No, on second thought, 'honey' is just fine. Hmm... I dunno, how was  my day? You were there for most of it."

"Two classes together and you say I was there for most  of it."

"Well, all the important parts," I said coquettishly.

"And how's that?"

"Because whenever you're around, you make things better," I said.

There was a pause. And then a chuckle, and his shoulders shook a little. "I guess you have a point there."

The next thing he asked was, "Anything specific you want for dinner?"

"No, not really," I said. He's been teaching me to cook—both him and my mother, both separately and apart—but he's still the primary culinary expert of this household.

There was another silence. I enjoyed the feeling of his arms around me, his chest shifting as he breathed. Despite all the other fun stuff a man and a woman can do together, there is something to be said for just being held.

"You know," Brandon said, "we do  seem to use this couch a lot."

"Hmm."

"As opposed to the bed," Brandon said.

"It's a very comfortable couch," I said, which was the truth. It was a broad expanse of brown leather in the shape of a J, the shorter spoke towards the room's only door and the long middle section facing the television. It could comfortably seat six or seven people, as a plethora of gatherings had proved time and again.

"Yeah, but... I mean, you know? It's a bad precedent. If I were married to someone, I wouldn't want to be treated like that."

"Brandon," I said, turning, "what's with you and marriages today? It's been like..."

"I dunno, I've just been..." He shrugged. "Thinking about it."

I smiled. "Is there something you have to tell me? Did you get me drunk and sneak me into a courthouse or something?"

"No," said Brandon, sounding defensive, "I've just been... Thinking about it. We've..." His eyes turned distant, looking over imagined horizons. "I mean, we've been talking all day about our relationship, about how much time we spend together, about how thoroughly and quickly we got close, and it just feels like..."

"Like we are  married," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "And then you're here all the time, in this house—Christ, I bet I see you more often than your family does—and—I mean, I don't have  a family, my friends  are my family, and so having you here all the time..."

"You don't hear me complaining," I said, smiling.

"I know, and, I like  it," he said. "But... Well, I dunno. It's only been, what, seven months?"

"I guess we are  moving a little fast," I admitted.

"I know, and sometimes it scares me," he said.

I craned my head to face him. "Why? What's to be scared about?"

"Well, partially..." He sighed. "Partially because it is  moving so fast, and, you know: speeding horse at midnight, riding over a cliff, whathaveyou. But partially because it does  feel so right. You're... Meredith, You're the most important thing in the world to me right now, out of everything and everyone. I'm going to get married some day—it's what my life's work is—and... There just isn't anyone else I could imagine getting married to. Even if someone offered me, like, the most perfect person in the world... Well, I don't know how anyone could , because I think I already have her. And I'm scared that, if I don't just let things play out... I'll lose her."

This was about the time I was trying to keep from sniffling with joy. He says the sweetest things, that man.

"And... Well, I'm only sixteen, maybe it's kind of early. Okay, yes, it's kind of early. But, in my heart, sometimes, I feel..."

I turned to him, taking his hands in my own. "Like we're already..."

"Like, somewhere, in our hearts..."

"Somewhere, a long time ago..."

"We were one," he said.

"And still are," I said. "Brandon Chambers and Meredith Levine."

Our eyes met, and for the longest time we were silent, as if unwilling to disturb the moment.

Then, finally, Brandon shook his head. "My god. What are we, crazy?"

"No," I protested. Then I thought about what we were contemplating. Or, perhaps, what we had already contemplated. "Maybe."

"We're only sixteen."

"Juliet was fourteen when Romeo showed up in her life."

He looked at me. "You do  know there's a difference between reality and fiction," he said, smiling.

"I don't think you should be complaining," I retorted, grinning. "Unless you wanted a divorce already."

His eyebrows climbed up into his hairline. "Are you kidding? I just got what I always wanted." He moved forward, a gleam in his eye. "I'm not gonna give it up now."

"Got 'what' you always wanted!" I cried, feigning incredulity. "Not gonna give 'it' up! What am I, an inanimate—"

And then his lips met mine, and it was a little hard to speak.

There was instant fury in his kiss, passion and flames, and I knew what he wanted. I leaned into him, hearing his breath, feeling the intensity of the moment, his arms around me, our lips pressed together, our tongues sliding around each other—and then we weren't careful and our teeth hit each other and we pulled back, laughing, Brandon saying, "Hey, be careful with those, it took four years of braces to get them to look right—"

When we had ourselves together, I looked him in the eye and said, "This is why I love you, of course."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you can make even the most bizarre conversational turn make sense," I said, beaming.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, great, thanks, that's exactly what everyone  looks for in a husband."

"And," I added in a softer voice. "You make me happier than I ever thought possible."

He drew me to him. "Well, that makes two of us."

"Using bizarre conversational turns, of course," I added.

He sighed. "I guess I'll just have to get used to that," he said, in tones of anguish.

"I suppose," I said innocently. "I could make it worth your while, though..."

"Hmmmm," said Brandon, and I imagined his eyebrows bobbing in the way they always did. He pulled back to look me in the eye. "Is that a threat?"

"I thought it was a wifely duty," I said ingeniously.

"Hmm, good point," he said, smiling.

"And I intend," I said, now pursuing him. "To be the best wife any man could ask for."

He smiled. "My lady, I am all yours."

We sprawled out on the couch, kissing. His hands ran through my hair—hair I wanted to grow out, now, because he likes long hair, and to hell with the perils of trying to grow out naturally wavy hair—through my hair and over my back; mine traced the lines of his arms, his shoulders, his neck, his face. I could feel his heart beating through his chest and knew there was nowhere else I ever wanted to be.

Our clothes seemed to disappear as if by magic, and now we were lying on the couch, skin on skin, having stopped only to fetch one of the blankets stacked on one side of the couch, blue flannel and warm, but slightly itchy under my shoulders and rear. But Brandon's body was over me, the dull pressure of his chest against mine, warmer where he met my nipples; his lips on mine, the tickling pressure of his pubic hair, the warm, comforting weight of his body, his erection poking my thighs until I opened for him. His hand between my legs, cupping my secrets, testing my wetness, seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

We looked into each other's eyes and there was no hesitation at all.

"I love you."

I felt him at my entrance, searching, and then sinking into me, my pussy opening up to him as I pressed my hips to meet his, in and in and in, my depths unfolding to meet him, until we were joined and his eyes opened and looked into mine and we kissed each other with wide-eyed expressions of longing and wonder, feeling the joy of our bodies twining together, as close as we could possibly be. Brandon and Meredith, he and I. My husband. I like that.

When he pulled back, I felt that inexpressible frustration, the need to have him return—and gloried as he slid in, my pussy enfolding him, feeling his every ridge and vein, every nerve tingling. My hands ran over his back; his chest brushed against my nipples as he pulled back again, and I rose after him, not wanting to let him go. And when he came down, I backed away, wanting to feel him sliding into me for as long as I could, until finally he was buried again, and our pubic hair meshed, and I felt him brushing up against the back of my pussy, and gloried in even that minor pleasure. I wrapped my legs around his waist, which I knew, intellectually, would allow him deeper penetration; his back and his hair were both highly sensitive areas, secondary erogenous zones, which was one reason why back rubs and massages were often a prelude to foreplay. These things I knew.

Intellect was the placid surface of a raging river.

When I came, it was explosive, and silent, and unexpected—I hadn't even realized how close I was until the moment was upon me. I felt the rising burst inside me, and saw his eyes open wide in startlement—felt the first contraction, my pussy clamping down on his cock, feeling him with every nerve and cell in my body, but especially down there, oh down there, his full warm hardness, the indescribable sensation of being filled , filled with this live, pulsing thing that was now buried inside me, deep as it would go, as my pussy spasmed and contracted on him and around him— And then there were waves of pleasure, as the pressure overflowed and spilled over and I burned under him with release, pressing to him, unable to return the kisses on my lips for the overriding sensation of his body against me, his cock inside me, as I came; until finally the fire was spent and subsided down into soft, welcoming ash.

When I opened my eyes, I could see he was close, and I kissed him his permission. He moved inside me again—not the same, insistent pressure; my nerves were still blunted, dazzled. But it didn't matter. In a few moments I felt him stiffen, and heard his indrawn breath; my pussy felt his cock expand. Even at the best of times I could never feel him cum, but the way his body stiffened and tensed above me was enough. I drew him in, imagining the warm wetness inside me, watching the look of helpless longing on his face, loving this moment, loving the pleasure I could give him; until it was all over and we lay together in sweating, heart-racing silence.

Our gentle kiss was like rustling leaves after the roar of a hurricane.

Eventually we untangled ourselves, rearranging into a slightly less compromising position; I felt a sense of loss as his softening dick left me; I felt myself closing up behind him, as if trying to cling to him. Sometimes I wish we could just stay like that forever, him inside me; there is nothing to compare to it. But that wouldn't work very well. He turned me up on my side and lay down behind me, tucking the blanket around us, his arm around my waist, in easy reaching distance of my breasts or my pussy, if either of us should be so inclined. It was comfy and warm next to him, the blanket around us like a cocoon, his receding hardness nestled between the cheeks of my ass. He seems to favor this arrangement, and it's nice, but there are other things I'd prefer. ...Not that I tell  him that. It would be... Unseemly  for him to know these things.