"Get your hands off my daughter!" Father roared. He had shuffled Tabitha into the limo and was thundering toward us.

"You'd better go," I hissed the warning.

She must have realized the danger she was in because she took off running.

Father missed tackling her by a few yards. "G.o.d d.a.m.n paparazzi!" he spat.

I didn't correct his misa.s.sumption. If he'd realized who it was things would have been worse for Shane, and me. Father despised all of Ash's ex-lovers, but he seemed to hold a special hatred for the "biker d.y.k.e," speaking as though Shane was somehow more emblematic of Ash's Caligula-style descent into debauchery. Plus, he clearly thought Shane made an excellent suspect in her murder.

Although I knew better I harbored my own ill will toward the woman who broke my heart.

Shane approached me again and again at the bar until I finally stopped going to the E-room entirely.

By the time a year had pa.s.sed, I was no longer too hostile to listen when Shane showed up once more. But I did figure anything Shane had to say was probably all bulls.h.i.t anyway. Then again, maybe she just wanted to soothe her guilty conscience and who was I to prevent her from apologizing to me? It was the kind of thing I secretly longed for-that all those who'd done me wrong in the past would be driven by remorse to seek me out and express their deepest regret. It could happen. Couldn't it? "I spent all those days at the pool trying to get a chance to talk to you," Shane insisted the last time we spoke. Oh please, that's on par with "she fell on my d.i.c.k" as an excuse for infidelity. I wanted to hear her admit her wrongdoing and take responsibility for the pain she'd caused me.

And I wanted to confront her again about the engine I'd heard the night Ash died, the engine I'd never told the police about because I'd always secretly feared it had been Shane's motorcycle, and I didn't want to be the one placing her at the scene of Ash's murder. During my previous attempt to get the truth, Shane had been adamant that she was nowhere near the estate that night, that she was at home alone, with no one around to corroborate her story. I didn't believe her. I thought she just wasn't ready to be honest with herself or me. I hadn't seen her since.

I had moved on. I moved into Portland, and now my days were filled with work at the Willamette Week, a local alternative newspaper.

Then one night I finally relented and went out with a group of friends, celebrating my recent promotion from flunky to editorial a.s.sistant. We were drinking microbrews at a lesbian bar called the Mint, laughing and pa.s.sing gossip around the table like salt, and up walks Shane, cool as Ocean's Eleven, asking if anyone would mind her joining our group. What b.a.l.l.s! I had forgotten the impact the mere sight of Shane had on me, on my body. I hated her, but just having her in proximity to me was like a magnet pulling me to her, a palsy forcing my knees apart, a flood soaking my panties.

Just like the conniving b.a.s.t.a.r.ds they were, my friends conspired to leave me alone with Shane. To their credit, they didn't know the whole story and had only seen the way my eyes lit up when she sauntered over. They also knew it had been quite a while since anyone had brushed the cobwebs from my undercarriage, and being good friends, wanted to arrange my servicing. So one by one, they slipped away until by the end of the night, I was left drinking alone with Shane.

I couldn't deny the chemical attraction I'd once had to her. And though I'd managed to keep it in check for a year, it all came flooding back, right there in the f.u.c.king bar. It was enticing.

d.a.m.n it. I couldn't say no to her.

We ended up back at my place, at Ash's place, and I shoved her onto the bed. Which should tell you that this wasn't anything like the s.e.x we had before. There was no sweet tenderness, no head to toe kissing. It was fast and raw and I was in control of the entire encounter. I f.u.c.ked her good. I was more in control than even Shane realized. I had learned a thing or two from living in my sister's love shack. Unbeknownst to Shane, I was taping the entire encounter. And when I was finished, chagrined at myself for not saying "No" to begin with, I rolled over and demanded that she let herself out-as soon as possible.

April 18 I love power. I don't think there's anything wrong with admitting that, is there? I'm turned on by power. I am Father's daughter in that way. Life is all about power. s.e.x is all about power. Life is all about s.e.x. Life is all the sweeter with power. These are the things that give me power: 1. riding on the back of a motorcycle 2. controlling pain, usually mine 3. making videos of people in compromising positions 4. bagging wealthy babes 5. banging doctor's wives 6. emotional control 7. dumping people who still want me 8. f.u.c.king the daughters of Daddy's clients 9. then telling him all about it 10. f.u.c.king Daddy's and Tabitha's best friends. Both of them. Together.

That was a fun night. Milly and John Castleford were two stuck up WASPs until you got them in the sack and then they turned into She-beast and the f.u.c.kinator. John liked to be sucked, and you know a good girl like Milly wouldn't do that, so I did it and then took it up the a.s.s while Milly came in my mouth again and again. I think it may have been Milly's first o.r.g.a.s.m. It worked for me too, because even though I was only eighteen, I just kept thinking repeatedly how angry Daddy and Tabitha would be if they saw me a.s.s up with the brandy and croquet set, much less their best friends. And Milly and John came back for more and more, eventually getting kinkier and kinkier with me until at some point I had to cut them off because I got bored.

That's the beauty of power too. You have more of it when you don't flaunt it. You hold on to it, knowing full well that one day you'll put it to good use. Do I tell everyone what I'm doing at the time? No. Coach Harting doesn't need to know that I'm schtupping his wife Peggy. I'll give her a little pickle tickle and leave her wanting for more, and when I need something, well, I'll call Peggy or Father and remind them just how Coach would feel about all this.

I get bored a lot, but I've discovered a new source of power. It comes in a little package, but it packs a big wallop, like the best ones always do. It's given me a new game to play. Let's call it s.e.x, Lies and Videotape. It's amazing how tiny those cameras are these days. My little secret was a package deal, a couple of cameras (multiple angles being all the rage), and recording equipment that gets triggered by a motion detector. Technof.u.c.king fabulous.

I even got my own little secret f.u.c.k hut prepared for my new little gizmo. I had some overly curious handyman wall off half of the walk-in closet, making a nice little f.u.c.k hut where the cameras roll all night long. He did such a good job even I can't tell where the old wall ends and new work begins, and since the guy was used to creating panic rooms for his ritzier clientele, he made it so the pa.s.sage in and out disappeared into the wall and the cameras are completely undetectable. I get kind of h.o.r.n.y just thinking about it. I rigged the rest of the room myself. No need having mister working cla.s.s curiosity finger my love swing and other toys when the contraptions were so easy to hook up.

Did I think twice about taping other people? All those women traipsing in and out of my panties? I know there are repercussions to power, there would be for me if I were to reveal who and what I was doing even now. But I won't tell and neither will she. Or will she?

Ash was filming herself? I thought as soon as I read those final paragraphs. Having s.e.x? Oh, my G.o.d, was it still on? Had it been turning on every time I came in to my bedroom? I started to panic. What if it was being broadcast to someone else?

Holy f.u.c.k, what if it had a live feed to a Web site? I was suddenly filled with paranoia and dread. I had to find that camera right that very instant. I dropped the journal unceremoniously and darted into the bedroom. I ripped down wall coverings, ran my fingers along every inch of the sheetrock, trying to sense the seam in the plaster. Nothing.

I moved into the closet, yanking outfits, hanger and all, off the rod and tossing them in a pile on the floor. I picked up shoes by the armful and flung them toward the bed. Finally, I had s.p.a.ce to walk to the far end of closet and feel around in the dark until I found what I was looking for. Who puts a cable TV outlet in a closet? I fiddled with the metal plug and eventually the wall gave way under my hand, a panel moved to the side. A slight turn to the side and I meandered through.

I couldn't believe my eyes. This wasn't just a camera room, a secret private vanity s.p.a.ce that Ash could hide away in, taping people on both sides of the doors, and scurrilously watching the DVDs later. No, this was her own shrine to Eros, a room of pleasure, and by the looks of it, pain. Upon whom was it inflicted, though? Along one side of the room was a shelf with a large screen TV atop a black shelving unit. On each shelf sat a stack of baskets with labels on each that read like they were straight out of a p.o.r.n movie: "gags," "plugs," "nipple fun," "floggers," "vibes," "strap-ons," "electro." I wasn't even sure what a couple of them could possibly hold, but I was too flushed taking it all in to even go dig through the baskets. Standing there felt like walking into the Hustler Store and discovering that my sister lived in the place. There wasn't a bed, but where you'd expect one sat this gloriously delicious lipstick red suede playpen sectional sofa, which took up nearly half of the diminutive room. It was squared off on all sides so you sat on the sofa and slowly slid down into a bed-like flat area that was penned in on all sides. Lying on the sofa felt like a cross between being in a child's playpen and an orgy den, and the sheer surprise of that dichotomy was so alarming that I wanted to rush out and forget all about Ash's f.u.c.k den. But I didn't because, as much as I was appalled, I was equally drawn to this room and to what it represented, and to Ash's role as some sort of s.e.xual provocateur. When I came back to my senses, I remembered my initial reason for breaking through that veiled part.i.tion: to find Ash's videos. I started sifting through the containers on the cabinet, trying to focus less on the instruments of pleasure-or torture-that made up the contents and look only for the s.e.xy surveillance videos Ash had mentioned in her diary. Not surprisingly, the large black rectangular box jutting out from the bottom shelf and labeled "Punani" contained dozens of DVDs, meticulously labeled with a code I wasn't sure I wanted to crack.

Chapter Eight.

"Megan, there's a Shane on line two."

Who gave her my work number? Probably one of my d.a.m.n nosy friends. Great. Who knew how I'd be able to dodge her now.

"h.e.l.lo, Shane. What can I do for you?"

"Well, that's formal. Okay then, can I see you again?"

"No, sorry, not going to happen."

I didn't want to see her again. I got everything I needed the other night. That was a display of weakness on my part. I had vowed not to let anyone in, much less Shane, and there I was, taking her calls again.

I didn't care that Father suspected Shane was involved in Ash's murder and insisted I stay away from her because she supposedly had a criminal record, which probably meant she was busted drinking underage. I didn't care that she was home alone all night when Ash was killed-an alibi that was beyond flimsy-or that the cops had hauled her in for questioning.

I knew Shane and she might have been a terrible girlfriend, but she was no killer. Plus, she was as enthralled with my sister as any of them. Why on earth would she kill her? Still, our last encounter was a mistake, a one-time need on my part that shouldn't erase the way she treated me, f.u.c.king my sister and then flaunting it by the pool for weeks after. I didn't want to be with her, not the way I did that summer so long ago when I was a love-struck little baby d.y.k.e. Maybe I wasn't as jaded as Ash was but I was starting to understand a bit of what drove her, and I could see that there was a little part of that inside of me. Apparently last night, that little part reigned supreme, but that didn't mean I'd give in to my base urges again.

Shane called again. And again. And again. In fact, Shane called twice a day, every day for the next week. Finally, I listened to her explain, "It wasn't by accident I ran into you at the Mint. I tracked you down."

I hung up. Undaunted, Shane showed up at my office the next day. And the day after that. Finally, on the third day, more out of embarra.s.sment than anything else, I relented and agreed to c.o.c.ktails at Saucebox, a trendy nightclub eatery where the noise was such a roar it kept all conversations quick.

What I hadn't planned was how much I would need to lean toward her in order to hear even half the words Shane was saying. By the time the two c.o.c.ktails in front of us had a few empties in their wake, I was practically sitting in her lap. Shane had her lips pressed to my ear, telling me about her job as the editor of a women's poetry journal. I didn't realize she worked in publishing. I didn't know much about Shane at all. For example, I would never have guessed that just the slightest tickle of her breath on the ridge of my ear would send chills down my spine.

After a few more Washington Red Appletinis and some supplementary ear play, I started to forget just what I hated so much about Shane. I started to forget about her betrayal. I started to forget about my dead sister. I started to forget about everything, except how much I wanted Shane, how much I'd always wanted her. There was nothing left but the noise of the club and my pa.s.sion for this woman.

I took her home again, only this time I didn't film our encounter. I still kicked her out of bed, but not until I woke up in the morning, the sound of mouse feet blasting holes in my head. When I rolled over and found Shane next to me all smiles, I threw up. I don't know if it was her, the alcohol, or the alien that burrowed into my stomach and died. I allowed her to clean herself-and me-before sending her away, calling in sick and, like any good addict, swearing I'd give up my vices for good if only G.o.d would mute the world for one day.

It wasn't my fault he didn't keep his end of the bargain.

When I crawled out of my alcohol-induced coma I realized that I still had yet to hear Shane utter those three magic words, and until she did I absolutely, positively could not spend another minute with her.

I ignored her calls for a few days and then finally instructed our receptionist to give Shane the message-I wouldn't take her calls until I was a.s.sured I would hear that expression: I am sorry.

The flowers arrived within the hour. There were three giant bouquets in all, one of red roses, another of yellow roses, and one of purple hyacinths. A balloon drifted above the hyacinths. I turned it around and saw the words printed there: "I'm sorry."

Overwhelmed by emotion, my hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't pull the small card from its envelope. Our receptionist took it from me and read aloud, "The hyacinths are an apology, the yellow roses an offer of friendship, and the red roses to tell you that my feelings for you have never changed."

She ended to a chorus of "aw" and a round of clapping as my coworkers took it upon themselves to intrude in my personal business. Swayed by the scent of forgiveness exuding from the group of women who huddled so tightly around me I felt like slapping a.s.ses and throwing a pigskin, I took Shane's call and agreed to meet with her one more time. However, this time I insisted on staying as far away from the intoxicating allure of alcohol and suggested coffee at Haven.

She was there when I arrived, chatting amiably with the barista, but when she saw me outside she rushed over and held the door like a gentleman. I waved her aside, made my order, and joined her at a table in the corner.

I fought the knee-jerk impulse to thank her for the flowers. "You have ten minutes," I said, hoping I sounded brusque, flippant even.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Megan. I know it's been tough on you."

"Hmm." I took another drink from my mocha.

"Okay, okay. I'll get right to the point. I don't want to speak ill of the dead-"

But I'm going to anyway, I imagined her saying. Why did people always use that phrase to preface doing exactly that? If they didn't want to speak ill of the dead, why did they speak up at all? Shane wasn't winning any points from me.

"But you know how manipulative your sister was. She always seemed able to manipulate me into doing things, even when it was some elaborate joke at my expense. Which is what happened that night you, uh, it's what happened that night."

You mean the night I walked in on you f.u.c.king my sister? I wanted to scream it so everyone in the cafe, everyone in the neighborhood, h.e.l.l, everyone in the whole d.a.m.n town could bear witness to the awful thing Shane had done to me. But I didn't shout it out. I didn't even mutter it. I just rolled my eyes and shook my head.

Shane barreled on, although she at least had the decorum to lower her voice. "I swear, I didn't go there intending to have s.e.x with her." Her eyes pleaded with me to believe her and I wasn't sure if it was my heart or my c.u.n.t, but some part of me really wanted to.

"I went to see you, but you weren't back from the awards ceremony. Ash said I could wait for you in the pool house and offered me a drink." Shane swallowed hard. She tried to hold my gaze, but I looked away.

"The next thing I know," Shane continued, "you're opening the door and I'm wondering how the h.e.l.l I got there."

I snorted. "So what? You blacked out? She drugged you? What are you saying?"

It was Shane's turn to shake her head. "I don't know. I've gone over that night again and again, and it just doesn't make sense. I mean, it wasn't like she forced me, but it sort of felt like I wasn't a willing partic.i.p.ant. And then afterward it was so clear that she'd planned the entire thing."

"Oh, right. Why would she do that?"

"To hurt you."

I stared at her. "Wait. What? You're saying Ash forced you to have a threesome with her just to hurt me? That doesn't even make sense. Why?" I was at loss for words. I just shook my head again, pushed my chair back, and started to stand up.

Shane's hand on my arm stopped me. Even through my blouse her touch sent electric shivers radiating out from where her fingers landed. "For all her faults, Megan, your sister loved you very much, even if she didn't know how to show it. She and I had some history. I wasn't that great to her." Shane pursed her lips and glanced down at her lap. "She just didn't want you to get hurt."

"But by your logic, she set that night up to deliberately hurt me!"

"No. I mean, yes, she did. But she was trying to save you more pain later on if you fell in love with me and I broke your heart. Only Ash didn't realize I'd never" Shane trailed off. "Look, it's not like I'm asking you to forgive me straight off. I did something terrible. You know firsthand the kind of charismatic power Ash had over people. I hoped that you might give me a second chance because of that."

I couldn't do it.

Not that night, at any rate. A few days later I let her give it the good ol' college try. Everyone deserves a second chance. And a second o.r.g.a.s.m. Shane gave them in spades. And my s.e.xual needs were starting to be more pressing than my emotional ones. That night I didn't kick her out of bed when we were done.

The next morning we were in the kitchen making omelets-wh.o.r.e's breakfast, Ash used to call it-like a giddy couple, and I wondered if I could ever let myself have feelings for Shane again.

The omelets led back to bed, which led to dinner, which led to more s.e.x, and before I knew it, one weekend together turned into a full-fledged affair. After a few months of coupledom, things seemed idyllic, almost normal even. I loved the safety of it, the maturity of it, and without even realizing it, I'd let my guard down again, allowing myself to feel the emotions I'd always harbored for Shane.

"What's going on, baby?" It was my turn to query Shane. I doubted that I came across as threatening as I felt, but I was certain my tone had a hostile edge to it. Shane had stood me up for dinner half a dozen times now, and whenever we were together she seemed distant. We had been dating six months, and already the honeymoon was over.

"Nothing." Shane was sullen, uncommunicative.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it, Shane. Would you just f.u.c.king talk to me?" I was so sick of her silent treatment I felt like shoving a fork in my thigh just to get a reaction from her. Maybe I was more angry at myself than Shane. I'd given in, I allowed her to suck me into her world again and now she was going cold-again. I should've been strong, should've stayed committed to the plan.

I still wanted to solve Ash's murder, still felt Shane's recollections from that evening might be the break I needed, but Shane didn't want to talk about Ash, and I didn't want to keep fighting, so I shelved it all, putting my life on the back burner to make someone else happy. Again.

I hated myself for the ways in which I changed around a woman I loved. Or at least this woman, being as she had been the only woman I had loved, I didn't have a lot to compare it to. But with Shane, I felt like I lost control somehow, like I forgot who I was. Who was that? Maybe I'd never known who I was. Or maybe I knew and I just didn't like it.

I was trying so hard to be strong and independent. I wanted to be successful on my own terms, you know, not to feel like everything I had and everything I was sprouted from Father's money. Wasn't my begging for an iota of attention from Shane similar to Father controlling me with his purse strings? Well, f.u.c.k her.

"Look, Shane, if you don't want to be in this relationship, then fine by me. You started it." I was walking to the door of the apartment, ready to throw her s.h.i.t out, when she turned around and looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time, and it kind of surprised her.

"I do want to be here, Megan. It's just that things have gotten a little dull." G.o.d, the mind games this girl played!

"Dull? Dull? What the h.e.l.l, Shane? It's been six months and you're already bored?" I couldn't believe she'd tired of me already. It seemed like she had spent longer wooing me than she had bedding me. What the f.u.c.k? I couldn't believe I fell for her s.h.i.t again.

"No, it's not that. I just think we should shake things up."

I didn't reply. There was nothing I wanted to say to her. Hadn't I just settled down for her, because of her? Wasn't this what she wanted? I couldn't believe Shane had the audacity to complain about our domesticity.

In truth, I was terrified she was right, like I'd tricked her into thinking I was exciting, that I was just a younger version of Ash, not the dull person whose inexperience in bed made her lovemaking so tedious that her lover couldn't bear the monotony.

What did that mean anyway? Was this code for threesomes? Polyamory? Or did it just mean Shane wanted to pull out a copy of the Kama Sutra and try out some new positions? I wouldn't admit it, but I feared that if I refused to even consider enlivening our relationship, it would give Shane reason to leave me and worse, it would reveal how much of a s.e.xual dullard I really was.

Maybe all couples eventually reached a point in their relationship where they needed to shake things up. Maybe it just went by so fast because Shane's so experienced. Maybe other lesbians knew how to keep their lovers more entertained. G.o.d.

I bet Ash never had this problem, never had someone imply she had become boring in bed. No, everything I'd learned about Ash told me she was the one wanting to shake things up. Thinking of Ash, I could almost see her laughing at me for being so insipid and naive.

Well, I wasn't going to let Shane slip through my fingers after all we'd been through. And I refused to allow my fear to paralyze me. If Shane wanted spice, I was determined to give her habanero peppers. I'd show her. I'd shake things up. Tonight I was going to start watching Ash's s.e.x DVDs.

I could kill two birds with one stone. I could help find out what happened to Ash and maybe discover what magic spell my sister cast over every woman that she met. Surely I could find some pointers to impress Shane in the bedroom. Delving into Ash's secrets and keeping Shane intrigued seemed reason enough to watch what could be some sordid recordings.

Yet, even as I was putting the DVD in the player, I couldn't help but wonder how smart it was to watch my sister getting it on. I mean, the summer she died I had seen her having s.e.x many times, but always from a distance. This would be close-up and personal images of my deceased sibling. That could very well cross some invisible line separating decent folks from the perverse. What if this video was like Pandora's box and would unleash something I could never put back?

Although I was quite serious, I imagined that j.a.panese horror film where a scary zombie girl would come slithering out of the television after viewers watched a particular videotape. Then they'd die of fright. I couldn't believe enough time had pa.s.sed that I could have such a morbid thought and laugh, not cry, that my big sister was dead and I was sitting in her old apartment watching videos of her f.u.c.king other people.

Ash moved into the frame, naked except for a scarf around her neck and white go-go boots that came up to her knees. Two women entered the room, one of them large, foreboding, and the other rather diminutive. Both women were fully clothed in black leather and denim. They each had dog collars around their necks and giant d.i.l.d.os popping out of their jeans. The large woman, a blonde with multiple tattoos and a black d.i.l.d.o, had a chain that stretched from her c.o.c.k ring to a back pocket. She went behind Ash, weaving her arms through Ash's and pulling her backward so she was splayed across a console table. The smaller woman, this one dark-haired, maybe Mediterranean, shoved Ash's legs apart, then pushed one of Ash's legs up in the air and the other to the side, posing her like a p.o.r.n model, all the while navigating a pink d.i.l.d.o into Ash. Ash winced, then smiled at the camera. It was her camera, after all. Did the other women even know they were being filmed? Maybe not.

But Ash certainly did, and even though there was no sound on it, I could tell she was calling the shots in the scene because her lips moved before anything new happened. I found that comforting. I didn't have to worry about consent when Ash was clearly commanding them, directing them with what to do and when. Ash had asked to be splayed over this table, taken by two butches with piercings and giant c.o.c.ks.

And take her they did, moving in and out of her for what seemed like hours. Ash smiled at the camera and whispered again to her lovers. It was creepy to see her looking right at me, so I hit the fast-forward b.u.t.ton and the blonde jumped into action, shoving her c.o.c.k inside Ash's mouth.

In high speed, Ash yanked the scarf from around her neck and wrapped the ends around her wrists, jammed her hands inside the blonde's, and tugged. I slowed down, trying to understand what she was trying to say. It seemed like she wanted to be choked. The blonde shook her head, refusing, but Ash was demanding, so she gently, very gingerly tugged at the scarf. Ash berated her. I recognized the look. Her partner relented, tightening the scarf. Ash smiled at the camera again and then threw her head back in ecstasy. The camera faded out.

I rummaged around through the closet, tossing aside my own clothes to sift through the things Ash left behind. I had something specific in mind. A little while later, I opened the bedroom door and came out wearing nothing but white go-go boots and a long scarf. Rather than widening in delight, Shane's eyes appeared saucerlike, as though she had seen a ghost. That wasn't the look I wanted to see on my lover's face. Had she seen my sister wear this outfit? Or was it just the sight of me in such an unexpected outfit that made her go pale? Did I turn her on? Or did I repel her?

Unwilling to be dissuaded, I decided to find out one way or the other. Trying not to show my embarra.s.sment at showing my bare a.s.s, I sauntered over to the couch and stood in front of her. Shane reached out with both hands, clearly intent on grabbing my b.u.t.t cheeks and pulling me toward her. But tonight I was determined to be the one in control. I grabbed her left hand and raised it to my lips, parting them seductively as her fingers approached my mouth. Her whole body shifted forward, just as I had intended it to.

Rather than penetrating my mouth with her fingers, I stepped back, and used the momentum to yank her off the edge of the sofa. She stumbled forward and I turned around, leading her into the bedroom. Shane tried to push me onto the bed, but I shook my head and waved a schoolmarm finger at her for being such a naughty child. I tugged her down to her knees, flung one leg up against the dresser, and shoved her face between my thighs, pulling her hair a bit in order to keep myself steady. She ate it up, literally lapping me up like a dying man drinking straight from the spring in a desert oasis. She was mine all right, and I was going to show her why she was here.

Before I let myself reward her with an o.r.g.a.s.m, I pulled her to her feet and shoved her onto the bed, before opening the armoire's top drawer, retrieving a package, and tossing it at her.

"What's this?" Shane asked.

I put my finger to my lips to shush her. Patience, my pet, I thought, watching her tear open the package. The corner of her top lip curled into a smug grin. I could see she was pleased with the new d.i.l.d.o I bought her, because she quickly strapped it on and it stood at attention with a stiffness Mark had never once been able to demonstrate.