By: WaterLuv

All rights reserved

(Footnotes at end of part 2)

Author's note to Mary and others playing her part. It has been awhile since there were any role playing instructions for you. Take heart. The [bracketed instructions] are here. However, you're going to have a bit of reading before you reach them.

For your final act in this chapter, there are some props that, while not required, are helpful. If you have a dildo or anatomically shaped vibrator, have it handy. If you have a latex panty, that's a real plus. You are a hot little number, aren't you. If not, choose a satiny pair of undies and be prepared to wash them after the session. Of course, if you wish to conserve on laundry detergent and save our environmentally challenged rivers, you are welcome to send the soiled panties to me. I do have environmentally friendly methods for handling them.

Also, if you're feeling particularly masochistic as you read, you'll find this chapter's action rather light hearted for your character. In this one, I get the punishing play. So if you find your role too disgustingly tame, just switch places with me for this chapter. But remember, my part in chapter fourteen is a real gag, and that's no joke. Once you decide to play my role, you must carry it to completion, and doing so will make you sick. You have been warned. Enjoy!

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Sunday morning dawned late. Good fortune and Southern Florida's constant battle of muggy air-masses had brought thick, low clouds during the night. As effectively as an air-raid curtain, they blocked the mornings first light, letting us catch an extra two hours of needed sleep. The rest was welcomed even though it wrecked our plans for the morning. We had meant to rise early and attend church services at Coastlands Christian Fellowship. A fiery young pastor was making waves there, and I wanted to hear him deliver one of his soul stirring sermons. Not this Sunday. The cloud cover had let us sleep right through the first 25 minutes of his fire-and-brimstone rant. No matter, I thought. The extra sleep will probably do more to resurrect us than the incendiary preaching of Pastor Graves.

With our planned activities for the morning derailed, we threw ourselves into further planning of Rashad's requiem march. I called Jazmand. She's an early riser. I was certain that, with our late waking, she'd be up and about. Her sleepy "Hello" convinced me that was not the case.

"Jaz," I said, "I finally caught you sleeping in."

Awwww! After last night, you are surprised? she cracked. "You didn't think I went right to sleep after we hung up, did you?"

"Meaning you thought we did?" I parried. For somebody I just rousted from a peaceful sleep, this girl is irritatingly witty, I thought. Keeping up with her brilliant mind this morning will be a challenge.

"You two minks are tooooo naughty," she returned.

"Oh listen to Miss Moral Majority," I rebuffed, an obvious chuckle softening my teasing.

"Oh I give up. You're obviously not going to let me have the last word," she sighed.

"Is that your last word on the matter?" I carried on. "Then we've got some business to address. Can this meeting come to order"?

"Yeah, let's do it," said Jaz. "But I'd rather just trade jibes with you."

"Jaz, how are you doing with it all, hon," you chimed in.

"Thanks for asking, Mary. Last night helped immensely. I was so out of it yesterday I couldn't think straight. I should have told you last night, Jim. I found out what tipped the police to our investigators. It was just dumb luck. Mary, you gave them that partial license number. The police officer assigned to check it out with the DMV had some other business with them, and he was standing right behind the DMV records clerk when Templeton called in. It was on a speaker phone. The officer heard everything. Johnston was just fishing when he accused you of hiring the investigators. He didn't really know that, and he still doesn't. He hammered me yesterday, but I played my black bimbo act with him."

"He bought it?" I asked.

"Sure seemed to. He's either better than Colombo at playing dumb gumshoe, or he bought the whole enchilada."

"Give you a Tony Award," I said. "I've got another part for you, and the bimbo character will be perfect in this play, too."

"Am I getting type cast?"

"Not the slightest chance," I assured her. Jaz has an IQ of 175. She's so naturally obsequious folks rarely realize how incredibly bright she is. But get her riled and her mind's sharp enough to slice a seasoned soldier into shark bait. I find it wise to assure her, from time to time, that I know this. I continued, "Here's what you do. You know where Banton hangs out when he's in Key West. He's sure to have friends at his favorite bars. Go in and ask about him. Ask if anybody knows where he is. Tell 'em to let him know you want to see him. Drop some veiled hints about the Orchid Management Society, you know, that you're in training in it. That should be enough to get our friend out of Miami and you back in our arms."

"Mmmmm, I like how this play ends," she chuckled.

Great. Then let's get to the closing act. Next assignment. Power up the computer in the office. I'll run back over to the boat this morning and modem you a CorelDRAW file of the OMS brochure. It's on the notebook computer, and I left that on WaterWay. We don't have an address for the building yet, but we can list a phone number. I'll get one today and put it in here with an answering machine. It'll be an OMS only line. Make a color print of OMS.CDR. Zee fold it like we planned. Print out a mailing label to my Key West house, then mail it to yourself, care of my Key West address. It'll be in the mailbox by the time Rashad gets there, complete with a canceled stamp. There's a pretty good chance he'll rummage through the mail and filch it.

"And then?" she questioned.

"And then, darling, we wait from Rashad to take the bait. As soon as Bob Templeton confirms he's leaving Miami for points south, our little girl can come to Mamma and Papa."

"Cum with you two?" she teased. There's some subtle verbal clue she uses. I can always tell by the way she pronounces the word how it ought to be spelled.

"That's a definite yes", you answered.

"Ditto," I said. "Mary and I miss you, girl. It's hard on me when you're away too long."

"I'm glad to hear that," she snickered, "but I know Mary can handle whatever comes up till I get back."

"Not jealous, Jaz?" you asked her.

"Oh, I might want to give you a licking for having so much of him while I'm away."

"A licking on my tender butt?" you inquired in feigned horror.

"That's just what I had in mind. Rear, front, around the world," Jaz replied.

"Then I'll be cheering Rashad on," you promised.

Our plans set, we phoned Allied Marine to set a time to access the boat. They were doing some work on her, and I didn't want to interfere. Unfortunately, they had her out for sea trials. She wouldn't be back in till late afternoon. Heading over to Allied then would put our evening plans at risk. We had sunset plans for a romantic, Northern Italian dinner for two at Stefano's in Key Biscane. After dinner, we'd head back over the bridge to the Art Deco district. A local writer, Loretta Greco, and a local producer had conspired to put on Passage at the Area Stage Company in South Beach. The play opened in May, and was still running here in October. It had been booked in Washington DC after is close here. We wanted to see why all the fuss.

Before leaving for the afternoon, I put a call in to our friend, Detective Johnston. I hoped he'd have the weekend off, and that I could tap him with a you're-it in the game of deliberate phone tag. That was the case. They said he'd be in Monday. I left word I'd called, and that I'd be in and out Monday. Would he please call. Perfect. We could head to dinner and the play with no duties haunting us.

It was a wonderful evening, the perfect end to a fine day with you. The quiet morning with its extra sleep, the fantastic dinner, the engaging play, all left us in the mood to make our plans for the previous evening come true tonight. Plain vanilla loving. And that's just what we did. We rolled together in bed, kissing and stroking one another while we coupled. There was no rush. There was no pressure to perform. It was all slow, easy, natural sharing. I remember so vividly stroking your soft hair back from your face, gazing so deeply into those bedroom eyes of yours as I poured my love into your waiting body.

You hadn't orgasmed, so I shifted ends and let my lips take up the quest for your release. You were so incredibly wet, full of our mingled sex syrup. The perfume of your love garden was overwhelming. Your lips were gently sucking and teasing at my softened manhood. Soon, I was raging hard again. You were sliding your pussy wantonly over my thirsty tongue, letting me drink deeply of you. There's a glorious secret sauce that you release just as you orgasm. The scent and taste of it are wondrous beyond anything I can describe. The first hint of it, and my thirst for woman kicks in. My brain and body merge as one and go on automatic. I must have it all. And I had more than a hint of secret sauce now. You were pouring it down my thirsty throat as you ground your hot vagina on my face.

It felt like your cum was pumping straight through me, gathering in my balls, swelling them till they exploded in wave after wave of surging cream, pouring up my love pole and into your thirsty mouth. It was heavenly. Linked together in that circle we rode through a shattering series of tremors, a timeless earthquake, then recurrent, slowly subsiding aftershocks.

When you had my balls completely drained, you slid your velvety lips back up the length of my pole, then switched around and kissed me deep, running your cum-covered tongue to the back of my mouth. Slowly, lovingly, you shared my own love juice with me, and basked in the wondrous aroma of your own sex covering my soaked face. Kissing and nuzzling in each other's arms, we drifted into a long, contented sleep. My night was filed with dreams of soaring, us standing on windswept mountain-tops, us walking hand-in-hand through a verdant valley in a Redwood forest, us drinking from a crystal-clear mountain stream.

We awoke to a fine Florida Monday, both feeling fully rested and recharged. We went out to a late breakfast. I used the cell phone to call Allied from the restaurant, confirming that WaterWay would be in and accessible. I got their address and directions, too. They are at 2550 South Bayshore Dr. in Coconut Grove. I hadn't paid that much attention the day Tony Rueger had driven us from there to Harvey Stone's Real Estate office.

On the way to Allied Marine, you driving, I was busy on the cellular phone. I talked to Tony Rueger, letting him know what Jazmand had discovered about the Key West Police and their knowledge of Templeton's investigation. He was very relieved to learn that the operation hadn't been compromised. Relieved, too, to confirm that the leak had been through no fault of his investigators. We set additional plans in place for clues to steer Rashad, then signed off.

Next, I talked to Harvey Stone. He'd checked the building, and it seemed perfect for our purposes. He'd checked comps and figured that we could buy it for around $700,000. I told him to float a trial balloon at that figure, but to keep the names of the buyers hidden.

Then the call that I dreaded, Johnston. I was told he had phoned in ill. He wouldn't be back till Tuesday at the earliest. It was one disappointment that I could easily deal with.

Next, I checked in with Madame Brighton. She reported that she had made good progress on collecting all the goodies I'd ordered for the OMS building. There were some items that had to be shipped in, and wouldn't be on hand till the latter part of the week. However, she was confident that we would have all our furnishings and equipment by the coming weekend.

We arrived at the Allied Marina and went straight to WaterWay. While I made the final changes to OMS.CDR, and sent a copy by modem to Jazmand, you gathered things we'd want to take back to the Orchid House. I assembled all the computer hardware and software aboard, packed everything into one large suitcase, my road-warrior cyberkit, and stowed that in the car.

On the way back to the safe house, we stopped by a grocery and stocked up on food. With Rashad back in Miami, the less time we spent out and about, the better. We took our lunch from the salad bar in the market, packed bags of groceries and plastic containers of salad in the little Mustang, and pointed the over-stuffed car toward home.

We were perhaps half way back to the safe house when I noticed in the rear-view mirror that a black BMW was behind us. It had darkened windows, so black that I couldn't be certain how many people were inside. Is it Rashad? Not likely, I thought, but I can't risk that it is. It will be a disaster if he follows me to the safe house. A disaster, and quite likely a very ugly confrontation. A nasty fight I won't be in a good position to win. I'll take an unnecessary right and see if the BMW follows.

We were heading North on S.W. 12th Avenue. I casually made a right at S.W. 8th Street. By the time I neared the end of the block there was still no black car following. I breathed a sigh of relief. It had just been paranoia. I turned my attention back to encroaching traffic. I'd just make a left at the end of the block, left again at the next, and head back out to S.W. 12th Avenue. When I glanced behind to switch lanes, my heart took a double pump. There was the black Beamer, just making the corner.

Now what to do, I wondered. If I take the next two lefts as I'd planned, he'll know I've spotted him. Once exposed, what would his options be? He could either drop the pursuit, tail us till we stopped, or start chasing us and try forcing us to pull over. Too much chance he'd opt for the violent methods. I'd best let him think I don't know he's there. Which means I need to make this detour look legitimate. I'll drive on till I came to some logical place to stop. I don't think he'll start something in public unless he's pushed.

As I drove along, I told you not to look, but that we had company. I had you phone Templeton. If Bob was following Rashad, he could confirm once-and-for-all, if this black BMW was THE black BMW. You called, and confirmed our fears. Templeton reported he'd seen Rashad pick us up. He was well behind Banton's car, but keeping it in sight. So there were now three cars in this convoy.

I kept going east on S.W. 8th Street till we came to the open-air market. There I parked the car, figuring that Rashad would probably drive casually by and wait up the street. After all, we weren't his real target. He hoped we would lead him to Jazmand, and confronting us would destroy any chance of that. We kept the pocket cellular with us so we could confirm his actions through Templeton. While you picked among the fruits and fresh produce, I slipped into a protected corner and called Bob. He was parked no more than a block away. Banton had pulled into a service station up the street, swung his car around, and was now facing the street, motor still running. He didn't know which direction I would head when I left the market. He must have wanted to be ready, whichever way I went.

I said, "Bob, are any of your other detectives in the area?"

"Yes," he replied, "Dick Corey is right around the block. We figured to switch tails on Banton before he got suspicious."

"Well done," I complimented. "Now here's what I want you to do. Have Corey pull around and park just around the corner down to the west of this market. I'll phone you before we pull out. You radio Corey and have him turn the corner and head east past the market. What's he driving?"

"A blue 93 Chevy blazer."

"OK," I said. "When he drives up, I'll pull out just in front of him. You warn Dick Corey to drive so I can get right in front of his Blazer. Tell him not to tailgate the cars ahead of him. Unless I miss my guess, Rashad will follow me, but won't try to pass Corey. He'd be too easy to spot if he tried to muscle in between the two of us. Tell Corey to stay close to my bumper. You follow Rashad. We'll proceed on east, staying in the slow lane, till we get caught by a traffic light and there's plenty of traffic in the left lane. That's when we loose Rashad. Have Dick Corey fake a stall. He gets out and opens the hood, slamming his fist on the fenders, cussing the car. You get the picture. You stay put behind Banton, so he can't back up and pass the stalled car in front of him. I will make a right at the light and I'm gone."

"Brilliant," Bob responded. "Give me two minutes to get everything set."

"You got it," I chuckled, a sucker for a compliment from a pro. I found you, and explained my scheme.

Things went pretty much according to plan. I had a hard time keeping a straight face after pulling into traffic just in front of Dick Corey's Blazer. It seemed such a carnival of the absurd, four cars following each other, each with only fragmentary knowledge of what the others were doing.

We were tooling along, actually praying to get caught by a red light when the cellular phone rang. It was Templeton. He had some truly interesting news from Dick Corey. Dick had thought earlier there was another car following us, a late model gray Chrysler sedan. Our little stop-and-start maneuver had confirmed it. From the description of the driver, it sounded for all the world like Detective Johnston of the Key West Police was in Miami and was taking a very personal interest in what should be a routine shots-fired case. Four cars in a row. Make that five, I thought. As Alice said, 'This just gets curiouser and curiouser.' My internal laughter at this circus was getting louder, but also more laced with anxiety. Things seemed to be spinning out of my control. Not exactly a confidence inspiring thing when you're facing a violent man like Rashad, or a pushy one like Johnston.

We carried on to the east for a way without catching a light. We had already passed North Miami Avenue. I was about to despair and double back, a better strategy, I thought, than driving into Biscane Bay, when a signal went yellow in front of us. Deferential driver that I am, I stopped for the yellow. There was a string of at least 20 cars in the left lane, and more coming. This was it. As the light changed back to green, I pulled away and made the immediate right. Corey was already into his stalled-car act, and doing a very convincing job. As soon as we were safely around the corner, I sped up the block and turned right again. We were just making the second turn when the gray Chrysler turned the corner. Our maneuver had decoupled Rashad's car, but we still had Johnston. Clearly it was us he was following, not the criminal.

Johnston or no, we headed back west on 9th Street. You were watching intently in the makeup mirror on the passenger sun visor. Suddenly, you stiffened. "There's somebody else back there," you said.

"What?" I exclaimed. "My my, aren't we the popular ones? You mean we had not five but six cars in our parade? How do you know they're following us?"

"I noticed the gray Chrysler sitting outside the Allied marina when we drove up," you explained. "Just down the street from it there was a white Ford Taurus with two men in it. A white Taurus with two men just turned the corner behind Johnston. I don't know it's the same car, but it sure is suspicious."

"It would be extraordinary, indeed, if it were a coincidence," I agreed. "It's also extraordinary how one woman got such fantastic eyes -- pretty eyes, bedroom eyes, and eyes that never miss a detail. Well done, dear. But what do we make of it?"

"I just see it. What to make of it is your department," you teased, cocky in the face of my compliment.

"OK, then, the what-to-make-of-it department thinks this. On the good side, both of them were waiting for us at Allied. They don't know where the safe house is."

"How do you figure that?" you asked.

"Well, we know Johnston's following us, not Rashad. Otherwise, he'd have stayed behind with Rashad after our little engineered traffic jam. If he knew where the Orchid House is, he'd have been waiting there for us to leave."

"OK, I'll buy that," you agreed. "But how did they know to wait for us at Allied?"

"Johnston must be using a scanner to pick up my cellular phone," I explained. "I called Allied this morning to tell them we'd be dropping by before noon. I also asked for their street address. I remember I repeated it back to them. Johnston heard the whole thing. He knew where we'd be, and when."

"Pretty good," you praised. "But now what are you going to do to get rid of him?"

"That's easy," I answered, smiling an evil smile. "Here's the cellular. Call 911 and report that there is a car following us. Be sure to give them the description. A gray Chrysler. Tell the dispatcher that we've made all kinds of turns, and this guy in the Chrysler just keeps following us. Don't mention anything about the White Taurus. Let's find out who the Taurus is following when Johnston breaks off the hunt."

"How's calling the police going to stop the police from following us?" you puzzled.

"Unless something truly bizarre is going on, Johnston's not here on police business," I replied. "He's way out of his jurisdiction. It's only a shots-fired case he's investigating. This is Southern Florida. The police have stuff like Medellan assassination squads, ex Banana Republic dictators turned drug runners, street gangs gunning down German tourists just to prove they've got the cajones to kill. A shots-fired case should get about zero minutes of investigative time. No, Johnston's here for his own reasons. My bet is he won't want to explain himself to a uniformed officer of the Miami Police. He'll break off our tail like a dog that catches up with a skunk."

So I handed the phone to you, and we put our theory to the test. By the end of the block, Johnston was in the left lane, signal on, waiting to turn off our track. The white Taurus, however, was not in the left lane. It was still behind us. Staggering, I thought. Could this be a major operation for the Key West police, with multiple officers and unmarked cars assigned to following us around Miami? However, at the end of the next block, the Ford swung a quick left. Most likely, I thought, they're here following Johnston, and didn't want him to know it. They'll double back and try to find him. But who are they? Why are they following Johnston?

I turned right at the next corner, went over a block, then turned left and continued on west toward 9th Street. After a few blocks, with traffic hiding us well from anyone turning on to our street, you called the Miami police a second time and told them the good news that the car following us had dropped the chase when they saw us make the call. Still, they had a cruiser meet us within a few blocks to take a report. What we'd planned as a simple morning of household shopping and moving from WaterWay to the Orchid House had proved to be much more interesting, and time consuming. In the bargain, we'd collected a new set of disturbing unknowns. What had Johnston overheard during my cellular phone calls? How long had he been in Miami listening in? Why was he doing this? Who was in the white Ford? Why were they following him? But the most serious of the questions kept echoing in my head. With all the new characters and their unclear motives, can we still safely launch Operation Resupination.

Whatever our intentions about Rashad and his behavior modification, I knew we needed more secure communications. With advice from Templeton and his men, I went shopping Tuesday morning for a cellular phone system for scrambled communication between Templeton and ourselves.

Jazmand had seeded the Key West clouds Sunday. It took Rashad four days to pick up on Jaz's clues. Finally, Wednesday evening, Templeton "overheard" Banton making a phone call to one of his friends at Sloppy Joe's Bar in Key West. Rashad learned from his friend that Jazmand was in Key West, and was asking about him. He left Miami immediately. We phoned Jazmand, and told her to pack up and head north.

Everything about the last few days was troubling me. When we'd launched our operation, Rashad's nature had seemed clear. We hadn't discovered any evidence controverting our original belief that he was a Jamaican drug lord. On the other hand, convicting evidence of his guilt was suspiciously slow to fall in place. What if we were wrong about his occupation? And why did Johnston have such an interest, not in Rashad, but in us? And who was in the mysterious white Taurus following Johnston? Perhaps Banton was a bigger fish than we'd expected. Could it be that he had protection even from the Key West Police?

Jazmand got in Thursday morning, worn out from the travel and the tension of our game. She read and cat napped through the afternoon. I called the Key West Police and asked for detective Johnston. He was there, but away from his desk. I was in the process of leaving a message when he came back to his area.

"Johnston," he boomed.

"Good afternoon, Detective Johnston," I enthused. "This is Jim West. How's your . . . er, Investigation coming?"

"West, where are you?" he bellowed. I could just see the red flush of anger discoloring his stubby neck.

"You ought to know," I answered.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" he responded, a little moderation now in his usual bluster.

"Just that you took off Monday morning from Key West policing to traipse around Miami following Mary and me. Did you think the guy that shot at us would be riding along in our car?"

"Look, West, how I run my investigation is my business," he said, decidedly more quiet now. I knew from his changed demeanor that I was close to a sensitive nerve.

"Not just your business," I said. I'd decided the best policy here would be to put my cards on the table. "When you start following me outside your own jurisdiction, it's my business too. Not only that. It seems it was of interest to someone else, as well."

"What do you mean?" he questioned.

"Did you notice," I continued, "that a white Ford Taurus with two men was following you while you followed us?"

The voice that came back through the phone was so small and squeaky it was hardly recognizable as Johnston's. "Somebody was following me? Who?"

"You're the professional investigator. I was hoping you could tell me that," I answered.

"I'm not sure I know, but I got my suspicions," he said in an undertone. "Can you meet me somewhere? We really gotta talk."

"Can't be today," I said. "I do need to get back down to Key West, though. Tomorrow afternoon. You call me at my house around three. We can set a time and place then. And call from a secure location, not your desk phone."

"Right," he breathed. "Will do."

Strange, indeed, I thought. Right after the incident, I had put a call in to Templeton and asked him to look into the white Taurus. Who was following Johnston without his knowledge? Why were they trailing him? Was it Johnston only that interested them, or did we figure into their curiosity? These were the things I asked Bob to investigate. I had called my attorney, Tony Rueger, also. He's a close friend of the Key West Chief of Police. I asked him to see what his friendship could do toward answering my questions.

Within an hour, Tony had gotten back to me. "Key West Police, Internal Affairs. That's my guess," he said. "I told the chief about one of his officers following you, and another car trailing him. He just said he couldn't comment on it. If Banton's really a high roller in international drug running or money laundering, and if Johnston has gotten on to Rashad, then that might be what's interesting them. They might be watching to see if he's been bought by the Jamaicans. If Johnston hasn't connected Banton with you, and was really following you or Mary, then your guess is as good as mine why Internal Affairs is watching him."

Templeton's investigation provided this. Johnston had the weekend off. He'd spent it in Miami, trying desperately to figure out our location. There was no indication he'd looked at all for Rashad. He was due for work Monday morning, but had called in sick, and used the day to tail us from the Allied Marina to the point where he broke off the pursuit after our 911 call. Given Tony Rueger's information, what Templeton added helped complete the picture. But still, there were many questions unanswered. I wouldn't feel safe continuing our operation till we understood what Johnston the rest of the Key West Police were up to.

I checked with Madame Brighton. At least on this front, things were proceeding even better than planned. The Orchid Management Society would be ready to accept its first novitiate in advance of schedule. Would we be ready to provide it a candidate? I briefed M. Brighton on our progress, and our niggling concerns. She said she had a hunch what Johnston might be up to, and she would check her theory, and report back. I thanked her for all her help, and hung up pleased that, at least on this one front, progress was ahead of plan.

Jazmand was asleep on the couch, her novel folded tent-like over her pretty breasts. A prefect time for a little conference between just the two of us. "Mary," I said, "how do you think Jazmand is feeling today? Does she seem as edgy and insecure as she was when she got back from New Smyrna Beach?"

"A thing like that doesn't normally evaporate overnight," you replied. "My guess is she'll soon need another dose of heavy D/s and lots of assurance we both love her. With all the stress and all the new uncertainty, she's bound to want some special, hot loving."

"So do I," I admitted.

"Me too," you breathed. "And, with your permission, I'd like to top Jaz again. I think it would help her confidence, and I know it would help mine."

"I think that would be perfect," I agreed. "When she wakes up, let's negotiate."

Jaz slept peacefully through the evening news. I was in the midst of cooking stone crab legs for dinner when she finally stirred. I think she might have slept right through the night, but her boobs were beginning to ache under the weight of the book.

Over dinner, I explained how the stone crab is an ecologically sound meal, since only the single large claw is removed from the animal. The crab is thrown back in, and soon grows a replacement claw, none the worse for having graced our table with such a delectable meal. Over aperitifs, we began our negotiation session.

"Jaz," you said, "you were pretty distraught when we last separated. We've all been so busy lately. That phone session, where . . . Well, you know? . . . I was just concerned . . . What you might need."

I . . . I need a lot, Mistress.

"What is it that you need, Jazmand?" I interjected.

"Well, of course, that's for my Master and my Mistress to decide."

"Very well," I countered, "what do you WANT?"

"Umm, you're not letting me off easy, are you, Master."

"Jazmand, here you've got two experienced dominants asking, 'How can we please you?' For most subs, that would be like an invitation to Christmas dinner with the Pope."

"Well, if you didn't know before, you both know after our telephone session. I'm not like most people. Even among submissives, I guess I'm an oddball."

"You're right, you're not like most," you said. "You're far more precious. But quit stalling. What do you want?"

"Ms. Antoine, I know you well. You always know what it is that you want. Now, you're not to be embarrassed by anything with us. You tell us what's on your mind," I demanded.

"Oh Master, you're right," Jazmand admitted, eyes downcast and a blush reddening her usually tawny cheeks. "It's just that this fantasy is so strange. I mean, at least most of the things I want have a name. You know, algolagnia, masochism, klismophalia (see note 1 below). This one's so way out the shrinks haven't even named it.""So? Are you going to wait till some psychiatrist names it before you play your game? Bondage, yes, but not to words, It's time for manumission from the label game," I commanded."Yes, Master." More downcast eyes. More blushing. "It's . . . Well, I saw it years ago. It was in Penthouse, I think. Or maybe it was Playboy. I'm not sure. Daddy kept them both. I'd get into them when I was alone at home. It was one of those letters from readers. The ones where they describe their wildest sexual experiences."

"Yes?" I goaded, "Go on."

"Well," Jaz said, "It told of a fishing trip where a rich old guy chartered a large boat all to himself, and brought his beautiful young bride along for some deep-sea trolling. The guy was having a great time. Fish biting. But his wife got seasick. He sent the cabin boy below to the stateroom to help her through her ordeal, but was determined not to let her discomfort interfere with his fishing. The young woman, although sick to her stomach, decided to get even with her insensitive hubby. She pulled the cabin boy into the small bathroom and had him fuck her from behind while she repeatedly puked. He described how it felt, fucking her in such a tight space he couldn't even thrust. He just stayed in her, feeling the spasms rip through her body as she vomited. Finally, her retching milked a massive orgasm out of his cock."

Jaz went on, "This story really touched me. I was very impressionable, I guess. Just going through a stormy puberty. The story became a long-standing part of my submissive fantasies. It probably has a lot to do with my being so profoundly submissive today. But I've never put this particular fantasy into practice. Never even told anyone about it. I think I'd like to act it out, if it's not too utterly disgusting for you two."

"That is a tall order, I admitted. You are our Jazzy girl, aren't you." I smiled reassurance that I was loving, not deriding, her. There is a critical few minutes after a lover shares something from deep in their soul. It is essential to make them feel safe and loved during that time, even if you don't yet understand how on God's green earth they could possibly think their whacko idea would be sexy. I was in that first few minutes. My (you should pardon the pun) gut reaction was, erotic puking!?! Outrageous. But then, I know the erotic side of other things that would draw a similar reaction from the uninitiated. I would keep an open mind. "It sure sounds INTENSE!" I concluded.

"I don't know, Master," Jaz allowed. "It might be just a sick idea and nothing more. But I really want to explore it. I've kept it a secret, my secret, all my adult life. But now, feeling so needy, now seems like the time to test it."

"OK, honey," I said. "I'm willing to try. Mary, how about you."

"Sure," you replied, "I love Jazmand. If it's what she wants, I'm in."

Jazmand breathed a long sigh of relief, an enigmatic smile playing coyly over her lips. "Thanks," she sighed. "Thanks for not treating me like Godzilla for wanting something so farfetched."

"Sweetie," I comforted, "you're way too special to us. We're not going to get coarse with you just because you ask for something that's new to us. As warped as the two of us are, we'd be champion hypocrites if we couldn't accept deviance in you."

At this point, I needed a private conference with you, Mary. I needed to explain how I was feeling about this turn in our alliance? Disturbed. Torn between conflicting emotions. As I confirmed in that private discussion, you felt much the same.

Here's how my mixed feelings played out. The thought of Jazmand vomiting brought back ancient memories of the second grade. It was an old school building, no air conditioning and very little ventilation. Sitting two tables behind me was a little girl who must have had a weak stomach. About once in every two weeks, she would throw up in class. She was quiet about it, and the first hint was usually when the stench drifted up to my area, then finally to the front of the classroom and the teacher's attention. The teacher would invariably bundle little Lucy off to the washroom and clean her up while the rest of the class sat and steeped in the foul odor of Lucy's lost lunch. On many an occasion, particularly when the room was hot and stuffy, I nearly joined Lucy's barfatorium. I remember sitting, fighting back the gag reflex as I inhaled those pungent fumes provided by Lucy's partially metabolized provender. It wasn't an image that featured high on my list of sexy thoughts.

Then I thought of my own children, now adults. During my child-rearing years, I had my share of clean-up challenges. My youngest was especially susceptible to motion sickness. I was anointed many times from the back seat of our car as we went on family outings. Once, I even got the treatment at 35,000 feet, so I guess you could add me to the mile-high-vomit-wearer's club, an honor I truly didn't seek. Somehow, no mater where the kid was, it was I who served as the landing zone for the errant barf. My wife, now deceased, never once was the target. This image, too, while it stirred feelings of nostalgia for the precious childhood of my offspring, didn't come anywhere remotely close to erotic.

These first two images were close to ones you recalled from your own youth. But there was one more incident in my memory banks, one not shared by you. My oldest child had very fragile skin. Despite that, she was quite the tomboy. I remembered a time when she'd fallen in play and taken an ugly gash on her knee. It was a weekend, and our family doctor's office was closed. I had rushed her to the emergency room for stitches. I was standing beside her, comforting her. In the cubicle next to us, separated only by the thin fabric of a hospital screen, was a young woman who had taken poison. She had attempted suicide.

Her husband was with her, and he was terribly abusive. He was a verbal bully of the rankest order. He was raving to the hospital staff that he had a game to watch, and he had no more time for their medical foolishness. It was all the young internee could do to keep this burly bastard from physically dragging his stricken wife from the ER. No mystery what drove the young woman to attempt suicide.

The internee patiently explained to the oafish husband that his wife had been given an emetic to clear her stomach. He went on to tell the bullish churl that his young wife would very shortly start vomiting. Not just a little, he warned, but massive, racking, retching spasms. He told the dense bully this in very graphic terms, easily overheard through the thin cloth of the barrier between her gurney and ours. Finally, he persuaded this asswipe not to drag his suicidal lady out of the emergency room till the puking subsided.

As I listened to this very real human drama unfold, the urge to sneak a peek became overpowering. I had only to step back maybe two paces and I would be able to see around the end of the barrier. What did this cursing, fuming dolt look like? What did his suffering spouse look like? I had to know. I backed up. First, I saw the man -- a squat, brutish fatso of perhaps 35, short-cropped dark hair and a three-day beard. Moving slightly further back, I beheld a slender, waifish blond sitting sidesaddle on the hospital gurney, supporting herself with her outspread arms, head bent over a 5 gallon galvanized-steel bucket. Though I hadn't planned it, my move was timed perfectly. I witnessed the first great gush as the contents of the pretty little darling's stomach began to pour violently from her lips. I was embarrassed lest the hospital staff see my obvious interest in the ghastly proceedings next-door. I furtively watched with my peripheral vision as, over and over, the beautiful girl retched and gagged. The effect of seeing this was powerful and immediate. I was appalled and enthralled. Appalled at the callous behavior of the man. Enthralled, stricken with pity and concern, for the young woman.

The power of the human emotions at play in the scene overwhelmed me. Soon, I was reeling, ashen faced, perspiring, knees about to buckle. The nurse attending my daughter's stitches saw me and thought it was the blood and gore in our own cubicle that was getting to me. Afraid I would faint -- a very real possibility -- she ushered me quickly out into the waiting room.

Isolated from the drama and horror unfolding in the emergency room, I began to take stock of the powerful emotions that had consumed me while watching the pretty unfortunate act out her sad part on life's stage. There was disgust at the oafish callousness of her bullying husband. I had wanted to rush in and drown him in the bucket full of his wife's vomitus. There was deep sympathy for the beautiful, misused bride. I wanted to rush to her side, comfort her, save her from the loutish man who would obviously just continue to torment her till he pushed her to succeed in killing herself. But there was also a powerful sense of sexual arousal. I hated myself for feeling it, but it was definitely there.

The event made a lifelong impression on me. I never tried to incorporate it into my sexual activities. I didn't even know how I could. But I knew that I had connected with that poor woman in some strange spiritual way, and that the connection had profoundly affected my psychosexual development.

You had similar memories of grade-school disgusts, plus the tempering effect of child rearing, cleaning up a tiny tot whom you dearly love, but nothing so gripping as my emergency-room drama. Both of us were concerned that we give Jaz the loving she needed, but fearful that we would either be so repulsed or so whimsically removed from sex in a vomitorium that we would fail her. We agreed that the best strategy would be to tell her this in advance. We'd promise no more than a best effort, and deal with the emotions -- ours and hers -- as they surfaced.

My other problem was one of personal ethics. I make it an ironclad rule to never take a sub into something I haven't already experienced myself. If I was going to do this, I had to learn the ropes before applying them. I was asking myself how I might explore the sensations and emotions I'd be taking Jazmand through. I had to find a way that was both safe and erotic enough that I could keep the sexy edge needed to understand it in an S/m play context.

So I had this strange, mixed-bag set of feelings when Jazmand began to beg for this new, rather scatological dimension in our relationship. I remembered back to the first days of our love triangle, Mary. Our trio was a little over two weeks old now. It seemed more like months or even years. So much had happened.

I recalled how I had naively brought Jaz into the picture thinking she would only help in your training. In theory, that was a sound decision. If Jazmand demonstrated the ability to take a four-quart enema without letting it trigger her orgasm, you would KNOW that a woman could do such a thing. You would consequently find it much easier to train yourself to the task. It was like the four-minute mile. Until Roger Banister broke the four-minute barrier in 1954, the boundary had stood from the beginning of time. Everybody knew you couldn't run a mile in less than four minutes. After Banister proved the fallacy of that everybody-knows stumbling block, three more runners cleared the hurdle before the end of the year. Today, if you can't do the mile in under four minutes, you can't consider world-class competition in the event. I knew Jazmand's display would free you in much the same way for the four-quart filling.

The four-minute-equals-four-quart strategy had been right on. What I hadn't adequately understood was how the gentle brush with Jazmand would affect us. Here was proof that, unless you're one cold, calculating customer, you can't casually engage and disengage from other people without coming away profoundly changed, yourself.

Isn't it amazing how recondite are the ways in which we touch one another. I thought I could bring Jazmand into our circle for a few days, reach one simple goal, and remain otherwise unscathed. I see now that, when you share sex with another on the level at which we've been playing, you truly do become one flesh with them. You can't hope to merge so completely with another soul without yourself being changed. Look at us. We're both hopelessly in love with this woman now. We've taken her troubles with Rashad as our own. And now we're being challenged to walk with her into an uncharted territory full of frightful images. When we enter that brave new world with Jaz, we'll be pushed to trespass deeply ingrained taboos. On the other side of this, who knows what we'll be. The only certainty is won't be unchanged.

I shared these concerns with you, and you told me of your feelings. Your greatest fear was that we may have already started down a slippery slope with Jazmand. Would she, you wondered, need ever wilder scenes in order to feel complete. Would she want us to half kill her someday? I assured you that, in all the years she's been an S/m enthusiast, she's never shown any tendency to self-distruct. You seemed somewhat relieved, but I knew you'd be watching closely as the game went on.

You asked, "How do you plan to study so that you'll know, firsthand, what Jaz is going to feel?"

To this, I did have an answer. "Lobelia," I said.

"Lobelia?" you repeated, a smile playing gently on your lips. "What's that?" I think she likes it when I come out with such off-the-wall responses, I mused.

"Well," I answered, "people have injected some pretty strange enema solutions into their bodies. Wine. Oatmeal? Mashed Bananas? Marshmallows!? There's even the suggested treatment of choice for the hardened junk-mail barons, that ultimate remedy for rectal plugamosis, the Drano enema! Careful, though.: Do NOT try Drano at home. If you want a Drano enema, get professional assistance. Call Dr. Jack Kevorkian."

"But seriously, I've been wanting to experiment with lobelia. Now is the time. Jazmand wants your loving touch to reassure her. You spend a night with her while I experiment alone in the guest bedroom. I'll be watching your lesbian exhibition on closed-circuit TV. That should give the erotic lift to make the scientific study work. Environment's everything in research of this kind, you know?"

"Oh I see," you smirked. "Lobelia is some exotic enema?"

"Exactly," I continued. "Wine or bananas are exotic enough in their own right, but nothing else can compare with the Lobelia Enema. Among hard-core enema-submissives, the lowly Indian Tobacco weed -- Lobelia inflata Lobeliaceae to the scientist -- is the solution that separates the real subs from the wanna-bes. You see, another common name for Indian Tobacco is Pukeweed. The dried herb was and still is kept in medicine chests of herbalists for use as an emetic, an expectorant, a stimulant and an antispasmodic. It is sometimes used as an herbal treatment for asthma. Its antispasmodic action also makes it useful as a catalyst to enhance the action of some other herbs."

You could see I was working myself up into a state. Tickled, you settled in to hear what was coming. "Go on," you encouraged.

"Right," I complied, only too eager to accept the challenge. "You see, we're not here to talk about any of that mundane herbalist stuff. We want to study the plant's use as a decoction for enemas. It seems that the stuff induces vomiting by acting on the smooth muscles, causing them to contract, to spew, to hurl. You get the idea. Well, smooth muscles are not just limited to the stomach lining. They carry on right through the lower digestive tract. So if lobelia makes the top end spew, why wouldn't it cause big-time cramping down below? That was part of what interested me in lobelia. The other thing was that it is rumored to have psychedelic properties. So, in concrete terms, what does it actually do? I've studied some, and here's what I know."

"The herb comes commercially in two forms, and the type seems to influence the way it affects the body. It is sold as dried leaves and as powdered lobelia in health-food stores and herbal apothecaries. The dried leaves seem to heat the insides the moment the decoction is injected. It feels like pepper soup or something really spicy. The heat sets off instant cramping of the most severe kind. You might want to hold it in long enough to get the emetic or psychoactive influences, but it just won't cooperate."

"The powder, on the other hand, doesn't feel particularly hot going in. I've been told it is easy to retain it for a full thirty minutes, even if you take a quart of solution. You finally expel it because you get the sense something else is about to erupt."

"Sure enough, within about fifteen minutes of getting rid of the enema, you began to throw up like a bulimic on a major binge. So friends on the Internet have told me. I'm going to try this. If it fails when injected in the back, I know a tea of the stuff -- sipped warm with a little honey -- will do the job. The herbal guidebooks all recommend it as a fine emetic."

"And you're really going to do this to yourself for Jazmand's sake?" you asked, your bewilderment plainly showing.

"I am," I affirmed. "Tomorrow, I'll fast. I've got to go to Key West and meet Detective Johnston. I promised him I'd see him this Friday. Perfect time to fast. I'd rather starve myself than have dinner with that man. I'll meet him at the roof-top lounge of the Holiday Inn La Concha." I saw you roll your eyes at mention of the Holiday Inn. I explained, "It's the best spot in Key West for sunset watching. It's a Key West thing to go there for sunset drinks. I'll come back Saturday morning and do the scene Saturday evening."

"Umm," you empathized. "Don't envy your going all the way to Key West for sunset drinks with Johnston."

"And I do envy your role," I said in mock complaint. "You're going to have to hug and kiss the fire out of Jazmand's loins for two whole days while she seethes, waiting for her special scat scene. Sounds like a job for a potato."

"A potato?"

"Yeah, the job's definitely got appeal."

Jazmand was stirring under her novel, either waking, or -- having heard enough while pretending to sleep -- casting off all pretense of napping. She giggled to the spud pun, so I gathered she'd been eavesdropping for some time. We walked to her, pulled her up, and gave her a group hug. Then hand-in-hand, we all retired to the bedroom. In preparation for events to come, I kept out of the night's action. The two of you spent some quality time kissing and necking, but sleep triumphed over the day's confused emotions. [Mary, imagine you are with Jazmand. I am there, enjoying your presence, taking in the charged air of your show, but not touching either of you. Use your hands to explore your own body just as Jazmand would do. Close your eyes, press the smooth flesh of your arm to your lips, and imagine she is kissing you. As in the story, let this be only a warm-up session. Don't carry it past gentle caressing. Go to sleep excited, yearning for more.]

Friday morning I made breakfast for two and fresh-ground Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee for three. With the two of you fed and me hungry, I departed for Key West. Before leaving, I instructed the two of you to begin teasing and flirting toward an upcoming night of fiery lesbian love, but not to consummate the act while I was away. [Next evening, do the same, but this time, let your fingers wander into your sex. Explore the dark, warm valley between your buttocks. Use your hands like a blind lover, reading your body in Braille. Draw your sex-soaked fingers to your lips and imagine the perfume of Jazmand's body, ripe with desire. Bring yourself as close as you dare to orgasm, but not quite there. Again, go to bed flushed with longing.]

That evening, I met with Johnston as planned. We'd no sooner settled into our seats, positioned to watch the huge red-ball-of-fire sun sink into the Gulf than the detective began questioning me. His direction, however, was not what I'd expected.. "Hey West," he said, "after this drink, you want to go somewhere for dinner? It's on me."

When I told him I was fasting, my corpulent friend looked at me as if I'd claimed to be a space alien bent on meeting his leader.

Shoving that shock aside, he carried on. "Fine, don't eat. I'm going to wait till later, myself. Police business here, you know."

I could see the man was tap dancing around his real purpose. He was far from the overbearing interrogator he had been a week before. I decided to play some of my cards in hopes of drawing him out. "Detective, let's cut to the quick. Here's what I already know. You spent last weekend at least, probably more time, following me around. You illegally used a scanner to listen in on my cellular phone conversations. You phoned in sick this Monday and continued to snoop into my private affairs. Key West Internal Affairs followed you, and probably knows the bulk of this as well."

"Yeah," he admitted, "I figured the white Ford was IA." He pointedly ignored my accusations of felonious behavior on his part.

"What I don't understand," I continued, "is why. Why are you doing all this?"

"Investigating the shooting at your house?" His voice rose at the end of the sentence, changing it from a simple declaration to more of a question. I gathered he was asking if I was fool enough to believe such an obvious fabrication.

"Oh right, you're taking off and tailing me outside your jurisdiction, on your own time, even phoning in sick. You're engaging in illegal listening to private phone conversations. And you're doing all this to investigate a random shooting where nothing more than a door-frame was hit. Pa-leeez!" I was tempted to tell him that Rashad, the man driving the black BMW that had separated us while Johnston followed us around Miami, was likely the shooter. I thought it better to keep that knowledge to myself, though. Best find out where this guy's coming from before I confide too much, I reasoned.

Johnston didn't keep me waiting long. Perhaps he was seduced by my obvious charm and honesty. Far more likely, he was just a man at the end of his rope. I was there when he needed to tell his story. This is what he said. "West . . . Jim, I don't know where to turn, he mumbled. You're absolutely right, I was in Miami following you and the two ladies. I'm sorry, but I just couldn't help myself. You game for a long story. I'm going to have to tell you my life history if this is going to make any sense."

"Well, I do have some time limits," I answered. "Could you give me the Reader's Digest version?"

"I'll do my best to be brief," he sighed, clearly troubled. "See, I got married while I was still in school. I was a serious type, worked hard, didn't party. I stayed the same in my married life. Lucy, my wife, died three years ago. She had cancer. Fought it for four years, but it eventually drained the will to live right out of her."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," I assured him. "How long were you married?"

Twenty-eight years, he said. The thing is, I always had this kinky side to me. Lucy was never the least bit experimental. Once a month, like clockwork, missionary style. A wife's duty, and that was it. Even that dried up after she came down sick.

"After she died, I couldn't just get back into teenage dating. I mean, look at me. I'm boring, fat, double chinned. I'm a no-necked lummox. Besides all that, I'm a cop. What mistress in her right mind's going to go for me?"

So that's what this is all about, I realized. Johnston found out about our OMS plans, and he thinks I hold the keys to the Kinky Kingdom. Well, maybe I do, and maybe he can help open some doors for me, too. Let's see where this will go. "And you think I might be able to help? Sound's like you could use some lessons in self esteem to start with," I empathized.

"West, er Jim, you don't mind if I call you Jim, do you?"

"Not if you'll tell me your first name, I don't."

"Oh, sorry," he smiled apologetically. "Harold, Harold Johnston."

"OK, Harold," I said with a reassuring smile, "maybe we can get to know each other. When I first met you, you seemed blustery and pushy. Those traits don't win points with me. Honesty and loneliness, these I can relate to. I won't promise I can find someone who fits your needs. Before I can even try, you've got to tell me what those needs are. But I will try to help you find someone. And we can sure do some work on that sagging self esteem."

"Yeah, I know better than to ask for a promise of success," Harold nodded. "I'm just looking for some hope. If a man's got hope, he can get out of bed in the morning, you know."

He spent the next two hours telling me all about his hidden dreams and desires. Such sharing is an infectious thing. Before long, I was matching his candor with my own. I came away from our meeting feeling more sanguine than I had in weeks. No longer were we fighting a war on two fronts. Now, we could channel our energies exclusively toward Rashad. Now, we wouldn't have to fear police intervention in our plans. We might even be able to finagle a certain amount of support, unofficially, of course.

In the morning, as I headed back to Miami, I was excited about the news, eager to share it with the two of you.

Meanwhile, back in Miami, the temperature had been steadily rising between you two bi ladies. You had, as instructed, held back your desires while I was away. By Saturday night, after the encouraging news about Detective Johnston, a charged, erotic atmosphere prevailed at dinner and through the evening.

As you two watched CNN, I set up the CCTV to capture your loving as fodder for my fires during my planned ordeal. I arranged three cameras looking toward the bed in the master bedroom. From a console on the night-stand of the guest bedroom, I could select and zoom or pan any camera. The selected camera would feed it's picture to the projection TV on the wall past the foot of the bed.

I would see every torrid detail in living color. On the other hand, the two of you would provide your own entertainment. You would have no sight or sound of the torment my minor lobelia poisoning would produce. I was not ready to let you see so deeply into my masochistic side. Not yet, at least.

continued in part 2.