Fayima looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes swept across her body, barely concealed in slave-silks. Even in middle age, she maintained an hourglass figure and charms that men still desired. As the Dame of Harem Alliaa, her services pleasuring men transcended just sex. As the Dame of the harem, she was responsible for its administration, and the education and enthusiasm of the younger slaves whose sacred duty was to please men.

Today was another such day. She would not indulge in her sacred duty, but instead would be responsible for the rehabilitation of a prodigal son. She did not relish having to reinforce civic lessons, but duty to her community demanded it.

She selected a light switch of bamboo and hung it from a strap at her waist.

A police officer guided a young man through the entry doors. The cuffed youth looked surprised to see that it wasn’t a police station at all, but more a posh waiting room of sorts. It was a wide room with thick carpets, drapes hiding the walls, a half dozen couches, and warm but dim lighting.

She kept her hands crossed at the wrists behind her back as was custom for slaves meeting free people.

“Counselor Fayima?” the officer asked, “I’m here to release this delinquent into your custody… for anger management therapy.”

“Yes, sir. You may leave him with me.”

The officer removed the handcuffs, then smacked the back of the youth’s head, “Vandalism! Fucking punk.”

Fayima looked the young man in the eyes as the policeman exited, leaving the two of them alone.

“May I ask your name, sir?” Fayima asked. A slave working with a free delinquent was often tricky.

“Jaeffa,” he scowled, rubbing his wrists, his eyes unwilling to look at her in the see-through garment, “You’re a slave?”

“I am a Dame. Did you learn the difference in civic classes?”

“Maybe… Can’t say I really paid a lot of attention.”

“You have anger issues?”

He shrugged, “That’s what they say.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what? Ge angry?” his hands fell to his sides, “Yeah, maybe. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you were lucky to be born here in AlSaliya. You live in the only civilized place in the universe. Why would you be angry?”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be angry? Others have wealth I’ll never have. I’m not smart enough for University. And in a few months, I’ll be forced into the army. What could I possibly be happy about?”

“Can we discuss as we walk?”

Jaeffa rolled his eyes, “Whatever.”

Fayima turned and gestured to the doors behind her, “To become a citizen, you must perform a service to the community. Do you recall the services?”

“Oh, fucking void. I’d almost rather go to jail than suffer another civic lesson.”

“This lesson is important, failure to resolve your anger issues will lead to exile. The military will not take you unless I suggest they expunge your record.” She opened the door and gestured him deeper into the building, “Do you recall the four services?”

“Military, that’s me, University, Wifedom, or Slavery.”

Fayima smiled at him warmly, “You do recall, it will make our conversation easier.”

Jaeffa sighed, then followed the Dame as she walked, her heels clicking along the hallway.

“As I said, the Military will not have you if you have anger issues. If you cannot attend University, that only leaves you one other option.”

“Exile,” Jaeffa said with a defiant tone.

Fayima stopped and placed a hand on his shoulder, “I mean to save you from that.”

“Yeah? How’s a slave going to save me?”

“By imparting wisdom. And showing you exactly what our sacred service is.”

“Sacred service? What’s that?”

“Something slaves are taught at Sorority.”

Jaeffa rolled his eyes again, “And how in the fuck does that affect me at all?”

She began walking again, “We are each taught that our service is required for a functioning society. Men have their roles, and women have theirs.”

“Civics again…”

“Yes, civics. Why is our world desert and scrub?”

“Nuclear exchange in the Great War.”

“Very good, master. Men have waged war since the dawn of time. On our world, their aggression led from laser to tank to atomics. The world was ruined, nearly destroyed. All because of the aggression of men. The poison inside them, the anger, the aggression had to be purged.”

“And so, the women decided, in order to prevent men from being monsters, from destroying our world altogether, it would become a sacred duty to be a vessel of that poison. We draw out the anger, the aggression, the urges all men carry to destroy. We leave you sated, clear-headed, and reasonable. We absorb that aggression as our sacred duty.”

They turned a corner, a dozen women, all in see-through slave silks, lined the hallway. Each stood with her head bent, looking down at the floor. All their hands were behind their backs. Simple silver hoops had been pierced on every nipple, in every navel, and peeked from behind the silks on every clitoral shaft. Jaeffa gulped.

“Pick one,” Fayima said.

“What? Are you joking?” he hissed back at her, his eyes leapt from woman to woman, unable to settle on any one.

“You must pick a vessel to take your poisons from you.”

Fayima walked the length of the hallway with Jaeffa in tow. He paused at a dark-haired slave with almond-shaped eyes and dark olive skin.

“Jalisca, please escort this master to a serving room.”

The dark-haired beauty curtsied and took Jaeffa by the hand. She led him through a nearby door into a room with little else other than a bed and tub. Incense candles burned on shelves lining the wall, filling the room with a thick musky odor. Fayima followed the two.

Jalisca took Jaeffa to the foot of the bed and stopped him from facing it. “Thank you for finding me beautiful enough to be your vessel, young master. I pray I serve you well.”

She reached down and pulled Jaeffa’s shirt up over his head. Jaeffa radiated nervous like heat from a furnace.

He glanced back over his shoulder at Fayima, “Do you have to be here?”

“As a counselor, I must ensure that your anger issues will no longer plague our civilization.”

Jalisca had fallen to her knees and worked at the buckle of Jaeffa’s pants. In a swift motion, she unfastened him and had the garment down his legs. She deftly lifted each foot, taking off the shoe and pants efficiently. Jaeffa stood naked and blushing, covering himself with his hands.

“This is fucking insane…” Jaeffa whispered.

“No, master,” Fayima explained, “If you had paid attention in civics, you would understand. This is the sacrifice women made. To save civilization, some of us became slaves, to drain the poison from this world.”

Jalisca sat on the edge of the bed, she reached out taking Jaeff’s hands. “Make me your vessel, master.”

She scooted back, pulling him onto the bed with her. When she saw his hard shaft, she reached for it, cooing, “Use me, master, it’s my sacred duty.”

Jaeffa didn’t complain as the slave pulled him up atop her. She guided him into her quickly, gasping in ecstasy when she was penetrated. Her nails dug into his ass and back, pulling him into her. Still blushing, Jaeffa’s embarrassment vanished in an instant. The slave urged him on, but he moved slowly, carefully, afraid of hurting her.

Fayima stepped to the bed and took the switch from her waist. When Jalisca made eye contact, Fayima nodded. Moaning into Jaeffa’s ears, Jalisca wrapped her arms around each of his shoulders, locking him to her.

The switch came down across his ass.

“Fuck!” he screamed. Held down by the slave, he was fucking there was no place to escape.

“Yes!” Fayima yelled, “Fuck her. She’s not your wife. Fuck your anger into this slave girl.”

“Harder, master,” Jalisca whimpered in his ear, “Give me your poison.”

Torn between pain and pleasure, Jaeffa made a pitiful attempt to be more forceful. Fayima was having none of it and struck him again.

“Fuck her!”

“Fuck me…”

“Fucking stop it, you cunt!”

She struck him again, “Give her your anger. She is a slave. Fill her. Hurt her.”

“Yes, harder, master. Fuck me harder.”

Lost in the sensations of losing his virginity and being whipped, Jaeffa could only comply by pounding into the slave harder.

Fayima struck him again, and again. Any gentleness he showed was caned out of him. He pounded the slave under him furiously, screaming in rage with every lashing strike of the switch.

“Are you angry?” Fayima yelled.

“Fuck!” he screamed out, his body seizing up.

“Give your slave release,” Fayima told him, “Tell her she can cum.”

“You can cum,” he spat out between grunts. “cum…”

Jalisca bucked wildly, her nails raking down his shoulders as she howled. Jaeffa howled again, feeling her cunt clutching at him as it convulsed in orgasm.

“Thank you, master, thank you,” Jalisca whimpered as she laid trails of kisses across his neck.

When the two were finished, Jalisca led him to the tub and cleaned him. First with her mouth, then with a cloth. He seemed to have lost his shyness in the process, thought Fayima, as she slipped the switch back to its place at her waist.

When Jaeffa was dressed again, Fayima led him through the hallways back to the entry.

“This is why you should not want exile, young master.”

“But my family is poor. I’ll never be able to own a slave of my own.”

“Every slave, private or public, must spend one day of her month in service to civilization. In the army, you will have a rotating roster of slaves coming to serve our men in the armed forces, fulfilling their sacred duty. This house, this harem, is another such place. All men may come to have their poisons removed. When a slave climaxes, she transmogrifies the poisons into pleasure. This has saved our world from being destroyed. Turn your aggression away from home, and to the stars.”

“Can I still be exiled?” Jaeffa asked earnestly, worried.

“You have passed your anger management. Come see us again when your service is over.”

I looked down at the woman, Korra Flynn. She was naked and bound, kneeling, with her arms together behind her back and pulled up with a cord. Her knees were spread wide, and breasts framed in a series of tethers, putting everything on display. I walked around her, enjoying the view, seeing every intimate part of her, and there was nothing she could do to hide any of it.

She made an unintelligible sound, impossible to decipher. The O-ring gag in her mouth prevented articulate speech, but let me see into that hole, too. I shoved two fingers in it and pushed them back, gagging her as she struggled in the binds.

Her hair, face, bust size, hips, none of that mattered. That was all façade, it was Korra that, the bitch of a cunt woman behind those eyes that made me hard. Not for her, per se, but because she was bound, because she knew who I was, and hated me back with equal passion.

We were alone together in her cell. A cell I’d made just for her. The center of the cell had a plain metal table bolted to the floor. This was made just for me, high enough that it came to my thighs. Its purpose, of course, is to ensure that anyone thrown across it could be fucked; however, I chose with maximum comfort for myself. A bit less for the other.

Korra was on that table, kneeling and bound. She was almost eye level but had to look up, just a little, to return my gaze. From the reams of data my firm had collected, I knew that looking up, even slightly, created a perception of power differentials that I planned to use mercilessly.

Her eyes stared daggers at me as I reached out to touch the new piercing that had been put in her. One finger reached out for a nipple as she tried to flinch away. She said something or other, and I ignored it. I wanted to feel that little device buzzing on her tit. When my finger made contact, the tempo and frequency of the vibration changed, shooting waves of pleasure through her. She jerked back harder, her eyes now terrified and panicked. She now knew that when I touched her, she would feel the most exquisite pleasure. It would be at least as intense as her hatred, but in time that would change.

“Korra, you fucking bitch of a cunt, you have no idea how long I’ve waited to have you like this.”

She thrashed as my finger drew lazy circles around the vibrating nipple piercing. I knew she was being overwhelmed with pleasure. Her face said otherwise, panicked, angry, filled with hatred. She gurgled something.

“What’s that? No… I really can’t understand you.”

I shoved two fingers back in her mouth, gagging her again.

“For once in your life shut your fucking cock holster… Oh, right, you can’t. Well, be quiet at the very least. I want you to understand how and why it came to this.”

She quieted and even stopped thrashing, but still flinched back, trying to escape my torturous fingers.

“Good girl,” I said, enjoying the sickened look on her face.

As a reward, I reached out and grabbed fistfuls of her tits. I could feel the piercings vibrating away steadily in my palms, changing rhythms and pulses based on algorithms my company perfected in our first human trials years ago. I knew she was feeling the heat of my palms, sensations in her breasts, and warm, gooey feelings reaching all the way down into her tummy. Just from a few squeezes of my hands. She whimpered, hating that I could do that to her.

“At one time, I really loved you. Thought we’d get married, live together, have kids, vacations, the whole dream. When you dumped me, not even to my face, over the fucking phone, I was devastated. I couldn’t focus on classes, couldn’t sleep, tried to call you back a thousand times. Your dorm mates got sick of my buzzing, trying to find you in some desperate hope that I could talk you back. And you were just fucking gone. Out of my life. I was so depressed that I considered suicide. You never told me why.”

I used this pause to play with her nipples, petting and softly pinching, rolling the vibrating piercings in my fingers, knowing everything I did was magnified tenfold inside her.

“You became queen of the University, the Belle of Campus. And never gave me so much as a glance. On to bigger and better parties, new friends, dating the most popular fucking jocks… I became a pariah, mocked, laughed at, shunned.”

“In that loneliness I discovered something… I hated you. I dreamed of grudge fucking you every single day. It drove me. My focus on studies became monolithic. I graduated top of my tech classes. But it opened my eyes to something else. Psychology. I wanted to know what was wrong with me. What was so broken inside me that I would be shunned by every person who said they loved me? And I realized it wasn’t me. It had never been me. You were just a narcissistic cunt. But I never forgot the pain of that loss. It haunted me, ruining any chance for a normal relationship ever again.”

I slid my hands off your breasts, pushing them down your tummy. Her eyes begged, pleaded with me to stop. It was a good feeling, powerful, knowing I could make such a hateful bitch beg, even with just her eyes. I relished the look on her face as my hands relentlessly travelled ever downward, both of us knowing their final destination.

“Do you know how many students graduate with both psychology and tech degrees? Hint, it’s not many. I was snatched up by tech firm after tech firm. And even though I worked hard, devoted myself to excelling, you still haunted me. I still found myself jacking off to thoughts of hurting you, humiliating you, destroying you.”

My fingers met a soft thatch of hair. I let them comb through it, knowing the next piercing was so close. I could almost feel it buzzing through the skin. I let her watch as my gaze drifted down her body, torturously slow. She knew that I’d be looking at her snatch all too soon. I leaned down just a little, emphasizing that all I was interested in was her cunt. I could see the small hoop of simple silver. I couldn’t see it vibrating, the motion was too small, too tiny. But not along her clitoral shaft, it felt like fingers working inside her relentlessly. I knew it was working, her slit glistened with moisture.

“I started my own company. I heard one of the prisons was looking for something to help make prisoners more compliant. Because of you, an idea came to me. What if there were some device that could directly cause pleasure or pain in the medial prefrontal cortex? We got volunteers, tested some devices, and had great results. But they required mesh headsets, not something prisoners would wear voluntarily. And then someone asked, "Why go to the root? Why don’t we try stimulation at the source?”

My fingers reached down and pinched the piercing at her clitoral shaft. It was slippery with her juices and buzzing wildly. Every tug, every stroke of it, causing little gasps.

“The volunteer prisoners thought it was hilarious that a bunch of geeks wanted to pierce their nipples, earlobes, navel, and cocks. They had no idea what they were in store for. That first group had a 96% success rate in changing behavior. With a remote, we could reward them with pleasure for being compliant, doing what they were supposed to. With a different button press, we could hit them with agonizing pain. They became good little boys, backtalking guards ended, fights ended, and they became perfectly compliant within a month. At the end of the three-month trial period, we were able to demonstrate not only complete compliance, but they would utterly humiliate themselves if asked, they’d do anything to make sure the pleasure kept flowing.”

I held up the controller and removed my fingers from her sopping cunt. She moaned, begging. I pressed the button, and she seized up, screaming. I listened as her noises died down to pathetic whimpering. My hand went back to her sodden cunt, finger slipping easily inside as she groaned. The piercing vibrated against my palm, making her love the penetration that I knew she hated.

“Three months cunt. That’s all it takes for the Pavlovian response to take over. We’ll start slow, an orgasm here and there when I fuck you. Soon enough, we’ll jump the pleasure up so that every time you see me, you’ll want to touch yourself. By the end of the three months, you won’t even need the implants, just hearing me tell you to cum will be enough. You’ll be a literal slave to your cunt.”

She writhed on my hand, trying to find that spot that would get her off, and hating how her body was completely betraying her.

“The implants won’t let you cum until I give you permission. But when you do climax, it will be the most intense otherworldly feeling you’ve ever had. You’ll live for nothing else but to experience the next one. Like a rat hitting a button for pleasure, ignoring food, you’ll do anything asked of you. Degrade yourself. Humiliate yourself. Beg like you never have before. Like I said, a literal slave to your own cunt.”

I thumped my fingers hard on her G-spot, knowing her clit was ready to explode from the piercing overstimulation.

“Answer a simple yes or no question for me… do you want to cum?”

She looked at me with those tortured eyes… begging… then slowly nodded as her eyes welled with tears.

I smirked. She was all mine.

“Cum.”

She wrinkles her nose and declares, “I am not a bunny!”

My response? I shove her back against the bed.

I’m on top of her in an instant, prying arms apart over her head. Pinning her crushed under my weight. I want her. Want her singularly.

She crosses her legs in an iron-tight grip. Denied. All this does is increase my want. Fanning the flames of a smoldering fire. Creating a raging inferno of need. I bare my fangs.

And so, it begins.

There was a look almost akin to disappointment when I originally told her I wasn’t a dom. I explained that over the years I’d discovered that I liked to take charge, but rules and rituals weren’t really my thing. I understood the nuances of power exchange. The give and take and negotiation of denizens of a civilized society.

No. Not at all.

Shoving her against the mattress, she struggles to push me off. Her thrashing only lasts a moment. I’m almost twice her weight, and all she’s accomplishing is tiring herself out.

I lean down to steal a kiss, rough and uninvited. She snaps her teeth at me, almost biting my lip. My laugh is heartfelt. Fuck, that would have hurt. I wait for her head to sink back into the cushion and then strike. Crushing my lips to hers. She tries to bite again, and I’m out, reared back, looking for targets of opportunity. Like her neck. I go in. This part is always tricky. I don’t want to leave marks, but the blood in both our bodies is boiling, when the heat is all-consuming… it gets difficult to keep things in check. I want to bite her hard, suck her life essence out through that skin. But seriously, who wants hickeys as an adult?

Back long ago, during our conversation, the disappointing one where I confessed to not being a dom. I told her that I’d discovered, after years of trial and error, that primal was my thing. Her inquisitive look said it all, so I explained. I want to lose control. I want to want so heatedly that I slip the bonds of civilized society off. A well-worn and comfortable dinner jacket that restrains no more. I want to feel Hyde taking control, slipping out of that mental cage I have him locked inside.

“I am not a bunny.”

And that’s where my smile deepens and becomes feral. I don’t want a bunny either. I want someone who entices. An object of desire who kindles the most lurid passions. Someone as strong, who will struggle and fight back. And in fighting will relish just exactly how much I want her. How much I need her to thrash and snarl and scratch. I don’t want a bunny at all.

I want prey as animalistic as me. Fires and fierceness and heat and passion.

Not a bunny.

"Walk," the Overseer said. Rinii hesitated for a moment, and that was all it took. The Overseer pointed his controller, and the newly installed piercings delivered a small shock to the woman. Not a strong shock, but enough to get her attention. Their placement in very sensitive parts of her anatomy made it all that much worse for her, but the Overseer seemed to enjoy it.

Rinii walked. It wasn't her own walk. Not the way she walked naturally at all. Several weeks of training and many uses of the piercings had convinced her to walk the way the slavers insisted. Slowly, one foot in front of the other, on heels. She could feel her hips swaying in exaggeration. Knew how her bare legs looked. Could feel an audience of hungry eyes upon her. Worse still, she knew those looking at her didn't see her as an individual with hopes and dreams. She was being judged only on the pleasures she might provide.

Everything about her had been reduced to this. She was a slave, meant to serve and service, nothing more. The clothes she wore, her hairstyle, make-up, and even the way she moved were all chosen for her. All of it for one purpose, to make her alluring. To make every movement create and enflame desires, to awaken hungers. Her only purpose was to please. No one in the audience cared one bit about her wants. She was a sex slave and nothing more.

The thought of being reduced so singularly to such a base object filled her with a special type of loathing. Once she'd had a profession, a future, dreams. Now she was an instrument, just a thing. A thing to be used, toyed, played with. She'd once wanted all the men around her to desire her, now, she had no choice. She was made to make them desire her.

Smooth, languid steps. Just as she'd been taught. One foot slowly in front of the other. Hips swaying. Shoulder swaying. Breasts and ass moving just so.

Worst still, even what little clothing she wore had been chosen for her. A silky, incandescent white dress with nothing underneath. It glittered and sheened as she moved, the effect more pronounced at her breasts and ass to call attention to the very things she was being sold for. The luxurious fabric crossed her tits, barely covering them, leaving the whole of her back exposed, with long panels of cloth hanging down from her waist to her knees, barely wide enough to cover pussy or ass crack. When she walked, she could feel those panels fluttering in ways that gave everyone a peek at the pierced delights beneath. And as a final humiliation, when the fabric touched skin, it became translucent, allowing a hazy peek at the skin underneath. Rinii would almost rather be totally naked than endure the constant titillation this provided the audience. Her dress was made to draw eyes.

She walked a slow circle across the front of the stage, stopping to turn one way and then the other. Then, she took more painfully slow steps back to her starting spot. She hoped the humiliating spectacle was over, but it never was.

"Inspect!" The Overseer barked.

Her hands immediately went behind her neck, thrusting her breasts out while she spread her legs shoulder-width apart. The fabric tight against her chest gave the audience a clear view of her pierced nipples through the now see-through material.

Above the stage, out of the way near the ceiling, holographic displays showed Rinii standing on display, along with her statistics in a number of languages. The displays floated in space, allowing her to see through them from the back. She was able to see exactly how degrading her current pose was. Rinii knew better than to protest. To resist would just mean more intense shocks.

"Would you like to see her juice?" The overseer asked the audience. The crowd responded with many hoots. He pointed his wand at Rinii, and she felt an immediate flood of warmth in her belly. She tried to keep a neutral face, but her disgust at her own body being forced to react this way made her curl her lip into a sneer.

The Overseer saw her look and turned back to the audience. "She pretends not to enjoy. But let's turn things up a notch to show you, esteemed buyers, what she really is."

He pointed the controller again, and this time, warmth was accompanied by vibrations. The piecing on Rinii's breasts, clit, and earlobes began thrumming. She gasped as the audience applauded. The sensation immediately caused her legs to quake, threatening to drop her to her knees. Forcing herself to stay in pose became the singular thing she focused on. The heat and pressure in her crotch built up quickly to maddening levels. As a last resort she squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lips, orgasming without permission would be punished.

"See how her posture has changed? She bites her lip, quivers, nipples jutting rock hard. This little slut will climax with or without permission soon, stealing an orgasm from her owner. She can't help that she was made for this. A slave to her own cunt more than any master. She may never confess, but she was made for slavey." He explained to the audience while stepping up close to her. "Shall we see just how ready she is?"

The audience applauded, louder this time.

Forcing her eyes open, Rinii saw herself on half the screens. The other now showed a close-up of her cunt. She watched horrified as the Overseer reached out and drew the silk panel away, revealing her shaved, pierced, and tatted cunt. The lips were moist, her thighs slick. He reached in and touched her. She watched on screen as she sighed, broadcast for all to hear, and against her own volition, saw as she pressed her pussy to his hand, grinding on it. Her need was so intense release was the only thing she could think of. Shame took a backseat. His fingers messaged her labia, petting, squeezing, pinching, and pulling on her as she made wounded animal noises. Finally, he slid a finger in. He moved it in circles, making her cry out, then slid it out to the fingertips. On screen, Rinii could see that his digits were unmistakably sopping wet.

"And now the finale!" The Overseer said, "Cum."

Her cunt exploded in white hot heat, blinding her. She cried out loudly. Far away, she could hear laughter and cheering, but she could only fully focus on her need. The screens all changed. One showed her falling to her knees, another close-up showed her squirting against the hand inside her, another a close-up of her face, lips in a wide O. As she fell to her knees, the Overseer followed her down to his knees, his hand still buried inside her. The screen showed her cunt, clutching, grabbing, and grinding against him frantically as her juices flowed freely.

Rinii floated.

She was lost in bliss. Blinded by shame and need. A thousand eyes watched her cum. Coherent thoughts would not form. And then she was falling, floating back down to her body. Barely aware. Sated and full.

When she opened her eyes, the screens still showed her quivering against the Overseer. He lifted her head back up, so she was kneeling. The screens showed her sitting there in one of her slave poses, a puddle of her fluids beneath.

"How many times can she do that in the evening, you ask? Win the bid and find out!"

Moon, glorious moon. It’s all I can do to not tip my head back and howl when I go on the prowl. Tonight, a seedy little bar on the outskirts of the airport district. Lots of hotels. Lots of motels. Lots of people traveling hither and yon. Some of them are women without companions. Stewardesses, businesswomen, tourists, just to name a few of the prey on my list.

But not just any will do. I want to be smitten. I want to be enchanted, drawn in, weakened by their fierce radiance. Just like the moon. I want to be compelled with lust and need and want and desire that there is nothing left to me, a drive to take what’s needed. I want her to compel me to howl at the moon while her nails rake down my back hard enough to draw blood. I need to want to lose myself in her, our bodies a twisted, cavorting, howling mess of scent, sweat, musk, and aching need rushing to release.

I turn my nose at plenty of potentials. There’s the sorority girls, giggly, obnoxious, playing oh so coy to get others to buy them drinks. Too young and vapid to properly cast a seduction spell, they create a tangled snarl of unrequired wants. They don’t even know what they want yet, just a cartoon version of desire. There’s the woman who’s removed her wedding ring and put a hungry need of her own in its place. Too easy. While there would be the thrill of something new for her, it's too rushed, on a timetable, she only has so much room to find something and satiate her own needs.

But the woman with the wedding ring on, now that is alluring. She’s broadcasting stay away, telling everyone she’s taken. But with each drink, she slides a finger along the glass, leaving a trail through the perspiration. The bartender asks her something, and she smiles, shakes her head, but when he departs, her eyes follow him with a hunger I know all too well. She’s my doe. I want her. Want to hear her cry out. See her writhe under me. Smell every pheromone of her.

I slip into the stool next to her and ask if it’s taken. A shake of the head as she sips something crowned in an umbrella. I thank the heavens and introduce myself, hi, yada. A pause, I make certain she watches my gaze wander to her drink and back up to her eyes. I ask about the umbrella. She returns a wary smile, explains it's sweet like her husband. The game is on.

The bartender is busy, busy. Good. It allows me to ask her to get his attention. She does, I order, then ask what exactly she’s drinking, it gets added to the order. Typical opening fare. She protests, but doesn’t reject the new, sweaty drink in front of her. Looking at her glass, I hunger to see her sweating as well. Bathed in perspiration, little jewels sprinkled across skin.

Getting her to talk about sweet hubby is easy, they all love to talk. Especially about things that make them feel safe. She asks about my wife, none I say, while baring my fangs… while smiling. I lock my gaze on her, let her feel that moment of intensity, desire, want. She covers a light flush with a long sip. We go back to talking about safer things. But that moment is there, hanging between us.

After the second round, I ask, pool? We settle on darts. She’s terrible but enjoying being swept away in another’s interest. As the third round comes, I wrap arms around her. A hand goes to her wrist, showing her how to throw. She tenses. She should. I’m wrapped around her, a head taller, fit, and letting her feel every bit of it. I release her quickly enough. And while she doesn’t improve, the memory of that impromptu embrace stays with her. She knows she’s being pursued. How long has it been, I wonder?

Back to bar. A final round of drinks. Laughter masking hunger. Eyes all over each other. She announces she has to go. I ask if she’s in the hotel across the parking lot. Yes indeed. The façade of a gentleman offers to escort her through these treacherous lands. I knew she’d agree. Tipsy, we make the trek to mentioned elevator.

She turns to bid farewell, but I crush it from her lips. One hand snakes around waist and yanks her into me. My lips, her, crushed together. I suck her breath away. Mine now. My other hand, mind of its own, slides along back up to gather a fistful of hair. I devour the moan. Ding, we fall into the small private space as clerks watch.

Hungry mouth devours her. Lips and teeth are everywhere, mouth, neck, shoulders. Her squeaks drive me hard. Door slides with a dry mechanical sound, totally opposite to the grunting chaos of our entangled selves. Now my hands are everywhere, small of back, ass, neck, shoulders, hair. We tumble to the wall, and I crush her. An oof of sound from her, When’s the last time that happened to her?

She breathlessly whimpers, floor three. I smash a fistful of buttons too hungered to dare break my feast.

Moon, glorious moon. I feed on her. Sucking her scent deep into me. Lips and teeth and tongue tasting everything, yet we all want more, more, more. Skin of neck tastes oh so delicious, salty, perfumy, feminine. What I really want to put my mouth on lies far below. I want to drown in her juices, suck her completely dry.

All rational thought vanishes in a cloud of superheated desire. Finger on flesh, exploring every inch. Defiant clothes mocking my every effort to have her right then and there. I tug at the button of her jeans, but can’t quite remember how they work. The animal wants her so bad right now that all rational thought flees. I snarl in her ear, and she struggles to keep clothing on.

A ping and she exclaims, this is it. She struggles to break free. Dazed, not quite understanding the words, I let her slip away. Just long enough for her to step out into a hallway lined with doors. Her doe eyes look up to mine. Thoughts evaporate. I want to own her and those eyes. We collide against wall. Her head tips and sighs, and my hands find those oh so delightful spots. Growls fill her ears.

Three Twenty One, she says from oh so far away. Numbers. Meaningless here and now. An ache fills my center. The scent and taste of her driving me on. I growl again, telling her how bad I want her. Fingers rip at my hair. She staggers away, backing away. Hands out, stretched, pulling me with her.

Moon, glorious moon. Tonight I will howl.

There was a time when drugs were enough. Young, then, bored, left in the street while daddy worked. A mirror image of every kid on the megablock. Nothing better to do, shoplift, drink, drugs. That seems a lifetime ago. Looking back with more experienced eyes, there’s a small, sad space where hope in that young girl’s chest once blossomed.

Wet reflections of neon on the jet-black street. Hands stuffed deep in the pockets of a man’s jacket. Head down, eyes forward, don’t wanna see nothing that might get you in trouble. Cops don’t come down here, it’s the gangs you gotta worry about.

“Walk, walk, walk…” the sidewalk announces as you shuffle across the street. An elevator ride now is all that remains. Four droogs pass, laughing about their last spat of the ultraviolence. Shrink into coat, nothing to see here. Sigh of relief, you make it to the lobby. A row of cubby mailboxes, some pried open, stand guard as you pass.

Elevator, the last gatekeeper. Stepping inside will end you, resign you to your fate. The smell reminds you of childhood, ruined frozen meals, and ethnic food in a stew of stench. Daddy couldn’t cook. You once tried to make something from scratch, from a viddy you’d watched. Your reward, slapped, shaken, yelling about the cost of ruined food, tossed out in the hall, and door slammed while he stomped off cursing. These fucking memories, for the millionth time, you wish like a viddy they could be turned off. You feel the anger and hurt of that little girl. An acid burning just under your beating heart. A stab of pain in the back of your throat. The anger moves you forward into the elevator, where you stab the button for the 111th floor.

It’s a long, cold ride. Frigid finger shove icy droplets from your hair. You decide not to try warming yourself. The cold is awful, but the memories of places like this are worse.

Shivering, like the junkie you are, you find yourself in front of the door. Salvation is just a knock away. A door just like this slamming in her face. You want to knock, but know every time is one step closer to the final high. The door looms, and you look away. Tiled floor, black and charcoal. Like the one you were thrown down to when you got caught shoplifting with Johny. It was the first time you looked into a shotgun barrel, praying came easily in that moment. Harder later when your dad arrived. The only thing he said, “A thief too?” Then silence, long, horrible silence lasting days.

You knock, desperately, a life preserver in an ocean of memories. Beyond that door, the memories die, come to an end. Shivering, you scratch the port behind your ear. If only you could dig the memories out from under it.

Devito’s ratty grin welcomes you to his cramped abode. There are piles of discarded tech, the guts of many slain decks scattered, technical manuals, and mysterious stains from the ghosts of fast-food past. A weasel of a man, he helps himself to a lingering hug, hands creeping places you wish they wouldn’t. He guides you inside, past the zonies buried deep in BD on the broken couch.

BD, Brain Dance, a form of hyper virtual reality where even emotions could be played back. Devito had the good stuff, the mind-bending, expensive ones. The ones that could make you forget everything and live in your own perfectly crafted world made just for you. So real that crushing depression occurred every time the meter ran out, and you had to return to the real world. It was the closest thing you’d ever found that could make the memories stop, even for a little while.

“What have you got for me, sweetie?” He asks while his eyes glide down to wet cleavage. Closing the jacket will just encourage him, you let him gaze. Grasping a fistful of crypto chips, you hold them out in offering.

He licks his lips. Revulsion makes your lip curl, his tongue has been places on your body you’d rather not think about. The credits change hands. More lip licking. Queasy.

He hums, “A little short.”

You look at a discarded bra on the floor, soiled and stained, both the floor and garment. You just manage to squeak out, “I know.”

Ratty smile again, “That’s fine, come along.”

Down a short dark hallway. Come along, said the spider to the fly. You want to run, but he pulls you along by the hand.

And there it is. A bedroom. Single bed, battered, bare mattress against one wall, is the only furniture in the room. Trash lines the intersection of walls and floors. Discard foodie bags and bits of clothing. You don’t want to know the stains on the mattress are from, but you know anyway. Single bed.

Daddy screams. He then turns to you. You on the single bed. Fists raw from the beating he just gave your choom Johny. Johny, who fled so fast he left all his clothes. You’ve seen daddy angry plenty of times. But this is something different. It turns your spine to ice, freezing you rigidly in place. You want to hide your naked body, but can’t, you lie there like a corpse.

“You fucking slut! You fucking slut. Slut.” His words become jumbled, lips quivering, he stops speaking. Stops speaking to you. You watch as silence fills the room deafeningly. His fists open and close. Grip his belt buckle, undoes it. Silence. He pulls it away. Wraps the synth-leather around his fist.

“slut.” And then the belt comes down.

Slicing fiery pain, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. No more words. Just you crying, begging, pleading. No more words at all.

“Well?” DeVito asks. “You know what the price for this is.”

You do. The jacket tumbles to the floor. Quivering hands work the buttons of your ragged jeans. Soon, you are naked. Lying on the bed. The single bed.

DeVito’s eyes roam across your meat. “Oh, I do love a good little slut.” He licks his lips. One finger traces the curve of your chest between bare breasts.

He hands you the chip, wires leading to a special player hidden where a headboard should be.

You can't move fast enough to slot the chip into that port behind your ear. The one where all the memories are buried.