After the weekend of a sexual lifetime fifteen miles up a side road in northern Mississippi, the real world was about to come screaming back with a vengeance. The alarm clock beeped at six thirty, and there was a lot of work to be done. I rolled out of bed, impacting on the floor with a crash as my bad knee didn't feel like cooperating. Michelle just moaned a bit and cuddled toward the spot in the bed I had vacated.
I'd been in and out of uniform doing military and paramilitary stuff (everything from Desert Storm with a mobilized reserve component Special Forces battalion to bounty hunting) for years, so my brain was processing the problems facing us in an orderly fashion. First, Michelle had come out here in a t-shirt and shorts, and had added nothing to that on-hand wardrobe but most of a thousand bucks in lingerie and fetish wear. I had to get her back to the townhouse she shared with my ex-fiancee and get her prepped for her nine o'clock Marketing Administration class that she could not attend naked except for a leather collar and thigh-high stiletto heel stripper boots. I didn't have anything until German Lit at 10.
The second problem was implicit in the first. Michelle lived with my ex-fiancee Joan, who was Joe Pesci's character in Casino if Pesci had played the part as a D-cup redhead but with the same Yankee gangster accent. She had a temper that scared me, and I had a couple Stateside gunfights under my belt plus one unpleasant afternoon coping with the Iraqi Army way out on the coalition's left flank. Joan was better at precision rifle work than I was. Despite her WASP last name, most of her relatives had last names that ended in vowels, "family business" affiliations, and prison records. The fact I was now nailing her roommate, who had in fact pledged me her live-in slavery as a cheap form of cocaine rehab, was guaran-goddamn-teed to set her off. This would not only cut off a great source of crazy-girl ex-sex, but have her stalking me like a rabid timberwolf until she calmed down in six months. I couldn't calm her down faster than that without a tranquilizer gun.
Problem three wouldn't be an immediate issue, but Michelle's change of lifestyle included jilting a boyfriend, a regular coke dealer, and several other guys she'd fucked for drugs at one time or another. I took my physical security very seriously. I lived in a house I rented from one of the military history professors that was two miles from the nearest paved road and fifteen miles from town. It had been built by someone way more paranoid than I was, and had enough firepower in it to back off the Viet Cong. But no one knew where I lived, well, except Joan who'd house-sit now and again if I was out of town, and I liked it that way. Joan and I had enough of each other's secrets it all balanced out. I kept her secrets about being a very enthusiastic bondage slut and masochist, and what her family did for a living. In exchange, she kept the secrets of where I lived, some of what I did for money, and what guns were in some of the closets. But if I started filling his fifty acres of backwoods with deep-buried corpses, the General was likely to raise my rent. Michelle's former entourage was likely to cause me some heartburn from Day One. The weekend didn't count. This was Day One.
"Michelle, wake up, dear. Time to get on with our lives."
*groan*
The "thwack" of a leather paddle across her firm ass was enough to jolt her fully awake very quickly. "Good morning, master!" she perkily chirped. She was not subtle with the "Want to fuck?" look on her face.
"No, dear, I don't think we have time to play right now, we need to get you back to town and ready for class." The disappointment was plain to see. I helped her to her feet, and we snuck in a restrained morning kiss. This was where the whole "responsibility of ownership" came in. If I didn't give a fuck about her and her well-being, we could stay there, fuck, and keep it up until both our grade point averages collapsed. Mine was shitty anyway. We shared a fast shower, even with the blow job she threw in, and we were out the door for town.
I filled her in on my plan as I drove. We'd get her ready for class, and I'd drop her off outside the business school's building. I'd then pick her up after class, she'd drop me at class, and she'd keep packing bags for a longer stay while I was in German Lit before picking me up at 11. We could only hope that Joan would come straight from her long weekend in Memphis and go straight to the physics department like she usually did.
After what amounted to an improvised operations order, Michelle threw in another question. "Sir, I have to ask. If you live way the hell up dirt roads, why do you drive a beat-up Chevy Cavalier? Shouldn't you have a truck or something with four wheel drive?"
"It's paid for. This is the same car I drove here in when I was a freshman and it was new. The front wheel drive handles the dirt roads most of the time. I've just never had the amount of money on hand I'd need to replace it properly. I don't want to finance a new one since college-years jobs don't pay that well and aren't that stable. Besides, I just rent that house until the General comes back here to Mississippi from teaching at the War College again. He's only gone for two years, and maybe after a couple more years of trying I will have actually graduated by then."
"We need my dad's Blazer. Every possible off-road option and it's never been further off road than the grass next to the driveway."
"I doubt he'd want to trade."
We pulled up the street to Michelle and Joan's place, and fuck, that teal blue Pontiac was there. I sighed. Michelle rested her hand on mine. "It's OK. Just drop me off here and I'll go in. It's not the first time I've done the Walk of Shame before an early morning class, and it's a lot better if Joan doesn't see you yet."
"Not the first time doing the Walk, huh?"
"Don't ask, and I won't tell, Master. We don't have time for details anyway. Just remember my blood is clean and my ass is now yours. Very much yours."
I knew there were minefields out there in what she left unspoken. I just fucking knew it. I just didn't care. Time to test for one though. "Michelle, you don't have a stash in there to fall off the wagon before class, do you?" No matter what, I'd figure thirty percent chance she was lying.
"No, sir. I never needed one. If I was in the mood for a line and didn't have any handy, I'd just call up some guy, usually Joe, and get some. It's a lot easier for hot chicks to be junkies, since we always have some form of currency with us." She sighed sadly. "You'll be back to pick me up for Marketing, right, sir?"
"Yep. I'll just stay out of sight until Joan pulls out, she'll have to be to Physics at eight and she'll probably be early for that."
"Good. Something tells me today is going to be rough." We kissed again, and she headed for her apartment. I just headed up another side road, cracked open another Mountain Dew, and pulled a battered copy of Jean Larteguy's "The Centurions" out of the glove compartment while I waited for the blue Pontiac to go away.
Soon it passed by. One of Joan's weaknesses was that she sucked at counter-surveillance if she was feeling comfortable. She didn't have the automatic "eyes in the back of her head" thing. My car blended in with all the other bright red cars in Cambridge, Mississippi that morning, and she never noticed I was there. My watch told me it was 0745, so it was time to go check on Michelle.
I knocked at the door of the townhouse, shoving aside thoughts of everything that had gone on since I'd knocked on it Friday afternoon. I was too busy looking over my shoulder in case Joan forgot something or Joe was up early. Michelle quickly let me, jumping into my arms for a kiss. "How'd it go?"
"She was in the shower when I came in. I just went into my room and closed the door, so I don't even if she noticed I wasn't here. My car was here and my door was shut the whole time as far as she saw."
"Well, that's one thing not to worry about for now. If you get dressed fast enough we'll have time to grab breakfast before you have to get to class."
She did, swapping her worn out gym clothes for the stylish look expected of the aristocratic set at Mississippi U., home of the Confederates. Me, I'd stopped giving a shit how I dressed for class around the time Michelle was a freshman (freshwoman?) and showed up to class in jeans, heavy metal band T-shirts, and either an old pair of jungle boots or cowboy boots. Breakfast was at one of the dozen drive-through establishments en route to campus. Me, I was busy doing math in my head to see if I could ditch German Lit. I did not think she needed to be alone at this point in our relationship, but as there were only nine people in that class and I was the only one with two reasonably fluent regional dialects of German, I'd be missed.
Not taking counsel of my fears, I dropped Michelle off to class, kissing again like a real live couple with actual emotional attachments. Having an hour to kill, I looped over to the video arcade at the Student Union to spend an hour of quality time with a couple first-person shooters.
Stuffing quarters gave me time to think while my unconscious dealt with target acquisition and trigger squeeze. I began ordering my own problems in sequence.
Data point one, Michelle was a truly porn-star quality piece of ass, normally way the fuck out of my league. A subset point was that unlike a lot of hot girls, she was actually a really good fuck. Anecdotal evidence suggested a lot of hot chicks just sort of lay there, like they're doing you a favor by letting them fuck them and they put zero effort into it. Michelle didn't just look the porn star part, in the bedroom she acted it. Max effort at thrusting back, takes facial cumshots, initiates oral, vaginal, and anal, enthusiastic newcomer to bondage and light pain play. Wanting that combo plate from Sex Heaven was going to fuck up my perceptions. The only good thing was I was smart enough to know it would fuck me up, but I didn't know if I'd be smart enough to adjust my actions accordingly. Damn, she was a good fuck.
Data point two, she was quickly acting very attached. I was willing to consider her desperation genuine, but like most every other truly hot chick I had ever known, she was manipulative by nature, even at an unconscious level. Despite her confession that she didn't think she could manipulate me, she had to consider it a challenge. I was just a couple levels beyond the frat boys who'd stare at her tits all day but I was still a guy and I could therefore be manipulated by sex, the more and freakier the better. As noted in point one, she was giving it up like something out of one of the better porn films. She had to know the corrosive effect that would have on my willpower and morals.
Those points led to an unknown. I didn't know what she really wanted and what she was or was not prepared to do in order to achieve it. Our play was nowhere near up to a good interrogation scene, but it was something to think about a month or so out depending on how many of my questions remained unanswered then.
My pile of quarters was down, and my watch alarm beeped. Time to go get her.
