Carol

"

I'm a toy!

" she crooned, kissing me on the lips. "I'm a toy for all men!"

How did we get to

that

?

* * * * *

Twenty minutes earlier, we had been arguing on the street. "I hate it when you don't talk to me," I told her. "Your non-committal stuff really makes me insecure."

Carol looked frustrated. "That's not my intention. I just don't want to ruin your idea of me."

"That couldn't happen," I said.

"You don't know me," she said earnestly. "Girls can be much more nasty and perverted than men. You don't know what I'm thinking, most of the time."

That

sounded promising. "Honey, I'll know what you're thinking if you

just tell me.

" And that was the problem right then: She'd been "hmmming" and "uh-huhing" me since we'd met after class.

We were now walking down the street, hand in hand. The sunlight beat down on us, and she seemed to glow inside the beige smock she was wearing.

True to her dress code, it was short, whisping over her thighs. It rose formlessly to a tight, embroidered bust that hugged the curves of her chest, so that it seemed to hang straight from her breasts. Whether she knew it or not, the city breezes pulled at it mercilessly. It jumped around her legs whenever she took a step. I half wished I was across the street, so I could watch her walk by.

Bear in mind, I'd just met her after her class. She'd ridden into Manhattan on the subway, wearing that dress, as well as her panties, clogs, and a bag over her shoulder. She'd gone to her classes, climbed and descended stairs, and eaten lunch with a guy-friend of hers. She was really adapting well to our whole weird thing. For her to be suddenly demure was quite out of place.

"Okay," I said. "We'll make a no-judgement zone. Let's make a rule."

"Rules are good." She squeezed my hand. We turned the corner, and stepped into a brisk wind. New York does that -- it funnels wind into the avenues, so you can go from calm to windy in three steps.

My eyes were were on her, and I noticed how the wind kicked up the hem of her skirt. Her legs were long and muscular, and excellently shown off by her three-inch clogs. She took long steps to match mine, and her hips swayed in a sexy, cat-walk manner.

I said, "When we're holding hands, you can tell me whatever's on your mind. I can't make any judgments. If you take my hand, and you just talk, I

promise

, I won't say anything."

"We're holding hands now," she warned. "So you can't judge me." She sighed. "Since I started wearing these clothes all the time... Lots of guys look at me. And they talk to me. I'm talking to a lot of guys. More than ever before."

"That's wonderful," I said. "You

should

be talking to lots of men."

"What about us? You and me? Are we breaking up?"

I stopped dead. "Shit no!" I exclaimed. She looked relieved. "You can talk to as many men as you want! Just keep dating me! What the hell are they telling you?!"

"I'm getting into conversations that make me feel like a cheater. Like I'm cheating on you.

That's

what they're saying to me."

"Except that I'm fine with it." I said, and trailed off.

"You're angry," she said. She leaned against me quickly, brushing her face against my neck. She did that every now and then. She said she liked the roughness of my face, when I was unshaven. It was like she was pulling a little out of me when she did it. In lines at the store, when we meet, when hanging out with friends -- she would rub up against me, a little gesture from our lovemaking, in the middle of the world.

"No. I'm thinking of new rules," I said. "Rule: Once a day, you gotta have someone ask you out."

"What!"

"You feel like you're cheating. But you're not. Not really. If you're the center of attention, guys are going to ask you out. You can't help it."

We were standing on a street corner. I stepped around her and hugged her from behind, my hands gliding over her warm, flat stomach. I could feel every detail of her torso through the thin smock. She sank back against me.

"I've stopped jilling off in the morning," she whispered. She was abashed, her face down. "It's like part of the excitement now, to pull a dress out of the closet, and put it on. To spin in front of the mirror, and watch my legs. I wake up, all horny, and take a shower. I come out still horny, and get dressed."

"Good," I breathed.

"And then I walk through Queens, and ride the subway into the city." She planted a strong kiss on my mouth. I had my hands on her hips. As she leaned in, I couldn't help myself -- I gathered the fabric of her dress in my fists, and hiked up her skirt a few inches. I could tell she knew what I was doing. When she pulled back, she had a mischievous smile on her face. "It's like the clothes are part of jilling off. Except I don't... release... until later. It's like the day is becoming one long foreplay."

"And the clothes, the looks, the guys talking..."

"It's

all

foreplay. You think I don't notice, or care, because I always say yes to you?" She laughed. "It's the opposite. My heart fucking jumps whenever you mention making a rule. I get wet thinking about the rules. I have to fight to keep from steering the conversation back to me, and my rules, all the time."

I knew an opportunity when I heard it. "Then here's another rule for you: Once a week, you

must

go out with someone who invites you on a date."

"No!" she said, shocked.

"Yes!"

"Okay!" She said quickly, then laughed at herself. "It's like a dream. A great boyfriend, and then dating on the side."

"And the next rule--" I said. We started walking again. "Get one guy a day, at

least

, to touch you. On the arm, the shoulder, the hand, the waist."

"How do I do that?"

"I don't know. Talk about your workouts. Have them feel a bicep. Or, you hug them when you meet them. Stand close to them, and elbow them when they say something funny. Be physical. Men love that. And when they see that you're fine with it. They'll be making up excuses to handle you."

"

Handle

me," she drawled. "They'll start touching me every day, don't you think? That's... slutty," she said. She didn't make it sound like a bad thing. "Besides, guys are always touching girls."

"Really?"

"Sure. And the older men -- like my Dad's friends -- they always kiss me, on the cheek."

It was getting even better. I said, "No more of that!"

"No more kisses?" she asked, doubtfully.

"No more kisses on the cheek. Carol, you're turning into a woman. From now on, you should kiss on the lips."

"Oh," she said. She blushed. "

Oh.

"

"Yeah," I said. "I want you showy, touchy, and kissy. You need to train guys to kiss you when they see you, and they'll know you're going to be very friendly -- and kiss them on the lips."

"Oh," she said. Her walking was uneven, she was breathing heavily and thinking hard.

"Think about it," I said.

"I'm

thinking

," she purred. "Every guy?"

"Make it part of your ritual. Make the kissing part of

you

."

"I can do that," she said, though she sounded uncertain. "What if they, like, open mouth kiss?"

"So open your mouth to them, what's the big deal?" I said, trying to sound natural. I was getting very turned on, just talking about all this stuff. Did I mention Carol was one big power trip for me? By this point in our relationship, I knew whatever idiotic thing I said, she could very well take seriously -- and start

doing

. I had to be very sure I was saying what I really wanted, and not just getting swept away by the mood. "But keep it short," I added. "But pull back eventually. Keep it light and innocent."

We entered the library, showed our IDs, and queued past the guards. Halfway to the elevators, I stopped her. "Last rule. In the library, no underwear if you're wearing a skirt."

She rolled her eyes at me.

"Really," I said.

"To tell the truth," she sighed, "I don't think I'll notice the difference anymore. Panties or no panties, it's getting all the same."

"That's what I like to hear," I said smugly, then paused. "How do you know it's all the same?"

"Easy!" she gave me a smug look. "I've been cheating."

* * * * *

We came up on the library elevator. "Oh, here's Mike," she said, in a very different voice.

"A guy you know?" I prompted.

"Ya-huh," she said. She sounded a little grim, as if she were girding herself for what would come next.

"Carol?" said the guy, a mousy sort of undergraduate in jeans and a t-shirt.

"Hi, Mike! Where y'at?" She stepped forward, and I let her go.

"Um, great. I'm just getting some stuff for the paper..."

She leaned into him, and he, though clearly not expecting it, quickly adjusted. His hand went to her waist, in a sort of parody of a hug. But she had other ideas. She pecked him quickly on the lips, and when she pulled away he had a sort of glazed, surprised expression. "Mike, I want you to meet Tyler, my boyfriend."

"Hey," I said. "You guys have a class together?"

Mike shoved his hand at me convulsively, eyes darting everywhere but at me. We shook, and I smiled at him with a sudden flood of friendliness. If Carol would be kissing him -- no,

because

Carol would be kissing him, I felt very amiable towards him.

"Yeah," said Mike, groping for words. "We're in poli sci together."

Carol was pressed up against him, smiling at me from behind his head. Her high breasts were against his chest, and, I noticed, his hand was firmly around her waist.

She leaned her forehead against his cheek for a second, and said, "Mike's gonna help me get an A! He's sooo smart!" Her hand stroked his neck, above the collar of his t-shirt.

"Carol, you're such a tease!" I laughed obligingly, and Mike laughed too. "You take care of her, dude."

"I will," he said, looking quite detached from the world. "I will. Will-will-will."

"Okay," said Carol, "see ya!" Then she kissed him again.

We left him, slightly stunned, and got onto the elevator. As the doors shut, I had a stupid grin on my face, I couldn't help it. Carol watched me the whole trip, a smile on her lips, clearly enjoying herself.

When we stepped out, and were alone again, she said, "Okay. This will be easier than I thought."

"Really?"

"Really," she said. "Most of these guys, I just know them from classes. We've only known each other for... what... a week or so.

They don't know me.

Maybe I

am

a kissing bandit."

"From now on, you are. That worked well."

"You nut! You really got off on that!"

"You were wonderful, you're a one-of-a-kind girl!" I enthused. I shrugged and stared around. "It's like I have a new, incredibly deluxe toy!"

"

I'm a toy!

" she crooned, kissing me on the lips. "I'm a toy for all men!" I felt what Mike had experienced first hand -- a sudden soft, warm, slightly moist pressure on my lips, gone all too suddenly. My head was full of her scent. "Will he think of me later?"

"For sure."

"And what next?" she asked, looking around brightly.

"Let's get to you a bathroom, and you take off your underwear," I said.

"Okay, then!" she took my hand and led me away. She was flushed and full of energy, walking with a devil-may-care swing in her hips. "So many rules, so many rules. They're hard to remember."

"I'll write them out for you."

"Nah, I remember them. I was just kidding."