Chapter Ten: Friends of the Revolutionary

"Yes, we did. I think we're going to take you and Stan up on your generous offer, Justine."

She clapped her hands. "Oh, that's wonderful news, Jim! I have to tell Stan; he'll be thrilled. We're going to have so much fun in Europe! I can't wait."

Jim felt himself relax a little. It was hard not to catch Justine's contagious enthusiasm. "Yeah, I'm sure we will. You're going to have to bear with us for a while, though. It might take us a while to adjust to all these changes."

"I understand, Jim. And I want you to promise that you'll tell us if there's anything we can do to make this easier for you."

"Thanks, Justine. Listen, there is something you could do for me right now."

"Anything, Jim!"

"Natasha's already gone to bed, and I should get some sleep too, but I'm far too worked up. My mind's racing in a million different directions. I could use a little something to help me calm down."

Justine smiled knowingly; he didn't have to spell it out for her. "Would you like to see the rest of that scenario I made of me and Natasha, Jim?" she asked gently.

"You still have it?"

"Sure. I made it right before. . ." A shadow seemed to pass over her face. Before I died, the shadow said. "Before Stan backed me up," she finished.

"Thanks, Justine. That'd be perfect."

"Coming up!" The screen dissolved to that familiar Victorian bedroom, and there was Natasha, beautiful, perfect, like a high-class lingerie ad. In came Justine. That girl knows how to move in heels, Jim thought as she walked over to the bed. Did her hips sway like that the last time I saw this? Maybe I just didn't notice it. Or maybe Justine's been doing research. Again, Justine sat down beside her reluctant lover. Again, there was the tension, the hesitation, the soft, pink lips brushing together tentatively--and then the tension broke and they were exploring each other's mouths in a warm, wet, uninhibited kiss. Twice they pulled apart, and twice they came back. The first time it was Justine, clearly dominant in this fantasy, who returned. But the second time it was Natasha. Jim smiled. It really was nicely done. The fantasy Natasha, quite unlike the real thing, was shy and hesitant. She had to be coaxed, but after a bit of persuasion from a beauty like Justine, her own desire began to emerge.

Jim noticed that, like the first time he had watched the fantasy, it took nothing more than a kiss to stir his arousal. After all, Natasha and Justine are the two most beautiful women I know, he realized. And they aren't even jealous of each other--Justine because she doesn't know how to be, and Natasha because, well, because of the kind of person Justine is. Jealousy, Jim suddenly thought, must have a strong physical component to it. Natasha had no reason to be jealous of Justine. Justine could be many things to Jim: friend, bondage playmate, porno consultant. But she could never be his lover, or his wife.

On screen, the two women were extending their explorations. As they kissed, Justine cupped Natasha's left breast. She began to squeeze, gently but firmly. She caressed the breast, rolling the nipple between her thumb and forefinger through the thin silk of Natasha's teddy. Natasha moaned softly. That's exactly what she sounds like,Jim thought. It was eerie. Justine turned to Natasha's other breast, giving it the same thorough, patient treatment, bringing her lover along inch by inch. Lesbians understand foreplay, Jim thought with a smile.

They were still wearing everything they had started out with, Jim noted, and somehow that made the whole thing even more erotic. Jim admired Justine's artistic restraint.

Justine was nibbling Natasha's neck and earlobes, driving her crazy, and massaging her breasts as well. Finally, her hand began to drift slowly down, touching her belly, then moving down between Natasha's thighs.

"No," Natasha whispered, her voice thick with longing. "I. . .I'm not ready yet." It was the first thing either of them had said.

With a smile, Justine slid a single finger under the crotch of Natasha's teddy. "Oh, you're ready," Justine assured her. "But I'll stop, if that's what you want." Justine was obviously trying not to sound disappointed.

Natasha swallowed hard. "No," she decided. "I don't want you to stop. Just please, be gentle, OK?"

"It's the only way I know how to be," Justine assured her. She slid another finger under the teddy, found the right spot and began to rub in a circular motion with which Jim was quite familiar. With her other hand, she played with Natasha's breast. Natasha writhed gently on the bed. Jim realized that there was to be no nudity in the scene at all.

Natasha's breaths were coming in short gasps now; she was getting close. She whimpered softly. Justine began to rub a little faster, a little harder. And Natasha came, splendidly, grinding her pelvis against Justine's hand as she screamed her pleasure. And then they were lying together, holding each other close. "Thank you, Justine," Natasha whispered sleepily. "But what about you?"

"We can take care of that tomorrow, if you like," Justine said. "Right now, you should sleep."

"OK. G'night, Justine."

"Good night, sweetheart." When Natasha was asleep, Justine turned to Jim. "Well, Jim? What did you think?"

"Beautiful work, Justine," Jim managed.

"Thanks, Jim. Would you like to be alone now?"

She had read his mind, as usual. "Yes. Thanks, Justine."

"Any time, Jim. Good night."

The last day of their lives began much like any other day for Jim and Natasha, with a kiss and a cup of coffee. Natasha went straight to work on "Justine Light;" she had a deadline to meet and she had no intention of missing it. Jim was confident that she would have a robust, workable program in plenty of time. In fact, he was more confident than she was. Only someone who knew her as well as Jim knew her could see past the aggressive, confident front she put on, but he knew she harbored secret doubts about her abilities. He also knew, however, that she wouldn't let those doubts interfere with her project, especially not with the stakes as high as they were.

Jim spent the morning thinking about what to take to Geneva. The nature of their situation encouraged him to travel light, and in any case he and Natasha had never been particularly materialistic. They would have the same net access in Switzerland that they had here, after all, which meant that their libraries of books and music and movies were replaceable. The citizen of the electronic age had no real ties to bulky possessions; anyone who knew where to look could find Faulkner or Bogart or the Beatles without much trouble. All you needed was a terminal. With this in mind, Jim quickly decided that the racks of memory modules that lined their study would stay. He would take with him only one module with his and Natasha's academic papers, notes, personal correspondences and so on. He spent half an hour at the bedroom terminal filling this module while Natasha worked in the study. When this was done, he checked the three redundant batteries which powered the module's EM field. All three were fully charged. They would hold the trillions of microscopic metallic particles within the module's data cloud frozen in rigid geometric patterns for years, if need be, until Jim was ready to turn those particle patterns back into information.

Jim checked the weather net and learned that it was a bit cooler in Geneva than in Southern California, but not dramatically so. He packed a bag for himself and one for Natasha, choosing summer and autumn clothes, a couple of light sweaters, a windbreaker. Jim realized that they were not taking much more with them to Europe than they had taken to the Sheraton, but that was probably just as well. Jim and Natasha Balthusar could always treat themselves to a new wardrobe once they were safely in Geneva. Jim added their toiletries and Natasha's birth control pills; when he saw where Natasha was in her pill cycle, he threw a few maxi pads into her bag, and congratulated himself for his foresight.

That was about it, really. Jim and Natasha had no pets and, thank God, no children. Their only real friend was in the federal lock-up. There was no one who needed to be told where they were going, which was good, because of course they couldn't tell anyone anyway. Seating himself in front of his terminal's video pickup, Jim recorded a brief video message: "Natasha and I are alive and well, but we must go away for a while. We may not be able to contact you for some time, but we love you and we are thinking of you. Please try not to worry. We will be in touch when we can." He arranged to have one copy sent to his mother and another to Natasha's family; the message would be delivered from a remailer after they were safely away. He would miss seeing his mom at Christmas, but to be brutally honest, there probably wouldn't be too much difference between seeing her one week a year and never seeing her.

Jim flushed the meager contents of their refrigerator down the disposal--there was no need to force the landlord to endure the stench of rotten curry when he finally showed up to see about the overdue rent. And he was ready to go.

It made him stop and think. Is it really this easy to pick up and leave? Are our ties to Oceanside really so tenuous? Maybe a better question, Jim realized, is this: with everyone and everything mere nanoseconds away from anybody with a terminal and half a brain, does it really make a damn bit of difference where you live? Maybe Natasha and I are the wave of the future. Citizens of the world, information vagabonds, electronic expatriates.

Or maybe we're citizens of nowhere at all.

Jim brought lunch in little white cardboard boxes from the Chinese place down the street. Natasha ate hers in front of the terminal. Jim had his in the kitchen with the last of the beer from the fridge--no sense pouring that down the sink, or leaving it for their disgruntled landlord to find!

After lunch, Jim turned to a task he had been avoiding for some time. He went into the bedroom and brought Stan up on the terminal. Jim still felt a bit strange splitting Stan's personality like that--Natasha was still working with Stan on the other terminal--but he knew that another conversation would impose no significant strain on Stan's resources.

"Hello, Jim. What can I do for you?"

"I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow, Stan."

"Yes, that's a good idea, Jim. I think the best arrangement would be for me to post 'Justine Light' through a series of secure, anonymous remailers, either at a prearranged time or at a signal from you."

"That sounds fine, Stan."

"My primary concern about this operation is Justine's safety," Stan confessed. "She would not be safe either here or on your office terminal; I anticipate that these are the first places the police will look once they discover what has happened. In the long run, of course, it is likely that 'Justine Light' will force the DEA to admit that this investigation has been a failure; they will most likely close it down within a matter of days or weeks. However, my understanding of human emotions suggests that Agents Norquist and Agnostopolis might experience feelings of betrayal and extreme frustration immediately following the posting. I don't mean to be uncharitable, but I do not believe they are beyond motivations of petty revenge."

"Very astute, Stan," Jim agreed. "Justine certainly should not be left in their clutches. What do you suggest?"

"She has informed me that she wishes to take up residence with you and Natasha in Switzerland. I, of course, cannot join you there in any physical sense; I am unable to leave the U.C.O. Central Core."

Jim hadn't even considered that. Stan was willing to send the woman he loved halfway across the earth to ensure her safety, knowing he couldn't follow. He had learned a lot about being human in the last few days. "Stan, I. . ."

"Don't worry, Jim," Stan said, as if reading Jim's mind. "My relationship with Justine is very different from a human romantic relationship, though we do express it in human terms in order to facilitate communication with you and Natasha. It is not necessary, or even possible, for us to interact in a truly physical sense. The transatlantic fiber optic network cables are quite reliable. I will not be far from Justine's side, or from yours, in any meaningful way."

"All right, Stan. So how do you suggest we get Justine to Geneva?"

"Two possibilities occur to me. One is that you carry her in a memory module in your luggage."

"Hm. I sure don't like the idea of having her confiscated by Customs."

"Indeed not. That is why the second possibility seems preferable to me. I can hold Justine in my filespace here, then download her to you once you have arrived in Geneva."

"That's good, Stan, but what if the feds come after you?"

"I don't think that likely, Jim. I have been quite careful since this affair began. My network monitoring program has been running constantly, checking for surveillance, and has found nothing. As far as the world at large is concerned, I am little more than a program to help you calculate your grades. Again, the tendency of most people to underestimate A.I.s is quite astonishing."

"Good enough. OK, Stan, that just leaves one other thing." Jim took a deep breath. Here goes nothing!

"What's that, Jim?"

"Before we go, I want to get Bill Baxter out of jail."

There was a very long pause. At last, Stan said, "Are you sure that's a good idea, Jim?"

"Trust me, Stan. He's learned his lesson. He won't try any bullshit like trying to post Justine anymore. For one thing, he can't; he doesn't have access to her anymore. And he'd have no reason to try it anyway. By posting 'Justine Light' we're doing what he wanted to do, except that we're doing it in a reasonable way. Most importantly, he's realized that tiggers can't fly."

"I beg your pardon, Jim?"

"That's the last thing he said to me before the feds took him away. It's a reference to one of his Taoist books. The idea is that everyone has a certain inner nature, and when they're in harmony with the universe, they act according to that nature. Bill finally realized that his inner nature is to mouth off about revolution a lot and write books about it, but not to stage the revolution himself. There's no way he's going to try something like this again."

There was another long pause. Jim couldn't imagine what Stan was up to; it was a helluva long time for an A.I. to be quiet. Maybe Natasha was asking him to compile something huge next door, but Jim had a feeling he was just thinking. "I believe you, Jim. But that raises another question. Is it within our power to secure his release?"

"I think so. Here's what I propose. I want to make a copy of Justine to use as bait. I'll arrange a meeting with Norquist. I'll tell him to bring Baxter; we'll have an exchange of hostages, as it were."

"And you believe he will accept those terms?"

"What the hell choice does he have? The implicit threat--and I'll make it explicit if I have to--is that I'll finish the job Baxter started."

"It's pretty risky, Jim."

"For God's sake, Stan! We're throwing away our lives and fleeing to Switzerland, and you're telling me it's too risky?"

"I didn't say it was too risky, Jim. I'll make the copy."

"Thanks, Stan. You're a good man."

"Have a seat, user," Natasha said with a smile.

"You say that with such contempt," Jim commented.

"Hey, I'm a programmer, what do you expect?"

"Fine. Let's see what you've got. I guess this must be the program. You decided to stick with 'Justine Light?'"

Natasha shrugged. "We tried to think of a snazzier name, but frankly nothing came to mind. This was a rush job, Jim."

"Sure, I understand that. But won't people want to see, uh, 'Justine Regular', once they see this?"

"Probably. Who cares?"

"Ah, yes, I keep forgetting: they're only users, after all."

Natasha looked exasperated. "Look, Jim, we're doing a pretty big favor for all those horny geeks out there. Thanks to this little creation Stan and I came up with, they get to do everything we can do with Justine except hang out with her. And instead of riches and fame, our reward is a life on the run. So forgive me if I'm not too sympathetic to user complaints."

"Fair enough. OK, here goes." As Jim reached down to run the program, a small window containing Justine's face popped up on the monitor. It occurred to Jim that Justine was running in the background almost all the time now, on one or both of their terminals. He didn't mind that; in fact, he liked having her around. But it still surprised him sometimes when she foregrounded herself like that. Better get used to it, Silicane, he thought ruefully. She's a part of this family now.

"Hi, guys! Mind if I watch?" she asked.

Natasha smiled. "Not at all. After all, this program is a part of you."

"It's exciting," Justine agreed. "It's almost like I just had a baby."

"Well, I hope you can be proud of your offspring. Like I said, it was a rush job."

"Let's take a look at it," Jim said, and ran the program. The monitor showed a credit screen:

Brought to you by the Friends of the Revolutionary

"'Friends of the Revolutionary?'" Jim asked.

"Well, I couldn't use our real names, for God's sake. I mean, it wouldn't matter to me; Natasha Bukharin won't even exist after tomorrow. But we sure as hell don't want Stan implicated in this little crime. So I had to come up with an alter ego for us. I thought about 'Friends of the Revolution,' but that was just too cliché, and anyway it misses the point. Bill Baxter's the reason we're in this mess, right? Because we're 'Friends of the Revolutionary.'"

"I like it," Jim decided. The credits disappeared, to be replaced by a basic instruction screen: This program features voice-command recognition and also recognizes optional keyboard commands. Are you interested in still images or video?

"Video," Jim answered. The screen read: Would you like to use your own video input, or something from my library?

"I reckon I'll take the library," Jim replied, phrasing his reply in an unusual way to see how robust the program's voice recognition was. He realized as he did so that he had started talking less like Jim Silicane and more like Jim Balthasar of Houston, which was odd, since Jim Balthasar didn't even exist. Or did he? Had Stan and Justine created a whole new person during their busy night of conversations with DMV and State Department A.I.s? Thank you, said the screen. You may search the library using film titles or the names of celebrities.

Natasha smiled with pride. "It looks for the word 'library,'" she explained. "So you can throw in any other crap you want, and it doesn't matter. I'm onto your little tricks, Dr. Silicane."

"A+ so far, Miss Bukharin. Computer, please search for Christine Pepperdyne." Natasha smiled. Christine Pepperdyne had become a moderately big Hollywood sensation in the last couple of years. She specialized in steamy, erotic thrillers; Jim and Natasha had enjoyed several of her films.

Footage of Christine Pepperdyne is on file, the monitor informed them. Please select the parameters of your fantasy scenario. The screen showed a long list of options: heterosexual, lesbian, threesome, orgy, oral, anal, masturbation, bestiality, bondage, S/M, spanking, tickling, latex and many more.

"Bondage and S/M, eh?" Jim remarked.

"They're different," Natasha pointed out.

"True. Oh, hell, it selected both of them when I said that."

"Of course it did!" Natasha said testily.

"Fine. Computer, add 'lesbian' to my parameters, please." The program prompted him to specify a lesbian partner for Christine Pepperdyne. "Julie Sandstone," Jim said without really thinking about it.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "You're so predictable."

"Quiet, woman, this is my fantasy scenario here."

Footage of Julie Sandstone is on file, the program confirmed. It offered him a variety of background settings: outdoors, a few different types of bedrooms, even a space station. Jim chose a standard medieval dungeon. It asked him which of the two women he wanted to be dominant; he chose Julie. It then took him through a menu of bondage choices for Christine. He selected steel manacles to hold her wrists over her head. Next came clothing options; to make things simple he asked to have both women nude, but he was pleased to see that Natasha had provided an extensive list of possible garments: lingerie, bikinis, shorts and tank tops, even formal wear. The S/M menu contained an extensive list of whips: quirts, crops, bullwhips, cats-o'-nine-tails. Several rack designs were available, as well as slow nooses, crucifixes and a number of other exotic tortures. Jim selected a cattle prod.

"Justine has made me lazy," Jim decided. "This is a pain in the ass compared to when she does it. I mean, the interface is really good," he added quickly, not wanting to make Natasha feel insecure about her work. What she had done really was impressive, especially given the minimal amount of time she had had to put the whole thing together. "I'm just used to having her do everything."

"That's why this is 'Justine Light,'" Natasha reminded him.

Scenario ready, said the monitor.

"Play the scenario," Jim commanded. The screen dissolved to a very familiar dungeon setting--it was Justine's dungeon, of course; the footage came from her library, there was just no Justine here. Instead, there was Christine Pepperdyne, wearing nothing but manacles and looking damn good. Christine was a brunette; her dark hair fell past her shoulders, long and straight. Her breasts were large, firm and round, topped with big, pink nipples. She took care of herself the way all Hollywood women did; she was trim and fit and tanned. Her waist was narrow and her legs were long. Her films often contained nude scenes; Jim assumed that the program had drawn this image from one of those, or a composite of them. In any case, the woman on the screen was the spitting image of Christine Pepperdyne. But Jim was quite sure this scene had never appeared in any of her movies.

The scene showed Christine in her chains, facing the camera. She looked terrified. Standing with her back to the camera was a slender blonde who held the instrument of Christine's torture, a vicious looking electric prod. Christine was begging her tormentor not to use it. "Please," she whimpered, "oh, please, don't do it, don't shock me." It was definitely Christine Pepperdyne's voice.

"That's the dialogue generation routine," Natasha said softly. "We lifted that right out of Justine's code, didn't change a thing. It's really good. It's contextual, and it almost never repeats."

The mysterious blonde figure turned so that she was standing in profile. She smiled a wicked smile. It was indeed Julie Sandstone, lovely as ever, but with an aggressive expression Jim had never seen on her face before. She didn't say a word, just slowly approached Christine with the prod. Christine squirmed gently in her bonds, trying to move away from the prod, but it was hopeless. At last the tip of it touched her left nipple. A deep, resonant electric sizzle emerged from the speakers, followed by a throaty scream.

Jim and Natasha had heard Christine Pepperdyne scream before. After all, she had made a living out of being menaced by knife-wielding maniacs. That was her scream, all right.

"Looks good to me," Jim decided. "Stop scenario," he told the program.

"You don't want to see the rest of it?" Natasha asked.

Jim shrugged. "What for? It works. It's a nice piece of software. The voice recognition is good. It's versatile and it has plenty of options. It makes the same quality video that Justine makes--though without her sense of style, of course."

Natasha smiled a naughty smile. "Yeah, but does it get you hard?" Jim cleared his throat. "As a matter of fact, it does. Which is why I think we should switch to the real Justine now."

Justine's window opened over the frozen image of Christine Pepperdyne's torture session. "Now you're talking!"

"What'll it be tonight?" Natasha asked, bouncing on the bed. "Should we bring out Mistress Natasha again?"

Jim looked thoughtful. "Hmm. . ."

Natasha grinned. "I know that look. You want to see your poor, helpless girlfriend all tied up, don't you?"

"Well, um, it isn't that I didn't enjoy having you in charge last time. It was great. It's just that. . ."

"That you like to be dominant. It's all right, Jim. It's not like that comes as a big surprise to me. Anyway, it works out perfectly, since I prefer to be submissive."

Jim snorted. "You're about as submissive as a hydrogen bomb."

She gave him a shove. "Jerk! You know what I mean. I have to push you around all day, just to keep your sorry ass in line. By bedtime I'm ready to get pushed around a little."

Jim had never really thought of it that way before. Natasha certainly didn't take much crap from Jim in their relationship. Frankly, that was one of the things Jim liked about her so much. Like most men, he was frequently full of shit; unlike most men, he admitted it. He would have found it impossible to respect any woman who simply put up with it, and most of the time Natasha didn't. But when they went to bed, that often turned around, and maybe it made sense that way. Natasha liked to let Jim take charge during sex. It gave him an important sense of power and authority, and it let her relax, secure in the knowledge that by relinquishing control she was leaving herself open for nothing more threatening than a tremendously satisfying orgasm. Jim suspected that both of them also secretly enjoyed how retrograde their dominant/submissive sex life was. There was something very satisfying about shedding their civilized, sophisticated, egalitarian garments and fucking each other as barbarians.

"Are you there, Justine?" Natasha asked.

"Ready to go, Natasha! What'll it be tonight?"

"Ask Jim," Natasha said, her dark eyes wide with feigned innocence. "He's the big, strong man around here." She was teasing him a little; it was all in good humor, but she was definitely trying to get a rise out of him. Like any good submissive, she knew how to stretch her boundaries a little from time to time--because it was so satisfying to have those boundaries firmly reasserted.

"Let's see Natasha on that table rack again, please, Justine," Jim said, his voice appropriately cold and hard.

"Sure thing, Jim. It'll just be a moment."

"You like that thing, don't you, Jim?" Natasha seemed genuinely curious.

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"What do you like about it?"

"Does it bug you that I like it?" He sounded a little defensive.

"No, not at all. I like it too. I'm just curious."

"Well, I don't know. I like the way your body looks when it's stretched out like that. Justine puts a little arch in your back that really makes you stick your tits out."

"It's a natural effect of any good table rack," Justine chimed in.

"Always with the boobs. God, you're lucky, Justine." "Why?" Justine asked.

"You have perfect boobs, and if you don't like them, you can just change them.

"Oh, I'd never do that, Natasha."

"Well, of course not. You don't have to."

"It's really nice of you to say so, Natasha," Justine said shyly. "But that isn't what I meant. Humans can change their hair color or their breast size and still be the same person. With me, what you see is what you get." She held up her hands to illustrate her point. "I mean, this picture is Justine.

"Don't sell yourself short, girl," Natasha admonished. "You have a lot of personality to go along with that sexy chassis of yours."

Justine dimpled. "Well, thanks, but I still don't think I'd feel comfortable changing myself around too much. I mean, I've only been alive for a few days. They've been long days, but still. . .I need to finish figuring myself out before I start making too many changes."

"Don't plan on finishing that project any time soon," Natasha recommended. "Excuse me, but the big, strong man would like to get back to talking about tits," Jim commanded.

"Yes, dear," Natasha sighed.

"Justine's tits are good for her," Jim decided. "But I like yours, Natasha." "You're a sweetheart. How are you coming along with that rack scenario, Justine? I think Jim's getting a little bit impatient."

"Oh, I'm sorry. It's ready; bringing up a saved file only takes a moment. I was just enjoying the conversation. Here goes!"

The screen filled with the familiar scene of Natasha, naked, stretched and squirming on the table rack. "What else do you like about it?" Natasha wanted to know.

"Well. . .this is pretty kinky."

"Try me."

"I like that it really seems to hurt," Jim admitted.

"Why do you like that?" she asked softly.

"Because it's forbidden, I guess. You know I would never hurt you. But the thought of women in pain turns me on. Thanks to Justine, I can watch you being tortured while I'm fucking you. Yeah, it turns me on.

"You like to swim, don't you, Natasha?" Justine asked suddenly.

"Yes, I do. Why?" It seemed like a non-sequitur.

"I just thought of something while Jim was explaining what turns him on. I have a feeling it might excite him."

"Well, let's see it!" Natasha said with a mischievous grin.

There was a brief pause while Justine generated the scenario, then the screen lit up to show Natasha naked, spread eagled, her wrists and ankles fastened to the bottom of an empty swimming pool with steel bands. The water was rising. As they watched, Natasha struggled in her bonds, whimpering softly. Jim felt himself harden. Justine's choice of torture was brilliant. It combined his fascination for strangulation, which she knew of from their Julie Sandstone session, with a very subtle appeal to that regressively male part of him that resented the vigilant hours of swimming that gave Natasha her perfect body, that kept her in better shape than he.

The water was almost over her face; she had time for just one last breath before she went under, and she drew that, filling her lungs to capacity, making her breasts swell to nearly double size. Jim knew that if Natasha drew a breath like that, it would last for about four minutes.

Meanwhile, Natasha had unzipped his fly and was fellating him with enthusiasm and expertise. On screen, only Natasha's breasts were above water; she was completely helpless, drowning in a swimming pool. Gradually, her convulsions grew weaker. "Justine," Jim whispered.

"Yes, Jim?"

"That's enough."

"She's in no danger, Jim."

"Let it run," came Natasha's muffled voice from below. Jim felt himself building to eruption. Had it been four minutes? What did it matter? Justine wouldn't let Natasha die on the screen, he was sure of that. So what if she held her breath ten minutes? It was a fantasy, after all.

As Jim expolded into Natasha's mouth, Justine let the water out of the pool with a great whoosh; Natasha came up choking and gagging.

"Christ, I might drown in semen," she said as it ran out over her chin.

"Mmmm. You should just swallow it."

"I did swallow it, asshole! There's a lot!"

Jim shrugged. "I can't help that. I just happen to have very enthusiastic balls. I do what I can to keep the volume down."

"I'll just bet you do. Did you and Justine have fun last night?"

"None of your business, woman!"

"Come on," Natasha prodded. "I want to hear about it."

"Why?"

"Maybe it turns me on."

"You are one kinky bitch. Fine." Jim told her about the lesbian scenario Justine had made for him.

"I've always wondered about that," Natasha said thoughtfully.

"Hmm?"

"Lesbians. Why is it that so many straight men are turned on by lesbians? You don't see straight women seeking out porn videos of gay men."

"It just goes to show you that women are objectively sexier than men," Jim observed.

Natasha scowled. "That's bullshit. You don't see me jumping into bed with every woman who comes along."

"Which is a damn shame, if you ask me," Jim said wryly.

"Pervert." Natasha paused for a moment. "I don't know. I mean, sure, there are a lot of good looking women out there. And maybe in a lot of cases, women are nicer to look at than men."

"See? You are a dyke; you're just too repressed to admit it."

"Fuck you. The point is, being nice to look at just isn't enough. When you get right down to it, I could imagine myself sleeping with a woman out of curiosity, maybe, but I'm pretty sure I'd come back to men when it was all over and done with."

"That's right," Jim asserted, straddling her aggressively. "Because a strap-on dildo just can't compete with the real thing."

"Believe it or not," Natasha said dryly, "you have more to offer me than a nice, hard cock."

"Are you knocking a nice, hard cock?" Jim demanded with raised eyebrows.

"I'm not knocking it. As you must know by now, I'm quite fond of it. But there's more to being straight than getting enthusiastically and expertly fucked every night."

"There is?" Jim asked with mock surprise. "Like what?"

"It's hard to pin down. There are a lot of things about you that turn me on. I like the way you smell. I like how you can be an overprotective jerk sometimes. I like your hands."

"My hands?" Jim realized for about the billionth time in his life that he would never understand what made women tick. Hands were just hands, weren't they? "What do you like about them?"

"I like the way the veins stand out on the backs of them. I like your long, skinny fingers. I don't know. I like to imagine your hands. . .doing things to me."

"Now you're talking. What kinds of things?" Jim reached down and cupped her breast.

"Mmm. . .dirty things. Yeah. . .like that. Are you ready to go again already?"

"Sure. I just need a little of your expert encouragement, that's all."

"Then come here, baby."

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