Disclaimers: The characters in this novel are of my own creation. That’s right, this is an ‘uber’ story. Some may bear a resemblance to characters we know and love who are owned by PacRen and Universal Studios.

Violence and Naughty Language Disclaimer: Yup, both. And quite a lot of each, to be truthful. This takes place in a prison, and where there are criminals, there’s gonna be violence and naughty words.

Subtext Disclaimer: Yup, there’s that too. This piece deals, after a fashion, with the love and physical expression of that love, between two adult females. There are some graphic scenes located within this piece, but I have tried to make them as tasteful as possible so as to not avoid anyone’s sensibilities. Let me know if I’ve succeeded.

Serialization Disclaimer: When I first started writing and posting, I made a promise to myself, and to anyone who read me, that I would never post a work that wasn’t finished. I detest serialization, normally. But . . .this novel, which is one week from being finished, is becoming very long and I’ve had readers write to me stating that they won’t read novels because they just don’t have time to sit down and read such gargantuan works. So, I compromised. This piece is finished (very nearly) and will go up at regular intervals so that the folks who like to read in small chunks can do that and the ones who like to read the whole thing can do that too.

But it was over. At least for the time being. True to her nature, Ice closed up once again, as if our evening together had bared too much of her innermost self to me. I won’t say I wasn’t disappointed, because I was. But I also tried my best to understand things from her point of view. Each delving into that battered soul gave me more insight into the woman that I was able to confess freely, if only to myself, I had fallen in love with.

But each baring of that soul came with a price to her and to myself. I suppose it’s akin to a leeching out of toxins in the body. You always need a recovery period just to regain the balance you’d lost.

In the meantime, I kept myself busy with my library work, my teaching, and even managed to allow myself to get roped into playing on the so-called "Inmate All-Stars" softball team that was set to go up against the guards during the first week of summer.

My status as an Amazon allowed me to speak to people I wouldn’t have dreamed of speaking with before. I listened to their concerns and questions and tried my best to help in any way I could. As I’ve said before, most of the Bog’s inmates weren’t hard core lifers. Most were young women serving short sentences for stupid mistakes. Though I helped as much as I could with their continuing education scholastically, I wanted to do more to help prepare these women for their eventual lives outside these prison walls. With the help of the guards, several non-profit organizations, and the local universities, I was able to set up various classes for the inmates. Classes such as "Anger Management", "Parenting", "Household Budgeting" and "Career Paths" were, surprisingly, very well attended. It made me feel good to be able to have a positive effect on the lives of my fellow inmates, if only to do my best to make sure that once they left the Bog, they’d never return.

My second spring in the Bog also saw the first time I was able to intervene in a fight without assistance. And, in fact, I didn’t even need to resort to violence.

I was on my way to the laundry room to pick up some clean uniforms (and if you’ve managed to stay with me this long, you’ll no doubt remember my warning about prisons and laundry rooms) when I stepped into the outer antechamber and saw two inmates, both rather new themselves, standing over another prisoner who’d just gotten out of segregation. All three wore bruises of beatings past, the kneeling woman’s fresher and more vivid against the pale tone of her flesh.

I came fully into the room, letting my presence be known by the force of my stride. The kneeling woman looked up at me with a plea in her eyes; the others, anger. "What’s going on here?"

"I don’t see as it’s any of your business," one of the standing ones replied.

"How about if I say I’m making it my business. Does that help?"

The second woman released her grip on the front of her captive’s jumpsuit and started toward me.

"I wouldn’t if I were you. Those bruises can get a whole lot worse real fast."

Catching the tone in my voice, she trailed to a stop, looking at me questioningly, assessing.

"Well?"

She looked over her shoulder at her compatriot, who shrugged. Then she turned back to me and raised her hands in front of her chest. "Didn’t mean nothin’ by it."

"I see." I smiled. "Well then, I’m sure you won’t mind letting this woman get what she came for and leave, right?"

"Sure," said the first after a moment. "No problem."

"Good." I nodded encouragingly to the kneeling woman, who nodded back and struggled to her feet, her eyes still wide with fright. A further nod from me and she turned and walked into the laundry proper, reappearing a moment later with a stack of clean jumpsuits. Taking one last look at us, she bolted for the door. I could see the second woman, the one who had aborted her advance on me, shooting daggers with her eyes in the direction of the door.

"You know," I continued conversationally, "it wouldn’t be the wisest move to go after her once I’m gone. Do yourselves a favor and leave it alone. You’ll both be a lot happier, believe me."

"Who are you?" the first asked.

I could feel my grin widen. "My name’s Angel."

"Angel, huh?" said the second, appraising me once again. She was a medium-sized woman with lank brown hair which hung down over her eyes, which were currently squinting myopically at me.

"That’s what they call me, yeah."

"You don’t look so tough."

"Looks can be deceiving. You’re welcome to try and find out, though I’d rather go about this in a more adult fashion."

The second woman walked over to her companion and I took the time to study them both carefully. "Looks like someone came down on the both of you pretty hard," I observed. When they both turned angry looks my way, I held up a hand. "It’s alright. Happened to me too. More than once."

"Nothin’ happened to us," the first protested. "We just got . . . clumsy."

Though I wanted to laugh, I managed to keep it inside. "Yeah, I’ve been known to have a sudden attack of ‘clumsiness’ myself a time or two. Hurts, doesn’t it. Kinda makes you want to make others feel as ‘clumsy’ as you, huh?"

Now I had both of them squinting at me. "What in the hell are you talking about?" the second asked finally.

"I’m talking about beating up on someone because you’ve just gotten beaten up yourselves. I’m talking about how you think that’ll make you feel better about what happened to you. But I’m here to tell you that it won’t. The only thing that will even begin to make you feel better is to learn how to stand up to the people who hurt you. Not to become bullies yourselves. Because let me tell you something about bullies, ladies. There’s always someone a whole lot bigger, a whole lot stronger and a whole lot meaner than you around."

"You?" the first asked, snorting in disbelief.

"I’ll do for a start. But I’d really rather give you lessons on how to defend yourself rather than defend myself against you. Whadda ya say?"

They looked at one another, then back at me, obviously beyond knowing what to make of me. "Alright," they finally said, in unison.

My smile brightened. "Great! I’m out in the yard every day at eleven. A lot of my time is taken up by softball right now, but if I can’t help, I’ve got a bunch of friends who will. Meet me out by the free-weight area tomorrow and I’ll introduce you to them, alright?"

"The free-weight area? But that’s where the Amazons hang out."

"Exactly."

"You’re an Amazon?"

"Sure am." I’m afraid my smile grew a trifle smug, but, really, wouldn’t yours? Their expressions were tinged with a new emotion: respect, and it made me proud to be who I was. "So, do we have a deal? No more beating up on anyone?"

"Uh . . .yeah. Deal."

"Great! See you both tomorrow then." Brushing by them, I continued on into the laundry and picked up the uniforms I’d originally come for. When I came back out, they were both still standing there, staring at me. Giving them a final wave and a bright grin, I left on my way.

The prison grapevine was in perfect working order, as I found out when I walked into the library later that afternoon. Half a dozen Amazons and one elderly librarian converged upon me in an orgy of congratulations and back-slapping. I looked around in disbelief as they applauded me for the success of my first ‘solo’.

Raucous laughter and talk of ‘busted cherries’ accompanied the good natured teasing and had me blushing to the roots of my hair. Pony almost did me in when she pushed forward bearing a cupcake she’d scrounged from the commissary vending-machine, complete with lit candle. I was serenaded with "For She’s a Jolly Good Amazon", and the wish I made when I blew out the candle is mine alone to know.

*******

As the warmth of spring gave way to the heat and humidity of summer, Ice began to come out of her shell once again, as if drawn out by the steamy days and balmy nights. We’d often sit outside near dusk, after I’d been given leave by the guards, and just talk, generally about nothing. It was obvious that the wound of Josephina’s death was still sore, but it appeared to be getting better, little by little.

Many times I found myself telling her little stories of me as a young girl. I hoped these would open her up enough to tell me some stories in kind, but that was a horse of a different color. Still, storytelling was something I’d enjoyed since I was young, even if I didn’t usually have any audience but my hated dolls..

Most of my stories centered around our summer cabin in the Canadian wilderness. I told her about the time that my mother’s parents had come to visit for a week and my grandfather had dumped all the dirty plastic eating utensils in the fire, stinking the house up for days. Or about the one and only time I’d gone fishing with my father.

My father didn’t think it was a girl’s place to fish, but lacking any other, more suitable, companionship one day, he grunted at me to join him in the small boat we kept tied to the dock. Fancying himself a master fisherman, he had a beautiful rod and reel and an expensive tackle-box with all sorts of fascinating lures, none of which I was able to touch lest they be tainted by girl-cooties or something. I was presented, with great pomp and circumstance, a simple bamboo rod with a length of wire and a small hook dangling from the end. I was also given a styrofoam cup of nightcrawlers and the admonition that I’d better not ask him to bait my hook for me. Apparently, my father’s notions of femininity didn’t extend to getting one’s hands dirty impaling worms on pointy hooks.

He took us out to a tiny island in the middle of the lake, where he dropped anchor and fixed his rod and tackle. He cast out into the clear blue water as I was still trying to figure out the best way to bait my own hook without getting worm guts all over me. I imagined I could hear the poor creatures cry out as I stuck the sharp point through their tough flesh and watched the blood ooze out of the hole I’d created.

Swallowing back the bile, I completed my task, determined not to give my father yet another reason to be disappointed in me. The very second I swung my line out, I felt a sharp tug and pulled up on the pole to find a nice-sized perch struggling on my hook.

That’s pretty much how the day went. Every time I dropped my hook, a fish seemed to latch itself onto it. My father, on the other hand, even with all his fancy equipment, managed to snare himself two bluegill and a perch too tiny to bother keeping.

To say that my father was in a bad mood two hours into the venture would be understating the fact. Without saying a word, he abruptly stowed his gear, pulled up anchor, and turned us back toward land.

That evening’s fish dinner was the best I’d ever eaten though my father looked like he was choking down every bite.

I even managed to get a rare, full-throated laugh out of Ice when I told her the story of the week we had some friends of the family up to stay with us. It had been raining all day and my mother and her friend had placed their shoes by the stone fireplace to dry out. Apparently, a chipmunk had chosen the fireplace as it’s summer nesting place. Even more apparently, it found my mother’s friend’s shoes a perfect retreat from the drudgery of its rock home.

The next morning, my mother’s friend slipped her foot into her shoe, then let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead. By the time I made it to the ground floor, my mom and her friend were screaming, had brooms in their hands, and were running around the house chasing after a tiny, terrified chipmunk who’d picked the wrong shoe to sleep in.

Ice was always a wonderful listener and seemed always keen on having me tell her of my childhood summers in our cabin by the lake. By the faraway look in her eyes, I think I’d finally managed to get her to at least try and visualize the place that brought me such a sense of peace and serenity.

She always seemed calmer and more open after listening to my tales; softer, somehow. Her pale eyes would take on a deeper, more vibrant hue and the sharp angles and planes of her face would smooth out some as she looked tenderly in my direction; that child I’d seen in the photograph not far under the surface of the woman grown. It was a part of her I so much wanted to know. But like a clear pool whose depths aren’t fully known until you find yourself up to your neck in them, there would be layers upon layers of mystery and emotional armor I’d have to patiently pry my way through to get to the soul underneath.

There were other times that she’d come and watch me play softball, her eyes raking over the field and its players, that blasted enigmatic smile painting her lips. I learned quickly to force my attention onto the game or risk fat lips, black eyes, and the unmerciful razzing of my teammates. There were times when I could almost feel the heat of her gaze upon me and I had to actively resist shifting out of my stance to turn and meet that smoldering gaze with my own, knowing it would be my undoing if I did.

The kisses we’d shared in her cell woke an animal I hadn’t even known was hidden inside me. My nights were filled with images both erotic and tender. My days weren’t all that much better, truth be known. There were times I thought I’d explode from the pressure, the pieces of me left to flutter down in ribbons of frustration.

But, if there’s one lesson I learned well in the Bog, it’s that patience is a virtue. And when I put my mind to it, I can be truly virtuous. My name is Angel, after all.

Too, there were times when the smile on her face would gauge the lightness of her mood and I’d try to draw out her feelings and plans for the retribution she promised for the warden and her betrayer. Try as I might, I could never get any hints from her and knew well enough to back off or risk retribution of my own. Still, I couldn’t help but worry about the drastic measures she might see fit to bring forth in her quest for what she considered to be justice, albeit of the most base sort.

In reality, there was nothing to keep her from going directly after Morrison. She was, after all, a lifer with no hope, at least in her own mind, of ever seeing freedom again. I think that thought must have been tempting in the extreme for her at times, especially on Sundays when we would all be forced to sit through three hours of his pious preachings, knowing all the while the vile creature which lay beneath the vestments. Why she didn’t take that road, I have no idea. It doubtless would have been easy for her and, really, what more punishment could she possibly receive?

Another avenue I considered was the one that comes most easily to the mind of almost any prisoner, whether it be in the Bog or elsewhere. Escape. Talk to any ten inmates of any prison around the world and nine will admit to having thoughts of escape. And the tenth will be lying. It was the thing you talked about over meals and thought about when the darkness of the prison night came home to roost in your cell.

Almost every inmate could tell you at least a dozen ways to leave the Bog without benefit of parole. And, truth be known, some of these ways even stood a good chance of success. This was the Bog, after all, and not Alcatraz. Corinne, who was the most in the know about such things, stated with authority that there were twenty one successful escapes from the Bog in the years since it had been turned into a women’s prison. Of those, fifteen were eventually recaptured, two were killed outright and the remaining five were never heard from again.

The most popular and successful escape route, though horribly cliched, was the old ‘slip out in the clean-laundry basket’ maneuver. Two of the five inmates who weren’t killed or recaptured chose this route for their dash to freedom. In 1966, however, the prison lost its State laundry contract and that closed off the laundry avenue for good.

Tunneling was out as a means for escape. The Bog is aptly named, as it sits on many acres of swamp land. Tunnels crumble and fall apart, filling with water almost as soon as they were dug. To date, again according to Corinne, twelve inmates have drowned attempting to tunnel out of the prison.

The award for the most idiotic escape attempt, and one which was very nearly successful despite its stupidity, goes to a woman named Slick. Unlike the Bog, she was not aptly named, for she was anything but. Slick worked in the auto shop and by all accounts, she was a good mechanic. She was also a crazed and dangerous killer who would stop at nothing for the chance to escape. One evening, as she was putting the finishing touches on a State Police cruiser, she decided to hide beneath the tarp covering the flooring of the back seat and leave the Bog in style. The guards rarely inspected the police cruisers, figuring the patrolmen who drove in them would be in the best position to know if anything was out of place in their own vehicles.

What Slick forgot, however, in her zealous, if not overly bright, planning, was that the backseats of police cruisers don’t have door-handles. Nor does the thick plexiglass shielding the front seats from the back allow for easy passage from one compartment to the other. When the officer who drove the car got back from his briefing at the station, he found, to his great and amused surprise, an escaped inmate all boxed up and awaiting her return trip to the Bog.

Guard dogs specially trained to sniff out the human scent and the advent of electronic garage door openers ended the chances of escape through the auto bays once and for all. Each car was inspected as if it were waiting at a boarder crossing and anything seen out of place was immediately attended to.

Corinne told me that in the ten years since that incident, there had never been a successful escape attempt. Some women still tried to climb over the fence or slip out with the visitors, but no one ever made it off the grounds.

Even if that hadn’t been the case, I had my doubts that escape was something that Ice would ever seriously consider. She was the rare inmate who truly believed that she belonged where she was. And even if she was incarcerated for a murder she didn’t commit, her sense of guilt over crimes she had gotten away with continued to weigh on her heavily. She believed justice had been well and truly served in her case and seemed content to stay where she felt she belonged.

But I also knew that however long it took, somehow, some way, Cavallo and Morrison would also have justice served to them on a platter no doubt stained red with blood. And that was what worried me.

Another worry, though one more annoying than frightening, was the continued intrusive presence of my own little shadow named Digger. It seemed that no matter where I was or when I was there, Digger was always somewhere in the near vicinity. To be honest, my routine of library, softball, library, meals, library, cell wasn’t that difficult to figure out, but it was still disconcerting nonetheless.

I tried talking to her. I had Corinne try talking to her. I had the Amazons try talking to her. Nothing worked. She seemed to be one of those people who couldn’t see the facts in front of their face. It got so bad at times that I seriously considered asking Ice to intimidate the ever loving hell out of her, but my more polite side kept that tucked down deep to be used only as a last resort.

Still, Digger did manage to have some use for me and so I put up with the constant frustration of having a living shadow and kept telling myself that at least she wasn’t Psycho. Or so I hoped.

Digger was, not to put too fine a point on it, a neat freak. The inside of her cell was clean and sparse as a monk’s and her uniforms were always just so; wrinkle-free with perfect creases. It often amused me how she would spend several minutes during a softball game brushing the resilient fabric after sliding into a base to avoid a tag.

As a cleanliness nut, she was a natural in the janitorial jobs so abundant in the Bog. Let’s face it. It’s a rare woman who enjoys swamping out toilets for a living, but Digger did it with a smile. Other inmates had taken to calling her "June Cleaver" behind her back and it was the cause of much teasing in our own little corner of Hell.

Her tidy tendencies didn’t escape the notice of our warden, who also seemed to ascribe to the notion that cleanliness was indeed next to godliness. When it came to pressed suits and swept floors, that is. The man’s soul was as dirty as the bottom of a New York taxi.

In any event, never one to pass over an easily used and abused resource, the warden appointed Digger his personal housekeeper, which meant, of course, that she was in the perfect position to pick up and deliver juicy little tidbits that Morrison let slip during the course of his daily business. And believe me when I tell you that Digger was very good at her job. Suffice it to say, William Morrison had the cleanest brass doorknob in all prisondom. Of course, Digger kept it well polished with her ears and eyes, but he didn’t need to know that.

*******

The morning of the first inaugural Inmate/Guard softball game dawned with the proverbial "three H’s" in attendance. Hazy, hot and humid. The sky was a flat, monochrome gray and the air was thick enough to be cut through with one of Psycho’s knives. At nine in the morning, the temperature was already eighty-two and climbing. I had decided, spur of the moment, to come out a couple hours early to get in some extra batting practice, knowing our pitchers would be out practicing as well.

As I stepped out into the sauna the yard had become with the rising of the sun, I silently thanked our team captain for lobbying for the uniform I now wore. Instead of the thick, heavy polyester of my prison jumpsuit, I had on a simple cotton T and loose-fitting cotton shorts. Sweat immediately beaded between my breasts and at my hairline. I had pulled my hair into a loose tail for the game and vowed once again to get it chopped off at the next opportunity.

A body brushed by my side and I almost soiled my new shorts as I whirled, hands up in a defensive posture. Digger jumped back, a chagrined smile on her face, her hands also raised. "Sorry, Angel. It’s just me. Musta been thinking about the game, huh?"

I returned the smile, though weakly. "Uh . . .yeah, Digger. You just startled me." I fought hard to keep the annoyance from sounding in my voice. "What are you doing out here so early?"

"I figured you’d want to get in some last-minute practice, so here I am." Her grin widened as her eyes roamed over my body. "You look real nice, Angel."

I looked down at myself, seeing places where my sweat had glued the cotton to my skin in dark patches. There was already a ‘V’ forming between my breasts and I resisted the urge to cover myself up. "Thanks," I managed. "So do you."

In truth, I didn’t think it was possible to get cotton so white and absolutely wrinkle-free, but somehow Digger managed it, as usual. Unlike me, her sweat didn’t dare stain those pristine garments. I chuckled inwardly as I imagined her yelling at her pores, demanding they stay shut nice and tight for the duration.

"So," she said, fidgeting slightly to break the silence, "you ready to kick some guard ass?"

"Sure." Switching my mitt to the hand closest to Digger, I started across the grounds, taking the still air and the muggy, slightly swampy smell that hung on the mist surrounding us. Our pitchers were looking warmed up and ready and I stood just outside the foul line, watching and cheering them on for a moment.

Players from both teams began to drift onto the field, calling out to one another in shouted greetings and good natured ribbing and kicking up the dust to hang in the still, humid air. Another body came close, but instead of brushing by me, it moved forward until we were almost touching. Two strong hands settled onto my shoulders in a grip I recognized and a low, sultry voice sounded very close to my ear. "Give ‘em hell, Angel." The hands gave my shoulders a brief squeeze before a head swung briefly around into my field of vision, depositing a soft kiss to my cheek. "For luck."

A subtle shifting and the figure was gone, leaving behind a wonderful scent and me, staring dazedly at nothing with a flush rapidly darkening my face and wondering why in the world I had thought the day could possibly be lousy.

"Was that Ice?" Digger said from beside me, her voice filled with hushed awe.

I blinked in annoyance, the spell Ice had woven over me temporarily broken. "Yeah, that’s Ice."

"Wow. That is so cool! Hey! Do you think if I asked, she’d give me a kiss too?"

Before I knew it, I had whirled around to face her. "Don’t even think about it."

Her look of surprise was so comical I had to bite back a bray of laughter. "Let’s just . . .go practice, alright?"

"Yeah. Sure. Anything you say, Angel."

*****

The game was fast and furious from the start. The guards had an excellent team with pitcher who could thread a needle with a softball and could set your bat on fire if it got in the way. Their batting was good too, as was their outfield, who had rifles for arms. Their only weakness was their infield and I set out to exploit that as best I could by peppering line-drives up the gap between short and second, a particular sweet spot of mine anyway.

Our strength was our infield. Though annoying, Digger was an outstanding first-baseman, well earning her nickname by digging out a few errant throws that might have gone on for extra bases had she missed them.

It was the top of the fifth and the score was tied at one apiece when I bobbled what should have been an easy double-play ball, then managed to get it stuck in the webbing of my glove, thus allowing both runners to advance. In a fit of frustration, I threw my glove down on the ground and stomped around, much like a child having a tantrum, which, I suppose, I was.

In the middle of my tirade, I felt a pair of eyes on me and I whirled, expletives still spewing like sewer water from my lips. The torrent ceased abruptly as my gaze locked with Ice’s, allowing the calmness and confidence in her eyes wash over me like a soothing balm. I suddenly forgot why I had gotten so angry in the first place and felt a blush of embarrassment creep into my cheeks, heating my ears. Her eyebrow arched as a smile played across her lips. She gave me a brief nod before deliberately breaking the lock of our gazes as she looked toward the batter’s box, studying the new guard who’d stepped up to the plate.

Bending down to pick up my glove, I murmured my apologies to my teammates and readied myself for the next play, bolstered beyond belief by the confidence one woman had in me. Taking a few deep breaths, I leaned forward in a crouch, my glove before me flexed and ready for anything.

When the blistering line drive came at me, I felt my glove raise in an almost unconscious reaction. It sunk quickly, but I managed to scoop it up on one hop and this time I didn’t bobble it. Standing up quickly, I stuck my mitt out to tag the runner leaving second for one out, stepped on the bag for the second out, and threw the ball to Digger who caught it a split-second before the runner crossed the bag for a triple play.

You might have thought I’d won the World Series the way my teammates dog-piled on me, screaming their fool heads off. Even the guards applauded and shouted their congratulations. Once again, Digger came to my rescue, threading her way through the pile and pulling me to my feet. Though I welcomed her help, I gently resisted her attempts to brush me off, not wanting her hands on me any more than necessary and figuring I’d earned the dirt I wore.

The bottom of the same inning, we managed to get a jump on their pitcher, who was tiring. Digger doubled into the gap between left and center field to start us off. Trey, who had forgone gang loyalty to offer us her strong bat, smashed a towering hit almost to the fence in straight away center, but the outfielder had her played perfectly and caught the ball with ease. However, Digger tagged and advanced to third, beating the throw by a hair. The next woman got out on a short pop fly that barely cleared the infield and left Digger no room to run.

And so it was my turn. I suddenly felt that good kind of nervousness that you get deep in your gut when the game’s riding on you and your teammates are cheering you on. I looked over at the woman I now considered my lucky talisman, and got a half-grin and a pumped fist for my efforts. Returning the grin, I stepped into the batter’s box and dug in.

Everything telescoped around me. The crowd’s shouting grew dim and far-away. My eyes were only for the opposing pitcher, who was giving me a feral smile of her own as she nonchalantly tossed the ball up and down in her hand.

My hands were sweaty on the bat’s handle and I twisted my grip several times to solidify it. Then I took a few experimental swings and dug my toe further into the loamy dirt as I chanted the silent litany of "eyes steady, shoulders square, easy swing".

When the pitch finally came, it floated to me on an arc so lovely and graceful and perfect that I could have sworn it had "please knock the crap outta me, Angel" stitched into its hide. And so, of course, I obliged. The ball impacted my bat right at that perfect spot where the feeling in your hands and the sound of the contact lets you just know you did good.

It flew from my bat, just barely avoiding giving the pitcher a haircut, before again splitting the gap between short and second, then hitting a wet patch of outfield grass and just . . .dying. The short-stop, second baseman and centerfielder all converged on it, missing a three-way collision by the barest of inches. Digger floated home while I took second with ease before the ball finally made its way back to the pitcher, who tipped her cap at me before turning to deal with the next batter. I couldn’t help the grin that spread its way across my face nor the turn of my head to meet the pale eyes of my silent supporter. Receiving another brisk nod and a quick wink for my efforts, I felt as though I were floating on air.

The pitcher dug down deep and struck out our last batter to end the inning, but I’d done my job, helping us to go up by one run. Now all we had to do is hold them for three more outs and the game would be ours.

Unfortunately, Sandra Pierce wasn’t privy to that plan. Stepping up to the plate, she blasted a left-field home-run that went so high and so far that I think even now, seven years later, it’s still floating somewhere in the stratosphere.

Phyllis stepped up to the plate next and, taking a page from Sandra’s book, blasted a hit to left field. Trey had a bead on it, however, and showed us all just why the Lady Vols were so devastated when she left. In a leap the height of which I’d never seen a human produce before, she reached up and snagged the ball just as it was about to sail over the fence. While the rest of us looked on in open-mouthed awe, she casually tossed the ball in to the pitcher and straightened a non-existent crease on her uniform shirt.

Grinning and shaking my head, I returned my attention back to the game, secretly wondering in my heart of hearts why a woman who had taken the life of another deserved to feel so good. I shook off the feeling quickly before it ruined what this day had become, figuring that sometimes, things just are and it’s best to leave it at that.

The next two outs were routine grounders that we had no trouble handling and then it was time to run off the field and hope for the best in the bottom of the last inning of the game.

It was also the bottom of our line-up, where our weakest batters were. All three were looking nervous as they realized the positions they were in. We all did our best to calm them down as the chanting and cheering of the crowd reached an almost deafening crescendo.

Our first batter stepped up and dug in. I could see her legs shaking from my spot behind the batter’s cage and swallowed hard in empathy. The first pitch came, sinking fast into the dirt and she swung at it for strike one. The second one blew by her before she was fully into her stance for strike two. She pounded the head of the bat into the dirt in frustration, then settled again. The next pitch was perfect and she swung for the fences. It shot down the first-base line, skittering off the glove of the woman defending the bag and rolled onward, allowing her a stand-up double.

In the dugout, we all went crazy, seeing a possible light at the end of this particular tunnel. The next batter was a quick out, leaving our baserunner on second, but the next was a hard grounder that saw both women safe on their respective bases.

Flustered and tired, the pitcher then walked the bases loaded and our weakest batter stepped up to the plate. Three swings later, she stepped away from the plate, swinging her bat dejectedly and apologizing to us all as she stepped back into the dugout.

It was one of the situations every ballplayer, from Little League to the Majors, dreams of. Bases loaded, bottom of the last inning with the score tied and two outs. It’s also the situation every player dreads.

Two quick pitches and she was in the hole, the rest of us right along with her. But she wasn’t our lead-off batter for nothing, and so she simply squared her shoulders and waited patiently for the next pitch.

Three more pitches and the count was full. The yard went silent as we all, prisoners and guards alike, leaned forward for what promised to be the final pitch of the game. Even the birds went quiet, as if knowing the somewhat dubious importance of this event about to transpire but respecting it nonetheless.

Our batter stared at the pitcher. The pitcher stared back, not quite so cocky as before. She fiddled with the ball nervously before putting it behind her back and leaning forward to catch the signal from the catcher.

Every eye in the yard followed the ball as it rose up in a majestic arc through the hazy air. We watched as it hit the pinnacle of its trajectory and then began to give in to gravity’s unbreakable summons. It finished its graceful ballet by landing cleanly in the catcher’s glove. Our batter had never removed the bat from her shoulder.

All eyes then turned to the umpire, awaiting her fateful decision. Small eternities were born and crumbled to dust under the weight of her pregnant pause. Her jaw moved, forming words we all fought to hear.

"BALL FOUR!!"

Ok. So it wasn’t the most exciting way to win a game, but it counted. The batter smugly dropped her bat in the dirt and trotted over to first base, bringing the runner on third home. When she crossed the plate, the yard erupted and a frenzy of cheers and we all piled on the hapless runner to get in on the action.

Forgetting for the moment that they were our keepers, the guards jumped into the crowd of bodies, laughing and shouting with the rest of us. For a moment, we weren’t prisoners and guards forced by circumstances to co-inhabit a stinking pit in a far-away corner of nowhere. For that brief moment of time, the weight of our crimes broke under the exhilarating feeling of freedom. We were just two teams battling it out on a lazy summer’s day. The prison, and our places in it, felt far away as we whooped and danced around like crazy idiots, hugging one another and slapping each others’ backs and butts.

I chanced a look up at the red-brick building. It seemed smaller somehow. As if its very existence fed off the fright and guilt of the women it housed and when those emotions weren’t there, it shrunk in upon itself like a flower that wilts from lack of sunlight.

I stuck my tongue out at the building, then turned as something smooth and cool was slipped into my hand. Looking down, I saw a bottle of sparkling grape juice waiting for me and, grinning wildly, I shook it, then popped the plastic cork, spraying guards and teammates alike with the chilled, sticky liquid. Corks popped across the field and we laughed like children as we doused everyone within reach.

In the midst of the revelry, I took the time out to commit the scene and its feelings to memory, knowing that there’d someday be cause to draw it out like a treasured photo when the nights were long and freedom seemed ten lifetimes away.

When the celebration began to wind down, I looked back over the yard which was awash in orange, brown and white, looking for a hint of black hair and blue eyes; disappointed when I didn’t find them. I indulged myself in a brief but harmless fantasy of receiving a more private congratulations, then snorted softly at my foolishness. Snapping out of my reverie when I felt a companionable arm slip over my shoulders, I looked up to see Sandra standing next to me, clinking my bottle of ersatz champagne against her own.

"Hell of a game, Angel. They should sign you up for the Majors with that triple play you turned."

"Ah, that was easy. I think that homerun you hit landed in Harrisburg somewhere."

She laughed, then knocked back a swig of her grape juice. "That felt good. Been a long time since I’ve had fun like this, though. Thanks."

"No. Thank you. For the first time in a couple years, those bars didn’t seem quite so close."

There was a moment of companionable silence as we watched the inmates and guards slowly walk back into the prison. "Where’s Ice? Figured she’d be here to congratulate you personally."

I know my blush was evident as she regarded me with twinkling eyes. Then I snorted. "Who knows? She’s probably off preventing another riot or delivering a baby or beating the snot out of someone. Or something."

Sandra threw back her head and laughed, squeezing my shoulders in a comradely hug. "That’s our Ice." She released my shoulders and turned to face me fully, her expression suddenly serious. "Underneath all that bluff and bravado, Ice is a good woman, Angel. I know you know that, but sometimes it’s hard to remember when she closes herself up in that shell of hers. She’s made a lot of mistakes, but they don’t change the person she is underneath." A sad smile bowed her lips as she reached out and laid a gentle hand on my forearm. "You’ve been good for her, Angel. I really thought we’d lost her after all that time in the hole, you know."

Swallowing hard, I nodded. "Yeah, I know. I thought so too. That was . . .scary."

Returning my nod, Sandra squeezed my arm. "I don’t know the whole story behind it and I don’t wanna know. But she was just . . .dead inside. But when that idiot Derby got her mitts around your neck, you should have seen the spark that came back into her eyes. God, it was a beautiful thing."

"Sorry I missed it," came my droll reply. "I think I was almost unconscious at the time."

She laughed, then released my arm. "Ready to go back?"

"No, but that’s where the showers are, so I suppose I have to. God, I’m a mess."

"You and me both, kiddo. I’ve got grape juice in places the good Lord didn’t intend grapes to go."

I took one last long look around the yard, watching as the last few stragglers made their way back into the building. Empty bottles littered the base pads bearing mute testimony to the celebration just passed. I felt a bit of melancholy steal through me and so I blinked the image away. "Sure. Let’s go."

*******

Though I intended to head directly to the showers to wash the grape-juice, dirt and sweat from my suddenly tired and aching body, my plans took a sudden detour when an inmate came to me, tears streaming down her face, begging for my help. Her baby daughter had gotten sick and was rushed to the hospital, but the baby’s father, who was watching over her, wouldn’t give her any information and she was frantic.

I pulled her over to the guards’ room and called in a favor, which was the use of their phone. There were three pay phones situated throughout the prison for inmate use, but I wasn’t carrying around any spare change and hospitals usually don’t like to accept collect calls. But, as I’ve said, most of our guards are a compassionate bunch, even if we did just kick their butts in softball, and I was waved into the room with nary a murmur.

Half a dozen calls later and the problem was solved. The baby had been taken to Pittsburgh Children’s Hospital with febrile seizures and was released back to her father and grandparents after some Tylenol had taken care of the problem.

After enduring her thanks for what seemed like hours, I was finally able to affect my escape to the showers, knowing that by now most of my teammates had probably gone on to the somewhat greener pastures of the mess hall and common room.

Shrugging my shoulders, I made my way down to the showers, happy to hear that at least one person was inside by the sound of the water. Quickly stripping out of my sticky clothes with a sigh of profound relief, I slipped into my flip-flops, grabbed a towel, and made my way into the shower proper.

And stopped, frozen, before I’d even gotten a foot into the room.

There, facing me, her hair slicked back and tumbling over her shoulders like freshly spilled ink, stood Ice. Her body glistened from the water pouring down from the showerhead and her neck arched back to wash the last bit of shampoo from her hair, thrusting her wet and shining breasts out toward me, the nipples hard and tight.

My mouth actually watered at the sight as the towel slithered from suddenly nerveless fingers to land in a heap at my feet.

She straightened back up, but her eyes were still closed, and I continued to take the opportunity to play voyeur as my own eyes feasted on the perfection of her body. From the way she wore her jumpsuit, from the way she carried herself with athletic grace, I would have expected all slashing angles, and to be truthful, there were. Her musculature was long and lean, like a hunting cat’s, with long lines of ropy, veined muscles stretching across her shoulders and down her arms. Her legs were especially developed and I watched them flex and relax as she shifted under the spray of water.

But what intrigued me the most was the lush femininity also present within that same body. Though not especially large, her breasts were full and proud. Her hips flared out slightly from a well-tapered waist in very pleasing curves that drew in my eyes and held them for a timeless moment.

I swallowed hard, shocked with my body’s response to another woman, even given what Ice and I had already shared. But it was as if this woman, this body, had been made just for me, given my own responses to it. It was as if someone or something had pulled the vision from the realms of my deepest subconscious, from a place so deep within me that I didn’t even know it existed.

Regardless, my body was sending me some very definite and urgent signals and my feet followed along for the ride, moving me closer to the vision beneath the stinging water, my towel forgotten behind me.

Azure eyes opened and froze me once again, mere steps from my goal. She blinked once, freeing beaded water from her long lashes, then smiled slightly. "Like what you see?" Her voice was a sensual purr and the summons became all the more urgent.

"God yes," I replied, my hands aching to do . . .I didn’t know what . . .but something.

"So do I." I could feel the heat of her gaze as it traveled a leisurely path over my own equally naked body. My arousal was building by the moment from a simple look. I didn’t know if I’d possibly be able to live with what looked to be the final consummation of the feelings between us.

I took another step forward, only to be stopped by Ice’s upraised palms. "This probably isn’t the best place to be doing this."

The memories of that morning in the cafeteria flashed through my mind and I nodded, biting on my lip. "Um . . .yeah. I . . .I guess you’re right."

She smiled crookedly, then stepped out from beneath the shower. "Why don’t you get cleaned up. I’m sure we can find a more private place to . . .continue this discussion."

I nodded again and she slipped past me, allowing our bodies to brush against each other just slightly. The feeling of her water-slicked smooth skin sliding briefly against my own almost did me in as I felt the strength in my muscles begin to flee. I braced one hand against the tiled wall as the other fumbled with the knob. For the first time since I’d come to the Bog, the icy cold spray was a welcome relief.

Though the chill dampened my raging lust somewhat, my mind was free to wander. And wander it did, with the speed of a tornado. Anxiety, performance and otherwise, displaced hormones and my body trembled with it. I didn’t remember being that nervous on my wedding night, and that was going some.

While I had my hopes, I realized truthfully that I had no idea where this all would lead. All I did know was that I had no desire to be another nameless, faceless assignation in some broom-closet somewhere. My feelings for Ice ran much deeper than that and I resolved that, burning body or no, if she didn’t return them in at least some measure, I would suffer the consequences of lonely nights and a broken heart. Whatever else, I still had to live within the shell of my own body and look at myself in the mirror every morning.

My resolve thus fortified, I set about the task of removing the grime from my hair and body and did so in record time. As I turned off the water, I noticed that sometime during my mental perambulations, Ice had returned to place a fresh towel over a neighboring showerhead. Though it made me feel a bit uneasy that I hadn’t heard her approach, I felt pleased that she had at least noticed and helped in this small way.

Drying off, I wrapped the towel around my body and stepped into the changing room to find Ice, fully dressed and sitting on one of the benches, her hands clasped loosely between her knees. She smiled at me, then turned her head prudently as I snagged a clean jumpsuit from the pile by the bench and dropped my towel to dress.

Once fully clothed, I realized I didn’t have a comb to run through my hair and could have kicked myself. As if reading my mind, she handed me a black comb. "It’s clean. I washed it when I brought over your towel."

I accepted it gratefully, wincing as I pulled the fine toothed implement through my tangled hair. "I swear. One of these days, this is all coming off."

"It’s very beautiful."

Suddenly, combing out the tangles didn’t seem to be so much of a chore. "You really like it?" Yes, it was lame in the extreme, but I was fishing for conversation here.

"Yes. It reminds me of a sunset in Phoenix."

"You’ve been to Phoenix?" Two for two. I was doing better here than during the game.

"Yes, many times."

Finishing my task, I handed the comb back to her, then pressed my palms down the front of my uniform, feeling like a new bride.

"You ready?"

Oh, that particular question covered a whole myriad of bases, sticking for the moment to the softball analogy here. "Uh . . .yeah. Sure. I guess." How was that for a decisive answer?

If she read anything into my hesitancy, she didn’t show it. Instead, she stood and beckoned me to follow her. "C’mon."

As we stepped out of the shower room, who should I almost run straight into, but my ever-present shadow, Digger. Her face lit up into a smile as she saw me. "Hey, Angel! I was looking all over for you. They’re showing Wuthering Heights in the common room tonight and I remember you telling me you liked the book. You wanna go with me?"

"Oh . . .hi, Digger. I’d . . .um . . .love to go but I’m kind of busy right now." I gestured to the tall woman standing at my side.

"Oh. Ok. I understand. Next time then, alright?"

"Yeah. That sounds great."

"Well . . . see ya!" With a jaunty wave, she walked off.

I turned to see a very amused Ice smirking down at me, one eyebrow held aloft.

"What?"

"Next time?"

"Hey!" I said, poking her in the side. "You try living with a shadow every minute of every day who doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word ‘no’ and we’ll see how you handle it."

"Thanks, but I’ll pass. Let’s go."

My assumption that we were heading for the stairs to Ice’s cell was put to rest as she passed them by and instead continued into the long series of branching corridors that lead to the shops. Within moments, we were in the room with all the doors and getting patted down by the guards once again.

Satisfied that we weren’t carrying any concealed weaponry, the guard let us into the auto shop. Not bothering to turn on the lights, Ice led us down to the ‘chop-shop’ door in the darkness and ushered me through, flipping on one set of those lights. I looked around as I stepped inside, noticing both bays were empty.

Ice walked over to a barren, battle-scarred desk sitting off to one side and settled her long frame down on it, patting the top for me to join her, which I did. My nervousness, which had subsided somewhat during the walk, came back with a vengeance and I resisted the urge to fidget with it. Silence bloomed between us suddenly, heavy and oppressive as a living thing.

"So," I said finally, just to break the tension, "that was some game, huh?"

"Yeah, it was. Nice triple-play, by the way."

"Thanks." My fingers found themselves wanting to drum on the desktop. "How come you don’t play?"

"Say again?"

"How come you don’t play softball? I bet you’re good."

Her soft laugh sounded beside me. "It’s not really my game."

"Do you have one? A game, that is?"

"Hmmm. I like football." She shrugged. "Track and basketball too, I suppose. Martial arts."

"You’re probably great at all of them."

The broad shoulders shrugged again. "I do alright."

More silence.

"Ice . . . ."

"Angel . . . ."

"You first."

"No, please. What were you going to say?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it, my words drying up. Sighing, I shifted on the desk until I faced her. Alright, Angel. This is it. Whatever she says, whatever happens from here on out, at least you’ll know. There’s something to be said for that, isn’t there? I truly hoped so, because I was about to lay my heart out on the line. "Ice, I need to tell you something. Something very important to me and I hope, maybe important to you too."

Her eyes were steady as they met mine. "What is it, Angel?"

"I care for you. A lot. And sometime during the past week, I’ve finally been able to put a name to these feelings." I shifted again. "Now . . .I know that what I’m about to say might make you feel uncomfortable, but I need to tell you how I feel before we do anything further." I took a deep breath and stepped off the cliff, though without the bravery to look her in the eye as I made my confession. "Ice, I think . . .no, I know I’m in love with you. I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same, but I need you to know this. This place, this prison, is too small for things like this to go unmentioned."

The silence came back as I fingered the lines in my palms. Tears sprang into my eyes as I figured the answer and I wiped them away, willing myself not to crumble. A gentle hand displaced my own, cupping my cheek as a thumb dried the tears from my eyes. "Don’t cry, Angel," Ice murmured from beside me. "I’m in love with you too."

I hitched in a breath. "I’m sorry I made you feel uncom . . . . What? Could . . .would you mind repeating that please? I’m not sure I . . . ."

"You heard me. I love you, Angel. I have for a very long time now. I told you as much in the cell, remember?"

"Well . . .yeah, but I didn’t think we were talking about the same thing."

"We were." I chanced a look up and what I saw made my breath catch in my throat. Her eyes, usually so shuttered and cold, were open and warm and caring and sparkled with an adoration that I’d never seen in another person before. And it was for me.

Those damn tears stung at my eyes again, but this time it was for an entirely different reason. As I sat pondering the wisdom of having my tear-ducts surgically removed, Ice turned fully to face me and, cupping my face in both hands, laid gentle kisses to each of my eyelids, neatly solving the problem in a far more pleasant way.

"I love you," she whispered, placing a kiss on my forehead, then one to each cheek. "I love you," she whispered again as her lips met mine with gentle warmth. The kiss was almost reverent and stole my breath as she pulled away, tucking her chin and looking directly into my eyes. "I love you, Angel."

"Oh God," I exclaimed, half sobbing and half laughing in absolute relief as I fell into her body, my mind a whirling torrent of emotions, none of them nameable. Her arms wrapped tightly around me and I could hear the rapid beating of her heart through the fabric of her jumpsuit. She’s as scared as I am!

Though perhaps not a revelation to you, that thought filled me with wonder, and a large kernel of happiness blossomed, banishing my nervousness to the farthest reaches of my soaring soul.

I felt a brief instant of panic as she shifted against me, but her embrace held tight as she came to stand before me, pressing another kiss on the crown of my head. Pulling away finally, she held me at arm’s length, hands clasped on my shoulders. Her eyes were full of questions.

Reaching up slowly, I touched her cheek with trembling fingers. Speechless, I watched her eyes flutter closed as she leaned into the tentative caress. As if watching from very far away, I felt my hand cup her cheek more purposefully, then slide down to her jaw and back, beneath her ear, to curve around the base of her skull.

I bunched my arm slightly and she bowed to the pressure, moving smoothly under the summons of my hand. Our lips met and merged like satin on silk and my fingers tangled in her hair as my mouth opened under the tender assault of her lips and tongue. My free hand cupped around the taut curve of her waist and I pulled her body closer to mine, spreading my knees wider to accommodate her flaring hips and muscled thighs.

She rocked up against me, tight against the stretched and protesting fabric pulled taut between my legs. I whimpered out a need I couldn’t even identify, let alone articulate. Her hands clenched my waist and pulled us closer still as our tongues entwined in a sweet duel.

Bereft of air, we pulled away at the same time and looked into one another’s eyes as she continued to slowly rock against me. Her hand reached up and toyed with the pull to my zipper briefly before grasping it fully and slowly pulling it down to stop where my cleavage began. Reaching up again, she slid her fingers beneath the fabric at my shoulders, parting it further as she drew it, whispering, over my heated flesh.

Her hair, still damp from the shower, brushed against my lips as she lowered her head. I could feel the warm smoothness of her tongue as she tasted my collarbone, tracing a slick trail from my throat outwards to end with a light nip to my shoulder. The process was repeated on my right side as her fingers worked the zipper again, pulling it down until it reached the end.

My eyes closed and my head fell back as she lipped my pulsepoint before suckling at the hollow of my throat. My nostrils flared with the sweet scent of her hair. I leaned back, taking my weight on my hands, my hips responding to her continued slow rocking with thrusts of their own.

Her lips detached from my neck and I thought to open my eyes, but that fast became a faded memory as her warm, wet mouth closed itself over my breast, the gentle suction of her lips’ caress sending molten fire through my veins. My heart fluttered in my chest, then pounded strongly, sending my blood in rapid spurts exactly where it needed to be, engorging me and making me full. I could smell the faint scent of my own arousal which only served to excite me even more.

My head fell back further, my wet hair tickling against my shoulder blades, my breath coming in rapid pants. Her tongue trailed a line between my breasts before latching onto the other, pulling in my nipple as her teeth grazed against it, teasing it into a wonderfully aching hardness.

I moaned out my need in some unintelligible language known only to lovers and she responded in kind, the vibration of her lips against my flesh fanning the flames my body had become.

Drawing away again, she smiled tenderly down at me as she sat me up and pulled the fabric of my jumpsuit off my arms altogether, leaving it to puddle around my waist in a fan of orange on the rickety wooden desk. Her eyes blazed a trail down my body once again and I felt the flames of my desire grow hotter beneath her liquid blue fire. "Your body is perfect," she purred, drawing a single fingertip down the centerline of my torso. "Soft. Firm." She cupped one breast in her palm. "Warm." Then she leaned in again, capturing my lips in a soul-melting kiss. "Mmmm. Delicious."

As she began to straighten, I reached up and grabbed the tab of her zipper, determined not to be denied. It bunched, as zippers often do during the most urgent of times, and she laughed softly at my grunt of frustration. It was apparent that my grace, dignity and verbal skills were having a foursome with my nervousness somewhere because they certainly weren’t readily available to me.

Releasing my grasp on the tab, she stepped back one step. Two. Then she squared her shoulders as she leveled me a challenging stare. Swallowing hard, I gave her my own rendition back, pleased when she acknowledged the expression with her eyes.

The sound of her zipper lowering was loud in the small confines of the room. Inch by slow inch she revealed more of her flesh to my heated gaze; taunting me, tempting me, teasing me beyond all rational thought.

Once her zipper reached the end of its long, solitary journey, her smile became a teasing smirk. Her hands came up and grasped the fabric at her breasts, parting it, then slipping the top down off her proud shoulders. The jumpsuit slipped to the floor in a whispering of fabric and when she stepped out of it, that magnificent body came within my hungry grasp.

I took in her firm breasts with their tight, peaked, rose-hued nipples and licked my lips as if inspecting a king’s feast put before me. Leaning forward, I captured one in my mouth, savoring the taste and feel of her against my tongue and lips. My mind was shouting stridently, reminding me that I hadn’t the faintest idea what I was doing, but I cheerfully told it to shut up as Ice moaned deep in her chest and threaded her fingers through my hair, clearly enjoying what I was offering her.

Her scent, musky and exotic as Eastern spices rose up to curl around me, making my head spin. Wanting more, I switched my attention to her other breast, taking in her murmurs of contentment with joyful ears. I might have been flying by the seat of my pants, but God what a ride it was turning out to be.

I suckled like a hungry infant, jumping as a tentative bite caused her to surge into me, almost knocking both of us back across the desk. Deciding I very much liked that reaction, I nestled my teeth together once again, moving with her forward motion better this time.

After another moment, her hand tightened in my hair and she pulled me away from my feast. My moan of displeasure died on my lips as my gaze caught hers. Smokey and smoldering, her indigo eyes seared into me, touching me in places that fairly screamed out in primal want. My heart beat out a staccato tattoo in my chest. "Please," I whispered, though I had no idea what I was asking for. "Please."

Her hands began to map out my body once again in slow, teasing strokes of lightly callused fingertips. She trailed down my newly muscled abdomen and paused to play at my navel briefly, smiling as I squirmed.

Then her fingers went lower, slithering beneath the fabric to rest just above my pubic bone. Her eyes again asked a question.

"Yes. God, yes."

Smiling slightly, she slid further inside my uniform, giving me the briefest of gliding touches where my need was the greatest. My hips exploded off the desk and I thought I would release right then and there. Again her fingers stilled and she turned wide eyes to me. "So responsive." The low register of her voice tickled at my hearing as I tried to will myself back under control.

After another moment, she withdrew her hand and I swallowed back my reaction to the glistening wetness that coated her middle finger. The very tip of her tongue darted out as she tasted my readiness. Her eyes never leaving mine, she sucked her finger into her mouth in the most erotic gesture I think I have ever seen. "Perfect."

As she leaned in to kiss me again, I tasted myself for the first time and decided I liked it. Her hand was warm against my upper back and with gentle pressure, she lowered me down on the desktop, covering me with the weight and heat and scent of her body.

Her kiss was deep, lustful and ravishing. I took it and gave back in kind, squirming beneath her, feeling the scarred wood beneath me rub against my naked back. We locked together for what seemed a blissful eternity before she growled and pulled away again, trailing feathery kisses down the front of my body.

Her hands followed her lips, skimming lightly over my breasts and down my sides to pull the jumpsuit down over my hips and legs. She tapped me slightly and I lifted my lower body, feeling the fabric give way and free my from my cloth bonds. She planted a kiss to my pubic hair and as her mouth engulfed me fully, I climaxed, unable to hold back the tide anymore.

When the tremors ceased, I felt her mouth still holding me gently, her motion still and quiet. When I lifted my dazed head to see what was going on down there, I was suddenly filled by what I assumed to be her fingers hooking into me and rubbing against my inner walls in a most delightful way. My head fell back to the desk as her tongue began moving against me in time with her strokes. I could feel the peak within me rising again and this time I did nothing to try and hold it back. Within moments I released again, actually breaking off a chunk of the gently rotting wood I was laying on as my body convulsed against the pleasure I was receiving.

As I began to come down from this high she didn’t stop. Instead, she increased the strength of her thrusts, adding a slight twisting movement that promised to drive me absolutely insane. I felt her teeth graze against me, sparking the third orgasm in what seemed to be as many minutes.

This time, however, when I finally stopped shaking, I tossed away the wood that had practically pulverized in my hand, then sunk my fingers into her thick hair, fending off her continued advances. "Please," I gasped, "no more. You’re . . .gonna . . .kill me."

Her twinkling eyes met mine and for a moment, I really thought she was going to ignore my pleading. But then, to my great and utter relief, after delivering a final kiss, she pulled away, withdrawing her fingers gently at the same time. I couldn’t believe how suddenly empty I felt.

As if reading my thoughts, she lifted me by the shoulders and cradled me against her, stroking my sweat-soaked hair and murmuring soft endearments that slipped just past the edge of my hearing and made me feel full once again.

Concentrating on steadying my breathing, I ran a hand down Ice’s thigh, watching as her flesh humped up with the passage of my fingers. As my hand retraced its path back up that strong leg, I was surprised by the slick dampness coating the inside of her thigh. Tilting my head, I looked up at her. The gaze which met mine was steady but not coaxing. Looking back down, I blindly followed the trail upwards as she spread her legs wider, giving me freer access.

I couldn’t believe the heat radiating from her; heat which almost scorched my hand as I moved in further, brushing against soft hair which tickled against my fingers. Finally I reached my goal as heated wetness coated the backs of my fingers in a lover’s intimate embrace. I heard her take in a breath of air and release it as a moaning sigh. "Ice? I . . .um . . .I’m not sure what I’m doing here."

Her laugh sounded through her nose. "Believe me, Angel, you’re doing just fine."

"But . . .I . . .um . . . ."

"Relax. Here." Her larger hand came down and cupped over mine, pressing it against herself.

I gasped out at the slick, heated moisture waiting for me and moved my fingers through it, causing another surge in her body, accompanied by a moan. "Oh . . .perfect, Angel."

Moving again, I marveled at the softness under my fingers. I know I must have been driving her crazy with my fumblings, but I couldn’t for the life of me stop. I was drawn in like a bee to honey of the sweetest kind.

I knew I’d pushed to her limits when she grasped my hand again, forcing it downward. "Angel. Now. Inside."

Following her terse, panted instructions to the letter, I gasped in wonder as her velvet walls hugged around my fingers in a hot caress as I became sheathed fully within her. I moved my fingers and she groaned, her hips thrusting back against my hand. I smiled. I could do this.

"Harder," she gasped, her fingers digging into my wrist so hard I began to lose circulation. Still, I struggled to comply, working my hand as best I could given the constriction. I felt her expand around me, then clamp down hard as her body began to buck and shudder, leaning against me heavily.

Using my other arm to bear us up, I continued at my task, grunting with the effort to prolong her pleasure. With a last, low, shuddering growl, she relaxed against me, breathing heavily through her mouth and nose. I made as if to withdraw, but she clamped down on my wrist again. "No. Stay. Please."

I nodded, panting with exertion and the incredible feelings that washed through me at what we had just accomplished. Shuddering tremors played across my fingers until finally all was quiet. She removed her hand from my arm and I withdrew slowly, taking care not to stretch the tender tissue clasping me so intimately.

We fell into an embrace, our bodies glued together with the sweat of our passion.