It was around the time of my twenty-sixth birthday that I made the decision that I was ready to rejoin the human race.

   I had managed to secure a house-sitting job for the duration of the summer, so provided I found somewhere to store my books and miscellanea after that situation ended, I had no need to worry about the logistics of studying abroad, at least not regarding my worldly belongings; meanwhile, my bank account was slowly starting to fill from a part-time evening job that I had taken with the symphony. It involved using the telephone. Unlike my other telemarketing jobs, though, the people I called to renew lapsed subscriptions or to solicit donations were mostly happy to take the call, even when they had no money to spare, which in itself was a pleasant surprise – but even better, working for the symphony meant I got free tickets. They weren't seats in the best parts of the concert hall, but still, they meant I could attend performances every other weekend or so for free. I thought I could get used to that.

   I was even able to attend concerts in that building and enjoy them for their own sake without being consumed by the memory of the first concert I'd ever heard there, and the man I'd sat next to throughout the performance.

   I was returning from the calling room and was about to make for the elevator that would carry me to the floor my dorm room was on when my attention was distracted by the smell of fresh pizza. I hadn't had time to eat much before I had to go to work, and that had been a few hours ago. I started trying to identify toppings by smell. Pepperoni, I thought, and onions. Mushrooms? There were probably green peppers on there, too, and whatever cheese was used, there was a lot of it. Just thinking about it made my mouth water.

   Then I heard a voice say, "Roll for initiative."

   Given that I was living on the geek side of campus, the chances of my stumbling into a campaign in progress in my own residence hall were pretty high – I'd probably passed the gamers before, come to think of it, but was too wrapped up in my angst to take notice. I wondered what game they were playing. I also wondered if I could spare ten dollars or so to order myself a pizza when I got back to my room. By now my stomach was growling.

   I wandered over in the general direction of the gamers.

   "Oh, no! No way. I don't believe it."

   "What did you roll?"

   "Three."

   "Uh-oh. Attempt at stealth failed miserably there. Well, we'll see. Maybe the balrog will have a bad stumble or something."

  "An Elven thief against a balrog? How could things get any worse?"

   The die hit the table again, three times in succession, making a clattering sound.

   "I'm doomed!"

   "Well, Kiera's doomed, anyway. Probably. Sorry."

   "Hah. He likes being doomed by dungeon masters," one of the other gamers piped up.

   Really.

   My stomach picked that moment to growl exceptionally loudly. To this day, I have no idea if it was the pizza that it was growling for, or something else, but whatever triggered it, it was apparently loud enough to be heard, as I found myself invited over to help finish off the pizza.

   "Is this a closed group, or do you have room for any other players?" I asked between bites.

   It is a truth universally acknowledged that every all-male group of role-playing gamers must be in want of a tall, redheaded female geek, especially if the female geek in question plays the game the group is playing and expresses interest in joining the campaign.

   "His character just got killed. You want to play an NPC tonight, and roll up a character of your own later? His backup character's an illusionist. That makes us magic-heavy; we could really use another thief."

   They weren't going to ask the new female player to take on the role of Nurse Cleric? I felt an urge to pinch myself, although I successfully resisted it.

    "I'd love to!"

   I sat down next to the guy who had been playing the now-deceased thief, squeezing myself in between him and another one of the players and reaching for another slice of pizza. It felt strange to be associating with so many people at once in a purely social setting, but the strangeness wasn't a bad strangeness. It was more like using forgotten muscles or speaking in a language I hadn't used for a long time.

   "So," I asked him sotto voce, "what's this I heard about your liking to be doomed by dungeon masters?"

   "I like playing in dungeons," he replied.

   I remember thinking that he sounded like he was chirping when he said it. And indeed, there was something birdlike about him. We were both seated, so I couldn't be certain, but from what I could see, he was shorter than me by a head, and less bony than I was. Somewhere between slight and average build, then. His hair was an uncertain shade somewhere between blonde and light brown, and rumpled, like feathers in need of preening. I couldn't quite tell what color his eyes were behind his round wire rims, the lenses were so thick, maybe blue, maybe grey, but the glasses made him look owlish, in a cartoon character sort of way.

   It made me wonder if there were any owls anywhere that chirped. Did the fluffy little spotted owls on the northwest coast make little chirping noises? No, wait, they didn't chirp, they whooped, I remembered. They also looked less like little fluffy feather balls and more like owls when they reached adulthood. No matter. He reminded me of one of them anyway.

   "Especially if there are whips and chains involved!" one of the other players added.

   The former Elven thief didn't even blush. Apparently, his private life wasn't a secret – and he was perfectly okay with that.

   "Tell me more," I said. "I'm intrigued."

   That was how I wound up going out on my first date in almost a year.

   With the person who would eventually become my slave.

   We spent the earlier part of the evening at a small English-style pub, drinking ale, eating food that tasted much better than British food was supposed to taste (which was heartening to me, given that I would soon be living in England and thus unable to escape British food) and listening to a folk singer perform Irish tunes. By the time the performer's set was over, we had finished our dinner and decided to make our exit.

   It was dark when we emerged. A warm rain was falling; it had been raining off and on all day. Up here, April showers arrive late in the month. I usually like walking in the rain, but I had decided to wear my velvet tunic blouse to impress my date, and I didn't want to get it wet, so I had him get the car, and ran for the passenger door when he opened it for me.

   We're driving to his house now to pick up a toothbrush, change of clothes, that sort of thing, which he forgot to throw into the car when he left the house to pick me up – he actually lives at home with his parents rather than on campus, because they are local and it helps him save on expenses, although he's planning on moving into an apartment or a dorm room if he gets an assistantship next year when he upgrades from undergraduate to graduate student. I've been running over ideas in my mind as I sit in the car and watch the rain patter the windows. I still haven't figured out what to do with him.

   The easiest thing to do would be to just ask him what he likes, but until recently, we were in a crowded restaurant, and I felt awkward asking certain questions in a relatively public place. So, tell me, how do you feel about vibrators stuck in intimate places? Do you think being penetrated by one would enhance a whipping session, or detract from one? How about afterward? I'm sure the other diners would have loved accidentally hearing pieces of that conversation.

   So I kept my questions to myself, and I'm mulling over possibilities right now, instead.

   It's funny. I finally have an opportunity to indulge my appetites with a partner who seems more than willing to go along with them, and I'm utterly petrified. I have a form of stage fright. I have to perform; the performance will only have an audience of one person, but I only have one chance to impress him. It has me shaking in my shoes.

   I fidget with the black scarf on my wrist. It's on my left wrist, now. I've had the scarf there for several weeks. It seemed to make more sense to wear it on the left side of my body than on my right, all things considered, but I still wear it. I feel naked without it.

   Touching it reassures me and gives me a feeling of strength.

   We pull into the driveway. The rain is now coming down in sheets. Wordless, I listen to the drumming of the rain on the roof and windows, the whapping of the windshield wipers, the Enya tape my date has playing on the car stereo.

   "I'll be back in just a minute," he says as he opens the door and starts to climb out. "I can't believe I forgot my clothes. Probably nerves. This. Um. I should probably tell you. I talk big, but. Um. It's my first time."

   Oh. This could either be very good, or very bad, depending. "Are you sure it's me you want?"

   "Yes. Absolutely. I've done a lot of independent study on the subject over the past few years, you know. Also, in a weird sort of way, you're cute." He stares at me, with a gaze that could pierce my very soul. "I know what I want. I might lack experience, I'm definitely nervous, but I do know what I want."

   Feral hunger pulls at my lips. "This is your first lesson, then," I growl, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him back into the car, seizing him by the fluff of his hair.

   The rain on his lips is sweet, but not as sweet as his moan. I wonder what else about him is sweet.

   He stands before me, naked. I did the undressing myself, kissing his flesh all over as I removed each article of clothing. I'd read in an interrogation manual that women feel more helpless when they are forced to strip themselves, whereas men feel more out of control when they are stripped by their interrogators. The kissing was my own idea. He looked like he needed it. Also, kissing is what one does with adorable things.

   I hope he has condoms. The last time I bought any was years ago, because I was on birth control pills until Erastes and I parted, and I hadn't anticipated needing birth control again any time soon. I really ought to buy condoms of my own. Even if I go back on the pill, latex is good protection against diseases, and I can't count on my partners always having barrier protection of their own at hand. At any rate, although my periods are ridiculously unpredictable and infrequent when I'm not using artificial hormones to regulate them, there still exists a possibility of getting pregnant, and I don't want to get pregnant from the first time I have sex after a long period of abstinence, especially when my lover is someone I only recently met and barely know. I should have asked about the condoms ahead of time. Rather like I should have asked my soon-to-be-lover what his sexual fantasies consisted of, ahead of time.

   Oh, well. Something will work out, one way or another.

   At least I remembered to close the blinds and curtains before taking away his clothes. The light from the streetlamp across the parking lot wasn't sufficient for me to see by, so I have my cheap little table lamp on, and the window covered, instead. I didn't want to give any passers-by a free show. Admittedly, at this time of night, there aren't many pedestrians, and what few there are would be unlikely to see much, given that my room is on the sixth floor of the dorm, but better safe than sorry.

   Naked, he looks more birdlike than ever. He has such small bones.

   "Turn around," I whisper, my voice threatening to shake. "I want to see what you look like from behind."

   He rotates.

   Very nice. His posterior has an interesting pear shape to it that suggests the extra padding he has there might make heavy-impact play easier on his flesh.

   Dear God, I can't help myself, he's so sweet in my arms. I wrap them around his chest, leaning him back against me, bend down, and bury my face in his neck, biting him until he shivers and moans; so I bite more, and harder.

   "I hope you don't mind if I dispense with the more traditional forms of foreplay," I say softly in his ear, trailing one of my hands up to caress and pinch a nipple. "I'm not really in the mood to fumble my way to various bases with you while reclining horizontally on the bed or in the back seat of a car. I had a few ideas for your skin before I found out you were still a virgin. Would you rather I make an effort to be more romantic and conventional about your first time?"

   "This isn't romantic?"

   Slightly astonished, I laugh. Maybe what I'm about to do to him is romantic. It's all about perspective, after all, isn't it?

   "You'll have to bend over and grab the mattress. I have manacles, but there's nowhere on the bed to shackle them to. There wouldn't be much point in getting them out just yet. Can you hold still? We don't have much space in here – if you get too frisky, it could get a bit problematic."

   "I don't know."

   I should have known that. Nerves, I have too many nerves, and they're all jittery.

   "We'll just play it by ear, then."

   I look up to the top of my bookcase, where I've been keeping my implements of pleasure and destruction, trying to decide what would be best to use. Cane? No, too nasty. Scourge? Way too nasty, also, it has a reach that's even longer than that of the cane.

   And then a realization hits me. I snicker as I reach for my riding crop.

   "What's so funny?"

   "Heh. You know the old saying, 'There isn't enough room in here to swing a cat?' That's what."

   And then I lay into him.

   He whoops like a startled owl. He actually whoops.

   So adorable.

   "Are you ready to try pleasing me another way?" I murmur. I think I'm going to burn up. He doesn't seem to be in much of a waiting mood, either, going by how hard he is.

   He nods frantically.

   His welts look beautiful in the lamplight, almost delicate.

   I use one hand to hold him by his hair as I grab a wrist with my other. "Unbutton me. I want you to play with my breasts."

   Underneath the velvet tunic, I am bare; I've never had breasts large enough to need a bra for support. That bothered me when I was a teenager, but when I stopped trying to wear bras, I realized that being relatively flat was a good thing. I hate bras.

   I don't take my top off once he's unbuttoned it. I'm not quite ready to explain my back yet.

   I gasp when he wraps his mouth around one of my nipples. If he hasn't had much experience, he makes up for it with natural talent. I have his pinned hand on my other breast, and he's finding some interesting things to do with it, as well. This, of course, inspires other ideas, and I pull his wrist down until I have his fingers at my waistband.

   "Off," I gasp. "Take them off."

   He begins to fumble.

   "Do you – do you need help?"

   "I think I've got it," he mutters. "Sorry. Blew my dexterity roll."

   I hadn't expected to be reduced to giggles so easily. I hope I'm not killing the mood for him. "You'll get a chance to re-roll again in a few seconds," I reply, and move his hand to the appropriate place, gasping when I put one of his fingers inside me. "Oh. Success. That was at least a thirteen, and you have an easy target. Keep doing that. I like that. Good."

   "More?"

   "Yes," I cry out, and groan when he slides another finger inside me next to the one I guided. "Like that. That's what I want. Oh. Did you – did you pack any condoms when you packed your bag? I forgot to buy them before we went out."

   "Got it covered."

   "Good. Get one. I'm going to have you. Now."

   The nice thing about small rooms is that he doesn't have to go far to get what he needs, and it only takes seconds for him to be within my reach again. I grab him by his member and pull him to me. He gasps. It sounds like a gasp of pleasure, even though what I just did had to have hurt. I should explore this at more length when I'm not quite so desperate.

   And then, when I start to unroll the condom and slide it onto him, he comes. It isn't self-contained, either, although he manages to avoid my tunic. Mostly what misses the inside of the condom lands on the comforter.

   "Goodness," I say at last.

   "Sorry."

   He's cute when he's sheepish. Then again, I don't think there's been a moment tonight when he hasn't been cute. If he was any cuter, I'd want to keep him as a pet.

   I smile and stroke his cheek. "We have plenty of time. Come here. There are a couple more things I want to try." I kiss him, summoning Fire, as I put his fingers back where he'd had them before. His skin burns, now; he starts to shake. "Let's start with your mouth, shall we? I liked what your tongue did with my breast. It needs to go somewhere else. Down, please. I'm not done yet."

   He moans almost as much as I do.

   Sunrise arrived some time ago; by the time my west-facing window showed light, the sky had already gone from rose to gold. We watch the approach of the morning through the slats of my blinds. Despite the blinds being closed and the curtains drawn, and the rising sun being on the other side of the building, the light manages to creep onto my bed, anyway. At least it's not direct light. I've never liked being woken up by sunbeams glaring into my eyes.

   I deflowered my virgin between the middle of the night and the breaking of the dawn. Neither of us was in a particular hurry to finish.

   It feels good to have someone in my bed.

   My chest pain is gone – bizarrely, blessedly gone. For the first time in months, it no longer hurts to breathe or to be aware of the beating of my heart. I'm also warm for the first time in what feels like forever. How puzzling.

   He kisses me. I lean into him.

   "I've never actually – you were my first submissive. I hope I gave you what you wanted. Was I – was that what you wanted? Since it was also your first time? Ever? I hope I made you happy."

   "Critical success," he quips.

   The sky begins to brighten. Although I can't hear anything through the glass of the window, I imagine hearing birdsong.