Gag Me Quotes

I can only hope,” Julie said, turning back to Gus, “they grow into the kind of thoughtful, intelligent young men you’ve become.” I resisted the urge to audibly gag. “He’s not that smart,” I said to Julie. “She’s right. It’s just that most really good-looking people are stupid, so I exceed expectations.” “Right, it’s primarily his hotness,” I said. “It can be sort of blinding,” he said. “It actually did blind our friend Isaac,” I said. “Terrible tragedy, that. But can I help my own deadly beauty?” “You cannot.” “It is my burden, this beautiful face.” “Not to mention your body.” “Seriously, don’t even get me started on my hot bod. You don’t want to see me naked, Dave. Seeing me naked actually took Hazel Grace’s breath away,” he said, nodding toward the oxygen tank. “Okay, enough,” Gus’s dad said.

Then why was his tongue in your mouth? Was he conducting a clinical test of your gag reflex?" He smiled, but not nicely. "How is your gag reflex, Ms. Lane? Are you a hair trigger?" Barrons likes to use sexual innuendo to try to shut me up. I think he expects the well-raised southern belle in me will think eew and back off. Sometimes, I do think eew, but I don't back off. "I'm a spitter, if that's what you're asking." I flashed him a too-sweet smile. "Didn't look that way to me. I think you're a swallower. His tongue was halfway to China and you were still taking it." "Jealous?

The fight unfolded like background noise. White noise. In the foreground, even with his ghastly pale face looking dead in my hands, my fingers clenching his ragged hair, all I could see was random images of Fang, not dead. Fang telling me stupid fart jokes from the dog crate next to mine at the school, trying to make me laugh. Fang asleep at Jeb's old house, and me jumping wildly on his bed to wake him up. Him pretending to be asleep. Me laughing when I "accidentally" kicked him where it counts. Him dumping me off the bed. Fang gagging on my first attempt at cooking dinner after Jeb disappeared. Him spitting out the mac and cheese. Me dumping the rest of the bowl on him in response. Fang on the beach, that first time he was badly injured. Me realizing how I felt about him. Fang kissing me. So close I couldn't even see his dark eyes anymore. The first time. The second time. The third. I could always remember each and every one of them. Would always remember them. Fang. Not. Dead.

Caught in a bad romance. Whoaaa-oh-ooooh!" Nellie wailed along to the XM radio blaring from the enormous speakers. "Can I uncover my ears now?" Dan called from the back, where he was reclined across the leather seat. "Has Nellie stopped her Lady Gag Me impression?

I'm going to take off your gag. And if you try to bite me or grab me or anything, I'll hit you with this thing as hard as I can as many times as I can. Understood?

Far below, I heard Cacus bellowing as millions, maybe even thousands of filthy gallons of water slammed into him. Meanwhile, Annabeth alternately shouted, gagged, hit me, called me endearing pet names like, "Idiot! Stupid--dirty--moron--" and topped it all off with "Kill you!

I can be quiet,’ I whisper. ‘Gag me if you must.’ He smirks. ‘Trust me, you’ll be screaming. No gag will stifle it.

I've proved my point. I've demonstrated there's no difference between me and everyone else! All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy. That's how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day. You had a bad day once, am I right? I know I am. I can tell. You had a bad day and everything changed. Why else would you dress up as a flying rat? You had a bad day, and it drove you as crazy as everybody else... Only you won't admit it! You have to keep pretending that life makes sense, that there's some point to all this struggling! God you make me want to puke. I mean, what is it with you? What made you what you are? Girlfriend killed by the mob, maybe? Brother carved up by some mugger? Something like that, I bet. Something like that... Something like that happened to me, you know. I... I'm not exactly sure what it was. Sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes another... If I'm going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice! Ha ha ha! But my point is... My point is, I went crazy. When I saw what a black, awful joke the world was, I went crazy as a coot! I admit it! Why can't you? I mean, you're not unintelligent! You must see the reality of the situation. Do you know how many times we've come close to world war three over a flock of geese on a computer screen? Do you know what triggered the last world war? An argument over how many telegraph poles Germany owed its war debt creditors! Telegraph poles! Ha ha ha ha HA! It's all a joke! Everything anybody ever valued or struggled for... it's all a monstrous, demented gag! So why can't you see the funny side? Why aren't you laughing?

...they told me of color, that it was an illusion of the eye, an event in the perceiver's mind, not in the object; they told me that color had no reality; indeed, they told me that color did not inhere in a physical body any more than pain was in a needle. And then they imprisoned me in darkness; and though there was no color there, I still was black, and they still were white; and for that, they bound and gagged me.

Don‘t do it. I let you push me pretty far sometimes, but not this time. I will not have you put your"—it took me a moment to find the right words—"sorcerer‘s brand on me, so you can hunt me down whenever and wherever you please. And that, Jericho Barrons, is non-negotiable." Well done, Ms. Lane. Just when I think you‘re all useless fluff and nails, you show me some teeth." You win. This time. I won‘t tattoo you. Not today. But in lieu of that, you will do something for me. Refuse and I tattoo you. And, Ms. Lane, if I chain you up one more time tonight, there‘ll be no more talking. I‘ll gag you.

You okay with all of this?" I whispered to Daemon. He shrugged. "Not like I can stop her." I knew he could if he wanted, which meant he didn't have a problem with it. "Cookie?" he offered, holding a cookie full of chocolate chips. Upset tummy or not, there was no way I could refuse that. "Sure." His lips tipped up one side and he leaned toward me, his mouth inches from mine. "Come and get it." Come and get...? Daemon placed half the cookie between those full, totally kissable lips. Oh, holy alien babies everywhere... My mouth dropped open. Several of the girls at the table made sounds that had me wondering if they were turning into puddles under the table, but I couldn't bring myself to check out what they really were doing. That cookie—those lips—were right there. Heat swept over my cheeks. I could feel the eyes of everyone on else, and Daemon... dear God, Daemon arched his brows, daring me. Dee gagged. "I think I'm going to hurl." Mortified, I wanted to crawl into a hole. What did he think I was going to do? Take the cookie from his mouth like something straight out of an R rated version of Lady and the Tramp? Heck, I kind of wanted to and I wasn't sure what that said about me. Daemon reached up and took the cookie. There was a gleam to his eyes, as if he just won some battle. "Times up, Kitten." I stared at him. Breaking the cookie into two, he handed me the larger piece. I snatched it away, half tempted to throw it back in his face, but it was... it was chocolate chip. So I ate it and loved it.

Cracking his knuckles, Cary dramatically prepared to open his fortune cookie. “Let’s see. Will I be rich? Famous? About to meet Mr. or Ms. Tall, Dark, and Tasty? Traveling to distant lands? What’d you guys get?” “Mine’s lame,” I said. “In the end all things will be known. Duh. I didn’t need a fortune to figure that out.” Gideon opened his and read, “Prosperity will knock on your door soon.” I snorted. Cary shot me a look. “I know, right? You snatched someone else’s cookie, Cross.” “He better not be anywhere near someone else’s cookie,” I said dryly. Reaching over, Gideon plucked half of mine out of my fingers. “Don’t worry, angel. Your cookie is the only one I want.” He popped it in his mouth with a wink. “Gag,” Cary muttered. “Get a room.” He cracked his fortune with a flourish, and then scowled. “What the fuck?” I leaned forward. “What’s it say?” “Confucius say,” Gideon ad-libbed, “man with hand in pocket feel cocky all day.” Cary threw half his cookie at Gideon, who caught it deftly and grinned. “Give me that.” I snatched the fortune out from between Cary’s fingers and read it. Then laughed. “Fuck you, Eva.” “Well?” Gideon prodded. “Pick another cookie.” Gideon smiled. “Pwned by a fortune.” Cary threw the other half of his cookie.

Meg gagged. "I hate bugs." That made sense for a daughter of the agriculture goddess, but to me the dead ant didn't seem any grosser than the piles of garbage in which we often swam.

and I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves choking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds... but thank God it was not that echo alone that I worshipped. What I used to pamper among the tangled vines of my heart, mon grand pch radieux, had dwindled to its essence: sterile and selfish vice, all that I cancelled and cursed. You may jeer at me, and threaten to clear the court, but until I am gagged and halfthrottled, I will shout my poor truth. I insist the world know how much I loved my Lolita, this Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another’s child, but still gray-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still Carmencita, still mine; Changeons de vie, ma Carmen, allons vivre quelque, part o nous ne serons jamais spars; Ohio? The wilds of Massachusetts? No matter, even if those eyes of hers would fade to myopic fish, and her nipples swell and crack, and her lovely young velvety delicate delta be tainted and torneven then I would go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice, my Lolita.

Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down, you dig, farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever heard. Bubbly, thick, stagnant sound. A sound you could smell. This man worked for the carnival,you dig? And to start with it was like a novelty ventriloquist act. After a while, the ass started talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared... and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time. Then it developed sort of teethlike... little raspy incurving hooks and started eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it... but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street... shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. Nobody loved it. And it wanted to be kissed, same as any other mouth. Finally, it talked all the time, day and night. You could hear him for blocks, screaming at it to shut up... beating at it with his fists... and sticking candles up it, but... nothing did any good, and the asshole said to him... "It is you who will shut up in the end, not me... "because we don't need you around here anymore. I can talk and eat and shit." After that, he began waking up in the morning with transparentjelly... like a tadpole's tail all over his mouth. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands... like burning gasoline jelly and grow there. So, finally, his mouth sealed over... and the whole head... would have amputated spontaneously except for the eyes, you dig? That's the one thing that the asshole couldn't do was see. It needed the eyes. Nerve connections were blocked... and infiltrated and atrophied. So, the brain couldn't give orders anymore. It was trapped inside the skull... sealed off. For a while, you could see... the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes. And then finally the brain must have died... because the eyes went out... and there was no more feeling in them than a crab's eye at the end of a stalk.

I beg your pardon. I’m not gross. (Simone) Grody to the max. Gag me with a spoon. I’ve seen you in the mornings. You’re not exactly well coiffed. (Jesse)

What gave it away? When she loaded me bound and gagged into the back of her truck? Or when she actually said. "I'm ready to kill you and throw your body inn the swamp? "Hey for a while there, it looked like you were going to talk your way out of it. I didn't want to interfere.

I knew it! I knew you'd hate my body!" She slammed her hands on her hips, marched over to the bed, and glared down at him. "Well, for your information, mister, all those cute little sex kittens in your past might have had perfect bodies, but they don't know a lepton from a proton,and if you think that I'm going to stand here and let you judge me by the size of my hips and because my belly's not flat, then you're in for a rude awakening." She jabbed her finger at him. "This is the way a grown woman looks, buster! This body was designed by God to be functional, not to be stared at by some hormonally imbalanced jock who can only get aroused by women who still own Barbie dolls" "Damn. Now I've got to gag you." With one swift motion, he pulled her down on the bed, rolled on top of her, and covered her lips with his own.

You show me a boy who brings a snake home to his mother and I'll show you an orphan.

I require your assistance,” a male voice whispered. My mouth fell open. “Ahhgaluhg!” I gagged — near drowned — on a slew of water and lost my balance. The pink shower curtain proved no leverage whatsoever, and I ripped it down with me, rod and all, slopping into the tub with a splash, irritated squeal, and shuddering thud. “Jay—!” I stifled a scream and hissed the second syllable through clenched teeth, “—den!” “Have you sustained injury?” Jayden’s face hovered over the tub. “Not until you showed up!

Minny: "Eat my shit." Hilly: "Excuse me?" Minny: "I said eat...my...shit." Hilly: "Have you lost your mind?" Minny: "No ma'am, but you about to, cause you just did." *Minny eyes the pie* Hilly: "Did...What?" *Minny eyes pie again, Missus Walters gasping and laughing, Hilly eyes pie then gags and runs off* Missus Walters: "And you didn't just eat one, you ate TWO slices!" *Minny runs off* Missus Walters: "RUN, MINNY, RUUN!!" *She says this while laughing*

She wasn’t going to let me out of it until I gave her some answers or fucking gagged her. I did want to gag her, but not quite in that way. I know – I’m fucking depraved.

I thought it was probably best if I didn't go snooping around Wade's room uninvited. These days I would probably find all sorts of whips and chains and ball gags. And then when I put those down and stopped playing with them, I would probably find something that made me really uncomfortable.

Like - that presentation board you'd made up? You definitely should have let me take care of that part." I frown. "What was wrong with my presentation board?" He gives me a look, like I shouldn't even have to ask. "For starters, you used the Papyrus font for the headers." "So? What's wrong with Papyrus?" He makes a gagging noise.

Can you taste it Bruce? Can you taste the filth, the dirt, the oily blackness of that fossil fuel in our mouth as you choke and gag and spit it out? Do you still hear his voice in your head urging you to eat? Eat, eat eat. Your mother's cries. Do you hear them? You should be Bruce. Because I know that it's never left you alone. Now you can eat what you want to eat. For me, for you, for all the others. Now you can consume to your heart's content or your soul's destruction, whichever comes first. So eat.

Your last letter made me laugh so much, Em, but you should still get out of there because while it's good for gags it's definitely bad for your soul. You can't throw years of your life away because it makes a funny anecdote.

I’m tired of this honorable Woodsman pretense,” I tell him. “You’re a prince. Act like one.” “You wouldn’t like it much if I did.” “Why not?” “Because I’d gag and bind you for talking to me the way you do.

I know. Gag me with a wimple.

My jaw tightens as other images fill my mind. All of them start with her trapped beneath me with no way out. There won’t be any nibbling or chewing. There’ll be slapping, throwing, choking, flogging, gagging, fucking, fucking, and more fucking until I tear her tiny little cunt.

Azriel gently removed the gag from her mouth. 'Are you hurt?' She shook her head, devouring the sight of him as if not quite believing it. 'You came for me.' The shadowsinger only inclined his head.

He steps forward, wiping his thumb across the corner of my lips to catch a rogue droplet of liquor. “You okay? You were so confident only a minute ago. You’re not going to gag, are you?”  I pop my shoulders. “Hopefully later.” He shakes his head—his typical move when I’ve said something that’s caught him off guard. “You flirting with me, Montgomery?”  “Have been since we met. You gonna start flirting back?

You guys know I love you, right?" I glance between them, knowing they'll freak, but it has to be said. They look at each other, exchanging a look of alarm, both of them wondering what could've possibly happened to the girl they once pegged as the Ice Queen. "Um, okay..." Haven says, shaking her head. But I just smile and grasp them both to me, squeezing them tightly as I whisper to Miles, "Whatever you do don't stop acting or singing, it's going to bring you great happiness." And before he can respond, I've moved on to Haven, knowing I have to get this over with and quick, so I can get Damen to Ava's, but determined to find a way to urge her to love herself more, and that Josh is worth hanging on to for however long it lasts. "You have so much value," I tell her. "So much to give--I just wish you could see how bright your star truly does shine." "Um, gag!" she says, laughing as she untangles herself from my grip. "Are you okay?

Desperately, Phoenix attempted to maneuver both tips of the instrument around the bullet. He knew that each move caused Nellie unimaginable pain, but he could not grasp the target. "It's no use," he sobbed. "And my hand is going numb." In a frenzy, Nellie shouted something into the gag, but no one could understand her. "I beg your pardon, child?" queried Alistair. Nellie spat out the rag and rasped, "Get the Kabra chick!" "Natalie?" Fiske exclaimed. "She's fallen completely to pieces." "Get her!" Nellie demanded. "Anybody with eyebrows plucked like that knows how to use a tweezers!" Reagan bounded across the room and came back with a shivering, mewling Natalie. "I can't!" she wheezed. Fiske poured alchohol over the girl's beautifully manicured fingers. "You must." Still protesting, her eyes tightly shut, she took over the instrument from Phoenix. "I can't do it! You can't make me—oh!" She said in sudden surprise. "This?" And when she pulled the tweezers out of the wound, the tips were firmly grasping a flattened, blood-slimed bullet. Nellie laughed—and promptly fainted.

Cookie?” he offered, holding up a cookie full of chocolate chips. Upset tummy or not, there was no way I could refuse that. “Sure.” His lips tipped to one side and he leaned towards me, his mouth inches from mine. “Come and get it.” Come and get…? Daemon placed half the cookie between those full, totally kissable lips. Oh, holy alien babies everywhere… My mouth dropped open. Several of the girls at the table made sounds that had me wondering if they were turning into puddles under the table, but I couldn’t bring myself to check out what they were doing. That cookie – those lips – were right there. Heat swept over my cheeks. I could feel the eyes of everyone else and Demon… dear God, Daemon arched his brows, daring me. Dee gagged. “I think I’m going to hurl.” Mortified, I wanted to crawl into a hole. What did he think I was going to do? Take that cookie out of his mouth like something straight out of an R-rated version of Lady and the Tramp? Heck, I kind of wanted to, and I wasn’t too sure what that said about me. Daemon reached up and took the cookie. There was a gleam in his eyes, as if he’d just won some battle. “Time’s up, Kitten.

Meanwhile Annabeth alternately shouted, gagged, hit me, called me endearing pet names like “Idiot! Stupid—dirty—moron—” and topped it all off with “Kill you!

Jason caught a glimpse of Piper serving drinks at the next table. She discreetly put her finger to her mouth in a gag me gesture, then went back to flirting with dead guys.

I detected instantly that she didn’t like me. It’s a fact of life that a girl can tell in a flash if another girl likes her. Feely says that there is a broken telephone connection between men and women, and we can never know which of us rang off. With a boy you never know whether he’s smitten or gagging, but with a girl you can tell in the first three seconds. Between girls there is a silent and unending flow of invisible signals, like the high frequency wireless messages between the shore and the ships at sea, and this secret flow of dots and dashes was signalling that Mary detesting me.

His dark eyes met mine, just the same. A lean, saturnine face, his cheekbones balanced, his mouth a straight unforgiving line. The demon Tierce Japhrimel touched my cheek, his knuckles brushing my skin. The contact sent a shudder through me, my body recognizing him before the rest of me could dare to. "You burned," I managed, before another fit of retching and gagging shook me. "You burned—you were ash —" "While you live, I live." The corners of his mouth turned down, an expressive movement that managed to give the impression of a grim smile. "I suppose nobody told you." I shook my head weakly.

Justin: "Say hi to Paul Thompson for me," he added. Madeline: "Garrlgh," I gagged. The corner of his lips curled up. Justin: "What was that?" Madeline: "That was vomit creeping up the back of my mouth when you mentioned Paul's name.

The strangest thing. I came to the end of other people so quickly. Each new person was like a glass of water, and at the beginning I was parched, but then each glass tasted a little worse, the water was grittier, and by the end even the first sip was enough to make me gag, you know?

The night following the reading, Gansey woke up to a completely unfamiliar sound and fumbled for his glasses. It sounded a little like one of his roommates was being killed by a possum, or possibly the final moments of a fatal cat fight. He wasn’t certain of the specifics, but he was sure death was involved. Noah stood in the doorway to his room, his face pathetic and long-suffering. “Make it stop,” he said. Ronan’s room was sacred, and yet here Gansey was, twice in the same weak, pushing the door open. He found the lamp on and Ronan hunched on the bed, wearing only boxers. Six months before, Ronan had gotten the intricate black tattoo that covered most of his back and snaked up his neck, and now the monochromatic lines of it were stark in the claustrophobic lamplight, more real than anything else in the room. It was a peculiar tattoo, both vicious and lovely, and every time Gansey saw it, he saw something different in the pattern. Tonight, nestled in an inked glen of wicked, beautiful flowers, was a beak where before he’d seen a scythe. The ragged sound cut through the apartment again. “What fresh hell is this?” Gansey asked pleasantly. Ronan was wearing headphones as usual, so Gansey stretched forward far enough to tug them down around his neck. Music wailed faintly into the air. Ronan lifted his head. As he did, the wicked flowers on his back shifted and hid behind his sharp shoulder blades. In his lap was the half-formed raven, its head tilted back, beak agape. “I thought we were clear on what a closed door meant,” Ronan said. He held a pair of tweezers in one hand. “I thought we were clear that night was for sleeping.” Ronan shrugged. “Perhaps for you.” “Not tonight. Your pterodactyl woke me. Why is it making that sound?” In response, Ronan dipped the tweezers into a plastic baggy on the blanket in front of him. Gansey wasn’t certain he wanted to know what the gray substance was in the tweezers’ grasp. As soon as the raven heard the rustle of the bag, it made the ghastly sound again—a rasping squeal that became a gurgle as it slurped down the offering. At once, it inspired both Gansey’s compassion and his gag reflex. “Well, this is not going to do,” he said. “You’re going to have to make it stop.” “She has to be fed,” Ronan replied. The ravel gargled down another bite. This time it sounded a lot like vacuuming potato salad. “It’s only every two hours for the first six weeks.” “Can’t you keep her downstairs?” In reply, Ronan half-lifted the little bird toward him. “You tell me.

Such a display of testosterone. The air is making me want to gag.” I chuckled and stepped between them. “You might as well whip out your dicks now and measure them. I have a ruler app on my phone.

I'm just doing what I have to do. I don't have a choice." "Yeah, good luck going to bed with a guilt-free conscience with that sorry-ass excuse." The sour expression evaporated from Mr. Greek's face. His gaze switched back to the computer. "Keep talking and I'll gag you." "Blow me.

The vampire gagged. The muscles of its neck constricted, widened, constricted again, and it disgorged a six-inch-long metal cylinder onto my desk. The bloodsucker grasped it, twisted the cylinder’s halves apart, and retrieved a roll of papers. “Photographs,” Ghastek said, handing me a couple of sheets from the roll. “That’s disgusting.” “He is thirty years old,” Ghastek said. “All his internal organs, with the exception of the heart, atrophied long ago. The throat makes for a very good storage cavity. People seem to prefer it to the anus.” Translation: be happy I didn’t pull it out of my ass. Thank the gods for small favors.

I end up watching this movie about some girl who's supposed to be so smart and edgy and unpopular. She wears glasses, that's how you know she's so smart. And she's the only one that has dark hair in the school- a place that looks like Planet Blond. Anyway, she somehow ends up going to the prom- hello, gag- and she doesn't wear her glasses, so suddenly she's all beautiful. And she's bashful and shy because she doesn't feel comfortable wearing a dress. But then the guy says something like, "Wow, I never knew you were so pretty," and she feels on top of the world. So, basically, the whole point is she's pretty. Oh, and smart, too. But what's really important here is that she's pretty. For a second I think about Katie. About her thin little Clarissa Le Fey. It must be a pain being fat. There are NO fat people on Planet Blond. I don't get it. I mean, even movies where the actress is smart- like they seem like they'd be smart in real life, they're all gorgeous. And they usually get a boyfriend somewhere in the story. Even if they say they don't want one. They always, always end up falling in love, and you're supposed to be like, "Oh, good." I once said this to my mom, and she laughed. "Honey, Hollywood... reality- two different universes. Don't make yourself crazy." Which made me feel pretty pathetic. Like I didn't know the difference between a movie and the real world. But then when everyone gets on you about your hair and your clothes and your this and your that, and "Are you fat?" and "Are you sexy?" you start thinking, Hey, maybe I'm not the only one who can't tell the difference between movies and reality. Maybe everyone really does think you can look like that. And that you should look like that. Because, you know, otherwise you might not get to go to the prom and fall in love.

You are making me something, cow-woman, or is that just make believe and pretend, like your sex life?' 'I'm making you a gag, Mickey, so I can knit in fucking peace.

I was anguished seeing your blushes and shining eyes. Jealousy wasn’t a spice to me then. It was the whole meal and I was gagging it down.

You’d just gag, and I gotta tell you, baby, gagging doesn’t bother me.

For another thing, we’re under martial law, so I can do very nearly whatever the fuck I want. Including march through your precious little ship there towing you along behind in a ball gag and lacy underwear. So your warrant bullshit? You can roll that up and fuck it. Now tell me why I’m here.” “You know just ’cause you can do something, it doesn’t mean you should. I don’t look great in frills.

I crumple, my palm skating along the tree’s frozen face as I plop to the ground. “Alyssa?” Morpheus crouches beside me in an instant. He catches my chin and forces me to look at him. “Are you feeling anemic again?” I struggle to breathe. It grates inside my chest, like inhaling angry bees. Blood creeps into my throat and gags me. Morpheus’s jeweled markings flash through an anxious kaleidoscope of colors.

[excerpt] The usual I say. Essence. Spirit. Medicine. A taste. I say top shelf. Straight up. A shot. A sip. A nip. I say another round. I say brace yourself. Lift a few. Hoist a few. Work the elbow. Bottoms up. Belly up. Set ‘em up. What’ll it be. Name your poison. I say same again. I say all around. I say my good man. I say my drinking buddy. I say git that in ya. Then a quick one. Then a nightcap. Then throw one back. Then knock one down. Fast & furious I say. Could savage a drink I say. Chug. Chug-a-lug. Gulp. Sauce. Mother’s milk. Everclear. Moonshine. White lightning. Firewater. Hootch. Relief. Now you’re talking I say. Live a little I say. Drain it I say. Kill it I say. Feeling it I say. Wobbly. Breakfast of champions I say. I say candy is dandy but liquor is quicker. I say Houston, we have a drinking problem. I say the cause of, and solution to, all of life’s problems. I say god only knows what I’d be without you. I say thirsty. I say parched. I say wet my whistle. Dying of thirst. Lap it up. Hook me up. Watering hole. Knock a few back. Pound a few down. My office. Out with the boys I say. Unwind I say. Nurse one I say. Apply myself I say. Toasted. Glow. A cold one a tall one a frosty I say. One for the road I say. Two-fisted I say. Never trust a man who doesn’t drink I say. Drink any man under the table I say. Then a binge then a spree then a jag then a bout. Coming home on all fours. Could use a drink I say. A shot of confidence I say. Steady my nerves I say. Drown my sorrows. I say kill for a drink. I say keep ‘em comin’. I say a stiff one. Drink deep drink hard hit the bottle. Two sheets to the wind then. Knackered then. Under the influence then. Half in the bag then. Out of my skull I say. Liquored up. Rip-roaring. Slammed. Fucking jacked. The booze talking. The room spinning. Feeling no pain. Buzzed. Giddy. Silly. Impaired. Intoxicated. Stewed. Juiced. Plotzed. Inebriated. Laminated. Swimming. Elated. Exalted. Debauched. Rock on. Drunk on. Bring it on. Pissed. Then bleary. Then bloodshot. Glassy-eyed. Red-nosed. Dizzy then. Groggy. On a bender I say. On a spree. I say off the wagon. I say on a slip. I say the drink. I say the bottle. I say drinkie-poo. A drink a drunk a drunkard. Swill. Swig. Shitfaced. Fucked up. Stupefied. Incapacitated. Raging. Seeing double. Shitty. Take the edge off I say. That’s better I say. Loaded I say. Wasted. Off my ass. Befuddled. Reeling. Tanked. Punch-drunk. Mean drunk. Maintenance drunk. Sloppy drunk happy drunk weepy drunk blind drunk dead drunk. Serious drinker. Hard drinker. Lush. Drink like a fish. Boozer. Booze hound. Alkie. Sponge. Then muddled. Then woozy. Then clouded. What day is it? Do you know me? Have you seen me? When did I start? Did I ever stop? Slurring. Reeling. Staggering. Overserved they say. Drunk as a skunk they say. Falling down drunk. Crawling down drunk. Drunk & disorderly. I say high tolerance. I say high capacity. They say protective custody. Blitzed. Shattered. Zonked. Annihilated. Blotto. Smashed. Soaked. Screwed. Pickled. Bombed. Stiff. Frazzled. Blasted. Plastered. Hammered. Tore up. Ripped up. Destroyed. Whittled. Plowed. Overcome. Overtaken. Comatose. Dead to the world. The old K.O. The horrors I say. The heebie-jeebies I say. The beast I say. The dt’s. B’jesus & pink elephants. A mindbender. Hittin’ it kinda hard they say. Go easy they say. Last call they say. Quitting time they say. They say shut off. They say dry out. Pass out. Lights out. Blackout. The bottom. The walking wounded. Cross-eyed & painless. Gone to the world. Gone. Gonzo. Wrecked. Sleep it off. Wake up on the floor. End up in the gutter. Off the stuff. Dry. Dry heaves. Gag. White knuckle. Lightweight I say. Hair of the dog I say. Eye-opener I say. A drop I say. A slug. A taste. A swallow. Down the hatch I say. I wouldn’t say no I say. I say whatever he’s having. I say next one’s on me. I say bottoms up. Put it on my tab. I say one more. I say same again

Underwater, bubbles erupted before my eyes as a swift hand snatched my arm and pulled me to the surface. I gasped for air, coughing and gagging at the amount of water I sucked into my lungs by pure shock. What was up with me and breathing in water? I needed to grow some gills or something.

It's like, when someone asks you how you are and even though you want to say that you feel like shit, that you're miserable, that you cry until you gag and spend most of your time imagining ways to kill yourself, instead you just say, 'Fine, thanks.

If it crosses your mind that water running through hundreds of miles of open ditch in a desert will evaporate and end up full of concentrated salts and muck, then let me just tell you, that kind of negative thinking will never get you elected to public office in the state of Arizona. When this giant new tap turned on, developers drew up plans to roll pink stucco subdivisions across the desert in all directions. The rest of us were supposed to rejoice as the new flow rushed into our pipes, even as the city warned us this water was kind of special. They said it was okay to drink but don't put it in an aquarium because it would kill the fish. Drink it we did, then, filled our coffee makers too, and mixed our children's juice concentrate with fluid that would gag a guppy. Oh, America the Beautiful, where are our standards?

But the only game she wanted to play was Kidnapper, where she tied me up and left me in my own tree house for about twelve hours, until Dad climbed up and got me down. Why hadn’t I at least called for help? I had. But no one had heard me. Probably because of the gag in my mouth.

Azriel gently removed the gag from her mouth. “Are you hurt?” She shook her head, devouring the sight of him as if not quite believing it. “You came for me.” The shadowsinger only inclined his head.

Good girl,” Howl said, pressing his massive cock into my mouth as Finn moved behind me, kneeling. He grabbed my hips, pulling me toward him as Howl moved closer, keeping himself pressed against the back of my throat as I gagged. Howl didn’t withdraw though. He kept the head of his cock right there, waiting for Finn to enter in a different opening.  I sputtered as Finn’s hot cock spread open my lower lips. Howl’s hands wound through my hair as they both pushed in.  My throat spread as my pussy did, both of their cocks filling me as they thrust, as they moaned. I nearly collapsed under the heated want that was flooding through me, through the energy that was still wanting to escape. The pressure of the fire grew as they fucked me, as they grew closer to climax.  Howl pulled out, letting me breathe as Finn continued to slam into me, his fingers now playing with my clit that had me one step from losing it.

Nekhbet shrieked in alarm. I turned to see what was going on. Immediately, I wished I could burn my eyes out of my head. Liz made a gagging sound. "Lord, no! That's wrong!" "Agh!" Emma shouted, in perfect baboon-speak. "Make him stop!" Bes had indeed put on his ugly outfit.He climbed onto the roof of the limo and stood there, legs planted, arms akimbo, like Superman- except with only the underwear. For those faint of heart I wont go into detail, but Bes, all of a meter tall, was showing off his disgusting physique- his potbelly, hairy limbs, awful feet, gross flabby bits- and wearing only a blue Speedo. Imagine the worst looking person you've ever seen on a public beach- the person for whom swimwear should be illegal. Bes looked worse than that. I wasn't sure what to say except: "Put some clothes on!" Bes laughed= the sort of guffaw that says Ha-ha! I'm amazing! "Not until they leave," he said. "Or I'll be forced to scare them back to the Duat." "This is not your affair, dwarf god!" Nekhbet snarled, averting her eyes from his horribleness. "Go away!" "These children are under my protection," Bes insisted "I don't know you," I said. "I never met you before today." "Nonsense. You expressly asked for my protection." "I didn't ask for the Speedo Patrol!" Bes leaped off the limo and landed in front of my circle placing himself between Babi and me. The dwarf was even more horrible from behind. His back was so hairy it looked like a mink coat. And on the back of his Speedo was printed DWARF PRIDE.

True. Vaginas actually gross me out. I shudder and cringe. The thought alone makes me gag. I’m not even a big fan of my own as often as the little slut gets me into trouble. But there’s no way I’m telling Raven that.

People had always amazed him, he began. But they amazed him more since the sickness. For as long as the two of them had been together, he said, Gary’s mother had accepted him as her son’s lover, had given them her blessing. Then, at the funeral, she’d barely acknowledged him. Later, when she drove to the house to retrieve some personal things, she’d hunted through her son’s drawers with plastic bags twist-tied around her wrists. “…And yet,” he whispered, “The janitor at school--remember him? Mr. Feeney? --he’d openly disapproved of me for nineteen years. One of the nastiest people I knew. Then when the news about me got out, after I resigned, he started showing up at the front door every Sunday with a coffee milkshake. In his church clothes, with his wife waiting out in the car. People have sent me hate mail, condoms, Xeroxed prayers…” What made him most anxious, he told me, was not the big questions--the mercilessness of fate, the possibility of heaven. He was too exhausted, he said, to wrestle with those. But he’d become impatient with the way people wasted their lives, squandered their chances like paychecks. I sat on the bed, massaging his temples, pretending that just the right rubbing might draw out the disease. In the mirror I watched us both--Mr. Pucci, frail and wasted, a talking dead man. And myself with the surgical mask over my mouth, to protect him from me. “The irony,” he said, “… is that now that I’m this blind man, it’s clearer to me than it’s ever been before. What’s the line? ‘Was blind but now I see…’” He stopped and put his lips to the plastic straw. Juice went halfway up the shaft, then back down again. He motioned the drink away. “You accused me of being a saint a while back, pal, but you were wrong. Gary and I were no different. We fought…said terrible things to each other. Spent one whole weekend not speaking to each other because of a messed up phone message… That time we separated was my idea. I thought, well, I’m fifty years old and there might be someone else out there. People waste their happiness--That’s what makes me sad. Everyone’s so scared to be happy.” “I know what you mean,” I said. His eyes opened wider. For a second he seemed to see me. “No you don’t,” he said. “You mustn’t. He keeps wanting to give you his love, a gift out and out, and you dismiss it. Shrug it off because you’re afraid.” “I’m not afraid. It’s more like…” I watched myself in the mirror above the sink. The mask was suddenly a gag. I listened. “I’ll give you what I learned from all this,” he said. “Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love.

The Dalai Lama walks into a pizza store... and says, "Can you make me one with everything?

I sometimes glance around during church and wonder, ‘Who else is wearing a butt plug? Just me? Nah, can’t be. Oh, that guy! He’s got something up his poop shoot for certain!

The men digging in on both sides of me cursed the stench and the mud. I began moving the heavy, sticky clay mud with my entrenching shovel to shape out the extent of the foxhole before digging deeper. Each shovelful had to be knocked off the spade, because it stuck like glue. I was thoroughly exhausted and thought my strength wouldn’t last from one sticky shovelful to the next. Kneeling on the mud, I had dug the hole no more than six or eight inches deep when the odor of rotting flesh got worse. There was nothing to do but continue to dig, so I closed up my mouth and inhaled with short shallow breaths. Another spadeful of soil out of the hole released a mass of wriggling maggots that came welling up as though those beneath were pushing them out. I cursed and told the NCO as he came by what a mess I was digging into. ‘You heard him, he said put the holes five yards apart.’ In disgust, I drove the spade into the soil, scooped out the insects, and threw them down the front of the ridge. The next stroke of the spade unearthed buttons and scraps of cloth from a Japanese army jacket in the mud—and another mass of maggots. I kept on doggedly. With the next thrust, metal hit the breastbone of a rotting Japanese corpse. I gazed down in horror and disbelief as the metal scraped a clean track through the mud along the dirty whitish bone and cartilage with ribs attached. The shoved skidded into the rotting abdomen with a squishing sound. The odor nearly overwhelmed me as I rocked back on my heels. I began choking and gagging as I yelled in desperation, ‘I can’t dig in here! There’s a dead Nip here!’ The NCO came over, looked down at my problem and at me, and growled, ‘You heard him; he said put the holes five yards apart.

Silas baked me a cake for my birthday. It was awful. I think he forgot the eggs. But it was the most beautiful chocolate failure I’ve ever seen. I was so happy that I didn’t even make a gag face when I ate a slice. But, oh god, it was so bad. Best boyfriend ever.

But this Hemingway stuff is what really has me down." "A gag," I said. "An old, old gag." "Who is this Hemingway person at all?" "A guy that keeps saying the same thing over and over until you begin to believe it must be good." "That must take a hell of a long time," the big man said.

Aw, true love.” Howler lands on the boat, rocking it. “It makes me want to puke. Doesn’t it make you want to gag too, Hawk?” “I never thought it was a good idea in the first place,” says Hawk as he lands beside Howler. “Eternal damnation is what I get for listening to you lot.” “How’s the flesh wound, boss?” Howler shows off his forearm that glistens with his raw, skinless muscles. “Want to compare and see who gets bragging rights?

For instance, we were always making mistakes with the unfamiliar products around us, and one time my mother squirted my perfume into her mouth, thinking it was breath spray. When she stopped gagging and cursing me, she burst out laughing. Neither of us could stop until tears ran down our faces.

She managed a bored sigh. “I suppose we could do one picture, but a group shot won’t work. Nyx, how about one of you with your favorite child? Which one is that?” The brood rustled. Dozens of horrible glowing eyes turned toward Nyx. The goddess shifted uncomfortably, as if her chariot were heating up under her feet. Her shadow horses huffed and pawed at the void. “My favorite child?” she asked. “All my children are terrifying!” Percy snorted. “Seriously? I’ve met the Fates. I’ve met Thanatos. They weren’t so scary. You’ve got to have somebody in this crowd who’s worse than that.” “The darkest,” Annabeth said. “The most like you.” “I am the darkest,” hissed Eris. “Wars and strife! I have caused all manner of death!” “I am darker still!” snarled Geras. “I dim the eyes and addle the brain. Every mortal fears old age!” “Yeah, yeah,” Annabeth said, trying to ignore her chattering teeth. “I’m not seeing enough dark. I mean, you’re the children of Night! Show me dark!” The horde of arai wailed, flapping their leathery wings and stirring up clouds of blackness. Geras spread his withered hands and dimmed the entire abyss. Eris breathed a shadowy spray of buckshot across the void. “I am the darkest!” hissed one of the demons. “No, I!” “No! Behold my darkness!” If a thousand giant octopuses had squirted ink at the same time, at the bottom of the deepest, most sunless ocean trench, it could not have been blacker. Annabeth might as well have been blind. She gripped Percy’s hand and steeled her nerves. “Wait!” Nyx called, suddenly panicked. “I can’t see anything.” “Yes!” shouted one of her children proudly. “I did that!” “No, I did!” “Fool, it was me!” Dozens of voices argued in the darkness. The horses whinnied in alarm. “Stop it!” Nyx yelled. “Whose foot is that?” “Eris is hitting me!” cried someone. “Mother, tell her to stop hitting me!” “I did not!” yelled Eris. “Ouch!” The sounds of scuffling got louder. If possible, the darkness became even deeper. Annabeth’s eyes dilated so much, they felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. She squeezed Percy’s hand. “Ready?” “For what?” After a pause, he grunted unhappily. “Poseidon’s underpants, you can’t be serious.” “Somebody give me light!” Nyx screamed. “Gah! I can’t believe I just said that!” “It’s a trick!” Eris yelled. “The demigods are escaping!” “I’ve got them,” screamed an arai. “No, that’s my neck!” Geras gagged. “Jump!” Annabeth told Percy. They leaped into the darkness, aiming for the doorway far, far below.

[Echo] dumped her backpack on the floor besides the door. "Children," she called, "I'm home." Ivy popped her head out of the bathroom door on the opposite side of the room, long, snowy hair-feathers gleaming in the dim light. “Oh, thank the gods,” she answered, wiping her hands on a washcloth as she walked over to Echo. “If I had to listen to Jasper whine about his poultice one more time, I was going to gag him.” “Excuse me, young lady, I do not whine,” Jasper said, angling his head to glare at Ivy. “I lament.” Ivy rolled her eyes. “You’re nineteen, Jasper. Don’t you ‘young lady’ me.

Three quarters of respectable England hates you." "Half," Sebastian replied with a smile. "It's really only half. Judging by my correspondence, it may be as little as forty-eight percent. And of those, only a small number want to cause me bodily harm. The rest just wish to have me gagged or thrown in prison.

I'd wager you have a vengeful streak a mile wide," he muttered. "I am the least vengeful person I know," she said with a sniff. "And if you think otherwise, then perhaps you ought not to marry me." "You're marrying me," he ground out, "if I have to drag you to the altar bound and gagged." Ellie smiled waspishly. "You could try," she taunted, "but in your condition you couldn't drag a flea." "And you say you're not vengeful." "I seem to be developing a taste for it.

What is wrong with you?” I say in lieu of greeting. “You went to Morris’s dorm and declared your intentions?” He offers a faint smile. “Of course. It was the noble thing to do. I can’t be chasing after another guy’s girl without his knowledge.” “I’m not his girl,” I snap. “We went on one date! And now I’m never going to be his girl, because he doesn’t want to go out with me again.” “What the hell?” Logan looks startled. “I’m disappointed in him. I thought he had more of a competitive spirit than that.” “Seriously? You’re going to pretend to be surprised? He won’t see me again because your jackass self told him he couldn’t.” Astonishment fills his eyes. “No, I didn’t.” “Yes, you did.” “Is that what he told you?” Logan demands. “Not in so many words.” “I see. Well, what words did he actually use?” I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. “He said he’s backing off because he doesn’t want to get in the middle of something so complicated. I pointed out that there’s nothing complicated about it, seeing as you and I are not together.” My aggravation heightens. “And then he insisted that I need to give you a chance, because you’re a—” I angrily air-quote Morris’s words “—‘stand-up guy who deserves another shot.’” Logan breaks out in a grin. I stab the air with my finger. “Don’t you dare smile. Obviously you put those words in his mouth. And what the hell was he jabbering about when he told me you and him were ‘family’?” All the disbelief I’d felt during my talk with Morris comes spiraling back, making me pace the bedroom in hurried strides. “What did you say to him, Logan? Did you brainwash him or something? How are you guys family? You don’t even know each other!” Strangled laughter sounds from Logan’s direction. I spin around and level a dark glower at him. “He’s talking about the joint family we created in Mob Boss. It’s this role-playing game where you’re the Don of a mob family and you’re fighting a bunch of other mafia bosses for territory and rackets and stuff. We played it when I went over there, and I ended up staying until four in the morning. Seriously, it was intense.” He shrugs. “We’re the Lorris crime syndicate.” I’m dumbfounded. Oh my God. Lorris? As in Logan and Morris? They fucking Brangelina’d themselves? “What is happening?” I burst out. “You guys are best friends now?” “He’s a cool guy. Actually, he’s even cooler in my book now for stepping down like that. I didn’t ask him to, but clearly he grasps what you refuse to see.” “Yeah, and what’s that?” I mutter. “That you and I are perfect for each other.” No words. There are no words to accurately convey what I’m feeling right now. Horror maybe? Absolute insanity? I mean, it’s not like I’m madly in love with Morris or anything, but if I’d known that kissing Logan at the party would lead to…this, I would have strapped on a frickin’ chastity gag.

Whenever I hear someone who has not had a transsexual experience say that gender is just a construct or merely a performance, it always reminds me of that Stephen Colbert gag where he insists that he doesn’t see race. It’s easy to fictionalize an issue when you’re not aware of the many ways in which you are privileged by it.

And because they had mass, they became simpler,” said Beatty. “Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books leveled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you follow me?” “I think so.” Beatty peered at the smoke pattern he had put out on the air. “Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests, Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending.” “Snap ending.” Mildred nodded. “Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume.

As I went to stand up, I felt a tiny point of pressure on my back. "Don't move," Kasey whispered. I stayed bent over. "Drop the knife," she said. "Excuse me, I'm using it," I said. She swallowed hard. "For what?" "Mom and Dad. You." The pressure on my back increased. "Drop it, Alexis." Drop it? Like I was a bad dog running around with a sock in my mouth. "How long will this take?" I asked, setting the knife on the floor. "I'm in the middle of something." Get in the bathroom," she said. The faster I indulged her, the faster it would be over with. So I walked into the bathroom. She followed, kicking the knife toward the end of the hallway and flipping on the bathroom light. "What's this all about, Kasey?" I asked, turning around. At the sight of my face, she gasped, and the point of the fireplace poker she was holding wavered in her hands. I realized a second too late that I'd missed my chance to grab it and smash it into the side of her head. "What's happening to you?" she whispered. I glanced in the mirror. The darkness had begun to spread from my mouth and eyes. It leached out in inky puddles with thin tendrils of black snaking out in delicate feathery patterns. What's happening to me? What was she talking about? "So you have a pointy stick," I said. "Big deal. get out of my way." "What are you going to do?" I sneered. "Poke me?" 'I'll hit you, Lexi." Her face was stony. "As hard as I have to." Whatever. I'm really not in the mood. "Can we talk about this in the morning?" I asked. After I kill you? "No," her eyes hardened. "Get your toothbrush." "What?" "Pick up your toothbrush, and stick it down your throat." "Kasey-" "Do it," she said. "Ugh, fine. You're sick, you know that?" "Get in the tub." "Happy?" I stuck the toothbrush into my throat. Instantly, I gagged and doubled over. "Do it again," she said. "God Kasey," I cried. Stabbing people was one thing. But making them barf- that was just disturbing.

Apparently, Hollywood men are not all about tits and ass, and they value brains and politically correct opinions. This, of course, sets women everywhere up for disaster. Men are all about tits and ass. We don’t care about minds as long as they’re one track and focused on the same thing that ours are – S.E.X. Conversation is highly overrated, I’m allergic to feelings, and she can have whatever opinion she likes as long as she doesn’t feel the need to share it with me. Generally, she’s gagged, though, so it isn’t a big problem.

They strap toast onto a cat’s back and toss it in the air.” And he waited. I knew there had to be a gag, and if I didn’t guess what it was, he would win the exchange I had begun by essaying a pun. Well, it served me right. “But how do dat make de ship go, Mr. Interlocutor,” I asked ritually, conceding defeat. “They butter the toast, you see.” Light belatedly dawned. “Ah. Of course. The toast must fall butter side down—” “—but the cat must land on its feet.” He spread his hands: QED. “Hence the array spins forever, generating power.

You know who you should ask about this? My pal Ray, who works with me. He could tell you all about this." Lily's dad nodded. "Except he was taken out of the office a few days ago with his hands tied behind his back and a bandanna tied as a gag on his mouth." Her father thought for a second. "Huh. He hasn't been in to work since. I wonder if he has the flu.

You could never let me down.” Fitz said something else too, but it was drowned out by the plethora of gagging sounds coming from Dex and Keefe.

The feelings I’ve kept strung up and gagged inside me for so long because I knew no one would understand are free and floating on the wind.

If I want to kiss you, I damn well will. If I want to fuck you, I’ll do that too. And if you even think about telling me it’s a mistake again, I’ll gag you.

My requirement is to make you scream. I don’t think Patrick can help me there. I’m gagging just thinking about it. That’s a thought… Will I need to gag you? Jx

I’m glad she’s so smitten with her new huntsman boyfriend and all, but venison-wurst? Gag me with a harpsichord.

I wanted to tell her I loved her. I wanted to hear the same from her. All the things I couldn’t say kept me bound and gagged, breaking me in ways I hadn’t expected.

Gagging didn’t make him angry, it made him horny. The sadistic kind of horny that led to worse things.

Breathe, I told myself firmly, and whatever you do, don’t gag. Gagging didn’t make him angry, it made him horny. The sadistic kind of horny that led to worse things.

... jealousy wasn't a spice to me then. It was the whole meal and I was gagging it down.

Is he about to show me some kind of red room of pain and tell me he wants to whip my ass raw and ride me with a saddle like a pony while I'm gag balled?

Want me to tell you all my secrets?” I give her a threatening smile and go on. “The only way I’m going to talk to you is if you’re naked and on your knees with a gag in your mouth.

Unless you intend to gag me, you’re unlikely to be able to shut me up.” “You would definitely be gagging, Witchling,” he growled, and the bolt that shot through me was one of shock.

I gasp. I feel it like a knife in the back. My mind betrays my body. The reality of him touching me. Of him touching my back fat and my overflowing waistline, it makes me want to gag.

Is my cock too big for you?” I ask, wiping a tear off her cheek as she gags on me again. “I’ll tell you a secret: it will be too big everywhere. But we’ll make it fit, won’t we, baby?

Oh my God, dude,” he whispered, leaning to look at the living room a moment then back up, his face crimped. “She puked all over me while…” Sade’s brows raised. “While what? I’m not going to guess man.” He moved his finger in and out of his mouth then made a gagging sound, causing Sade to wince in disgust. “Yeah, man. Was fucking nasssstyyyy. Then she like passes out.

So, what's the plan for today?" If he asked for the whole day's plan he couldn't get in Slayde's way, right? "It's Wednesday. Wednesday is library day and I promised we could eat lunch at the park. Then someone told me they wanted macaroni and cheese for supper." He looked at the kids. "It wasn't me." He gave Christian a wink. "No. Me," answered Christian. "With hot dogs in it." Oh, gag. "Isn't that nice." Maybe Slayde would let him order them something for the grown-ups. Christian nodded, grinned. "Macamaronis and hot dogs! Yay!" The girls cheered. "Yay!

Calais took all of a fraction of a second—I've yet to learn how to gauge his speed—to appear beside me, taking the alarm clock and shutting it down. Then he worked on my bonds, leaving my gag for last because he wanted to sneak in a kiss. Which he did. Too bad I was too annoyed and cramped to respond, so I just made like a limp doll that made a face at him while he got all Romeo on me.

She smiles at me, pretty little Darling girl. I want to drive her to the floor and shove my dick in her mouth, watch her gag on it. I am not a nice man. I am a worse king. I can pretend though, for now.

Things I Used to Get Hit For: Talking back. Being smart. Acting stupid. Not listening. Not answering the first time. Not doing what I’m told. Not doing it the second time I’m told. Running, jumping, yelling, laughing, falling down, skipping stairs, lying in the snow, rolling in the grass, playing in the dirt, walking in mud, not wiping my feet, not taking my shoes off. Sliding down the banister, acting like a wild Indian in the hallway. Making a mess and leaving it. Pissing my pants, just a little. Peeing the bed, hardly at all. Sleeping with a butter knife under my pillow. Shitting the bed because I was sick and it just ran out of me, but still my fault because I’m old enough to know better. Saying shit instead of crap or poop or number two. Not knowing better. Knowing something and doing it wrong anyway. Lying. Not confessing the truth even when I don’t know it. Telling white lies, even little ones, because fibbing isn’t fooling and not the least bit funny. Laughing at anything that’s not funny, especially cripples and retards. Covering up my white lies with more lies, black lies. Not coming the exact second I’m called. Getting out of bed too early, sometimes before the birds, and turning on the TV, which is one reason the picture tube died. Wearing out the cheap plastic hole on the channel selector by turning it so fast it sounds like a machine gun. Playing flip-and-catch with the TV’s volume button then losing it down the hole next to the radiator pipe. Vomiting. Gagging like I’m going to vomit. Saying puke instead of vomit. Throwing up anyplace but in the toilet or in a designated throw-up bucket. Using scissors on my hair. Cutting Kelly’s doll’s hair really short. Pinching Kelly. Punching Kelly even though she kicked me first. Tickling her too hard. Taking food without asking. Eating sugar from the sugar bowl. Not sharing. Not remembering to say please and thank you. Mumbling like an idiot. Using the emergency flashlight to read a comic book in bed because batteries don’t grow on trees. Splashing in puddles, even the puddles I don’t see until it’s too late. Giving my mother’s good rhinestone earrings to the teacher for Valentine’s Day. Splashing in the bathtub and getting the floor wet. Using the good towels. Leaving the good towels on the floor, though sometimes they fall all by themselves. Eating crackers in bed. Staining my shirt, tearing the knee in my pants, ruining my good clothes. Not changing into old clothes that don’t fit the minute I get home. Wasting food. Not eating everything on my plate. Hiding lumpy mashed potatoes and butternut squash and rubbery string beans or any food I don’t like under the vinyl seat cushions Mom bought for the wooden kitchen chairs. Leaving the butter dish out in summer and ruining the tablecloth. Making bubbles in my milk. Using a straw like a pee shooter. Throwing tooth picks at my sister. Wasting toothpicks and glue making junky little things that no one wants. School papers. Notes from the teacher. Report cards. Whispering in church. Sleeping in church. Notes from the assistant principal. Being late for anything. Walking out of Woolworth’s eating a candy bar I didn’t pay for. Riding my bike in the street. Leaving my bike out in the rain. Getting my bike stolen while visiting Grandpa Rudy at the hospital because I didn’t put a lock on it. Not washing my feet. Spitting. Getting a nosebleed in church. Embarrassing my mother in any way, anywhere, anytime, especially in public. Being a jerk. Acting shy. Being impolite. Forgetting what good manners are for. Being alive in all the wrong places with all the wrong people at all the wrong times.

When I hit the back of your throat, you’ll gag, maybe even feel like you’re choking. Tears are going to run down this pretty little face. And that’s only gonna make me want to fuck you harder, baby girl.

A shadow slammed into the earth before us, cracking the ice toward every horizon. Not a shadow. An Illyrian warrior. Seven red siphons glinted over his scaled black armour as Cassian tucked in his wings and snared at Eris with five centuries worth of rage. Not dead. Not hurt. Whole. His wings repaired and strong. I loosed a shuddering sob over the burning gag. Cassian's Siphons flickered in response, as if the sight of me, at Eris's hand- Another impact struck the ice behind us. Shadows skittered in its wake. Azriel. I began crying in earnest, some leash I'd kept on myself snapping free as my friends landed. As I saw that Azriel, too, was alive, was healed. As Cassian drew twin Illyrian blades, the sight of them like home, and said to Eris with lethal calm, 'I suggest you drop my lady.' Eris's grip on my hair only tightened, wringing a whimper from me. The wrath that twisted Cassian's face was world-ending. But his hazel eyes slid to mine. A silent command. He had spent months training me. Not just to attack, but to defend. Had taught me, over and over, how to get free of a captor's grasp. How to manage not only my body, but my mind. And he'd known that it was a very real possibility that this scenario would one day happen. ... Towering over me, Eris didn't so much as glance down as I twisted, spinning on the ice, and slammed my bound legs up between his. He lurched, bending over with a grunt. Right into the fisted, bound hands I drove into his nose. Bone crunched, and his hand sprang free of my hair. I rolled, scrambling away. Cassian was already there. Eris hardly had time to draw his sword as Cassian brought his own down upon him.

Wanting his mind on other matters, she deliiberately challenged his statement. "You don't know so much about me. There was a man once. He was crazy about me." She tried to look wordly. "Absolutely crazy for me." His answering laughter was warm against her neck, her throat. His lips touched the skin over her pulse and skimmed lightly up to her ear. "Are you, by any chance, referring to that foppish boy with the orange hair and spiked collar? Dragon something?" Savannah gasped and pulled away to glare at im. "How could you possibly know about him? I dated him last year." Gregori nuzzled her neck, inhaling her fragrance, his hand sliding over her shoulder, moving gently over her satin skin to take possession of her breast. "He wore boots and rode a Harley." His breath came out in a rush as his palm cupped the soft weight, his thumb brushing her nipple into a hard peak. The feel of his large hand-so strong, so warm and possessive on her-sent heat curling through her body. Desire rose sharply. He was seducing her with tenderness. Savannah didn't want it to happen. Her body felt better, but the soreness was there to remind her where this could all lead. Her hand caught at his wrist. "How did you find out about Dragon?" she asked, desperate to distract him, to distract herself. How could he make her body burn for his when she was so afraid of him, of having sex with him? "Making love," he corrected, his voice husky, caressing, betraying the ease with which his mind moved like a shadow through hers."And to answer your question, I live in you, can touch you whenever I wish.I knew about all of them. Every damn one." He growled the worrds, and her breath caught in her throat. "He was the only one you thought of kissing." His mouth touched hers. Gently. Lightly. Returned for more. Coaxing, teasing, until she opened to him. He stole her breath, her reason, whirling her into a world of feeling.Bright colors and white-hot heat, the room falling away until there was only his broad shoulders,strong arms, hard body, and perfect,perfect mouth. When he lifted his head, Savannah nearly pulled him back to her.He watched her face,her eyes cloudy with desire, her lips so beautiful, bereft of his. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Savannah? There is such beauty in your soul,I can see it shining in your eyes." She touched his face, her palm molding his strong jaw. Why couldn't she resist his hungry eyes? "I think you're casting a spell over me. I can't remember what we were talking about." Gregori smiled. "Kissing." His teeth nibbled gently at her chin. "Specifically,your wanting to kiss that orange-bearded imbecile." "I wanted to kiss every one of them," she lied indignantly. "No,you did not.You were hoping that silly fop would wipe my taste from your mouth for all eternity." His hand stroked back the fall of hair around her face.He feathered kisses along the delicate line of her jaw. "It would not have worked,you know.As I recall,he seemed to have a problem getting close to you." Her eyes smoldered dangerously. "Did you have anything to do with his allergies?" She had wanted someone, anyone,to wipe Gregori's taste from her mouth,her soul. He raised his voice an octave. "Oh, Savannah, I just have to taste your lips," he mimicked. Then he went into a sneezing fit. "You haven't ridden until you've ridden on a Harley,baby." He sneezed, coughed, and gagged in perfect imitation. Savannah pushed his arm, forgetting for a moment her bruised fist. When it hurt, she yelped and glared accusingly at him. "It was you doing all that to him! That poor man-you damaged his ego for life. Each time he touched me, he had a sneezing fit." Gregori raised an eyebrow, completely unrepentant. "Technically,he did not lay a hand on you.He sneezed before he could get that close.

I lick my lips, imagining the thickness of it sliding down my throat, making me gag as he forces each thrust, silencing my cries, robbing me of air as he slaps me across the face and growls at me to take every inch.

Look, I’ll tell you what I do, but you won’t believe me.” … “Given that I just found you bound and gagged, my mind is somewhat more receptive than it might normally be.” “Well then, here’s the deal,” Krystal said as she sat down next to me. “Everything you think you know about monsters is a lie. Ghouls, ghosts, werewolves and more are real and hiding out behind the scenes in our world. Officially, they are known as parahumans.

Lark took me in one hand, then smiled and licked the bead of precum from the head of my dick. “I want it. I want every inch of you.” “Is that right? You want me so deep you gag and then I feed you another inch?” “Yes.

What made him most anxious, he told me, was not the big questions -the mercilessness of fate, the possibility of heaven. He was too exhausted, he said, to wrestle with those. But he'd become impatient with the way people wasted their lives, squandered their chances like paychecks. I sat on the bed, massaging his temples, pretending that just the right rubbing might draw out the disease. In the mirror I watched us both -Mr. Pucci, frail and wasted, a talking dead man. And myself with a surgical mask over my mouth, to protect him from me. "The irony," he said, "... is that now that I'm this blind man, it's clearer to me now then it's ever been before. What's the line? 'Was blind but now I see...' " He stopped and put his lips to the plastic straw. Juice went halfway up the shaft, then back down again. He motioned the drink away. "You accused me of being a saint a while back, pal, but you were wrong. Gary and I were no different. We fought ...said terrible things to each other. Spent one whole weekend not speaking to each other because of a messed-up phone message... That time we separated was my idea. I thought, well, I'm fifty years old and there might be someone else out there. People waste their happiness -that's what makes me sad. Everyone's so scared to be happy." "I know what you mean," I said. His eyes opened wider. For a second he seemed to see me. "No you don't," he said. "You mustn’t. He keeps wanting to give you his love, a gift out and out and you dismiss it. Shrug it off because you're afraid." "I'm not afraid. It's more like ..." I watched myself in the mirror above the sink. The mask was suddenly a gag. I listened. "l'll give you what I learned from all this," he said. "Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love.

Having adventures,” I replied. “Episode III of ‘The Perils of Pamela.’ ” I told her the whole story. She gave vent to a deep sigh when I finished. “Why do these things always happen to you?” she demanded plaintively. “Why does no one gag me and bind me hand and foot?” “You wouldn’t like it if they did,” I assured her. “To tell you the truth, I’m not nearly so keen on having adventures myself as I was. A little of that sort of thing goes a long way.

I don’t know why but I hate that he’s fully dressed and I’m naked. It makes me feel vulnerable. Which is stupid. The man has tied me up, gagged me, blindfolded me, and taken away my air. Not sure why clothes matter all of a sudden.

That time we separated was my idea. I thought, well, I'm fifty years old and there might be someone else out there. People waste their happiness -that's what makes me sad. Everyone's so scared to be happy." "I know what you mean," I said. His eyes opened wider. For a second he seemed to see me. "No you don't," he said. "You mustn’t. He keeps wanting to give you his love, a gift out and out and you dismiss it. Shrug it off because you're afraid." "I'm not afraid. It's more like ..." I watched myself in the mirror above the sink. The mask was suddenly a gag. I listened. "l'll give you what I learned from all this," he said. "Accept what people offer. Drink their milkshakes. Take their love.

Haven’t you noticed, Maya? Is it really possible you haven’t noticed?” “Noticed what?” I play along. He takes my hands across the table. “How you’ve captured me.” Oh, fucking gag me with a wet rag. “Did you write that line, or did you have help?

When she opened up that closet and found you cowering in the corner, what did she do? You're still alive, aren't you? You're still wearing that sacrilegious getup. What did Ashley do that you were so fucking afraid of?' Villarde only lowered his head. 'You can't even say it, can you?' Villarde opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then he gasped, a bizarre gagging sound that prompted disgust to flood through me. He was, without doubt, one of the most wretched beings I'd ever laid eyes on. 'She pulled me to my feet,' he whispered. 'And she...' 'She what?' shouted Hopper. 'She...' Villarde was crying. 'There's really nothing more terrifying - " 'WHAT?' 'She told me she...forgave me.' The words were so fragile and unexpected, no one spoke.

You can't write things like that to me—bound and gagged in a crate. (Were you serious or was it a joke?) That scares me...you scare me...I am completely caught up in your spell, considering a lifestyle with you that I didn't even know existed until last week, and then you write something like that and I want to run screaming into the hills. I won't, of course, because I'd miss you. Really miss you. I want us to work, but I am terrified of the depth of feeling I have for you and the dark path you're leading me down.

Nothing, not even making love, had ever arrived me to my own body like growing another person. It was primal, physical, the sensations that became new to me. I would wake up and brush my teeth, and the moment the toothbrush touched my tongue I would begin to gag.

So why don’t you eat meat, Cam?” Jeremiah asked, stuffing half his burger into his mouth. Cam swallowed his water and said, “I’m morally opposed to eating animals.” Jeremiah nodded seriously. “But Belly eats meat. You let her kiss you with those lips?” Then he cracked up. Susannah and my mother exchanged a knowing kind of smile. I could feel my face getting hot, and I could feel how tense Cam was beside me. “Shut up, Jeremiah.” Cam glanced at my mother and laughed uneasily. “I don’t judge people who choose to eat meat. It’s a personal choice.” Jeremiah continued, “So you don’t mind when her lips touch dead animal and then touch your, um, lips?” Susannah chuckled lightly and said, “Jere, give the guy a break.” “Yeah, Jere, give the guy a break,” I said, glaring at him. I kicked him under the table, hard. Hard enough to make him flinch. “No, it’s fine,” Cam said. “I don’t mind at all. In fact-“ Then he pulled me to him and kissed me quickly, right in front of everyone. It was only a peck, but it was embarrassing. “Please don’t kiss Belly at the dinner table,” said Jeremiah, gagging a little for effect. “You’re making me nauseous.” My mother shook her head at him and said, “Belly’s allowed to kiss.” Then she pointed her fork at Cam. “But that’s it.” She burst out laughing like it was the funniest thing she’d ever said, and Susannah tried not to smile and told her to hush. I wanted to kill my mother and then myself. “Mom, please. You’re so not funny,” I said. “No more wine for Mom.” I refused to look anywhere near Jeremiah’s direction, or Cam’s, for that matter.

How do you gag the voice in your head that says, 'You don't have to go to the gym today. There's always tomorrow. C'mon, my friend, it's just one plate of curly fries. Yes, just for you!' (My inner voice reminds me of a particularly aggressive rug salesman at a Turkish bazaar.)

Mirror mirror on the wall, you don't know me well at all. Took my number, said you'd call. I tied that line up gag and all. What you see is what you get. Don't reach out to try to pet my wild kind of intellect. It can't be tamed by hand or net. Retrospect. Are we there yet?

I push my ragged mouth against the mirror. A thousand bleeding, crusted lips push back. What does it feel like to walk in a new skin? Was she completely sensitive like a baby, or numb, without nerve endings, just walking in a skin bag? I exhale and my mouth disappears in a fog. I feel like my skin has been burned off. I stumble from thornbush to thornbush—my mother and father who hate each other, Rachel who hates me, a school that gags on me like I’m a hairball. And Heather.   I just need to hang on long enough for my new skin to graft. Mr. Freeman thinks I need to find my feelings. How can I not find them? They are chewing me alive like an infestation of thoughts, shame, mistakes. I squeeze my eyes shut. Jeans that fit, that’s a good start. I have to stay away from the closet, go to all my classes. I will make myself normal. Forget the rest of it.

I wasn’t sure when he’d moved closer, but his hand on the back of my neck made me startle. I looked up into his unspeakably fond eyes. I could look into those eyes forever. Sappy. Oh, God, the sap is thick enough to choke on. My lips curved upward slightly as even my inner romantic gagged. Guess I’d been suppressing my feelings for him for a long time. I should be forgiven for being sappy enough to make good maple syrup. It didn’t seem to matter whether he returned those feelings or not. Without the animosity and jealousy, I’d found there was just…Ethan. And that was the very best excavation I’d ever done.

Once unpacked, I saw my family downstairs. Each step released something spidery inside me: the sick-making terror of need. Needing the accumulative, impervious love of being forced to eat all your broccoli even when it is making you retch and gag to put it in your mouth. The love of the TV being turned off past eleven. The love of being asked to say hello to the dog over the telephone. I’d always seen my mum and aunt from knee height, never quite managed to meet them as equals. It occurred to me how ludicrous it was that families slept in separate bedrooms, not piled on top of one another like lazily sunbathing lions.

A comfortable silence fell over us while we watched the TV, when a foul stench assaulted my nose. I almost gagged. “Jesus. Was that you?” Kira sat up, pushing me off him. “It was you! Fucking hell, Matt. What did you eat today?” Then Oscar yawned and stretched out on the rug on the floor, looking rather pleased with himself.

But I know I’m fine. Still here in this chair, talking my head off, thanks to these drugs. Then I remember the things I just said and wince. What the hell, Blake? Talk about the Kindred, fine. Talk about Marcus, Bas, and Jode. Talk about anything but her. I want the gag back. Someone needs to unshackle me so I can punch myself.

Thanks," Jack said. "My car's back at the store.If we can just make it there." Will noticed me for the first time. "Hey. A girl." He studied my face for a moment, and then he gasped and stopped walking. "Nikki Beckett. You'd better get out of here before my brother sees you.He'd freak." "And,we're walking," Jack said, heaving Will forward. "Oh,hey,Jack.Didn't see you there." Will smiled again,undisturbed. His eyes glazed over and he seemed to have forgotten all about me. Jack looked at me around the slumping head of his brother. "Will was wounded. And discharged." Will swung his head around to face me. "They expected me to wear pants!" He prayed the last word across my face, and I gagged at his foul breath. "Like,all the time...It was so hot." He stared at me again. "Hey, you look familiar.Hey,Jack,'member that girl-?" "Yes," Jack interrupted. "You know,the one who totally messed you up-" "Yes," Jack cut him off again. His eyes met mine,and he gave me an apologetic grin. I felt my own lips turning up.

The famous Northern reticence, the tight gag of place And times: yes, yes. Of the "wee six" I sing Where to be saved you only must save face And whatever you say, you say nothing. Smoke-signals are loud-mouthed compared with us: Manoeuvrings to find out name and school, Subtle discrimination by addresses With hardly an exception to the rule That Norman, Ken and Sidney signalled Prod And Seamus (call me Sean) was sure-fire Pape. O land of password, handgrip, wink and nod, Of open minds as open as a trap, Where tongues lie coiled, as under flames lie wicks, Where half of us, as in a wooden horse Were cabin'd and confined like wily Greeks, Besieged within the siege, whispering morse.

Pinky Lumbers caught fire quicker than steak on a barbecue. He heaved and squirmed tryin' to scream, but his mouth was too crammed with bed sheet, so instead he just gagged. But his struggles didn't last long, and Honey and me, we just stood there and watched his flesh fold over on itself stinking like bad pork . . . -----From "Wood River Honey

Let me first establish—on your behalf—feelings of animosity and disgust at the mendacity inherent in this concept of "cartoon." Whenever someone hits you with a conversational shot that is crude or is intended to hurt, and you bristle, the shooter quickly throws up his/her hands and tries to get you to believe, "I was only kidding. It was all in fun. Boy, are you overreacting. You musn't take it seriously, it was just a joke." Well, we know it wasn't any such thing. It was a snippet of truth slipping past the cultural safeguards that keep us dealing with one another with civility. It was for real. Similarly, when such films as Streets of Fire and Gremlins and Temple of Doom are made, we are expected to take them seriously enough to plonk down five bucks for a ticket. When they fail to deliver what they've promised in all those tv clips, and we express our anger at having been fleeced, the shooters tell us we're overreacting and we should feel a lot better about losing our five or ten or whatever amount they got out of us, because it was all a gag. I wonder how well they'd take the gag if we paid for the tickets with counterfeit bills. Or pried open the firedoor at the theater and sneaked in with the entire Duke University Marching Band. "It was all a joke, fellahs; don't take it so seriously; gawd, are you overreacting!" No, they cannot have that cake and eat it, too.

Mr. Duwitt taught me math. He was an older man, and when he leaned over to show me how to work an equation, the smell of smoke and tobacco on his body was so pungent, it made me gag. His famous expression was “The mind boggles,” as in, “Derek, you can learn a complicated dance routine yet not figure out a simple simultaneous equation. The mind boggles!

think I am? Smothered in fancy furs? The food churned in my stomach. I gagged. I ran to her backyard and threw it all up. Out she came. Look at what he did. Thrun up his First Communion breakfast. Thrun up the body and blood of Jesus. I have God in me backyard. What am I goin’ to do? I’ll take him to the Jesuits for they know the sins of the Pope himself.

After Dad died, I told myself I wouldn’t be one of those bratty kids who made it difficult for their single parent to date someone else, or to find love with someone else or whatever. I wouldn’t be an obstacle to my mother’s happiness. It’s just that…well, I was operating under the assumption that she loved my dad, that they were made for each other, so she probably wouldn’t find anyone else anyway. Now I feel that Grom had intruded on their relationship the entire time. That maybe they could have loved each other if it weren’t for him. And somehow I feel that since Mom and Dad didn’t love each other, then I’m less…important. That I’m the result of an accident that is still complicating the lives of people I love. I also hate that I’m allowing myself to have a pity party when clearly bigger things than myself are happening. Feel free to grow up at any time, Emma. Preferably before you push away people you love. Grom retracts his hand from Mom’s mouth, and uses his fingertips to caress her cheek. My new and improved grown-up self tries not to think Gag me, but I accidentally think it anyway.

Could have been, mind you. And that's one big mother of a conditional. Because who's to say she wanted me in the same way? After all, she left me, didn't she? Maybe I didn't try too hard to get her to stay but what words are there for begging? Please? Don't go, honey? They're crippled halfwits, those sentences, and besides, who uses a lot of words in a friendship anyway? You run out of things to say pretty early on, that's my experience. Sure, you start off thick enough, so many words you could gag on them. The facts, and the sentences - and the sticky tears. Out it comes, out it all comes, the fat story of your life but before you know it you've talked your guts out and there's nothing left to say. You go to her, to confide, and choke up air.

Nothing she says or does would surprise me.” Gideon faced the helm once more, putting his back to Barnaby. He wasn’t about to go anywhere near Sara again, not the way he was feeling now. Let Barnaby deal with her today. “Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean it’s nothing to worry about. You’ve got more schooling than I have, but isn’t Lysistrata the play where the women refuse to have relations with their husbands until the men agree to stop going to war?” With a groan, Gideon clenched the wheel. Lysistrata was among the many words of literature his father had forced down his throat once he was old enough to read. “Yes. But don’t try to tell me she’s teaching them that. It’s Greek, for god’s sake. They wouldn’t understand a word, even if she knew it well enough to recite it.” “She knows it well enough to give them a free translation, I assure you. When I left her she was telling them the story with great enthusiasm.” Barnaby reached for the helm when Gideon swung away from it with an oath. “I should never have taken her aboard,” he grumbled as he strode for the ladder. “I should have sent her back to England gagged and bound!

It takes it out of you, writing with heart. And it was just for me really. Sort of a confirmation to myself that my inner diva can still make love to the keyboard when she’s in the mood. I have to keep her roped and gagged when I’m writing for the newspapers. They don’t like her at all. They don’t want love. They want a quick tryst in a motel room that’s forgotten in a few hours.

they told me of color, that it was an illusion of the eye, an event in the perceiver’s mind, not in the object; they told me that color had no reality; indeed, they told me that color did not inhere in a physical body any more than pain was in a needle. And then they imprisoned me in darkness; and though there was no color there, I still was black, and they still were white; and for that, they bound and gagged me.

No, if I wanted to force you to spend time with me, I’d tie you up and keep you in my room like a good little pet.” He leans in, his eyes gleaming. “I’d cut off your clothes and make you kneel at my feet as I did my homework, with a gag in your mouth and your wrists bound behind your back. Maybe I’d put a vibrator in your pussy and watch you squirm and see how far I could push you before you begged for just a little more… pressure.

I made a gagging motion, shifted on my feet, then texted again. Me: Seriously! Trapped! And your dick can't be the sick of that python on your arm because that would mean you actually impale women on a daily basis! Colin: Just call me Dracula I frowned. Colin: Get it? The Impaler? Me: Look at that, Basement Dweller can joke. He's got jokes. Meanwhile I'm going to starve to death in this pantry! Colin: You mean, around all that food?

...it was difficult for me to trust in the medicinal teaching that we must recognize friction and the not-so-good circumstances in life as being life, and that this life is perfect. It was hard to trust, swallow, and keep down this medicine, especially in conjunction with the hatred I had experienced and internalized for most of my life. I gagged on this teaching of the perfect life, as I have seen many others do. It is perfect because it is imperfect.

Bash rocks his hips forward as he drives me down on him, the head of his shaft hitting the back of my throat. I gag. He pulls out and I suck in a deep breath. Pan says behind me, “Don’t go easy on her, Bash. She wanted it, make her take it.” “Who am I to deny what the king demands?” Bash nudges me back, then rises to his feet. He slaps me in the face with his cock and I gasp in surprise. “Don’t stop, Darling. Go on.” He’s smiling at me, amber eyes bright.

When he meets my eyes, his expression is anguished. He cannot help me. I fight as they press me down to the floor. Bite when they try to pry open my mouth. But it's all for nothing. Two soldiers hold my wrists, and a third hooks a barbed instrument through the end of my tongue. He pulls it taut. Then a fourth begins slicing through it with a curved dagger. The sharp, searing pain makes me want to cry out, but I cannot with my tongue nailed in place. My mouth goes from dry from being held open to full of blood. Flooded with it. Gagging. Drowning. I choke as they release me, the scream dying in my throat. Scarlet flows over my chin. When I move, flecks of red fly. The pain swallows me whole so that I barely can concentrate, but I know I am losing too much blood. It spills from between my lips, slicks my neck, stains the collar of my dress. This is going to kill me. I am going to die, here on the ice floor of the Citadel.

I didn’t answer. I walked toward her slowly, trying hard to believe that the hate coursing through my body really did not belong to me. “Did your little friends think I would talk to you? Spill all my secrets because you carry a gagged and lobotomized soul around in your head, reflecting through your eyes?” She laughed abrasively. I stopped two long strides away from her, my body tensed to run. She made no aggressive move toward me, but I could not relax my muscles.

Coming,” he warns. I stick with him until the end this time. The first hot spurt hits my tongue, the second goes to the back of my throat, triggering my gag reflex. I breathe through my nose and swallow, my heart pounding as my best friend gasps through the orgasm. That wasn’t…bad. The taste of him is strangely appealing. I indulge in one more lick before allowing him to pull out. He collapses beside me, his head resting on my shoulder. We both release a sated sigh, then laugh.

Bitch" Now, when he and I meet, after all these years, I say to the bitch inside me, don’t start growling. He isn’t a trespasser anymore, Just an old acquaintance tipping his hat. My voice says, “Nice to see you,” As the bitch starts to bark hysterically. He isn’t an enemy now, Where are your manners, I say, as I say, “How are the children? They must be growing up.” At a kind word from him, a look like the old days, The bitch changes her tone; she begins to whimper. She wants to snuggle up to him, to cringe. Down, girl! Keep your distance Or I’ll give you a taste of the choke-chain. “Fine, I’m just fine,” I tell him. She slobbers and grovels. After all, I am her mistress. She is basically loyal. It’s just that she remembers how she came running Each evening, when she heard his step; How she lay at his feet and looked up adoringly Though he was absorbed in his paper; Or, bored with her devotion, ordered her to the kitchen Until he was ready to play. But the small careless kindnesses When he’d had a good day, or a couple of drinks, Come back to her now, seem more important Than the casual cruelties, the ultimate dismissal. “It’s nice to know you are doing so well,” I say. He couldn’t have taken you with him; You were too demonstrative, too clumsy, Not like the well-groomed pets of his new friends. “Give my regards to your wife,” I say. You gag As I drag you off by the scruff, Saying, “Goodbye! Goodbye! Nice to have seen you again.

Two inches to the left, and it would have severed your femoral artery.” Devin glares at him. “You would have bled out.” My son’s blue eyes meet mine as he smirks, and I shake my head. That’s a boy in love. “You know your mother once stabbed me.” I chuckle at the memory. His lips pull back with disgust. “Gross, Dad. I don’t want to know about any kinks you and Mom have.” “You know they say sexual fetishes are hereditary,” I add. He makes a gagging sound, and Devin just laughs.

It ascended by levels: Da's cameo recessed against the glow of the tuner's parade,the drawer of utensils withdrawn past its fulcrum, the disembodied face of my brother miming and distorting my desperate attempt by expression alone to make Mum look up from me and see him, I no longer feeling my features' movements so much as seeing them on that writhing white face against the pantry's black, the throttle-popped eyes and cheeks ballooning against the gag's restraint, Mum squatting chairside to even my ears, my face before us bother farther and farther from my own control as I saw in his twin face what all lolly-smeared hand-held brats must see in the fun-house mirror- the gross and pitiless sameness, the distortion in which there is, tiny, at the center, something cruelly true about the we who leer and woggle at stick necks and and concave skulls, goggling eyes that swell to the edges- as the mimicry ascended reflected levels to become finally the burlesque of a wet hysteria that plastered cut strands to a wet white brow, the strangled man's sobs blocked by cloth, storm's thrum and electric hiss and Da's mutter against the lalation of shears meant for lambs, an unseen fit that sent my eyes upward again and again into their own shocked white, knowing past sight that my twin's face would show the same, to mock it- until the last refuge was slackness, giving up the ghost completely for a blank sack gagged mask's mindless stare-un seen and seeing- into a mirror I could not know or feel myself without. No not ever again.

perhaps from most people’s perspective, there were no signs of illness or struggle written across my forehead. I brought the act to law school, diligently planned and orchestrated the disguise, playing the part of the perfect young woman I wanted so badly to be. It never transformed me into healthy again, but it kept my dignity high, even when I was sweating, gagging, and terrorized by my hidden side of life. I wiped away the spit, sweat and tears in the bathroom. I fooled them all, but I was also fooling myself.

About me as a drinker: I wasn't much of one and had a short, bad history of doing it. The few times I'd tried drinking I either became too much like myself or not enough, but either way it was always calamity on top of calamity and I found myself saying way too much about too little and doing the wrong things in the wrong places. Once, at my boss's Christmas party, I passed out for a minute - passed out but still, like a zombie, remained fully ambulatory and mostly functional - and when I came to, I found myself in my boss's kitchen, the refrigerator door open and me next to it at the counter, spreading mayonnaise onto two slices of wheat bread and licking the knife after each pass before I stuck it back in the jar. I heard someone cough or gag, looked up, and saw the kitchen's population staring at me, all of their mouths open and slack, obviously wondering what I thought I was doing, exactly, and all I could think to say was, "Sandwich." Which is what I said. And then, to prove my point, whatever the point was, I ate it. The sandwich, that is.

Sleep claimed her eventually. She slept heavily, welcoming the escape. But some time later, while it was still very dark, she found herself struggling upward through layers of dreams. Someone or something was in the room. Her first thought was that it might be Beatrix's ferret, who sometimes slipped past the door to collect objects that intrigued him. Rubbing her eyes, Win began to sit up, when there was a movement beside the bed. A large shadow crossed over her. Before bewilderment could give way to fear, she heard a familiar murmur, and felt a man's warm fingers press across her lips. "It's me." Her lips moved soundlessly against his hand. "Kev." Win's stomach constricted with an ache of pleasure, and her heartbeat hammered in her throat. But she was still angry with him, she was done with him, and if he had come here for a midnight talk, he was sadly mistaken. She started to tell him so, but to her astonishment, she felt a thick piece of cloth descend over her mouth, and then he was tying it deftly behind her head. In a few more seconds, he had bound her wrists in front of her. Win was rigid with shock. Merripen would never do something like this. And yet it was him; she would know him if only by the touch of his hands. What did he want? What was going through his mind? His breath was faster than usual as it brushed against her hair. Now that her vision had adjusted to the darkness, she saw that his face was hard and austere. Merripen drew the ruby ring off her finger and set it off the bedside table. Taking her head in his hands, he stared into her wide eyes. He said only two words. But they explained everything he was doing, and everything he intended to do. "You're mine." He picked her up easily, draping her over one powerful shoulder, and he carried her from the room. Win closed her eyes, yielding, trembling. She pressed a few sobs against the gag covering her mouth, not of unhappiness or fear, but of wild relief. This was not an impulsive act. This was ritual. This was an ancient Romany courtship rite, and there would be nothing half-hearted about it. She was going to be kidnapped and ravished. Finally.

But that wasn’t the most disturbing thing about it. “It’s naked. Like really naked,” I said, reaching for my blades. “I can see that.” “Like I can’t unsee this, Zayne. It’s really supernaked,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t focus. Oh my God. Everything is just dangling out there for the world to see.” “Would you stop pointing it out, please and thank you?” “But why is it naked? Is there no clothing in Hell?” I thought that was a valid question. “Maybe it wanted to impress you.” I gagged. “I’m going to puke.” “Try not to do it on me.

TASTE TOMBS My death is god's, how will it salt me? Final sunburn or the gag of candy My hair is god's and when it goes to dust The worms will bone their ghostdicks in my scalp And I've been told I have bats in my throat Get ready for the night shriek when I puke them up Another kind of death more spiral than the dust An ego death where I should start my life But I don't want any deaths And I don't want any lives I want to hunt phantasms in the smeared skies Give Orion my thighs Give my blood to the light Never having been And so forever born in cosmic leaves

Well, whatever his name is. I still don’t like him.” His voice is rough and his bright brown eyes pierce straight through me. Tell me why you don’t like him. Tell me it’s because you’re jealous he kissed me and you haven’t. Tell me you want to. Want me. “Gag,” Nina says with a groan. “Would you two just kiss and be done with it already?” Darren and I gape at her. Fire creeps up my neck, and I press my body against the window, as far from Darren as possible. “I thought you were asleep,” Darren says to her. “With the both of you whining like children? Please,” she huffs.

Uh-uh,” Della told him. “You need to fix this—now. Do you really want the Black Swan to see what you’ve done?” Keefe shrugged and grabbed a pastry from one of the platters in the center of the table. “They’re walking around crusted with ice and turning their bodies to stone. Cactus head is nothing.” “Okay, let's try this a different way,” Della decided. “If you get to makeover my son, then I get to makeover both of you.” “Works for me,” Keefe said. “I look awesome in everything.” “Tell that to your feet when they spend the rest of the week balancing in my tallest heels,” Della told him. “Okay . . . forget that.” Dex reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny brown vial. “This will get rid of the green.” “Thank you.” Della rumpled Dex’s hair as he gave the vial to Fitz. Fitz downed it in one gulp, gagging at the taste. “No more pranks,” Della said, wagging a finger at all three boys. “Or—what if Fitz looks normal, but doesn’t smell very good?” Keefe asked. Biana giggled. Della sighed. “What am I going to do with you, Keefe?” “I hear the Lord of the Universe title is up for grabs. Unless Foster’s trying to snatch it.” “All yours.” Sophie had enough responsibility already.

We had sex in your bathroom during my party!” Sloane gaped at Dex who clamped his hands over his mouth, as if doing so might miraculously take back what he’d just blurted out. Ash’s words echoed Sloane’s thoughts. “What. The. Fuck! You had sex in my bathroom?” Ash went from flabbergasted to disgust in point five seconds. “Oh my God. Please tell me you didn’t jizz on my towels.” Dex held a hand up in promise. “I swear we didn’t jizz on your towels.” “Why should I believe you?” “Would it ease your mind if I told you I jizzed in Sloane’s mouth?” Sloane and Ash groaned at the same time. Just when he thought this day couldn’t get any more ridiculous. He should have known, really. “No. No, it doesn’t ease my mind. I’m going to have fucking nightmares for the rest of my life! I have to buy all new towels. Bleach the whole fucking place.” Ash shook his head, seeming unable to accept it. “My bathroom, man. You fucked in my bathroom.” He made a gagging sound, and Dex opened his mouth, but Sloane put his hand to it before his partner could say anything to make things worse because with Ash and Dex in the same room, things could always get worse. “Dex, can you wait downstairs. Please.” Dex

Am I sealed in your memory now?” she said, sluggish. “As someone who hurt you?” The words caught in her throat like she was gagging on them. “The sounds you made, I can’t forget--” She was crying. Half-drunk, too, from the painkiller, but still, crying. He didn’t remember the sounds he’d made when she touched him--when Vas forced her to touch him, that was, torturing them both. But he knew she had felt everything he had felt. That was how her gift worked, sending pain both ways. “No, no,” Akos said. “What he did, he did to both of us.” Her hand came to rest against his sternum, like she was going to push him away, and then she didn’t. She brushed her fingers over his collarbone, and even through his shirt he felt how warm she was. “But now you know what I’ve done,” she said, staring at her hand, at his chest, anywhere but his face. “Before, you had only seen me do it to other people, but now you know the kind of pain I have caused people, so many people, just because I was too much of a coward to stand up to him.” She scowled, and lifted her hand. “Getting you out was the one good thing I’ve ever done, and now it’s not even worth anything, because here you are again, you…you idiot!

Touch me again and you’ll lose your hand.” His hand lit on fire and scorched the shoulder of my shirt. “Oops,” Malum said like a mean girl before he released me. “Great.” I mimed gagging. “Now I have chlamydia.” “That’s not how that works.” “Sounds like something someone with chlamydia would say.” “Can we just go fucking eat?” Scorpius sighed as he grabbed the seething king and led us toward food. Did Malum have a sexual disease? I had no clue. Did I kneel before my bed and pray to the sun god that Malum was riddled with sexual diseases? Every single night. No one could say I wasn’t pious.

You've been quiet, lass. Are you alive back there?' All she could do was grunt with exasperation through the tight gag that was pressing down on her tongue. 'Aye, I know.' He nodded, as if he had understood every word. 'I was thinking about removing it, but something tells me you've been working up a mountain of complaints, so if it's all the same to you, I'll wait till we're somewhere more remote before I release that mouth of yours, so no one will hear your screeching.' 'I won't screech,' she tried to say, but it came out as a muffled grumble. 'What was that? You think I'm very wise? Aye, I think so, too.

I cut off a piece of meatball dripping with sauce. I tried to make my face right. I tried to smile and not grimace, tried to close my eyes in delight , not panic; tried to swallow, not gag. They watched me like hawks. 'Delicious,' I said, still chewing. They tasted like salt and shit and gristle. 'As good as you remember?' 'Better.' I got through two. I drank a lot of water. I broke them down into fractions of themselves, sixteen more to go, fourteen more, eight, one. In my head I said sorry to grandad, and to the lamb or pig or mixture of creatures I was eating. I put my knife and fork together with four of them still swimming on my plate.

Mendax walked over to where Eli sat bound and gagged. Embarrassment reddened my cheeks when I realized he had been so close and angled against the chair so he couldn’t look away as Mendax and I fucked. The ribbon of smoke was removed from his mouth as Mendax stood over him with a smile. “I’ll ki—” But it was all Aurelius got out the second his mouth was free before Mendax cut him off by roughly grasping Eli’s jaw, wrenching it open, and smearing his cum-soaked hand aggressively onto Eli’s face, shoving him backward with the force. “Have a taste of that too, sunshine. Taste me all over her now? That’s the only way it’ll ever be from now on, so fuck off.

I wished Adam weren’t jumping in for his turn. Because watching Adam wakeboard was not relaxing. He wasn’t careful when wakeboarding. Or in general. He was the opposite of careful. His life was one big episode of Jackass. He would do anything on a dare, so the older boys dared him a lot. My role in this game was to run and tell their mom. If I’d been able to run faster when we were kids, I might have saved Adam from a broken arm, several cracked ribs, and a couple of snake bites. Knowing this, it might not make a lot of sense that Mr. Vader let us wakeboard for the marina. But we’d come to wakeboarding only gradually. When we first started out, it was more like, Look at the very young children on water skis! How adorable. One time the local newspaper ran a photo of me and Adam waterskiing double, each of us holding up an American flag. It’s okay for you to gag now. I can take it. But Mr. Vader was no fool. He understood things changed. After the second time Adam broke his collarbone, Mr. Vader put us under strict orders not to get hurt, because it was bad for business. Customers might not be so eager to buy a wakeboard and all the equipment if they witnessed our watery death. To enforce this rule, the punishment for bleeding in the boat was that we had to clean the boat. Adam cleaned the boat a lot last summer.

Those cries of the executed patriots — “Long live Christ the King! Down with Communism!” — awakened me to a new life as they echoed through the two-hundred-year-old moats of the fortress. The cries became such a potent and stirring symbol that by 1963 the men condemned to death were gagged before being carried down to be shot. The jailers feared those shouts. They could not afford to allow even that last courageous cry from those about to die. That rebellious, defiant gesture at the supreme moment, that show of bravery and integrity by those who were about to die, could easily become a bad example for the soldiers. It might even make them think about what they were doing.

Chase grunts at that, shoving himself up and away. For a moment he looks down at me, flushed and open mouthed. “Suck me.” It’s a demand. “I want to feel your tongue on my cock.” He isn’t gentle. Once I take him in my mouth he twists his fingers in my hair, the hold burning as I tilt my face to see the drop of his head, his eyes closed, his mouth parted to an O. “Fuck.” He shudders, the word hardly a shaping of his heavy breath. “Like that.” He feels so good in my mouth. Hot and hard, too much for me to take into my throat without gagging a little over his length. That makes him grunt, the hard planes of his belly tensing. I can feel his twitching indecision in the movements of his fingers through my hair, torn between the need to hold me close and the need to be inside another part of me. He doesn’t stay indecisive for long. “You want me to fuck you?” His voice is ragged. Yes, yes. I try to tell him with the sweep of my tongue and the hollow of my cheeks, the enthusiastic bob of my head. When Chase grabs me he’s rough. His hands hold tight at my shoulders as he shoves me over, face down on the bed. One fist tugs my hip up as the other braces low over my spine. “Wait,” is a rasped order. I can feel the mattress move as he leans to the bedside drawer, and then there’s the ripping sound of a foil packet torn on his teeth. There’s no warning after that. Only his cock, buried inside of me in one savage thrust. I cry out his name, and everything splinters with too much and yes and the good-ache pain of being opened by him. “Brooke.” It’s grunted at my ear as Chase begins a slow, solid pound into me, each thrust shoving to full sink. It hurts a little. He’s too big. It’s too quick. But god, it’s amazing. “Your pussy feels so good wrapped around my cock. So fucking good.” His fingers find my clit, and it’s all I can do not to cry out with how good it feels. His hips slam against my raised ass as he pounds into me, all that muscle riding me as expertly as he rode the mountains today. “Come.” He bites it at my ear, grinding his cock into me, holding the deepest penetration all the way into my aching core. “Come for me.” He’s starting to pound me again, and where my face is smashed against the pillow I whimper out the too-much-good of it, each slam of his body into mine forcing the breath from my lungs and spiking pleasure along my spine. “Please—please—please—” “Beg me,” Chase growls. “Say you want me. Say you need me inside of you.” “Please. Make me come. Chase. Please. Fuck me.” It’s so much I’m almost sobbing with it. Chase pounds on, relentless, until as I begin to spasm with my orgasm he grunts out his own. My hips pinned in his fingers. His body slammed into mine. Both of us, breaking apart together.

I award you 1 Frank point. Congratulations, you’re finally on the board.” “Frank point? I can’t believe you have a point system. Actually, scratch that: I totally can. How long have you been sitting on this?” “I just made it up about an hour ago. I didn’t feel like scoring you on a ten-point scale left me enough room to articulate how disappointed I am in you as a person.” “Okay, so I’ve got one point,” I said. I pointed a gun at Roly. “What about the big guy over there? What’s he at?” “Roly currently has nine thousand and fifty-six points.” I threw my hands up in the air. “Really? Roly has over nine thousand points? The bug that licks you against your will? That you met, like, hours ago?” “Sure, but Lars said that he literally ate a guy,” Frank said. “We both know you can’t compete with that. And yes, I deducted points for the licking. But at the same time, I’m also not surprised that I’m delicious, so I can’t exactly hold that against him.” I suppressed a gag. “Please don’t refer to yourself as being delicious ever again. What about Darling?” “Darling has 18,600,068 Frank points.” I sighed. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” “She is currently in second place. Truly rarefied air.” “Wait, second place? Who’s winning?” “Me. I thought that would have been obvious.” “It probably should have been. I’m almost afraid to ask, but how many points do you have?” “Ninety trillion and counting. But I’m Frank, so I’m kind of untouchable when it comes to Frank points.

Rauter, some German bigwig, recently gave a speech. “All Jews must be out of the German-occupied territories before July 1. The province of Utrecht will be cleansed of Jews [as if they were cockroaches] between April 1 and May 1, and the provinces of North and South Holland between May 1 and June 1.” These poor people are being shipped off to filthy slaughterhouses like a herd of sick and neglected cattle. But I’ll say no more on the subject. My own thoughts give me nightmares! One good piece of news is that the Labor Exchange was set on fire in an act of sabotage. A few days later the County Clerk’s Office also went up in flames. Men posing as German police bound and gagged the guards and managed to destroy some important documents.

Being with them is every bit as perfect as I imagined. I have both of them. Kinky and wrong and absolutely right in my hand. “Oh, fuck yes,” he curses. “I said eat her out, Carter.” I squeeze his throbbing head, pinching the piercing. “Don’t stop.” His pained growl and her willing mouth nearly push me over the edge. I’m close to blowing my load down Amara’s throat. “Yes.” Carter does as I say, his black hair falling and hiding the top of his eyes. He moans into her pussy. She moans around me. “Come.” My last restraint is about to snap. “Both of you, come.” My command has the three of us making it to the finish line together. I feel his cum shoot out on my hand. She moans and screams as she gags on my cock, swallowing every fucking drop.

and drew her strength directly from our magickal Oklahoma earth. “U-we-tsi-a-ge-ya, it seems I need help at the lavender booth. I simply cannot believe how busy we are.” Grandma had barely spoken when a nun hurried up. “Zoey, Sister Mary Angela could use your help filling out cat adoption forms.” “I’ll help you, Grandma Redbird,” Shaylin said. “I love the smell of lavender.” “Oh, honey, that would be so sweet of you. First, could you run to my car and get into the trunk. There is another box of lavender soaps and sachets tucked back there. Looks like I’m going to sell out completely,” Grandma said happily. “Sure thing.” Shaylin caught the keys Grandma tossed to her and hurried toward the main exit of the school grounds which led to the parking lot, as well as the tree-lined road that joined Utica Street. “And I’ll call my momma. She said just let her know if we get too busy over here. She and the PTA moms will be back here in a sec,” said Stevie Rae. “Grandma, do you mind if I give Street Cats a hand? I’ve been dying to check out their new litter of kittens.” “Go on, u-we-tsi-a-ge-ya. I think Sister Mary Angela has been missing your company.” “Thanks, Grandma.” I smiled at her. Then I turned to Stevie Rae. “Okay, if your mom’s group is coming back, I’m gonna go help the nuns.” “Yeah, no problem.” Stevie Rae, shielding her eyes and peering through the crowd, added, “I see her now, and she’s got Mrs. Rowland and Mrs. Wilson with her.” “Don’t worry. We can handle this,” Shaunee said. “’Kay,” I said, grinning at both of them. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I left the cookie booth and noticed Aphrodite, clutching her big purple Queenies cup, was right on my heels. “I thought you didn’t want a lecture from the nuns.” “Better than a lecture from PTA moms.” She shuddered. “Plus, I like cats more than people.” I shrugged. “Okay, whatever.” We’d only gotten partway to the Street Cats tent when Aphrodite slowed way down. “Seriously. Effing. Pathetic.” She was muttering around her straw, narrowing her eyes, and glaring. I followed her gaze and joined her frown. “Yeah, no matter how many times I see them together, I still don’t get it.” Aphrodite and I had stopped to watch Shaunee’s ex-Twin BFF, Erin, hang all over Dallas. “I really thought she was better than that.” “Apparently not,” Aphrodite said. “Eeew,” I said, looking away from their way too public display of locked lips. “I’m telling you, there’s not enough booze in Tulsa to make watching those two suck face okay.” She made a gagging sound, which changed to a snort and a laugh. “Check out the wimple, twelve o’clock.” Sure enough, there was a nun I vaguely recognized as Sister Emily (one of the more uptight of the nuns) descending on the too-busy-with-their-tongues-to-notice couple. “She looks serious,” I said. “You know, a nun may very well be the direct opposite of an aphrodisiac. This should be entertaining. Let’s watch.” “Zoey! Over here!” I looked from the train wreck about to happen to see Sister Mary Angela waving me over to her.

Michael’s Magical Sweet Potato Muffins WHISK TOGETHER 1 cup dark brown sugar, 1/2 cup oil, 1 running-over teaspoon vanilla, and 2 eggs. Then, in another bowl, mix together 2 cups all-purpose flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/2 teaspoon allspice, and 1/2 teaspoon salt. To that, add 2 big giant sweet potatoes—either baked or boiled—and mashed. I suppose you COULD use canned ones, but it kinda makes me gag to think about. Add your egg/sugar mixture to all of that and stir it up without beating it to death. Put it in greased muffin tins and bake for about 25 to 30 minutes at 350°F. (If you want to, you could add 1/2 cup raisins or 1 cup pecans. I’d go with the pecans—not a big fan of raisins in stuff, but that’s just me.)   Okay—I have got

Is she really old enough to have crushes on boys? I feel like she’s too young for all that.” “I had crushes on boys when I was nine,” I tell him. I’m still thinking about Kitty. I wonder how I can make it so she isn’t mad at me anymore. Somehow I don’t think snickerdoodles will cut it this time. “Who?” Josh asks me. “Who what?” Maybe if I can somehow convince Daddy to buy her a puppy… “Who was your first crush?” “Hmm. My first real crush?” I had kindergarten and first- and second-grade crushes aplenty, but they don’t really count. “Like the first one that really mattered?” “Sure.” “Well…I guess Peter Kavinsky.” Josh practically gags. “Kavinsky? Are you kidding me? He’s so obvious. I thought you’d be into someone more…I don’t know, subtle. Peter Kavinsky’s such a cliché. He’s like a cardboard cutout of a ‘cool guy’ in a movie about high school.” I shrug. “You asked.” “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “Just…wow.” “He used to be different. I mean, he was still very Peter, but less so.” When Josh looks unconvinced, I say, “You’re a boy, so you can’t understand what I’m talking about.” “You’re right. I don’t understand!” “Hey, you’re the one who had a crush on Ms. Rothschild!” Josh turns red. “She was really pretty back then!” “Uh-huh.” I give him a knowing look. “She was really ‘pretty.’” Our across-the-street neighbor Ms. Rothschild used to mow her lawn in terry-cloth short shorts and a string bikini top. The neighborhood boys would conveniently come and play in Josh’s yard on those days. “Anyway, Ms. Rothschild wasn’t my first crush.” “She wasn’t?” “No. You were.

It’s so cute, isn’t it?” Arianna said dreamily. “Are we seeing the same creature? It’s like a demented goat with a bone growth.” “You’re going to hurt its feelings! Now shut up and sit on the ground.” I did as I was told, sticking my ankle out. “How is it going to heal me?” I asked, suddenly nervous. I pictured it licking my ankle and gagged. I could only imagine the diseases unicorn saliva had or what it carried around in its filthy, matted beard and hair. Bleating reproachfully, it stared at me with its doleful, square-pupiled brown eyes. “Oh, fine. Great, glorious unicorn, beloved of oblivious girls everywhere, please heal me. Now, if you don’t mind.” With one last bat of its gunk-crusted eyelashes, it lowered its head and put its stubby horn against my ankle. I cringed, waiting for pain, but felt instead tingling warmth spread out, almost like having butterflies in my stomach. Only in my ankle. Butterflies . . . with rainbows. The feeling of wholeness and well-being spread up my leg and into my entire body, and I couldn’t stop grinning. The forest was beautiful! The tree branches, naked against the brightening sky, held unimaginable wonders. The hard-packed dirt beneath me was a treasure trove of unrealized potential, lovely for what it could eventually give life to. I could sit out here forever and just enjoy nature. I was so happy! And rainbows! Why did I keep thinking of rainbows? Who cared! Rainbows were totally awesome! And the unicorn! I beamed at it, reaching out my hand to stroke it. There was never a creature more beautiful, more majestic. I’d spend the rest of my life out here, and we’d prance around the forest, worship the sunlight, bathe in the moonlight, and . . . I shook my head, scattering the idiotic warm fuzzies that had invaded. “Whoa,” I said, shoving the unicorn’s head away. “That’s enough of that.” I looked down at my ankle, which was now completely healed, not even a scar left. I fixed a stern look on the unicorn. “I am not going to frolic in an eternal meadow of sunshine and moonlight with you, you rotten little fink. But thanks.” I smiled, just enough to be nice without being too encouraging, and patted it quickly on the head. I was going to soak that hand in bleach. “Okay, let’s get out of here.” I stood, testing my ankle and relieved with the utter lack of pain. I still had an irrational desire to do an interpretive dance about rainbows, but it was a small price to pay for being healed.

Nick spreads cream cheese on my bagel for me because it’s hard to do with one hand. You need to hold the bagel and everything. “You are the nicest boyfriend ever,” I tell him and kiss his cheek. “Gag,” Devyn says. “You’re just jealous,” Nick teases him and points his plastic knife at Devyn. “Which is ridiculous because you are the star of the school now that the wheelchair is totally gone. Everyone is talking about you.” “Star of the school?” Devyn asks. He takes a swig of Gatorade. “All the girls.” Nick gestures to the girls giggling behind them. “They like miracles. It’s sexy. Remember how much play Jay Dahlberg got when he came back from being abducted?” He does not add by pixies because he does not have to. “Really?” Devyn does this cheesy and really fake eyebrow wiggle thing so he looks like some sleezy porn dog.

I thought about putting some tobacco dip in his casket. It had been a big part of his life. But since he’d decided to give up dipping a few weeks before…tobacco was out. There was a part of me that wanted the mortician to arrange his fingers so he was flipping people the bird. Chris would have loved that. And many of the people who knew him would have roared at the joke--it was very Chris, a last practical joke. But I’m sure some of the older family members wouldn’t have seen the humor. Discretion won out. Still, I couldn’t send him off without some sort of off-color humor. Profanity and pranking were just too Chris to be ignored. So I went into this closet and found a gag T-shirt, the one that read, DO I LOOK LIKE A @#$#$!@ PEOPLE PERSON? He wore that to his grave under his plaid button-down shirt, a silent last guffaw.

Wyn and Harriet’s version of a comedy of remarriage looks a bit different. Their history is less gags and hijinks, and more quiet failures, small untruths, imagined slights, accumulations of little hurts. And sure, miscommunication. Which we all hate. We hate it so much we’ve come to consider it a trope in itself. Just talk about it, we scream at our books and TVs. But in real life, for many of us, confrontation is terrifying. The thought of telling someone they hurt us, or asking if we’ve hurt them—starting a conversation whose ending we can’t predict—is terrifying. Even if we can’t name the thing we’re so afraid of on the other end. Being rejected? Knowing for certain that the person we care about doesn’t care for us in the same way? Deepening a shallow cut past the point of being able to heal? I think, sometimes, we are simply afraid to need. We’re afraid that if we ask too much, if we bare our tenderest wounds and show our ugliest sides, we’ll find out that we aren’t lovable. That we can only keep the ones we love around us as long as we cost them nothing, create no burden. That, at least I think, is the plight of the people pleaser. And though I set out to write one kind of story (and hopefully, on some level, succeeded!), that’s what Happy Place has really come to be about: the ways in which we fail ourselves, cut ourselves off from true, deep, fulfilling joy by trying to bend ourselves into acceptable shapes. This book, like every novel I’ve written so far, has been a kind of exorcism. It’s helped me look more closely at my own relationships, most especially my relationship to myself, and the ways in which I’ve tended to fail myself.

My wife has been on my tail six weeks with a blackmail gag,” he went on. “She’s here. When I got back to the hotel a little while ago she came into my room and put on an act.” I thought then I knew who Gard’s client was. “She came in this afternoon. She’s got the room next to mine.” He was silent so long that I laughed a little and said: “So what?” “I’ve got to duck, quick,” he went on. “She’s a bad actor. She came into my room and put on an act. She’s got a guy with her that’s supposed to be her brother and he’s a bad actor, too. You said you were going to drive back to LA. I saw your name on the register when I came in and I thought you might take me along. I can’t rent a car here and there isn’t a train till midnight.” He pulled the biggest roll I ever saw out of his pocket and skimmed off a couple notes. “If it’s a question of money …

Nope.' He grabs my hand and places it over his heart. 'I already know the truth. We’re dating.' His eyebrows waggle. 'Exclusively.' 'Gross.' 'Do you want to wear my letterman’s jacket?' 'I’m going to vomit.' '“Should I buy you a corsage?' 'Seriously. Gagging.' 'Okay, no corsage.' He laughs. 'Just the matching tattoos, then?' 'Seriously.' I fight the urge to stomp my foot. 'Let it go, Parker. Let it go.' 'Hey, Elsa, don’t quote Frozen to me unless you’re prepared to listen to the entire soundtrack in my car on the way to Seaport.' I stare up at him. 'I’m not sure whether I should be disturbed or turned on by the fact that you know all the words to Let It Go.' He grins. 'Definitely turned on.' 'Downloaded in your iTunes library, no doubt.' I shake my head. 'This is nearly as disturbing as the time I learned the song A Whole New World from Aladdin is a metaphor for mind-blowing sex.' 'I’m sorry, what?' 'I can open your eyes? Lead you wonder by wonder? Over, sideways, and under?' I snort. 'Come on. That’s basically soft-core porn.' 'Thank you, Zoe, for ruining a beloved Disney classic for me.' 'Anytime.' 'For the record…' He trails off. I wince, anticipating the worst. 'What?' 'I’ll take you on my magic carpet ride any time you want, snookums.' 'Pass.' 'So, that’s a no on rubbing my lamp then?' 'You know, I think I’ll just find my own way to Nate’s…' I turn and start walking to the elevator. 'Oh, come on.' Parker twines his fingers with mine and pushes the call button, humming under his breath. 'I’m a genie in a bottle, baby, gotta rub—' 'AH!' I stare at him in horror as the elevator arrives. 'So help me god if you start singing vintage Christina Aguilera lyrics right now, I will murder you with my bare hands.

The witch was mean. Oddly, Astaroth didn’t find it upsetting. He eyed her profile, amused that someone with the bone structure of a storybook princess had the manners of a feral cat. She was full of contradictions, which made Astaroth want to learn everything about her. “You’d be fearsome on a battlefield, too,” he said. “Eviscerating enemies right and left with that sharp tongue.” “I’m going to eviscerate you with more than my tongue if you don’t shut up and let me drive.” Her lips had quirked at his comment though. Astaroth settled against the seat, satisfied at having provoked the smile from her. “Very well. My vow of silence begins now.” “How long will it last?” she asked. He made a show of considering. “At least . . . two minutes.” Calladia made a stifled snorting sound. “Don’t make me gag you.” “Kinky,” he said, biting his lower lip. “Will you tie me up, too?

So what's going on with you and your boyfriend?" Eli asked me right before he shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth during breakfast the next morning. I made a face in the direction of my plate before shooting a glance upward to find Gordo’s eyes on me, a smirk on his face. "Mason?" I asked, going back to my food. Eli made a gagging noise, elbowing me hard in the ribs. "I'm not gonna go into details on how disturbing it is that I say ‘your boyfriend’ and you automatically think of fucking Mase." "He's always calling me his wife, or telling people I don't know that we're getting married," I replied, elbowing him back as hard as he got me. It was partially the truth… but mostly, I didn’t want to talk about the man who had been kissing my shoulder hours ago. "I love Mase, but it'll be a sunny day in my asshole before you and him get together," he mumbled. I snorted, biting into my biscuit. "Who the heck else would you be talking about?" I asked, but I knew. Oh, I knew damn well he was referring to Sacha. Freaking Gordo snickered from across the table before putting his hands up in surrender when I glared at him. "I didn’t say anything." "Sacha, Flabby. Sacha. Your boyfriend. Your snuggle bug." Eliza finally answered. Suddenly the half-eaten biscuit on my plate needed to be eaten immediately. I shoved the entire piece into my mouth to avoid the conversation my brother was trying to edge into. I'd had talks about boys with Eli in the past, and they never ended—or started—well. "There's nothing going on between us. We're just friends." Because we were. Eli made a noise that sounded like “hmmph” deep in his throat. It was incredulous and disbelieving. Then he asked the question to prove it, his attention back on his band mate. "Gordo, do you think I'm blind?" Gordo shook his head. "Gaby, do you think I'm blind?" he asked. "Not blind, just dumb.” I smiled. He shot me a frown. A moment later, he threw his arm over my shoulders and started shoving his plate away with his free hand. "Flabby Gaby, that kid is in love with you." In love. With me? I leaned forward and tried to sniff his breath. “Are you still drunk?” But my brother kept talking before I could keep going. "Anyone with eyes and ears knows that guy thinks you shit out Lucky Charms." Gordo and I burst out laughing. "Is that a good thing?" I asked him. Eliza shoved my face away with his palm, ignoring my commentary again. "And I think that you love him, too." The noise that came out of my mouth sounded like a hybrid “moo” and squawk at the same time. "I—,” I slammed my mouth shut before opening it again with a sputter. “What?

Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever heard. This ass talk had sort of a gut frequency. It hit you right down there like you gotta go. You know when the old colon gives you the elbow and it feels sorta cold inside, and you know all you have to do is turn loose? Well this talking hit you right down there, a bubbly, thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell. This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriliquist act. Real funny, too, at first. He had a number he called “The Better ‘Ole” that was a scream, I tell you. I forget most of it but it was clever. Like, “Oh I say, are you still down there, old thing?” “Nah I had to go relieve myself.” After a while the ass start talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time. Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in-curving hooks and started eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody loved it and it wanted to be kissed same as any other mouth. Finally it talked all the time day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles up it, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him: “It’s you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we dont need you around here any more. I can talk and eat and shit.” After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpole’s tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T., Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have have amputated spontaneous — (did you know there is a condition occurs in parts of Africa and only among Negroes where the little toe amputates spontaneously?) — except for the eyes you dig. Thats one thing the asshole couldn’t do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn’t give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no more feeling in them than a crab’s eyes on the end of a stalk.

The weather was fine, and, not to create suspicion, I took a turn at landscape, — this was after our quarrel was made up, you understand. After walking along the ramparts for some time, I was coming tranquilly home with my hands in my pockets, when I saw the street crowded with people. Such a crowd! like that for an execution. It fell upon me; I was seized, garroted, gagged, and guarded by the police. Ah! you don’t know — and I hope you never may know — what it is to be taken for a murderer by a maddened populace which stones you and howls after you from end to end of the principal street of a town, shouting for your death! Ah! those eyes were so many flames, all mouths were a single curse, while from the volume of that burning hatred rose the fearful cry: ‘To death! to death! down with the murderer!’” “So those Dalmatians spoke our language, did they?” said the count. “I observe you relate the scene as if it happened yesterday.

I always wondered why you stopped hanging out with us.” Was I on five or six? “Peter! You made me lose my count again!” “I have that effect on women.” I roll my eyes at him and he grins back at me, but before he can say anything else, I yell, “Kitty! Get down here!” “I’m working--” “Peter’s here!” I know that will get her. In five seconds flat, Kitty’s running into the kitchen. She skids to a stop, all of a sudden shy. “Why are you here?” she asks him. “To pick up Lara Jean. Why aren’t you helping?” “I was running an experiment. Wanna help me?” I answer for him. “Sure, he’ll help you.” To Peter I say, “You’re distracting me. Go help Kitty.” “I don’t know if you want my help, Katherine. See, I’m really distracting to women. I make them lose their count.” Peter winks at her and I make a gagging sound. “Why don’t you stay down here and help us bake?” “Bo-ring!” Kitty turns tail and runs back up the stairs. “Don’t you dare try to sprinkle or frost when it’s all over!” I yell. “You haven’t earned the right!

Minute imperfections of his have become insufferable. Irritability sizzles inside me like electric shock waves, saws against the bones of my head like a serrated blade. I can quiver out of my skin, gag, get instant, knifing headaches from the way he sucks on a tooth, drums his fingers, mispronounces certain words, says byootefoolinstead of beautifuland between you and Iinstead of between you and me,and laughs when I correct him — I have an impulse to correct him every single time and have to stifle it. The words spear through my consciousness and slam to a stop against bone, the inside of my skull. I can restrain myself from saying them, but I cannot suppress the need to want to. I am incensed with him for provoking it. He bubbles saliva in the corner of his mouth and still wears the white smudge on his chapped lips of whatever antacid pill or solution he has been taking for his stomach distress. "Heh-heh," he has fallen into the habit of saying, with lowered, escaping eyes. "Heh-heh," I want to mock back.

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm joining your little gang of baby heroes on the quest to find Superdad." Simon and Derek exchanged a look. "No," Derek said. "No? Excuse me, it was Rae who betrayed you guys. Not me. I helped Chloe." "And was it Rae who tormented her at Lyle House?" "Tormented?" A derisive snort. "I didn't—" "You did everything you could to get Chloe kicked out," Simon said. "And when that didn't work, you tried to kill her." "Kill her?" Tori's mouth hardened. "I'm not my mother. Don't you dare accuse—" "You lured her into the crawl space," Derek said. "Hit her over the head with a brick, bound and gagged her, and locked her in. Did you even check to make sure she was okay? That you hadn't cracked her skull?" Tori sputtered a protest, but from the horror in her eyes, I knew the possibility hadn't occurred to her. "Derek," I said, "I don't think—" "No she didn't think. She could have killed you with the brick, suffocated you with the gag, given you a heart attack from fright, not to mention what would have happened if you hadn't gotten out of your bindings. It only takes a couple of days to die from dehydration." "I would never have left Chloe to die. You can't accuse me of that." "No," Derek said. "Just of wanting hr locked up in a mental hospital. And why? Because you didn't like her. Because she talked to a guy you did like. Maybe you're not your mother, Tori. But what you are..." He fixed her with an icy look. "I don't want around." The expression on her face...I felt for her, whether she'd welcome my sympathy or not. "We don't trust you," Simon said, his tone softer than his brother's. "We can't have someone along that we don't trust." "What if I'm okay with it," I cut in. "If i feel safe with her..." "You don't," Derek said. "You won't kick her to the curb, though, because it's not the kind of person you are." He met Tori's gaze. "But it's the kind of person I am. Chloe won't force you to leave because she'd feel horrible if anything happened to you. Me? I don't care. You brought it on yourself."

I attempt to chew the popcorn gag Dean just stuffed into my mouth, but a kernel gets sucked into the back of my throat. I hack over the bar--my hands splayed wide as I brace myself for impending death. Dean absentmindedly pat mys back because let's face it, I'm coughing so I'm breathing, but his swats are not helping. I beat my chest to try to prevent myself from asphyxiating as I grapple for my drink, which is woefully empty. I grab Dean's draft beer, but as soon as the golden liquid hits my tongue, I dry heave from the horrid taste. Holy shit! Kate's right, IPA beer tastes like poison! My face screws up in disgust as I force the liquid down my throat and suck in a big breath of cleansing air. With a pathetic whimper, I wave my hands in front of my face and search for a cocktail napkin. Mr. Mustache bartender is still balls deep in the blonde, so I'm forced to use the back of my hand to wipe the dribble off my chin. When I finally regain some semblance of composure I turn around to glower at Dean. "Your beer tastes like a skunk's ass.

What kind of dog do you want?” Peter asks her. “Don’t get her hopes up,” I tell him, but he waves me off. Immediately Kitty says, “An Akita. Red fur with a cinnamon-bun tail. Or a German shepherd I can train to be a seeing-eye dog.” “But you’re not blind,” Peter says. “But I could be one day.” Grinning, Peter shakes his head. He nudges me again and in an admiring voice he says, “Can’t argue with the kid." “It’s pretty much futile,” I agree. I hold up a magazine to show Kitty. “What do you think? Creamsicle cookies?” Kitty writes them down as a maybe. “Hey, what about these?” Peter pushes a cookbook in my lap. It’s opened up to a fruitcake cookie recipe. I gag. “Are you kidding? You’re kidding, right? Fruitcake cookies? That’s disgusting.” “When done right, fruitcake can be really good,” Peter defends. “My great-aunt Trish used to make fruitcake, and she’d put ice cream on top and it was awesome.” “If you put ice cream on anything, it’s good,” Kitty says. “Can’t argue with the kid,” I say, and Peter and I exchange smiles over Kitty’s head.

I walk into the water and it’s ten degrees cooler than the air, absolutely freezing freezing cold, it makes my breath come all fast and I can only take in little gulps of air. I feel the sting of the cut on my leg as the salt gets in it. And I push further into it, so that the water comes up to my chest, then my shoulders and now I really can’t breathe properly, like I’m wearing a corset. I feel tiny fireworks explode in my head and on the surface of my skin and all the bad thoughts loosen, so I can look at them more easily. I put my head under, shaking it to encourage the bad thoughts to float away. A wave comes, and the water fills my mouth. It’s so salty it makes me gag and when I gag I swallow more water and don’t manage to breathe and more water goes in, and it’s in my nose too and each time I open my mouth for air more water comes in instead, great big salty gulps of it. I can feel the movement of the water under my feet and it feels like it’s tugging me somewhere, trying to take me with it. It’s like my body knows something I don’t because it’s fighting for me, my arms and legs thrashing out. I wonder if this is a bit what drowning is like. Then I wonder if I am drowning.

You do not want to do that,” Green said ominously. “I beg you, sir,” Brown pleaded, “do not remove the gag.” The captain stopped for a moment and looked from man to man. “What, pray tell, is she going to do?” Green and Brown said nothing, but they both backed up, almost to the wall. “Good God,” the captain said impatiently. “Two grown men.” And then he removed the gag. “You!” Poppy burst out, practically spitting at Green. Green blanched. “And you,” she growled at Brown. “And you!” she finished, glaring at the captain. The captain quirked a brow. “And now that you’ve demonstrated your extensive vocabulary—” “I am going to kill each and every one of you,” she hissed. “How dare you tie me up and leave me here for hours—” “It was thirty minutes,” Brown protested. “It felt like hours,” she railed, “and if you think I’m going to sit here and accept this type of abuse from a pack of idiot pirates—” She coughed uncontrollably. The bloody captain had shoved the gag back in. “Right,” the captain said. “I understand perfectly now.” Poppy bit his finger. “That,” he said smoothly, “was a mistake.” Poppy glared at him. “Oh, and by the by,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “we prefer the term privateer.” She growled, grinding her teeth around the gag.

On our second date, I picked up Missy at her house and told her we had to make a pit stop to pick up crawfish bait at the fish market. We’d figured out a way to speed up the process by using the fish market’s gutbuckets instead of running nets ourselves. Through trial and error, we determined that the best crawfish bait was buffalo-fish heads. Unfortunately, when I pulled up to the market to get the garbage cans full of fish heads, I realized they had been outside for a couple of days. It was a warm day, and I could tell from the buzzing of hundreds of flies it was going to be nasty! I knew it was going to be the ultimate test of our relationship. The tubs were too heavy for one man to carry, so I told Missy, “I’m going to need your help on this.” She crawled out the window, and I led her to the trash cans filled with buffalo heads waiting for us. Like an idiot, the first thing she did was open the lid of a trash can. Immediately, she started gagging and dry-heaving in the parking lot. “Rule number two,” I said. “Never pop the lid on a trash can.” Much to my surprise, Missy regained her composure and helped me load the trash cans into the back of my truck. Right then, I realized our relationship might work out. She was climbing through windows and hauling fish heads.

I just figured someone like him would be named Fabio or something.” I want to be angry, I really do, but I can’t resist laughing. “That’s what I thought the first time I met him,” I admit. Darren actually cracks a smile, and hope blooms inside my chest for an instant before it fizzles. I’m itching to tell Darren that he’s the one I want. But I don’t know how, or if I should. Keeping Darren at an emotionally safe distance might be the only way I make it through this summer unscathed. If that’s even possible at this point. “Well, whatever his name is. I still don’t like him.” His voice is rough and his bright brown eyes pierce straight through me. Tell me why you don’t like him. Tell me it’s because you’re jealous he kissed me and you haven’t. Tell me you want to. Want me. “Gag,” Nina says with a groan. “Would you two just kiss and be done with it already?” Darren and I gape at her. Fire creeps up my neck, and I press my body against the window, as far from Darren as possible. “I thought you were asleep,” Darren says to her. “With the both of you whining like children? Please,” she huffs. “I’m going to the little girl’s room.” She stands and her long legs step over Tate’s without waking him. “Fix this or we’re all going to be miserable,” she whispers to Darren loud enough for me to hear.

Even if I hadn’t a gag of magic in my mouth, I wouldn’t have dared spoken. Tristan peered at me as though I were a curious insect. “She isn’t mute, is she? That would be dreadful.” He leaned back against the chair, his strange eyes fixed on me. “On second thought, perhaps it wouldn’t be dreadful at all. I hardly need another woman in my life telling me what to do, and it would mean I could do all the talking and she the listening.” “Perhaps our mistake was in not finding you a deaf one,” Marc said. “And her name is Cécile de Troyes, which you very well know, so quit pretending otherwise.” “Thank you, cousin. It was on the tip of my tongue. Now Mademoiselle de Troyes, tell us your thoughts. Astound us with your wit.” “Mmmmm hmmmm,” I mumbled around the gag. “Could you repeat that?” he said, coming closer. “Afraid I didn’t quite catch the punch line.” A slender finger caught me under the chin, lifting my face. He frowned. “Release her, Aunty.” “She tried to run.” A noise of exasperation passed his lips. “To where? There is nowhere for her to go, nowhere to hide. Binding her is unnecessary.” His flippancy made my heart sink – the very idea of my escape was so improbable to him that it was little more than a jest. I felt power brush over my skin, and I dropped to numb feet. If not for Marc taking hold of my arm, I’d have sprawled across the carpets in front of them all.

So you don’t trust me: the guy who taught you everything you know. I’m guessing if you have her”—he jerked his thumb at Rae—“that’s no accident. Luke’s buddies sent her to trap you, and she thought she was doing the right thing, because, duh, she’s already proven she’s kinda gullible that way.” “Hey!” Rae said. “You are. Own it. Fix it. Now, you guys have her, which means you escaped whoever sent her after you. You didn’t escape without a fight, given that bruise I see rising on Daniel’s jaw and the scrapes on Derek’s knuckles. But you escaped, and you came back here, and you captured me. Who taught you all that?” “Daniel and I had already started learning,” Maya said, “during those weeks you were chasing us.” “Trial by fire,” he said. “Followed by hardcore, hands-on tactical training. You got away scot-free from these guys because of my lessons. And yet now you don’t trust I’m on your side?” “Nope,” Derek said. “Sorry,” Daniel said. Maya crossed her arms and shook her head. I shrugged. Moreno broke into a grin. “You guys do me proud. I’d give you all a hug, if that wasn’t a little creepy. And if I was the hugging sort. But if you survive the rest of this, I’ll take you all out for beer and ice cream.” “You don’t need to be sarcastic,” Rae muttered. “Oh, but I’m not, and they know it. This is exactly what I trained them for. Trust no one except one another. Excluding you, kid, because I don’t know you, and you have a bad habit of screwing up. But these guys are doing the right thing. Next step?” Turn the tables,” I said. “Capture someone who’s behind this and get them to talk.” “Mmm, yes. That would work. But even better?” “Stop them,” Derek said. “Don’t just take down one. Take them all down.” “Without running to the Nasts for help,” Daniel said. “Because in another year, some of us will be off to college, and we need to be able to look after ourselves.” “Starting with proving we can look after ourselves,” Maya said. Moreno beamed. “You guys are ace. See, this is what I told Sean. The best time to train operatives is when they’re still young and malleable. None of that shit about waiting until they’re eighteen and legally old enough to consent.” Maya shook her head. “I suppose you’d also suggest he have the Cabal terrorize them for weeks first, so they’re properly motivated.” “Exactly. Personal rights and freedoms are vastly overrated. And there’s nothing wrong with a little PTSD. I’ve always found mine useful. Keeps me on my toes.” Rae stared at him. “I’m kidding,” he said to her. “Mostly. Don’t you joke around like this with your instructors? Oh, wait. You don’t have any. Which is why you got tricked—again. And got captured by these guys.” “Can we tie him up now?” Rae said. “And gag him?” “Doesn’t do any good,” Derek said. “We could try.

When I exited the bathroom this time, Marlboro Man was standing right outside the door--just as he’d been at his grandmother’s house when I’d had my flop sweat episode at his cousin’s wedding. He put his arm around me as I dabbed the corners of my eyes with a Kleenex. The gagging had sent my tear ducts into overdrive. “What’s wrong, honey?” It was the first time he’d called me that. I felt married. “I have no idea!” I said. “I must have picked up a stomach bug or something. I’m so sorry!” “It’s okay--we can just head back to the hotel.” “No! I want you to eat…” “I’m fine--I just ate a whole basket of bread and had two Cokes. I’m good to go.” The nausea hit again, and I ran back into the bathroom. After vomiting again, I decided to take him up on his offer. Exiting the cab back at the hotel, I found walking to be difficult. I hadn’t ingested a single drop of liquor, but I suddenly couldn’t walk in a straight line. Grabbing Marlboro Man’s arm, I used him to steady myself until we got to the room, where I immediately fell on the bed and wrapped myself in the comforter. “I feel so sorry for you,” Marlboro Man said, sitting down on the bed beside me and gently playing with my hair, a gesture that proved to be too much for me. “Could you please not do that?” I said. “The motion kinda makes me sick.” I was a complete and utter mess. I was a nauseated loser. It was Marlboro Man who deserved the sympathy.

Preparation - Poem by Malay Roy Choudhury Who claims I'm ruined? Because I'm without fangs and claws? Are they necessary? How do you forget the knife plunged in abdomen up to the hilt? Green cardamom leaves for the buck, art of hatred and anger and of war, gagged and tied Santhal women, pink of lungs shattered by a restless dagger? Pride of sword pulled back from heart? I don't have songs or music. Only shrieks, when mouth is opened wordless odour of the jungle; corner of kin & sin-sanyas; Didn't pray for a tongue to take back the groans power to gnash and bear it. Fearless gunpowder bleats: stupidity is the sole faith-maimed generosity- I leap on the gambling table, knife in my teeth Encircle me rush in from tea and coffee plateaux in your gumboots of pleasant wages The way Jarasandha's genital is bisected and diamond glow Skill of beating up is the only wisdom in misery I play the burgler's stick like a flute brittle affection of thev wax-skin apple She-ants undress their wings before copulating I thump my thighs with alternate shrieks: VACATE THE UNIVERSE get out you omnicompetent conchshell in scratching monkeyhand lotus and mace and discuss-blade Let there be salt-rebellion of your own saline sweat along the gunpowder let the flint run towards explosion Marketeers of words daubed in darkness in the midnight filled with young dog's grief in the sicknoon of a grasshopper sunk in insecticide I reappear to exhibit the charm of the stiletto. (Translation of Bengali poem 'Prostuti')

We walked hand in hand toward the diner, until Ivy froze in her steps. 'What's wrong?' I asked, skimming the area around us, looking for some kind of threat. She made a sound of panic. 'Ivy?' My heart was starting to beat faster. 'I'm still wearing your shirt!' She hissed. 'Is that all, woman? Please.' I started walking again. She refused to budge. I turned back and lifted and eyebrow. 'What now?' She stepped up close and whispered dramatically, 'I'm not wearing a bra either!' I matched her tone to whisper back, 'Good thing the girls are perky!' 'Braeden!' She gasped. I threw back my head and laughed. 'C'mon. I'm so hungry I could eat the rotten end of a pig.' 'Oh my gosh, that's disgusting!' she burst out as I towed her along behind me. 'Awe, baby. That hurts my feelings.' She made a rude noise, and I grinned. I opened the door to the diner, and she walked in first. I had to hold back a smile when she crossed her arms over her unleashed girls. This chick was fucking hilarious. Rimmel waved wildly from a booth near the window. Ivy hurried to the table and slid in across from Romeo and Rimmel. I followed with a lot less hurry in my step and slid in right next to Ivy. Romeo looked at Ivy, then at me. We exchanged a look. He held out his fist to pound it out. I obliged. 'About damn time,' he grunted. Then he glanced at Rimmel, who had her hair piled on the top of her head and a pencil sticking out of the mess. 'Can we order now, smalls? I'm so hungry I could eat the ass out of a skunk.' Ivy and Rimmel both made gagging sounds. 'Good one,' I congratulated him. -Braeden, Ivy, Romeo and Rimmel

I adjust the mirror so I can see reflections or reflections, miles and miles of me and my new jeans. I hook my hair behind my ears. I should have washed it. My face is dirty. I lean into the mirror. Eyes after eyes after eyes stare back at me. Am I in there somewhere? A thousand eyes blink. No makeup. Dark circles. I pull the side flaps of the mirror in closer, folding myself into the looking glass and blocking out the rest of the store. My face becomes a Picasso sketch, my body slicing into dissecting cubes. I saw a movie once where a woman was burned over eighty percent of her body and they had to wash all the dead skin off. They wrapped her in bandages, kept her drugged, and waited for skin grafts. They actually sewed her into a new skin. I push my ragged mouth against the mirror. A thousand bleeding, crusted lips push back. What does it feel like to walk in a new skin? Was she completely sensitive like a baby, or numb, without any nerve endings, just walking in a skin bag? I exhale and my mouth disappears in a fog. I feel like my skin has been burned off. I stumble from thornbush to thornbush - my mother and father who hate each other, Rachel who hates me, a school that gags on my like I'm a hairball. And Heather. I just need to hang on long enough for my new skin to graft. Mr. Freeman thinks I need to find my feelings. How can I not find them? They are chewing me alive like an infestation of thoughts, shame, mistakes. I squeeze my eyes shut. Jeans that fit, that's a good start. I have to stay away from the closet, go to all my classes. I will make myself normal. Forget the rest of it.

When everyone is seated, Galen uses a pot holder to remove the lid from the huge speckled pan in the center of the table. And I almost upchuck. Fish. Crabs. And...is that squid hair? Before I can think of a polite version of the truth-I'd rather eat my own pinky finger than seafood-Galen plops the biggest piece of fish on my plate, then scoops a mixture of crabmeat and scallops on top of it. As the steam wafts its way to my nose, my chances of staying polite dwindle. The only think I can think of is to make it look like I'm hiccupping instead of gagging. What did I smell earlier that almost had me salivating? It couldn't have been this. I fork the fillet and twist, but it feels like twisting my own gut. Mush it, dice it, mix it all up. No matter what I do, how it looks, I can't bring it near my mouth. A promise is a promise, dream or no dream. Even if real fish didn't save me in Granny's pond, the fake ones my imagination conjured up sure comforted me until help arrived. And now I'm expected to eat their cousins? No can do. I set the fork down and sip some water. I sense Galen is watching. Out of my peripheral, I see the others shoveling the chum into their faces. But not Galen. He sits still, head tilted, waiting for me to take a bite first. Of all the times to be a gentleman! What happened to the guy who sprawled me over his lap like a three-year-old just a few minutes ago? Still, I can't do it. And they don't even have a dog for me to feed under the table, which used to be my go-to plan at Chloe's grandmother's house. One time Chloe even started a food fight to get me out of it. I glance around the table, but Rayna's the only person I'd aim this slop at. Plus, I'd risk getting the stuff on me, which is almost as bad as in me. Galen nudges me with his elbow. "Aren't you hungry? You're not feeling bad again, are you?" This gets the others' attention. The commotion of eating stops. Everyone stares. Rayna, irritated that her gluttony has been interrupted. Toraf smirking like I've done something funny. Galen's mom wearing the same concerned look he is. Can I lie? Should I lie? What if I'm invited over again, and they fix seafood because I lied about it just this once? Telling Galen my head hurts doesn't get me out of future seafood buffets. And telling him I'm not hungry would be pointless since my stomach keeps gurgling like an emptying drain. No, I can't lie. Not if I ever want to come back here. Which I do. I sigh and set the fork down. "I hate seafood," I tell him. Toraf's sudden cough startles me. The sound of him choking reminds me of a cat struggling with a hair ball. I train my eyes on Galen, who has stiffened to a near statue. Jeez, is this all his mom knows how to make? Or have I just shunned the Forza family's prize-winning recipe for grouper? "You...you mean you don't like this kind of fish, Emma?" Galen says diplomatically. I desperately want to nod, to say, "Yes, that's it, not this kind of fish"-but that doesn't get me out of eating the crabmeat-and-scallop mountain on my plate. I shake my head. "No. Not just this kind of fish. I hate it all. I can't eat any of it. Can hardly stand to smell it." Way to go for the jugular there, stupid! Couldn't I just say I don't care for it? Did I have to say I hate it? Hate even the smell of it? And why am I blushing? It's not a crime to gag on seafood. And for God's sakes, I won't eat anything that still has its eyeballs.

So are you going to tell me why Ronowski pulled you into the break room when we got back today?” God asked watching Day closely. Day shook his head at him, smiling wickedly. “It was about sex.” “No fucking way. He came to you about sex?” God said, not hiding his shock. “Who else is he going to ask…his priest?” Day said and quickly dodged the piece of garlic bread God threw at his head. “Do I want to know?” God said. “It wasn’t too bad. He wanted to know the best way to pleasure Johnson.” Day laughed when God balled up his face and made a gagging sound. “There intimacy has been pretty one-sided from what I could understand. Ro was still pretty shy about telling me stuff, so I was mostly guessing.” Day wiped his mouth with his napkin before continuing. “Being the stud that I am…I gave the kid a few pointers.” “Stud, huh?” God smiled. “Yeah. I don’t mind taking the little tike under my homosexual wing and showing him how to fly.” Day grinned. “You’re twisted. And isn’t Ro like the same age as you,” God said. Day blew an exasperated breath. “Regardless of age, Cash. I have more experience. Way more. Way, way, way more experience with fucking men than anyone I—” “I fucking got it, Leo.” God scowled at him. Day laughed hysterically. “I told him all about how I make you scream my name every night.” Day chuckled and bolted up from his chair when God took off after him. Day ran back into the kitchen, jumping and gliding across the kitchen island on his hip and racing into the den. God was hot on his heels. “I’ll catch you, you quick little bastard. And when I do, I’m going to show you just how loud I can make you scream,” God said in his sexy rough-hewn voice. “Oh fuck.” Day was laughing so hard he could barely just keep out of God’s grip. He dodged him in the living room, leaping over the coffee table heading fast toward the stairs when he was caught around his waist with a strong arm and dragged back down the two steps he’d cleared.

He frowned down at her. “You need to settle down and listen to me.” “You need to fuck off and—” She never got the next word out because he flipped her over on her stomach. While she cursed and tried to move him he tied her hands together with something, then wrapped some silky cloth around her head, forcing it between her lips. Bound and gagged, he moved her back over so she was on her back again. Beyond pissed, she struggled against her bindings, trying to get free so she could kill him. To her disgust he just grinned and watched her writhe on her mattress until she finally lay there in a sweaty, panting heap, with her hands still bound and her mouth still gaged. “Done with your tantrum?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Fuck you,” she said, or at least tried to say. It must have come through loud and clear because he smiled at her, a predatory smile that actually made her wet. Damn her hormones had bad taste and timing. He licked his lips and her pussy throbbed. “Oh, you’ll be begging me to fuck you by the time I’m done with you.” She glared, then rolled over on her stomach so she could flip him off with both bound hands. “See, this is why I love you. I love you, Amanda. You’re it for me. All I want, the only woman I want.” He leaned down and brushed her hair back from her face with a gentle touch. “Hold still and I’ll let you up. I’m sorry if I scared you.” “Wait,” she said in a garbled voice. “You love me?” He smiled and began to unbutton his shirt, slowly, revealing his magnificent body an inch at a time. “That’s right, I love you. I love how brave you are, how smart, how classy and yet at the same time you can cuss up a blue streak. I love how you take care of me, how I’m the only one who gets to see the soft, feminine side of you that comes out when you make love. I love your temper, your kindness, and how you devour me with your eyes, like you want to eat me alive. Kind of like you’re doing right now.” “I don’t love you,” she mumbled through the gag. “Liar,” he whispered into her ear, tracing the shell with the tip of his tongue.

But come on—tell me the proposal story, anyway.” She raised an eyebrow. “Really?” “Really. Just keep in mind that I’m a guy, which means I’m genetically predisposed to think that whatever mushy romantic tale you’re about to tell me is highly cheesy.” Rylann laughed. “I’ll keep it simple, then.” She rested her drink on the table. “Well, you already heard how Kyle picked me up at the courthouse after my trial. He said he wanted to surprise me with a vacation because I’d been working so hard, but that we needed to drive to Champaign first to meet with his former mentor, the head of the U of I Department of Computer Sciences, to discuss some project Kyle was working on for a client.” She held up a sparkly hand, nearly blinding Cade and probably half of the other Starbucks patrons. “In hindsight, yes, that sounds a little fishy, but what do I know about all this network security stuff? He had his laptop out, there was some talk about malicious payloads and Trojan horse attacks—it all sounded legitimate enough at the time.” “Remind me, while I’m acting U.S. attorney, not to assign you to any cybercrime cases.” “Anyhow. . . we get to Champaign, which as it so happens, is where Kyle and I first met ten years ago. And the limo turns onto the street where I used to live while in law school, and Kyle asks the driver to pull over because he wants to see the place for old time’s sake. So we get out of the limo, and he’s making this big speech about the night we met and how he walked me home on the very sidewalk we were standing on—I’ll fast-forward here in light of your aversion to the mushy stuff—and I’m laughing to myself because, well, we’re standing on the wrong side of the street. So naturally, I point that out, and he tells me that nope, I’m wrong, because he remembers everything about that night, so to prove my point I walk across the street to show him and”—she paused here— “and I see a jewelry box, sitting on the sidewalk, in the exact spot where we had our first kiss. Then I turn around and see Kyle down on one knee.” She waved her hand, her eyes a little misty. “So there you go. The whole mushy, cheesy tale. Gag away.” Cade picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. “That was actually pretty smooth.” Rylann grinned. “I know. Former cyber-menace to society or not, that man is a keeper

Chip and I were both exhausted when we finally pulled up in front of that house, but we were still riding the glow of our honeymoon, and I was so excited as he carried me over the threshold--until the smell nearly knocked us over. “Oh my word,” I said, pinching my nose and trying to hold my breath so I wouldn’t gag. “What is that?” Chip flicked the light switch, and the light didn’t come on. He flicked it up and down a few times, then felt his way forward in the darkness and tried another switch. “The electricity’s off,” he said. “The girls must’ve had it shut off when they moved out.” “Didn’t you transfer it back into your name?” I asked. “I guess not. I’m sorry, babe,” Chip said. “Chip, what is that smell?” It was the middle of June in Waco, Texas. The temperature had been up over a hundred degrees for days on end, and the humidity was stifling, amplifying whatever that rotten smell was coming from the kitchen. Chip always carries a knife and a flashlight, and it sure came in handy that night. Chip made his way back there and found that the fridge still had a bunch of food left in it, including a bunch of ground beef that had just sat there rotting since whenever the electricity went out. The food was literally just smoldering in this hundred-degree house. So we went from living in a swanky hotel room on Park Avenue in New York City to this disgusting, humid stink of a place that felt more like the site of a crime scene than a home at this point. Honestly, I hadn’t thought it through very well. But it was late, and we were tired, and I just focused on making the most of this awful situation. So we opened some windows and brought our bags in, and I told Jo we’d just tough it out and sleep on the floor and clean it all up in the morning. That’s when she started crying. I lay down on the floor thinking, Is his what my life is going to look like now that I married Chip? Is this my new normal? That’s when another smell hit me. It was in the carpet. “Chip, did those girls have a dog here?” I asked. “They had a couple of dogs,” he answered. “Why?” You could smell it. In the carpet. It was nasty. I was just lying there with my head next to some old dog urine stain that had been heated by the Texas summer heat. It was like microwaved dog pee. It was. It was awful. It was three in the morning. And I finally said, “Chip, I’m not sleeping in this house.

Mystery is the sugar in the cup,' said the Doctor. She picked up the container of white crystals the delicatessen had included in the picnic basket and poured a large dollop into her cognac. 'I don’t think I’d do that, Gunilla,' said Darcourt. 'Nobody wants you to do it, Simon. I am doing it, and that’s enough. That is the curse of life—when people want everybody to do the same wise, stupid thing. Listen: Do you want to know what life is? I’ll tell you. Life is a drama.' 'Shakespeare was ahead of you, Gunilla,' said Darcourt. '"All the world’s a stage,"' he declaimed. 'Shakespeare had the mind of a grocer,' said Gunilla. 'A poet, yes, but the soul of a grocer. He wanted to please people.' 'That was his trade,' said Darcourt. 'And it’s yours, too. Don’t you want this opera to please people?' 'Yes, I do. But that is not philosophy. Hoffmann was no philosopher. Now be quiet, everybody, and listen, because this is very important. Life is a drama. I know. I am a student of the divine Goethe, not that grocer Shakespeare. Life is a drama. But it is a drama we have never understood and most of us are very poor actors. That is why our lives seem to lack meaning and we look for meaning in toys—money, love, fame. Our lives seem to lack meaning but'—the Doctor raised a finger to emphasize her great revelation—'they don’t, you know.' She seemed to be having some difficulty in sitting upright, and her natural pallor had become ashen. 'You’re off the track, Nilla,' said Darcourt. 'I think we all have a personal myth. Maybe not much of a myth, but anyhow a myth that has its shape and its pattern somewhere outside our daily world.' 'This is all too deep for me,' said Yerko. 'I am glad I am a Gypsy and do not have to have a philosophy and an explanation for everything. Madame, are you not well?' Too plainly the Doctor was not well. Yerko, an old hand at this kind of illness, lifted her to her feet and gently, but quickly, took her to the door—the door to the outside parking lot. There were terrible sounds of whooping, retching, gagging, and pitiful cries in a language which must have been Swedish. When at last he brought a greatly diminished Gunilla back to the feast, he thought it best to prop her, in a seated position, against the wall. At once she sank sideways to the floor. 'That sugar was really salt,' said Darcourt. 'I knew it, but she wouldn’t listen. Her part in the great drama now seems to call for a long silence.' 'When she comes back to life I shall give her a shot of my personal plum brandy,' said Yerko. 'Will you have one now, Priest Simon?

I remember once, on a family skiing trip to the Alps, Dad’s practical joking got all of us into a particularly tight spot. I must have been about age ten at the time, and was quietly excited when Dad spotted a gag that was begging to be played out on the very serious-looking Swiss-German family in the room next door to us. Each morning their whole family would come downstairs, the mother dressed head to toe in furs, the father in a tight-fitting ski suit and white neck scarf, and their slightly overweight, rather snooty-looking thirteen-year-old son behind, often pulling faces at me. The hotel had the customary practice of having a breakfast form that you could hang on your door handle the night before if you wanted to eat in your room. Dad thought it would be fun to fill out our form, order 35 boiled eggs, 65 German sausages, and 17 kippers, then hang it on the Swiss-German family’s door. It was too good a gag to pass up. We didn’t tell Mum, who would have gone mad, but instead filled out the form with great hilarity, and sneaked out last thing before bed and hung it on their door handle. At 7:00 A.M. we heard the father angrily sending the order back. So we repeated the gag the next day. And the next. Each morning the father got more and more irate, until eventually Mum got wind of what we had been doing and made me go around to apologize. (I don’t know why I had to do the apologizing when the whole thing had been Dad’s idea, but I guess Mum thought I would be less likely to get in trouble, being so small.) Anyway, I sensed it was a bad idea to go and own up, and sure enough it was. From that moment onward, despite my apology, I was a marked man as far as their son was concerned. It all came to a head when I was walking down the corridor on the last evening, after a day’s skiing, and I was just wearing my ski thermal leggings and a T-shirt. The spotty, overweight teenager came out of his room and saw me walking past him in what were effectively ladies’ tights. He pointed at me, called me a sissy, started to laugh sarcastically, and put his hands on his hips in a very camp fashion. Despite the age and size gap between us, I leapt on him, knocked him to the ground, and hit him as hard as I could. His father heard the commotion and raced out of his room to find his son with a bloody nose and crying hysterically (and overdramatically). That really was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I was hauled to my parents’ room by the boy’s father and made to explain my behavior to Mum and Dad. Dad was hiding a wry grin, but Mum was truly horrified, and I was grounded. So ended another cracking family holiday!

I leave him there and head for the kitchen, sighing when I see a chair shoved over to the counter, Maddie standing on it, digging through the cabinets. “What do you think you’re doing, little girl?” “Looking for the Lucky Charms,” she says as I pull her down and set her on her feet. “I’m afraid we’re all out.” I grab a box of Cheerios. “How about these?” She makes a face of disgust. “Raisin Bran?” Another face. “How about some cottage cheese?” She pretends to gag. “Uh, well, how about—?” “How about I take you out for breakfast?” Jonathan suggests, stepping into the kitchen. “Pancakes, sausage, eggs…” “Bacon!” Maddie declares. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, you know, with the whole you being you thing.” “Me being me,” he says. “Yeah, chances are you’ll get recognized and then have to explain this whole thing and well, you know, I’m not sure it’s worth it for some breakfast.” “But it might be bacon,” Maddie whines. Jonathan hesitates, thinking it over, glancing between us before he says, “I know somewhere we can go.” Mrs. McKleski’s place. Landing Inn. That’s where he takes us. Maddie and I stand in the woman’s foyer in our pajamas, while Jonathan wears just the leather pants from the Knightmare costume. Mrs. McKleski looks at us like we’ve gone crazy, and I instantly want to be anywhere else in the world, but it’s too late, because Maddie’s been promised some bacon. “You want breakfast,” Mrs. McKleski says. “That’s what you’re telling me?” He nods. “Yes, ma'am.” She stares at him. Hard. I expect a denial, because this whole idea is absurd, but after a moment, she lets out a resigned sigh. “Fine, but go put on some clothes,” she says. “This is an inn, Mr. Cunningham, not Chippendales. I won’t have you at my breakfast table looking like a gigolo.” He cocks an eyebrow at the woman. “Wasn’t aware you knew what a gigolo was.” “Go,” she says pointedly, “before I change my mind.” “Yes, ma’am,” he says, flashing her a smile before turning to me and nodding toward the stairs. “Join me?” I stare at him, not moving. He steps closer. “Please?” “Fine,” I mumble, glancing at Maddie, not wanting to cause a scene. “Hey, sweetheart, why don’t you have a seat in the living room?” “Nonsense,” Mrs. McKleski says. “She can come help me cook. Teach her some responsibility. Not sure her father ever learned any.” Jonathan scowls before again motioning for me to follow him. “And no hanky-panky,” Mrs. McKleski calls to us as we start upstairs. “What’s the hanky-panky?” Maddie asks, following the woman to the kitchen. “She means the hokey-pokey,” I yell down before Mrs. McKleski can answer, because there’s no telling how that woman would explain it. “Oh, I like the hokey-pokey!” Maddie looks at the woman with confusion. “Why don’t you wanna play it?” “Too messy,” Mrs. McKleski grumbles. “All that turning yourself around.” Shaking my head, I go upstairs, stalling right inside the room as Jonathan sorts through his belongings to find some clothes.

Jenks and I stood there like statues watching him twitch, his eyes rolling up in his head. He clutched at his clothes pulling the wooden pole they hung from down on top of him. Slowly his right hand came scrambling out away from his body to clutch at my left leg. Without thinking I shoved my crucifix at him and he pulled his hand back with a hiss, shielding his face again. As quickly as I could, I dug my tubes of Holy Water out of my coat pocket and emptied them on his head. He shrieked again and clawed at his face. Jenks followed suit, pouring his two vials on Skorzeny's body and legs. Skorzeny started to foam and bubble before our eyes. I was paralyzed. I couldn't quite believe what was happening. Those books hadn't described any of this. I was feeling dizzy and sick. The shrieks turned to groans and a gurgling deep in his throat. He pulled his hands away from his face and it looked like the disintegrating Portrait of Dorian Gray. I looked over to Jenks who had an odd expression on his face. I looked over to Jenks who had on odd expression on his face. He motioned to me and reached for my left hand which, I noticed, was still clutching the airline hag with the stake and hammer in it. I dropped it and he grabbed it off the floor, moving over to the smoking form still squirming in the closet which smelled even more foul than before, and oozing a greenish yellow pus from the crumpled clothing on his scarecrow frame. Jenks looked back at me and handed me the stake and hammer. 'Go ahead. This was your idea. Finish it.' I declined, turning away. Jenks spun me around violently and thrust the stake into my left hand. He pushed me toward what was left of Skorzeny and forced me to my knees. He forced my hand toward Skorzeny, positioning the stake over the man's chest. Then he stuck the hammer in my right hand. 'Do it, you gutless sonofabitch. Finish it... now!' And he stepped away. I looked at him and back at Skorzeny. Then I gave one vicious swing and hit the stake dead center. The thing made a gurgling grunt, like a pig snuffling for food, and started to regurgitate a blackish fluid from its mouth. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and hit the stake three more times. Then I fell back and threw up. When I looked back, Skorzeny's hands, or what was left of them, clutched at the stake trying to pull it out. Suddenly, he emitted a kind of moaning, sucking sound, gagged and more bile-colored liquid flecked with black and red came coiling up in a viscous rope like some evil worm from his mouth. And he stopped moving, his hands still clutching the stake. Then a sort of gaseous mist started to rise from his body and it was so much worse than the original smell that I pushed Jenks aside and ran from the house. I ran all the way to a patrol car where I slumped against the left front wheel as Jenks slowly strolled toward me. He walked past me, ignoring me, and opened his trunk, taking out a couple of small gas cans, and headed back to the house. I wasn't paying much attention until he left the house again and I saw it was aflame.

Breanne, I'm asking you nicely to please reconsider. Mom and Dad are coming to the game. They have a suite reserved and Mom is expecting you." Jayson almost sounded as if he were begging. I wasn't buying it. "Take Belinda or one of those other women," I huffed. "I don't do much in the leather department. I'm a vegetarian, remember?" "Mom loves that about you." "I'm sure she does. Her son, however, finds me grossly inadequate and walks away whenever he gets a chance. As much as I like your mother, I don't feel good about stringing her along. I'm just a front for you—admit it." "Bree, I'll invite Hank to come, too. I promise one of us will be with you." "Sure. That sounds so comfortable," I said. "Your mother will wonder what the hell is going on when Hank pays more attention than you do. Frankly, I don't want anything from either of you." Jayson was still trying to convince me to go to the basketball game the following evening, and he'd shown up at my front door to do it. I'd been grumpy ever since I'd come back after saving Teeg San Gerxon's ass. Sure, it would put the Campiaan Alliance in chaos, but for a blink, or maybe half a blink—I'd considered saving Stellan and his brothers and leaving Teeg behind to be flayed and swallowed by a sandstorm that had destroyed most of Thelik. "What can I possible do to convince you to come? Donate to Mercy Crossings or some other charity? What?" He'd arrived at my front door as if he'd been invited. I made him stand at the door instead of inviting him in. "Give Trina a raise. That car she's driving really needs to be retired." "What?" Jayson almost shouted. "Okay, the price just went up. Buy her a new car." Did I realize he'd take the bait? No. "All right. I agree, that piece of crap needs to go to the salvage yard. I'll buy her a new car." "A good one. She doesn't want a TinyCar, I know that much." "You think I'd let anybody out of the driveway in one of those things? I saw yours and almost gagged." "But since I'm nobody important to you, I can drive whatever the hell I want," I pointed out. "Besides, I got my car from a vending machine. Put in a dollar and it dropped out. It was too bad, too—I wanted a soda." The corners of Jayson's mouth threatened to turn up. Schooling his face, he said, "I never pegged you for an extortionist," instead. "I never pegged you for an asshole, either, but disappointment abounds. Sell that Mercedes you have and buy four decent cars with the proceeds. See? Everybody's happy." "That's a Mercedes McLaren," Jayson howled. "Then buy eight decent cars." "If you weren't so smart and my mother didn't like you so much," Jayson threatened. "You'd what? Have one of those bigger, taller, better-endowed women beat me up? Jayson Rome, feel free to bring anybody you want against me. They won't last ten seconds." "You'll come to the game? I still plan to invite Hank. I usually sit courtside, but since Dad's coming and bringing Mom," Jayson didn't finish. "Just don't make an ass out of yourself this time." I shut the door in his face before he could sputter a reply.

When he lifted his head, Savannah nearly pulled him back to her. He watched her face, her eyes cloudy with desire, her lips so beautiful, bereft of his. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Savannah? There is such beauty in your soul, I can see it shining in your eyes.” She touched his face, her palm molding his strong jaw. Why couldn’t she resist his hungry eyes? “I think you’re casting a spell over me. I can’t remember what we were talking about.” Gregori smiled. “Kissing.” His teeth nibbled gently at her chin. “Specifically, your wanting to kiss that orange-bearded imbecile.” “I wanted to kiss every one of them,” she lied indignantly. “No, you did not. You were hoping that silly fop would wipe my taste from your mouth for all eternity.” His hand stroked back the fall of hair around her face. He feathered kisses along the delicate line of her jaw. “It would not have worked, you know. As I recall, he seemed to have a problem getting close to you.” Her eyes smoldered dangerously. “Did you have anything to do with his allergies?” She had wanted someone, anyone, to wipe Gregori’s taste from her mouth, her soul. He raised his voice an octave. “Oh, Savannah, I just have to taste your lips,” he mimicked. Then he went into a sneezing fit. “You haven’t ridden until you’ve ridden on a Harley, baby.” He sneezed, coughed, and gagged in perfect imitation. Savannah punched his arm, forgetting for a moment her bruised fist. When it hurt, she yelped and glared accusingly at him. “It was you doing all that to him! The poor man— you damaged his ego for life. Each time he touched me, he had a sneezing fit.” Gregori raised an eyebrow, completely unrepentant. “Technically, he did not lay a hand on you. He sneezed before he could get that close.” She laid her head back on the pillow, her ebony hair curling around his arm, then her arm, weaving them together. His lips found her throat, then moved lower and found the spot over her breast that burned with need, with invitation. Savannah caught his head firmly in her hands and lifted him determinedly away from her before her treacherous body succumbed completely to his magic. “And the dog episode?” He tried for innocence, but his laughter was echoing in her mind. “What do you mean?” “You know very well what I mean,” she insisted. “When Dragon walked me home.” “Ah, yes, I seem to recall now. The big bad wolf decked out in chains and spikes, afraid of a little dog.” “Little? A hundred-and-twenty-pound Rottweiler mix? Foaming at the mouth. Roaring. Charging him!” “He ran like a rabbit.” Gregori’s soft, caressing voice echoed his satisfaction. He had taken great pleasure in running that particular jackass off. How dare the man try to lay a hand on Savannah? “No wonder I couldn’t touch the dog’s mind and call him off. You rotten scoundrel.” “After Dragon left you, I chased him for two blocks, and he went up a tree. I kept him there for several hours, just to make a point. He looked like a rooster with his orange comb.” She laughed in spite of her desire not to. “He never came near me again.” “Of course not. It was unacceptable,” he said complacently, with complete satisfaction, the warmth of his breath heating her blood.

Martha would come over every week and check on Mia and work with her on relaxation and breathing exercises to prepare for the natural labor. Jenny was on board with the natural thing too, so of course she and Mia dragged Tyler and me to the Bradley Birthing Method classes. It was hysterical; we had to get in all kinds of weird poses with the girls while they mimicked being in labor. We would massage their backs while they were perched on all fours, moaning. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done is contain my laughter during those classes. Mia was the freakin’ teacher’s pet because she was taking it so seriously. Right around the third class, they showed us a video of a live birth. I had nightmares for a week after that. Tyler and I agreed that we had to find a way to get out of going to the classes. We hadn’t mutually agreed on a plan, so during the fifth class, Tyler took it upon himself and used his own bodily gifts to get us into a heap of trouble. Tyler is lactose intolerant, and he has to take these little white tablets every time he eats cheese. The morning of the class, he stopped by the studio with a half-eaten pizza. I didn’t even think twice about it until that night in class during our visualization exercises when this god-awful, horrendous odor overtook our senses. At first everyone kept quiet and just looked around for the source. There wasn’t a sound to accompany the lethal attack, so everyone went into investigation mode, staring each other down. Mia began to gag. I heard Jenny cry a little behind us. Finally when I turned toward Tyler, I noticed he had the most triumphant glimmer in his eyes. I completely lost my shit. I was rolling around, laughing hysterically. Mia grabbed the hood of my sweatshirt and pulled me to my feet. “Outside, now!” She was scowling as she dragged me along. When we passed Tyler, she pointed to him angrily. “You too, joker.” Mia and Jenny pressed us up against the brick wall outside and then gave us the death stare, both of them with their arms crossed over their blooming bellies. They whispered something to each other and then turned and walked off, arm in arm. We followed. “Come on, you guys, it was funny.” Jenny stopped dead in her tracks and turned. She jabbed her index finger into my chest and said, “Yes, it is funny. When you’re five! Not when you’re in a room full of pregnant women. Do you know how sensitive our noses are?” I shrugged. “It wasn’t me.” “Oh, I know he’s a child,” she said but wouldn’t even look at Tyler. “And you are too, Will, for encouraging it.” Mia was glaring at me with a disappointed look, and then she shook her head and turned to continue down the street. Jenny caught up and walked away with her. “God, they’re so sensitive,” I whispered to Tyler. “Yeah, I kinda feel bad.” Without turning around, Mia yelled to us, “You guys don’t have to come anymore. Jenny and I can be each other’s partners.” I turned to Tyler and mouthed, “It worked!” I had a huge smile on my face. Tyler and I high-fived. “Why don’t you guys go celebrate? I know that’s what you wanted,” Jenny yelled back as they made a sharp turn down the sidewalk and down the stairs to the subway. “Nothing gets past them,” Tyler said

Don’t provoke Cheat,” Arin said as they stepped out of the carriage and onto the dusky path that led to the governor’s palace, which looked eerie to Kestrel because its impressive façade was the same as the night before, but the lights burning in the windows were now few. “Kestrel, do you hear me? You can’t toy with him.” “He started it.” “That’s not the point.” Gravel crunched under Arin’s heavy boots as he stalked up the path. “Don’t you understand that he wants you dead? He’d leap at the chance,” Arin said, hands in pockets, head down, almost talking to himself. He strode ahead, his long legs quicker than hers. “I can’t--Kestrel, you must understand that I would never claim you. Calling you a prize--my prize--it was only words. But it worked. Cheat won’t harm you, I swear that he won’t, but you must…hide yourself a little. Help a little. Just tell us how much time we have before the battle. Give him a reason to decide you’re not better off dead. Swallow your pride.” “Maybe that’s not as easy for me as it is for you.” He wheeled on her. “It’s not easy for me,” he said through his teeth. “You know that it’s not. What do you think I have had to swallow, these past ten years? What do you think I have had to do to survive?” They stood before the palace door. “Truly,” she said, “I haven’t the faintest interest. You may tell your sad story to someone else.” He flinched as if slapped. His voice came low: “You can make people feel so small.” Kestrel went hot with shame--then was ashamed of her own shame. Who was he, that she should apologize? He had used her. He had lied. Nothing he said meant anything. If she was to feel shame, it should be for having been so easily fooled. He ran fingers through his cropped hair, but slowly, anger gone, replaced by something heavier. He didn’t look at her. His breath smoked the chill air. “Do what you want to me. Say anything. But it frightens me how you refuse to see the danger you risk with others. Maybe now you’ll see.” He opened the door to the governor’s home. The smell struck her first. Blood and decaying flesh. It pushed at Kestrel’s gut. She fought not to gag. Bodies were piled in the reception hall. Lady Neril was lying facedown, almost in the same place where she had stood the night of the ball, greeting guests. Kestrel recognized her by the scarf in her fist, fabric bright in the guttering torchlight. There were hundreds of dead. She saw Captain Wensan, Lady Faris, Senator Nicon’s whole family, Benix… Kestrel knelt next to him. His large hand felt like cold clay. She could hear her tears drip to his clothes. They beaded on his skin. Quietly, Arin said, “He’ll be buried today, with the others.” “He should be burned. We burn our dead.” She couldn’t look at Benix anymore, but neither could she get to her feet. Arin helped her, his touch gentle. “I’ll make certain it’s done right.” Kestrel forced her legs to move, to walk past bodies heaped like rubble. She thought that she must have fallen asleep after all, and that this was an evil dream. She paused at the sight of Irex. His mouth was the stained purple of the poisoned, but he had sticky gashes in his side, and one final cut to the neck. Even poisoned, he had fought. Tears came again. Arin’s hold tightened. He pushed her past Irex. “Don’t you dare weep for him. If he weren’t dead, I would kill him myself.