imper
in sympathy, encouraging her. A broad smile spread slowly across her
face. She tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and cried out.

"Oh," Oliver cried out with her. She came back to herself and took
several breaths.

"That--makes a girl feel better," she said. She held the vibrator in
front of his face. "Clean," she ordered. He touched it with his tongue.
She shook her head and put it firmly in his mouth, waiting and smiling
while he sucked on it. "Very good," she said, removing it. "You are
learning your place." She was pleased, light hearted. "You like this,"
she said. Oliver felt himself smiling. He nodded helplessly.

"You will come back next Friday for more training. You are to save
yourself for me." She cradled his balls with one hand. "Do you
understand?"

"Yes," he said.

"Yes, Mistress."

"Yes, Mistress."

She squeezed him gently. "Good. Now go--and behave yourself."

"I will," he promised. "Mistress," he remembered. She released him.

Oliver dressed and drove home. He was oddly elated. _Save yourself for
me._ An order. An implied promise. Another thrill ran through him.

4.

Oliver worked on the mailing list all week. He tried not to think about
Jacky, although she came into his mind regularly, especially at night.
Her big eyes held him before he fell asleep; her body was just out of
reach.

When he wasn't sitting in front of the computer, he worked on the
walnut box. He finished the dovetails. Fitting the bottom of the box
was a puzzle. He had cut it to rest inside; it had to be supported just
above the low bottom arches. He didn't want to put screws through the
sides of the box, and if he put supporting ledger strips on the inside,
the bottom would be raised too high. He fastened a small block to the
lower inside of each corner. The blocks strengthened the feet of the
box and supported the bottom just above the arches. He was satisfied
with that solution, but when he pushed the bottom down on the blocks it
did not fit perfectly flush against all four sides. The cracks bothered
him.

By Friday, after much experimenting, he had made tiny moldings to cover
the cracks. "Thank God for routers," he said to Jennifer Lindenthwaite.
"Took me about five tries, but I did it."

"I wish Rupert had your talent," she sighed.

"It's not talent; it's pig-headedness."

"Pigs are sweet, really," Jennifer said. "They get a bad rap." She
stood. "Let's see the program."

She liked what he'd