Seeds of Fear

as if they were made just to wrap around Joe's waist.

Now, of course, Floral's playing footsie under the table with her date, the Missing Link. He's so broad, he nearly pushes her out of the booth. Joe took one look at him before and promptly filed Floral in the drawer labeled 'Ones That Got Away,' but I've got ideas of my own, and now I've got the means to carry them out.

The brunette is raising her glass. Joe is about to walk in her direction. But Floral and her date are getting up, heading for the door. I have to make my first overt move. It might as well be here, in front of a crowd. This way, Joe can't afford to freak out. Since I now control the spongiosum tissue in Joe's body, I can make him walk wherever I want. He's the new Pinocchio, a marionette without strings. I swing him in behind Floral.

For a moment, Joe continues to face the brunette. He can't understand why he's walking toward her — yet her face is getting farther away. Then he realizes he's going in the opposite direction. 'What the fuck?' You got it, Joe. He begins to reach for the bar, a table, to stop himself, but I force his arms to his sides.

We step outside, several yards behind the first pair. We've got to walk half a block to the municipal parking deck. Joe is swinging his head left, right, down, up, trying to make sense out of what's happening. He's not making himself walk, he didn't want to leave the bar, so what the hell is going on?

The parking deck is old, and the city fathers, in their infinite decrepitude, have never seen fit to install adequate lighting, which is just fine with me. The pair had to park their sports car in one of the shadow-cloaked corners. Joe's heels scrape against the concrete. I can't help it; I haven't had enough practice yet. The Missing Link looks up and squints. 'Help you, buddy?' That's what he says, but what he really means is, 'You wanna turn around and walk the other way fast, asshole.'

Joe shakes his head. He still doesn't know what he's doing here. 'I'm — uhhm — I'm sorry. ' Let him mumble, I'm already moving. First I kick the car door. Its metal edges slam on either side of Link's fingers — those little bones just above the first joint. Link bends and clutches his hand, howling (suitably enough) in primate fashion. I'm already lifting my foot again, catching the bridge of his nose with my boot's steel toe. There's the sound of a twig snapping. Stuff leaking from Link's face darkens the pavement.

Floral is screaming: 'Nonono!' Joe's shouting too. 'I'm sorry! I'm not doing this — I'm really not doing this!' I clamp down on Joe's jaw muscles. I don't want him alerting all downtown.

Floral hesitates. She isn't sure whether to check on the Missing Link or turn and run like hell. In that moment of indecision I have Joe grab her wrists. Her bones are thin enough I can grasp them easily in Joe's left hand. I pin her arms above and behind her, on top of the sports car's roof. With Joe's right hand, I reach into his coat pocket and withdraw a roll of electrical tape. Earlier that evening, while he was reading the newspaper at his desk, I made his hand reach into the side drawer and pull the tape out. He never even knew he put it in his pocket.

Floral manages to get out one or two good screams, but using Joe's right hand and his teeth, I get the tape around both her wrists and her mouth. She's wrenching her entire body from side to side, but I've got too good a hold for her to break free. I work her dress above her waist and yank down her panties. She tries to put a knee in Joe's face but only succeeds in grazing his temple.

All the while Joe's saying, 'Please! I'm not trying to hurt you! I don't want to do this! I don't know what's happening to me!' I let him talk — but not too loud.

She doesn't listen, she can't be listening, she's tossing her head from side to side, her hair coming loose from its barrettes, whipping Joe across the cheeks.

'I can't help it!' he cries. 'I can't make myself stop!'

I use Joe's hand to loosen his belt, his pants, tug down the Fruit of the Looms, and I'm driving between her legs, and I realize it was worth it, all of it was worth it, every second, she's already damp because she'd been anticipating the Missing Link's primordial prick but now she's got me, her cunt shudders with fear and revulsion, yes, all of them should be terrified of their lovers, I'm not gonna last long, but what it lacks in duration it's gonna make up in intensity, and anyway this is only the beginning because, because

Now I am not just Joe's penis.

Now I am Joe.

WHAT YOU SEE Paul Dale Anderson

Who do you want to be tonight? she asks herself. Sandra? Marsha? Cynthia?

Cynthia, yes. Cindy for short. Cindy is sexy, sinful. Full of fun. Tonight she wants to be Cindy.

Hurriedly stripping off her daytime persona to leave behind a scattered trail of discarded business attire and conventional undergarments — nylon half-slip, pantyhose, bra, white cotton panties — littering the plush hallway carpet between master bedroom and bathroom, Cindy softly hums the theme song from Gypsy. She flings the brightly colored plastic shower curtain aside, her playful mood quickly escalating to near mania. She steps into the tub, adjusts the water temperature, yanks the curtain back into place, twists a plastic knob to divert the flow of hot water from spigot to showerhead, and luxuriates in the sheer sensuality of thousands of tiny needles pounding her shoulder blades and stinging her naked flesh like a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Her nipples instantly harden; her inner thighs become slippery and wet; a warm flush flutters her tummy as soapy fingers caress her tendermost spots.

After bringing herself to multiple orgasms with erotic daydreams of the night yet to come, Cindy shaves both legs and carefully trims scraggly strands of curly hair from her pubic thatch with her father's straight razor. She rinses off and towels herself dry.

Gaudy makeup comes next: eye shadow, eyeliner, and lipstick. Then she selects a long, blond fall, one of dozens of expensive falls and wigs that line her makeup table like trophies line the huts of South Seas headhunters. She expertly shapes and blends the soft synthetic human hair into her own closely cropped natural hair with the consummate skill of a professional hairdresser.

Nipple rings? Should she wear nipple rings?

She rummages through her jewelry drawer to find a pair of delicately crafted twenty-four-karat two-inch- diameter gold rings, pokes thin hypoallergenic wires through tiny holes piercing the center of both nipples. Delicious thrills sensitize her body as she tugs both rings to be sure the wires are securely seated.

On impulse, she spreads the lips of her vulva and attaches a third ring — this one a long, slender, razor-thin piece of jeweled metal that clamps tightly to her clitoris like the jaws of a vise.

The image that stares back at Cindy from the full-length mirror on the other side of the room is extremely beautiful, too beautiful to be believed. Didn't Mother always say Cindy was far too skinny and sickly looking for her own good? On closer inspection, she grudgingly admits Mother was right. Without an inch of fat to spare, her image appears delicate, fragile, easily fractured. Like a porcelain doll that will shatter to thousands of sharp shards if touched by human hands. Her skin, too, seems unnaturally pale; there should be telltale tan lines decorating her chest like military campaign ribbons, but there aren't. And her firm breasts, though more than ample for her height and slender frame, are neither as large nor full as the cover girls that pose for Cosmo or Vogue.

She makes a mental note to visit a tanning salon. A few more pounds might add an inch or two to her bustline, hopefully without ruining the rest of her figure. Why should she settle for anything less than perfection? Mother would insist she shouldn't.

And Mother is always right.

At twenty-eight, Cindy thinks she can easily pass for twenty-four — maybe even twenty-two, if the lights are right. She's young enough to be attractive, but experienced enough to know how to exploit a woman's hidden assets. Mother would say it's the best of all possible worlds.

She is the same age her mother was when she was born.

Toying with fabrics in the walk-in closet, she decides a red half-cup bra under a peach-colored silk see- through will be perfect tonight. A matching red garter belt, peach-tinted nylons, a magenta thigh-length leather skirt, and red patent leather pumps complete the outfit nicely.