Life settled into a comfortable rhythm for the occupants of the castle over the following week, as it always did after the whirlwind first week of classes. The first years were gradually learning to navigate the twisting corridors and jump the trick stairs and stopped getting lost so much on their way to lessons, the older students were gradually learning to accept their doomed fates as O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students who had suddenly very little free time and quite a lot more stress, and that usual, somewhat surreal air of nervous excitement which surrounded returning to Hogwarts faded naturally into the feeling that they had never really left.

A brutal wind had blown up around the castle, whipping steadily across the grounds and sneaking through the gaps under doors, rattling the windows in their frames and chilling the hallways.

This, Harry brooded as he shifted positions uncomfortably, must certainly be why he was so bloody freezing all the time now, and he pulled his robes more tightly around himself.

It was his Friday morning free period and he was sitting crouched in one of Hogwarts’ secret passageways, hidden behind a tapestry, head bent low over the Marauder’s Map. He scanned the miniaturised drawings of classrooms and corridors, eyes darting about rapidly, searching…he had just seen…there! Harry smacked his finger to the parchment triumphantly, tracing the little dot labeled ‘Draco Malfoy’ as it moved down one of the tiny staircases, flanked by two other dots marked ‘Gregory Goyle’ and ‘Theodore Nott’. Malfoy was heading to the ground floor…he, Harry, was only one floor above! He thought quickly…if he left the passageway and used the stairs to the right, he could overtake Malfoy easily in minutes. But if he followed the passage, it would take less time…though that would lead to more classrooms, and a higher chance of getting caught…Harry rubbed his hands together in an attempt to warm them. He wasn’t out-of-bounds, but he would rather no one knew what he was up to, not yet…not until he had proof….

Harry’s elbow brushed a small lump of material balled up inside his pocket, just over his hip, and he nearly startled as it struck him: his Invisibility Cloak!

It was so obvious he felt stupid for not realising it earlier. But then again, he supposed as he fished it out of his pocket, he wasn’t quite yet used to having it with him all the time, before now he’d always kept it in his trunk when he was at school.

Well, that settled that, he decided – he’d take the shortcut. A thrill of anticipation and purpose raced through Harry as he made to stand.

But then he hesitated, checking Malfoy’s progress: he and his lackeys were on the ground floor now, and they were heading toward the dungeons…Harry felt quite sure that if they were about to deface something or cause any trouble, it would be out in the open again for the whole school to see, not down in the dungeons…Harry sat still another minute and watched the three dots rove deeper into the bowels of the castle, and then pass through the entrance to the Slytherin common room, as he’d suspected they might.

Harry slumped back against the wall, disappointed.

This was the third time this week he had sat hidden away in a secluded section of the castle, alone, waiting for Malfoy to make a mistake…to perhaps wander off somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be, or to linger too long anywhere that was not a classroom, or a bathroom….

And this was the third time he had been left with absolutely nothing to show for it.

Harry knew Malfoy was up to something. He knew it had been Malfoy who’d written those foul things on the wall in the second-floor corridor, and if no one else was going to do anything about it, then Harry would.

It had not been difficult, these past few days, to slip away unnoticed by Ron and Hermione whenever they started up into one of their usual rounds of bickering. They had been doing that quite a lot recently. Bickering, that was. Harry supposed that they had always done that – had always liked to needle each other to the point of exasperation, but he had noticed a definite uptick over the summer, and he had a sneaking suspicion as to why that might be.

And he was not sure how to feel about it.

About the possibility of Ron and Hermione…what? Abandoning him? Shutting him out forever, so they could be on their own?

But Harry mentally kicked himself. Surely that would never happen. They had, both of them, stuck by Harry, even through some pretty tough times, and he was certain that wouldn’t change just because they might want to start dating each other.

Harry let out a quick puff of air. His free period was already half over, and he still had to run back to the Tower to get his books before his next class. Resigned, Harry quickly rolled up the Marauder’s Map and tucked it back inside his robes. He climbed to his feet and stretched, pulling his arms briefly above his head. His back was aching and sore from sitting still for so long, and he took a moment to stretch that out too, his spine popping in several places.

Cautiously, Harry poked his head out and looked up and down the corridor. Seeing no one, he stepped out from behind the tapestry.

He had to switch up his strategy, Harry thought as he made his way toward the stairs, mulling over his Malfoy problem again…the Slytherins (collectively, for Harry was positive Malfoy'd had help) had last struck in the middle of the night, and Harry had so far only managed to post himself throughout the school at random times of the day, whenever a break in his timetable allowed it. It would make more sense to keep watch at night…it was not as though this would interfere with all the solid sleep he was getting, he considered ruefully...but then again, there was the risk of getting locked out of Gryffindor Tower if the Fat Lady decided to visit another portrait….

“Hi Harry!” a voice called brightly behind him.

Harry’s hand jerked, ready to draw his wand, but as he turned and saw who it was, his arm fell back to his side.

“Hi Luna,” said Harry, relieved in spite of himself. The sight of her, wearing her usual radish-shaped earrings, blonde hair as long and straggly as ever, was oddly comforting, and his heart stuttered back to normal. He realised with a twinge of unhappiness that he had not seen her properly since they had shared a compartment on the train. As she caught up to him, Harry dug his hands into his pockets and turned automatically so that they were walking together.

“What are you doing down here? Haven’t you got class?” Harry asked her.

“Oh yes,” Luna nodded serenely. “Charms. But Laura Hinkley accidentally overdid her Summoning Charm and smacked herself in the face with a globe. She broke her nose and knocked out two front teeth, so Professor Flitwick ended class early to take her to the hospital wing. I feel a bit badly for her – I would feel much worse, only she’s one of the girls who calls me ‘Loony’ sometimes,” she said matter-of-factly.

Harry grinned at her, and he was surprised to find it came easily. He hadn’t grinned in what felt like ages.

“I’m glad you got out early, then. It’s nice to see you,” he told her sincerely.

Luna’s wide, silvery eyes lit up, and she absolutely beamed at him. “It’s very nice to see you, too, Harry.”

They chatted companionably through a few more corridors, and as Luna told him all about her first week of school, Harry scratched absently at his wrists.

His hands itched all the time now; the strange, intense urges to bathe himself had not abated over the last week and had continued to strike him randomly at thoroughly inconvenient times. He wasn’t, of course, able to sneak away half a dozen times a day just for a shower, so he had found himself slipping into the bathroom between classes and meals to quickly shove his hands under some hot water. It seemed to help suppress his odd new compulsion, but the skin on his wrists and the backs of his hands was now cracked and dry, and he had begun to develop tiny blisters.

Harry wasn’t exactly sure what was driving this weird impulse. Perhaps it was his now seemingly permanent case of the chills – a hot shower seemed to be the only thing that could sufficiently warm him up these days.

Or perhaps it was the fact that he now felt very like he had done after witnessing Nagini’s attack on Mr. Weasley the year before and subsequently hearing some of the members of the Order speculate that he might have been possessed without his knowing…Harry remembered, very clearly, how…separate…from everyone else he had felt on the train ride home from visiting Mr. Weasley at St. Mungo’s – contaminated, infected...dirty….

Harry found himself thinking, sometimes, though he tried very hard not to, about that night in the broom cupboard with Romilda. He had neither properly seen nor heard from her since the evening she had left him chocolates in his room, and Harry felt quite certain that the best thing he could do would be to just forget about what had happened between them. The only problem with this, however, was that she seemed to have transferred something to him that night. Left some parasite on his skin that had crawled up inside him and latched on, releasing a kind of vile toxin that made him itch all over, made him feel like he had a thin layer of living grime sitting just underneath the surface of his skin…Harry found that the feeling went away, for just a little while, after he’d scrubbed himself sufficiently, though he could never quite seem to fully eradicate it.

Harry pulled his sleeves down over his hands and shoved them back into his pockets, forcefully shelving all thoughts of Romilda Vane and focusing instead on Luna’s animated description of a Blibbering Humdinger her father had claimed he’d seen a month before.

“Anyway,” Luna said as they climbed another set of stairs together, “what were you doing down there, all by yourself?”

Harry shrugged. “Enjoying the view,” he said as though it were obvious, gesturing grandly at the exceptionally uninteresting bare stretch of wall they were passing, and Luna broke out into giggles. She snorted slightly, which Harry might usually have found a bit grating, but coming from Luna he found it somehow endearing, and he felt his spirits lift considerably as he watched her, another smile tugging at his lips.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Luna stopped and turned to Harry, tucking her wand more securely behind her left ear. “Well, I suppose I’d better be heading back. I’ve got Care of Magical Creatures next, and I’m afraid I’m already quite late,” she said, smiling widely. “See you, Harry!”

“Bye, Luna,” said Harry, her words sinking in as she climbed back down the stairs. She hadn’t been heading this way at all, then, but had simply walked with Harry to keep him company, even though he had made her late for class.

Harry watched her go, a fierce sort of affection rising in his chest, and hoped, as Luna disappeared around the corner, that Laura Hinkley’s broken nose was still smarting.

“Been stalking Malfoy again, have you?” Ron said offhandedly without looking up from his Charms text as Harry plopped into the chair next to him and put his feet up on the table.

Harry laced his fingers over his stomach and did his best to look highly affronted. “Who says I’ve been stalking him?”

Ron glanced up at him, giving him a look that said quite plainly he wasn’t fooled, and Harry gave in.

“Yeah, alright,” he shrugged easily, and leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

He heard Ron snort and turn a page. “Don’t know why you’re wasting your time….”

Harry lifted his head again to look at Ron incredulously. “What, you don’t think it was him who wrote that rubbish in that corridor? You said you did!”

“‘Course it was,” Ron agreed, squinting at a footnote. “It’s just…I mean, how d’you think you’re going to catch him at it? Better to just wait and see if he does it again, and then you can see what his game is, where he’ll make his next move….” Ron trailed off, tapping his quill against the table as he looked something up in his text’s index.

Harry stared at him. It was no wonder Ron Weasley won every game of chess he ever played, he thought wryly. But it was, in Harry’s opinion, a moot point. He had admittedly already considered this strategy and discarded it – after all, what if Malfoy ended up hurting someone next time? But when Harry voiced this concern to Ron, he merely laughed.

“Malfoy? Come on, Harry, he’s a filthy rotten creep, yeah, but he’s a cowardly filthy rotten creep,” Ron pointed out, closing his book and leaning back against the wall, mirroring Harry’s position. “Since when has he ever done anything more than stand there insulting people, and threaten everyone with his father?”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” Harry pressed. “His father’s in prison, isn’t he, and now Draco thinks it’s his job to prove the Malfoys aren’t all worthless, they’re still useful…hey!” A sudden idea had just struck him. “D’you reckon he’s working for Voldemort already?”

Ron cringed at the name but did not attempt to challenge Harry’s use of it. “Are you serious? What would You-Know-Who want with a slimy, spineless little git who’s not even fully qualified yet?” Ron shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“Well, I still reckon he ought to be expelled either way,” Harry said grimly. “I mean, you do realise it was people like Hermione he said should pop their clogs, don’t you? I thought you’d be more upset about this….”

“I am!” Ron said indignantly, sitting up a little straighter and frowning down at Harry. “I just think you’re getting a bit obsessed, that’s all….”

“Who’s getting obsessed with what?” asked Hermione, who had just appeared next to them. She set down a rather large stack of books and pushed Harry’s feet off the table, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “boys” and “respecting the furniture.”

“Harry’s getting obsessed with Malfoy,” Ron informed her as she sat down across from them.

“Oh, that,” she agreed conversationally. “Yes, I do think you’re putting a bit too much energy into it, frankly, Harry…until you’ve got proof – ”

“Ron thinks I’m right that he’s up to something, don’t you?” Harry demanded, but Ron simply held up his hands as if to say ‘sorry, nothing I can do’ and Harry glared at him.

Hermione ignored both of them. “Until you’ve got real proof, there’s really no point in wandering about the school, wasting time when you should be studying….”

“And how am I supposed to get proof without going looking for it, wait for it to fall into my lap?” Harry challenged.

But Hermione seemed to have lost interest in discussing the matter, giving him a stern look but declining to answer. Harry looked away in defeat, vowing to bring it up again next chance he got. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hermione looking him up and down, as though inspecting him for any visible signs of an ailment.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Between Harry’s frequent trips to the bathroom and his continued lack of appetite, Ron and Hermione had started to express the concern that Harry might have come down with some sort of stomach illness. Every time Harry had looked at food for the past week, he’d felt a rolling sense of nausea, and after several days of consuming only water, tea, and modest portions of whatever soup the kitchens had produced that day, Hermione had become increasingly insistent that he should try to eat a bit more. It was just no use telling her he wasn’t hungry, and that probably he wouldn’t be able to keep any of it down anyway; her incessant harassment was starting to wear on him, and he had begun to find a certain bitter pleasure in refusing her demands….

Just then the bell rang, much to Harry’s relief, and the three of the them headed off to Charms, where he knew Hermione would have blessedly little time to focus on his well-being, physical or otherwise.

The next day dawned grey and calm. Overcast, but no sign of rain yet, and the brutal wind had died down to almost nothing. Perfect Quidditch conditions, and Harry could not have been more pleased – it was Gryffindor tryouts today, his first official duty as Captain of the team, and he wanted everything to go as smoothly as possible.

The thought of the good weather sustained Harry all the way down to breakfast, and he even managed to get down three sausages and a pile of eggs before Hermione announced over the morning paper that Stan Shunpike had been arrested.

“What?” he and Ron both said at once.

Hermione read the rest of the article aloud, and it seemed clear to the three of them that the Ministry had now reached a point of desperation, and had resorted to merely constructing the appearance of doing something about the growing threats to the community they were supposed to be protecting, even if it meant jailing innocent people.

Harry sat there silently as Hermione and Ron continued to discuss the subject, fingernails scraping absently against the back of his wrist, and glanced up at the staff table. For a while he watched Dumbledore, who was deep in conversation with Professor Flitwick, and wondered when their next lesson together would be.

Harry certainly wasn’t managing to do much on his own to improve his chances of helping to win the war: with his growing inability to concentrate properly in lessons and an ongoing struggle to get a full night’s sleep, Harry’s classes had become an even bigger challenge than before. The printed words of his textbooks blurred together and sometimes did not even seem like they were written in proper English, and he would find himself reading the same sentence a dozen times as his mind wandered off completely. His teachers’ voices oftentimes faded to a dull buzz that he had trouble deciphering and he would feel his eyelids getting heavier and heavier, until he was inevitably nudged awake by Ron’s elbow, or startled by the bell.

And the worst part was he could feel himself beginning not to care.

He wanted to care, he knew how important his education was (what use was he to anyone else as an underqualified wizard) but he sensed his motivation for schoolwork slipping through his fingers and he did not know how to stop it. What was the point in trying, after all, if he couldn’t keep any of it inside his brain….

Harry knew his marks were already starting to suffer for it.

He’d caught McGonagall frowning at him more than once, and Flitwick had handed Harry’s last essay back to him with a rather baffled look of dismay. Slughorn, with a rather melodramatic expression of pure agony on his round, walrus-y face, had expressed his profound consternation that the evidence of the talent Harry had obviously inherited from his mother had disappeared so entirely and had offered to tutor Harry privately.

But the thought of being alone for hours on end with Professor Slughorn, who often looked at Harry as if he were a delicious prize to be won and whom Harry did yet know very well, was deeply unsettling to him for reasons he did not know how to name, and Harry had flat-out refused this proposition as politely as he possibly could.

The breakfast Harry had managed to get down churned unpleasantly in his stomach, and he shoved his plate away, blaming it somewhat truthfully on the nerves of the upcoming tryouts when Hermione asked him if that was all he was going to eat.

The weather held as Harry, Ron, and Hermione made their way down to the Quidditch stadium fifteen minutes later.

Ginny caught up to them about halfway down, her broom over her shoulder, and was joined shortly thereafter by Dean, which Harry would not have minded, as he liked Dean quite a lot, except that he casually slipped his hand into Ginny’s, and this seemed to coincide with a slight dip in Harry’s mood (although he saw Ron glance pointedly at their clasped hands and felt a bit better).

A rather large crowd had already gathered by the time they reached the pitch, and Hermione departed to find a seat in the stands, wishing them all a hasty good luck. Ron, Ginny, and Dean wandered off to join the rest of the hopefuls, leaving Harry alone to survey the massive group of applicants. Harry couldn’t believe how many people had shown up…he tried to perform a quick headcount but it was impossible to tell for sure, as everyone kept moving around. Definitely more than had ever turned up to trials over Harry’s previous years on the team. He felt his nerves flutter again….

Harry glanced up at the grey sky, thinking he had better get things started up before it decided to rain, and felt a faint tug on his sleeve. He looked back and abruptly found himself face to face with Romilda Vane – a sharp bolt of lightning seemed to lance through Harry in the millisecond it took for him to recognise her face, and he stepped back hastily without thinking.

“Harry,” she said, smirking, and Harry was oddly surprised to find that her voice sounded perfectly normal. Like it could have belonged to any other girl.

“Hello, Romilda,” said Harry evenly. He forced himself to stand his ground, even though what he really wanted to do was turn around and march across the field until he was as far away from her as possible. The vague beginnings of a headache throbbed to life at the back of his skull, but the panic that he had felt every time he had thought of her over the past week did not come. In fact, he suddenly felt terribly, mercifully blank. “Er – what are you doing here?”

“Trying out!” she beamed, gesturing at the crowd behind her, and winked conspiratorially. “Figured I had an in with the Captain….”

Harry gave her a tight smile and thought privately that Snape had a better chance of winning a tap-dancing competition than Romilda did of getting on this Quidditch team. “Right. Well, if you’ll just wait over there….” He tried to direct her back over to the others.

“And anyway,” she continued as if Harry had not spoken, “I haven’t heard from you, did you like your present?” She gave him a knowing smile.

A box, a little box on his bed, and a note that smelled of roses-

She had-

 “Please….”

been in his room-

Don’t.

His fresh headache gave a nasty throb.

“I don’t like chocolate,” Harry said stiffly.

“Oh! Well, if you – ”

“And like I said, you can wait over there with everyone else,” he told her, pointing.

Romilda’s expression faltered for a moment at his tone, but she recovered quickly. “Sure, if you like….” She moved as if to touch Harry’s arm, but he jerked it abruptly out of her reach, and her hand fell back to her side. The barest trace of annoyance flashed across her face, and then she smirked at him again and walked away to rejoin the group.

Harry watched her go, and wished it were just a bit sunnier; the cool breeze seemed to have taken on a harder edge….

Harry wiped his palms on his trousers, squared his shoulders, and lifted the whistle hanging round his neck to his lips, giving it a sharp blast. The talk died down immediately as everyone turned to face him.

“Alright, you lot,” he announced firmly, “we’re going to start with the basics, I want you to split up into groups of ten….”

“So assertive,” someone whispered, and several girls broke out into hysterical giggles. Harry pointedly ignored them and began relaying instructions to the first group of ten to fly once around the pitch so he could get a sense of their abilities.

Romilda Vane was in the second group. When Harry blew his whistle, not a single one of them kicked off from the ground, but merely dissolved into another fit of giggles, and Harry felt irritation flare in his empty chest.

“Leave now, please!” he barked at them, before turning to the rest. “And if there’s anyone else here who’s not going to take it seriously then you can get off this field….”

Romilda and her friends ran off the pitch, still laughing, and Harry noted with annoyance that they did not head back up to the castle but rather went to sit in the stands to watch everyone else. Harry grimaced, scratching his hand, the pressure in the back of his head increasing, and turned to direct the third group….

The rest of the trials took several hours and were somewhat of a blur. Harry could feel sweat running down his back despite the cool weather; he focused all his concentration on the players before him and did not look into the stands, though he imagined, in the back of his mind, that Romilda’s eyes were following him…he thought Hermione might have tried to wave at him once, when he’d finished the flying tests and the Chaser candidates had stepped forward, to give him the thumbs up, but he steadfastly refused to look in her direction…he was vaguely sure she was sitting in the row just above Romilda…the pulsing heaviness in Harry’s head seemed to be growing, twisting….

Harry watched, trying to absorb every detail, as each Chaser attempted to score as many goals as possible; Katie Bell was still as good as ever, and it was no tough decision to welcome her back on the team; Demelza Robins, whom Harry had only seen in passing before now, was a nice surprise, and had a particular talent for avoiding Bludgers; Ginny Weasley scored more goals than anyone before her, and managed to look damn good while doing it (although Harry didn’t suppose this was relevant to her Chasing abilities, and it did not, of course, have any bearing on her acceptance to the team).

By the time Harry had chosen two new Beaters, Jimmy Peakes and Ritchie Coote, he had shouted down several arguments and complaints from those who had failed to make the cut – normally he would have found this infuriating, but as it was Harry couldn’t seem to muster any real sense of exasperation.

As Jimmy and Ritchie went to join the other spectators, Harry glanced toward the stands. Romilda was still there.

Harry’s head pulsed again, and he wiped a bead of sweat off his temple, turning to watch Ron, who had flown up to the goal posts to start his trial for Keeper. Ron looked like he might be sick, and Harry felt his stomach dip in sympathy, but Ron managed to save all five penalties without much trouble, something no other Keeper applicant had managed to do, and Harry felt a relieved delight try to stir in his heart as Ron landed to the cheers of the crowd.

With the excitement over, the onlookers began to file quickly out of the stadium, and Harry waited until Cormac McLaggen (who had done second best as Keeper but who also seemed to possess both a nasty temper and the idea that Harry had not given him a fair shot) had stomped off to the castle, aiming a kick at one of the benches as he went, before making his way over to Ron and thumping him on the back.

“Well done!” said Harry fervently, slightly hoarse from all the shouting he’d had to do. “Really great, Ron, that last save – ”

“Thanks,” said Ron, grinning ear to ear. “Almost thought I’d missed it, did you see – ”

“Congratulations, Ron!” Hermione was running toward them, and when she reached them, she leaned up quickly, kissing Ron on the cheek. A second later, she seemed to realise what she had done and stepped back quickly, blushing and looking everywhere but at Ron’s face. Ron’s ears turned red as he stared, dumbstruck, at Hermione, then touched his cheek lightly where she had kissed him, beaming. Ginny, who had just walked up with the rest of the new team, caught Harry’s eye and they both looked away quickly, trying not to laugh.

After consulting everyone’s timetables, the first full practice was fixed up for the following week.

“You were all brilliant,” Harry congratulated them, and for a second he felt a true glow of pride as he looked around at them all.

Katie smiled at him fondly. “You too, Mr. Captain, nice job.”

The last stragglers were leaving the Quidditch pitch, and as Harry shook Ritchie Coote’s hand, he glanced away, inadvertently catching Romilda Vane’s eye. She gave him a little wave then turned back to her friends, their tinkling laughter fading as the little group strolled away.

Ron’s enthusiastic re-telling of his third save faded to a buzz in Harry’s ears as he stared after them. He dropped Ritchie’s hand, his skin crawling…his head throbbed like a heartbeat…his arms were beginning to itch again….

“Gonna go put these up, be right back….” Harry said mechanically, and kicked shut the lid of the crate containing the Quidditch balls, scooped it up, and headed toward the equipment shed. He quickly stowed the crate and glanced back at his friends. No one was watching, and he felt safe slipping away to the changing rooms.

Harry stopped just inside the door, pulling it closed and looking around. His eyes drank in the long benches, the pads and gloves hanging on the walls, the section leading off to the showers.

He loved this room.

He still remembered the first time he had sat in it before an actual Quidditch game, how nervous he had been…he saw himself quite clearly as he imagined it, his tiny little eleven-year-old self in those scarlet robes, trembling and anxious and so very, very excited….

Harry locked the door and went around to the showers. He wanted to rinse off, he felt sweaty and gross, but as soon as he turned on the tap, he remembered that Ron and Hermione would be waiting for him…they had planned to go down to Hagrid’s after tryouts…Harry reluctantly switched off the tap. He wandered over to the lockers, running his hand along the metal doors until coming to the one that had first been his, five years ago…it wasn’t his anymore…George had switched his and Harry’s as a joke in third year and they had never bothered to swap back…Harry turned around and leaned against it, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. His wrists tingled more intensely and he scratched them one at a time, digging his nails in, prying out the itch.

He felt…odd.

Like how he imagined it might feel to stand at the edge of a cliff and look down, and feel no awe, or anticipation, or fear.

He was satisfied with his performance as Captain today, and truly happy for Ginny and for Ron for making the team, but it was like all that was buried underneath a massive, solid layer of…nothing.

The headache that had been developing all morning, since the moment he’d seen Romilda, gave a particularly intense throb…something was pulsing at the back of his mind like a tumor, begging to be examined –

“…did you like your present?”

– and Harry did not want to touch it, but it was like being in the room with a dead body, and you didn’t want to look at it, but it was so awful it drew your eyes against your will….

There was a knock at the door.

“Harry?”

It was Ginny.

He stared across the room. He wanted to call out to her, to go back out and join the others and talk about Quidditch like it was the only thing that mattered, but his mouth and body had disconnected from his brain, and Ginny’s voice felt very far away, and he stared.

“Are you in there?”

In his mind, he inched closer and closer to that ugly, red, pulsing mass, and he wanted very much for someone to yank him back, to stop him, this did not belong in his head –

DON’T!

He reached out, and touched it, and his mind burst open –

– it felt like acid was leaking into his brain –

 “Are you lost, Harry?”

His head was swirling with an artificial confusion, he felt dazed, he felt wrong, and then there was darkness –

“This is a broom cupboard….”

– his body was frozen, he was helpless, he couldn’t do anything to protect himself, and there was –

Sweet, sickly syrup sliding down his throat –

He could taste it now, like he was being forced to drink it all over again, and he gagged, retching –

“Harry?” came that nice voice again, and it was louder, and not so calm, anymore.

There was a boiling, raging heat inside him, nothing but heat, heat, heat, and he was burning up…she was beautiful, so beautiful you couldn’t see what was hiding underneath –

 “There’s a good boy.”

He could feel her hand on his face, as surely as if she were sitting next to him, and he wanted to jerk away, but he was paralysed, he couldn’t move, and then her phantom lips were pressing against his, forcing them open, and her tongue was in his mouth –

Stop her, or you won’t like what comes next – stop her, you sorry little –

There were other voices outside the door now.

Help me.

“I love you.”

Those words were everything, they were the only important thing in the world, and she had taken his first ones, all for herself –

There were hands all over him….

He couldn’t breathe. His head fell back and hit the locker behind him with a metallic bang. He lifted his head and slammed it back again, and again –

“Get out of my head!” Harry gasped into the empty room.

“You’re so gorgeous, Harry, hasn’t anyone ever told you?”

A hand slipping into his pants –

Harry’s whole body jerked and he kicked out, his foot slamming into one of the wooden benches. It toppled over with an almighty crash –

The door was pounding now, pounding like the inside of Harry’s head.

“Harry Potter, open this door right now, or I swear – ”

She was pulling his clothes off, and then they were both naked, and she was on top of him –

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

DON’T. PLEASE.

There was the shout of a spell, and the door burst open.

Someone shrieked.

“Oh my God! Harry!”

There was a clatter around him, and voices….

 He was so cold.

“Harry, stop!”

Hermione….

He sensed a body kneeling down beside him, and a hand closed over his burning wrist –

Harry startled at the contact, his eyes still shut tight, and he jerked away from it violently, his shoulder banging painfully into the lockers, and the hand released him. He still couldn’t breathe….

“Harry….” Her voice was trembling. “Harry…open your eyes….”

Harry forced himself to focus, his breath coming fast and sharp. He concentrated all his willpower on slowing his racing thoughts, shoving the images of her face, her hair, her hands back through the door in his mind he never should have allowed himself to open in the first place – he pushed as hard as he possibly could – the door slammed shut…the too-real sensation of Romilda’s hands on his body began to fade, her voice draining out of his ears…when Hermione told him again to open his eyes, he obeyed on instinct.

Ron and Ginny were standing over him, their faces stricken and pale. Hermione knelt next to him, tears rolling down her cheeks, her eyes wide, her hands held up in front of her as if to show she meant no harm…one of her hands was covered in blood….

Harry stared at the bloody hand in consternation. Why was she bleeding…? His shoulders were hitching with the force of his breath, which was still coming too fast and shallow, his head was swimming….

“Ginny, quick, go get help, Hagrid’s closest – ” Hermione said frantically.

“No!” Harry croaked, hardly knowing what he was saying, and grabbed her wrist, his breath stuttering. “N-no…pl-ease….”

“Harry, you need help, you’re hurt!” Hermione said shrilly.

Harry blinked at her, confused, and his eyes fell to the hand he had wrapped around her arm. His wrist was torn open and raw, dripping blood down his arm, onto her skirt…Harry released her at once, mortified, and looked down at himself. His other hand was in a similar state, and there were drops of red spattered across his shirt….

“I don’t….” he panted. “W-what…what happened….?”

“You don’t remember?” Ron asked tensely, his eyes raking over Harry’s face. His freckles stood out starkly in his bloodless face.

Harry shook his head slowly, trying to think. He’d been scratching his wrists (had to get the itch out), he remembered that now…had he done this to himself? He hadn’t felt it….

Ginny knelt down on his other side. “You need to breathe, Harry,” she instructed, and her voice was steady despite the white-knuckled grip she had around her own knees. “In and out, come on.”

Harry tried to obey. He focused on the hair framing her face, admiring its colour, even in the dim lighting of the changing room…it reminded him of the Burrow…of sunny days spent playing Quidditch in the apple orchard, and Mrs. Weasley humming to herself while she cooked supper…Mr. Weasley reading in his worn, patched armchair…Harry’s heart rate began to slow, and he managed to take several deep breaths.

Ron had been hovering uncertainly, apparently debating whether to run and fetch help after all. But as Harry’s breathing slowed, he sank down onto his knees next to Hermione so they were all on the same level.

A heavy silence fell over the four of them as Harry calmed, and he looked down at his mangled hands, drawing them close against his body, and refused to look at anyone. Nobody said anything for what felt like an eternity; then Hermione reached out tentatively, giving Harry time to refuse her touch if he wanted to, before resting her hand gently on his arm, careful to avoid his injuries.

“What happened, Harry?” she prompted gently.

Harry thought about that for a minute, his brain feeling sluggish and slow. He shrugged hopelessly, still not looking at any of them. “I don’t know…I…I was thinking, and then I just…I dunno, blacked out, I guess….”

Exhaustion was setting in fast, dragging at Harry’s bones, and he thought he would like nothing more than to roll over right here and sleep for a week.

“You mean like…a vision?”

Harry wanted to say yes: here was a ready-made excuse for this…episode. An excuse that relieved him of all guilt for making them worry, for making them break down a door and find him collapsed on the floor of a locker room, covered in his own blood…but he could not bring himself to do it. And besides, if they were put under the impression that a vision from Voldemort had affected him this badly, they would want him to go straight to Dumbledore.

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“You don’t have anything to apologise for,” said Ginny softly.

A pause. “Where’re the others?” Harry asked, hoping the rest of the Gryffindor team weren’t standing outside, that they hadn’t heard….

“They went back up to the school, before I came looking for you,” Ginny told him, and Harry felt a bit better at that.

“What were you thinking about, that made you...?” asked Ron suddenly, as though he wasn’t sure whether he should, and Harry glanced up at him. His expression was clouded.

Harry shrugged again. “Something stupid. It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t, Harry decided, because was never going to go there again, was never again going to open the door in his mind that made him lose control like that, ever….

Ron’s eyes did not leave Harry’s face. “You hurt yourself.”

Harry bristled, and said a little defensively, “I didn’t do it on purpose, I told you, I blacked out.”

“Yes, well – ” Hermione said, her tone taking on some semblance of its usual briskness as she wiped the tears from her face. “We’ve got to get you up to the hospital wing – ”

“I don’t need the hospital wing,” said Harry, and was shouted down at once.

“Harry – ”

“Are you mad?”

“Yes, you do!” Hermione insisted heatedly, and they were all looking at him as if he’d grown another head. “You’re injured, Harry, and probably you need something for shock, too….”

“I’m not in shock,” Harry growled, climbing to his feet, and the three of them scrambled to stand as well. “And it’s just a couple of scrapes, Hermione, I’m fine –”

Though this statement lost something of its merit as Harry wobbled uncertainly and Ron reached out to steady him. Harry did not fancy the idea of traipsing through the school covered in blood, he could imagine the rumours it was bound to start. He just wanted to lie down, and for Hermione, Ron, and Ginny to forget this had ever happened….

“Look,” he said tiredly, looking around at their determined faces. “I’ll let one of you lot have a go at healing me, if you want, but I’m not going to Madam Pomfrey, and I’m not changing my mind.”

“We can’t do that, Harry, we’re not qualified!” said Hermione. “What if something goes wrong? Besides, I don’t know those kind of healing spells….”

“I do,” Ginny said quietly, and they all looked at her.

“You do?” asked Ron, nonplussed.

“Mum taught me.”

“How come she never taught me?” Ron demanded, looking put out.

“I asked her,” said Ginny, giving him a look.

“Oh.”

“But I still reckon we should take you up to the school, whether you like it or not,” Ginny said, turning back to Harry. There was a hard, blazing look on her face, and for a brief second Harry’s resolve weakened and he almost considered going.

But he shook his head, looking into her eyes. He hesitated, and then held his ruined hands out to her. “Try? Please?”

Ginny held his gaze for another second, then sighed, pulling out her wand.

Hermione covered her eyes for a brief moment, shaking her head. “Unbelievable,” she whispered, and then fixed Harry with a glare. “Don’t you think you’ll be doing anything other than going straight to bed, when we get back up to the castle….”

“Fine by me,” Harry said wearily.

And then Ginny, very gently, took one of Harry’s hands in hers. Ginny’s skin was warm against his, and Harry’s belly performed a pleasant little flip, but that thing in the back of his mind into which he had vowed not to look loomed larger as she touched him, and he had to fight the urge to pull away.

“Tergeo,” she said quietly, siphoning off the dried blood, then tapped her wand gently to his wound and the ravaged skin started to knit itself back together as Ron and Hermione watched. Hermione was still looking very worried, but fascinated, too. Harry could practically see the gears of her mind turning, trying to work out the mechanics of the spell, and he would have smiled under different circumstances. Ginny repeated the process with Harry’s other hand, and then pointed her wand at Harry’s shirt, said “Scourgify!” and Harry’s clothes were suddenly blood-free.

Harry held his hands up, inspecting them. They were not quite good as new; the skin had closed up completely but was raised and slightly pink, like it was in the final stages of natural healing. But they were loads better than they had been, and Harry was more than a little impressed.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

Ginny smiled at him, a little sadly, and said, “You’re welcome.”

Harry swallowed and looked away, crossing his arms over his chest and hiding his newly-healed hands from view. He nodded awkwardly toward the door and said, “Erm – guess we’d better be getting back then….”

“Harry – ” Hermione started significantly, but Harry walked quickly past her and out the door before she could say anything else.

Plunk.

Plunk.

Plunk.

Harry pulled two more dead flobberworms apart and tossed each one into a bowl. He glanced at the clock behind the desk where Snape sat, bent over a stack of paperwork, and groaned inwardly.

He’d only been at it for half an hour. He had another whole hour left….

Snape looked up ominously at the pause in plunking sounds, and Harry grudgingly dug his hands back into the giant barrel of flobberworms he was sorting into rotten and not-rotten for use as Potions ingredients.

Hermione and Ron had been furious at him when he had announced he was leaving the common room to serve his detention with Snape as planned. Ginny too. And she had looked so much like Mrs. Weasley as she’d threatened to hex Harry back into bed that even Ron had recoiled under the strength of her glare.

The three of them had tried to convince Harry to tell McGonagall or Dumbledore what had happened so he wouldn’t have to attend this detention, but honestly, Harry thought grimly, as he dumped the bowl of rotten flobberworms into the rubbish bin and continued sorting, it was almost a relief to be down here up to his elbows in slimy dead worms with only Snape for company instead of up in the Tower with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny.

Harry had gone straight to bed like he’d promised after the…fiasco…that morning. But when he had tried to lie down, he found he was too jittery to rest and made his way back down to the common room to ask Ron if he was up for a game of chess. Ron had kept shooting Harry highly anxious looks, however, and after their match Harry had gone right back up to bed. And on it had gone all afternoon, back and forth, bed, common room, bed, until Harry thought he’d go stark raving mad if he had to spend another second in Gryffindor Tower. So at half past eight he had been more than glad to depart for the dungeons, if only to get away from the oppressive pall of his friends’ worry and his own jumpy, restless nerves.

Harry peered up at Snape again through his fringe. Snape didn’t teach in the dungeons anymore, of course, his office was up on the second floor now, but perhaps Snape missed his old stomping grounds, and that was why he had insisted on dragging Harry all the way down here to stock Potions ingredients, just like old times.

It was odd, Harry thought, that he felt no misgivings about spending time alone with Snape, when the idea of being alone with Slughorn had nearly sent him into a panic….

Then again, Harry considered, throwing away another flobberworm. Perhaps it was not so odd after all.

Snape was safe.

Well, maybe ‘safe’ wasn’t exactly the right word. Harry knew Snape wouldn’t mind hurting him, given half the chance. He could still vividly recall the feeling of Snape’s fingers digging into his arm the day Harry had accidentally viewed his memory in the Pensieve, holding him in a vicious, biting grip, shaking him, throwing him to floor….

Harry’d had those bruises for two weeks, though he’d never shown anybody, not even Ron and Hermione.

Old habits, he supposed.

But that was just it, wasn’t it? Snape was predictable. He hated Harry. Despised him. And Harry returned the feeling with interest. Harry knew Snape was capable of hurting him, that Snape even took great pleasure in his misery and pain. But Snape did not like to touch Harry if he could help it. The ways he could choose to hurt Harry were expected, and obvious, and to the point.

Snape was like the Dursleys.

And Harry gleaned a small measure of bitter comfort from the unfailing certainty of that fact.

Because he had started to think, somewhere behind that door in his mind that he couldn’t ever touch again, that maybe it was the less obvious ways of getting hurt that could really mess a person up. The ways you didn’t see coming. The ones that slithered in, disguised as something else, something nicer…something prettier….

Maybe, he thought, looking down at the damaged skin of his hands, the worst bruises did not come from fists, but flowers.


 Phoenix Wright,

 A little bird told me that you’ve received the chance to lecture at your alma mater. How interesting that they would extend such a prestigious offer to   you.   The next time we meet you'll have to tell me all about it. I wonder how long you spent-

The upside-down message, along with the rest of the mail, was swept off the kitchen table. Wright laid out two coasters and tucked the letter with neat cursive into his shirt. A drink was presented to him, and Phoenix dragged over the closet chair.

“You brought along a catalogue?” Wright confirmed.

“Yes.”

Miles took it out of his organizer, and flattened the creases in the front page. It was a catalogue for his preferred tailor, currently earmarked with some personal choices, as well as ones he believed would suit Phoenix. They would find some selections first, and then go in to make alterations and purchases. It was somewhat premature to buy the clothes Wright would wear in court, but he still needed something proper for the lecture, and clothes for when they went on dates with a dress code. (He had several plans for that in mind.)

“I see no reason for to get a full suit right now, unless you want to.”

“How accurate are these colours to the samples?” Wright asked, examining a page.

“Very, in my experience. Although, I find anything in white tends to be somewhat off from what’s been printed.”

“I like that tie,” he said, pointing to a bubblegum pink one. “It matches the lettering on my hat.”

“Not for long,” he darkly muttered, glaring at the vile thing in question. Miles knew Trucy had knitted it for her father, and thus it was a work of love and some such, but the hat needed to go. Preferably out the fourteenth floor window of his new office at work.

“What was that?”

“How do you feel about sweaters?”

“No sweater vests.”

“Tch, as if I’d let you dress like my eight year-old self.”

“I can’t pull off a bowtie,” Phoenix added for good measure. “But a regular sweater sounds good. I’ve always liked them.”

“It can’t be bulky,” he cautioned. “It will need to fit you properly.”

“I used to layer a dress shirt and turtleneck when I was articling,” he answered thoughtfully. “And learning from Mia too…”

“Casual, but acceptable for our purposes.”

He licked the tips of his fingers to flip to the page of sweater styles. Wright naturally gave a squawk of disgust.

“Why must you do that?”

“I’ll stop as soon as you cease cracking your knuckles,” he reassured, landing on the section he was looking for.

There was an array of sweaters in different patterns, cuts, and styles. Some he was personally drawn to, and had already marked down for consideration. Wright curiously poured over the page, before stabbing a single choice.

“That.”

“Move your finger so I can circle it.”

Phoenix made another sound of disapproval when he deliberately drew a large red circle.

“Hey, no prices,” he noted upon inspecting the image.

“Don’t you worry about the cost.”

“But-”

“Consider it a gift.”

There was a pause.

“I don't understand.”

“For the lecture, and a better future.”

“I don't get-” his tone was stiff and uncomfortable. Phoenix kept his eyes glued to the page, though his mind was clearly distant. “What do you want from me?”

“Pardon?”

“What could you possibly see in me that's worth buying anything for? Let alone tutoring and dating and-” his fingers curled up, trembling. “I haven’t done anything to deserve you, so why are you  doing  this?”

“I-I want you to succeed in your goals, and get back on your feet again,” he stammered, forcing himself to put his emotions into words.

“But people don't  do  that. They don't befriend you, and pay for your meal every time you go out for seven years, and tutor your daughter in science because you were an arts student who never paid attention because they  care  about you,” he ranted. Phoenix squeezed his eyes shut, and kept a hand pressed his chest. “So what do you want? Am I just useful to your plans of legal reform? Is it sex? Or am I being kept close so you can devise a perfect scheme for when it's finally expedient to  murder  me-”

“Contrary to what my glares may suggest, I do not plan on killing you.”

“I can’t go through it again,” Phoenix tried to wipe the sweat glistening on his forehead, but his shaky hand fell short of its target. “Please don’t make me. Whatever it is just tell me or get it over with.”

Telling the truth wasn't going to accomplish what it normally would have. He decided to rationalize, hoping that would prove his intentions to Phoenix.

“Do you remember how Gumshoe used to cut up a tree’s worth of paper and hand it to observers in court, so they could throw it with our victories?” he gently asked.

“Y-yeah.”

“And how he would let you into crime scenes, and fudge up a testimony for you to find contradictions?”

Those moments were the bane of his existence in the early days. But when the roles were reversed, and he was the one who needed to sneak into a crime scene, it was useful. Gumshoe was ready to give his all, even his beloved K-9 unit Missile, if it meant that much to the investigation.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to know something both infuriating and humorous about the man?”

Swallowing thickly, he nodded.

“The first time I met him, he was nearly convicted of murder. All because he promised a little girl he wouldn't reveal she’d talked to him, a stranger, so they could buy swiss rolls.”

Taking him away from the stressful subject helped some. Still, Wright pulled at the neck of his sweater, and was too shaken to keep his expression schooled.

“That sounds like Gumshoe.”

Phoenix’s voice was croaky, almost as if he’d been crying. It nearly sounded like the insides of his throat were covered in rough sandpaper, which scratched at his words as they formed in his vocal cords.

“And he's still taking little actions like that now. Not necessarily for us, but certainly for the new detectives he mentors,” Miles went on. “Do you really believe  Gumshoe  has had ulterior motives for the past decade or so?”

At Wright’s uncertain expression, he glared.

“Gumshoe doesn't have the mental capacity to scheme. It’s not a part of his personality.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“You suppose? Then what about the Feys?”

“Dahlia and Iris had their fair share of-”

“Did a seven year-old child decide you would be her adoptive father because she planned to kill you, or-”

“Trucy’s a great kid,” he interjected. “I don't know how but she’s managed to put up with my worthless parenting skills, but she has.”

“And there are good people out there,” he stated, reaching to caress his face. “It took me a long time to recognize them. But there are a lot more Gumshoes and Trucy Wrights than there are…”

Phoenix slipped away from his touch, turning his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve told you before that I’d rather have you speak up.”

“You don't know what it was like.”

“To be close to a person who despised me and planned my ruin all along?” he condescendingly asked, each syllable dripping with displeasure. “To be systematically belittled and insulted by a narcissist?”

“...I don't push you to talk about it.”

“I would if you asked.”

It was a spontaneous declaration, but somehow, Miles was aware that it was true. He was comfortable with the idea of talking to Phoenix about those times, should he ever want to know.

“You’ve had eleven years. I’ve had three months.”

Phoenix was certainly doing better than he was at the three-month point. By then he’d fled from his identity and the country, choosing death over facing the realities of his life. When put into perspective, it really wasn't that long.

“I’m not demanding you tell me everything. Just that you’ll tell me  something. Even if it is your opinion on my houseplants or piano sonatas.”

“Edgeworth...”

“Yes?”

For a moment, he thought Phoenix would begin arguing anew. But he merely slumped his shoulders, and made a put-upon sound.

“How can you stand dealing with me?”

“I knew what I was getting into.”


It took Sudou a good hour to climb the steep hill, as he kept grabbing for roots that pulled out of the soil and sent him tumbling back down to the base, where he'd have to start over again.  Finally, he made it to the top and spotted the flag pole.  He lowered the flag from the tree tops and proceeded to destroy it, tearing the grass apart and stomping the little shells into the ground.

"You're brighter than I gave you credit for, Shuu," came Mikhail's voice behind him.  Sudou dropped the flag and made to bolt, but Viktor and another man grabbed his arms.  "And I didn't give you much."  Mikhail took the flag from Sudou's hands.  "Destroying the boy's signal flag, good job," he continued.  "Now, where's Takaba?  If you've killed him, you won't be leaving this island in one piece."

"I haven't seen him," Sudou lied.  "I saw the flag and wanted to destroy it before Asami saw it.  Then I was going to look for Akihito."

"Hmm," Mikhail mused, studying Sudou, who was a convincing liar.  "We'll continue our search then, and you will stay with us.  Tie his hands."  A third man tied Sudou's hands while the other two held them behind his back.

Mikhail grinned knowingly.  "We wouldn't want you getting to Takaba first and murdering him, now, would we?"

"I won't try anything, Mikhail, I promise," Sudou said.

"Yeah right.  Leash him."  The man who tied Sudou's hands made a loop with the remaining rope and slipped the loop around Sudou's neck.  He held the other end of the rope and gave it a tug, causing Sudou to stumble towards him.

"Now I believe you, Shuu," Mikhail said, laughing.

***

Later that day, Mrs. Takaba's email arrived, and Kei printed it out and brought it to Asami.

"Relay this information to the pilots," Asami instructed Suoh after reading it.  Suoh immediately did so and told Asami that one of the islands in the list was coming into view.

"Get me visual," Asami ordered, and the pilots began a live feed of images from the planes' cameras to the computer on the boat, where Asami, Suoh, and Kirishima were watching.

The planes then split up, each taking a different side of the island and transmitting their live feeds, which appeared on two monitors in the boat's cabin.

Both feeds showed uninhabited beaches and jungle, nothing more....

***

The cannibals on the beach surrounded Akihito, for he looked exactly like the pale ghost-demons in the boat who'd attacked them the previous day with the loud slingshot.  The chief reached out and stroked Akihito's chest.  He wore an odd expression, amazed and fascinated.  He looked Aki up and down and then touched his skin again.

"Takaba Akihito," Aki repeated, pointing to himself.  The chief narrowed his eyes, then barked something at the two young tribesmen with spears.  Grabbing some vine, they tied his hands behind him and pushed him to sit.

"Water," Aki said.  The cannibals looked confused.

Aki nodded at a hand-made flask one of the men was holding.  The man nodded and held the flask to Aki's lips for a drink.  Aki gulped the water down, then nodded in gratitude.  The chief stared at him for another minute, then walked away.  Children also came to stare from a distance.  He smiled at them, and some smiled back.  A few were brave enough to venture closer; one or two actually touched him with a tentative finger, then ran off to hide behind their mothers.

Apparently, these people didn't plan to kill him immediately, which was--to say the least--a huge relief.  When the tribe began to move eastward down the beach again, Aki walked with them, escorted by the two young tribesmen.

As the sun set, the tribe set up camp for the night, spearing fish in the surf and building a fire to cook them.  They untied Aki so he could relieve himself behind a palm tree and then eat some fish and drink more water.  Then, they tied him up again.

He sat silently and watched as the tribesmen danced around the fire late into the night, chanting their hypnotic songs.  The firelight illuminated the faces of the men sitting cross-legged watching the dancers.  The women didn't participate in this ritual.  Instead, they spread out mats away from the fire and lay down to sleep with their children curled up beside them.  One of the women put a mat next to Aki, and he tipped himself over so he could lie on it and try to sleep.  He stared at the fire and continued to study the faces of the men as they chanted and conversed among themselves.  Their eyes, black and intense, glittered in the firelight.

As he was dozing off, he saw another pair of black, glittering eyes in the trees beyond the campfire.  The eyes moved, and Aki immediately became alert.  It was Ryuichichi.  He was sitting on a tree branch staring at Aki and not making a sound.  Aki's heart raced upon seeing him; was his little friend going to help him escape...?

Sure enough, when the fire had died down and the entire camp was fast asleep, the monkey stealthily made his way down to the beach and over to Aki.  Their eyes met, but they both remained silent, and Ryuichichi went to work, gnawing through the vines that tied Aki's wrists.  When Aki's hands were free, the monkey made quick work of the vines binding his feet.  Aki stroked the animal's hair, and Ryuichichi touched Aki's arm and scampered off into the jungle.

Scanning the tribe, which was still sleeping soundly, Aki slowly rose to his feet and took off running through the jungle.

Less than a minute later, he heard yelling in the camp followed by footsteps behind him.  Aki ran faster, darting this way and that through the darkness, tripping over rocks and roots and logs, but continuing to move.

One of the tribesmen was carrying a torch, and two others grabbed Aki simultaneously, causing him to fall facedown in the mud, nearly knocking his teeth out.

"Nooooooooooo!" Aki screamed, as the two men tried to pull him to his feet.  He hit and kicked at them, yelling and screaming, and they literally had to drag him back to camp.

The chief was irate, his eyes blazing like a demon's as he shouted and bellowed in his language.  The men held Aki before him, and Aki continued to kick and scream; he was beyond terrified.  He was sure these cannibals were going to kill him, and he wasn't about to go down without a fight.

The chief kept yelling the same words at him, over and over, but Aki continued to kick and scream hysterically.

The men holding him and the people watching looked terrified of the ferocious chief, whose chest was heaving in rage.  The tribesmen shook Aki and spoke to him in low, rushed voices, but he didn't calm down.

Finally, the chief picked up a wooden club, and with a murderous grimace, he slammed it with all his considerable strength against Aki's shin.

Aki screamed as he'd never screamed before.  It was out-of-your-mind pain, the kind that made him wish for instant death.

Then the chief hit him equally as hard on the other shin.

Aki went limp in agony, screaming and crying, his head spinning.  He suddenly felt light-headed and hot, and the noise around him faded to low ringing.  Then everything went black....

***

When Aki awoke, he was lying on the mat tied up again, only two tribesmen were guarding him.  Excruciating pain throbbed upwards from his lower legs and spread throughout his body.  He knew he was going to be sick, and he tried to move his head off the mat.  He ended up vomiting onto the mat, and the pain from his legs became worse from the attempted movement.  He began to cry, and one of the tribesmen knelt beside him, his expression one of sympathy and fear.  The other man glanced nervously over at the others, who were still sleeping.

The tribesman next to Aki said something to the other one, who then handed him a flask.  The man lifted Aki's head and helped him to drink water from the flask.  Then he gently moved Aki off the mat and turned it over to the clean side.  The man was obviously trying to be gentle, but even the slight movement made Aki gasp and sob.  He got a look at his legs, and they were purple and swollen; Aki was sure they were broken.  The man tending him cleaned his face with the water and then got him coconut milk to drink.

Aki lay sobbing and whimpering until dawn.

In the morning, Aki's hands were untied, and as he suspected, his legs were broken, for he was unable to even stand.  The pain was unbearable, and he felt horribly nauseated.  Several women tried to give him food, but he had no appetite.

The chief was in a foul mood, and he yelled orders at the others, who were packing up for another day of traveling.  He glowered at Aki, but said nothing to him.

Since Aki was unable to walk, the two young tribesmen tied him to a pole and carried him down the beach.

***

Suardika waited for Mikhail and the others to leave the hill before returning to the hut.  She wasn't afraid, she just didn't want a fucking confrontation, as there was too much to do.  She grabbed her many coconuts, pouring ingredients from them into her largest wooden bowl; things she'd had in those coconuts for years, just waiting for the right time, and that time had finally come.

She took the bowl to the jungle surrounding the hut, closed her eyes, and began to concentrate.  Her lips moved as she whispered the ancient spell, and sweat ran down her face.  She opened her eyes, and the whites were blood red.  She began tossing the powdery mixture into the air beneath the trees, chanting louder and louder, concentrating with such intensity that the birds and animals grew silent and instinctively knew to stay away.  They fled the trees, the bushes, the ground.  Even the snakes slithered deep into their holes to hide from what was coming.

When all the powder was gone, the witch dropped the bowl, and slowly raised her hands, palms towards the jungle.  Her eyes rolled up into her head, and she began to shake.  The powder started to glow like embers and rise from the jungle floor.  It rose higher and higher, growing brighter, until it turned into actual fire and began to burn in the canopy above.  Only like the burning bush of the Bible, nothing was actually consumed, but the flames continued to glow and dance red and orange and yellow and white-hot.  A huge section of the canopy was covered by the flames, but it did not burn, and there was no smoke, just a huge, brilliant light.

***

"I don't see a signal flag," Suoh said, his brow furrowing as he watched the live feed from the plane flying over the west side of the island.  "Wait--  What is that?"

"Are you seeing this, Suoh-sama?" came the pilot's astonished voice over the audio feed.

"Yes," said Suoh.

A huge section of forest canopy was engulfed in flames, but there was no smoke.  What's more, it was a perfect circle of fire.

"It's a signal," Asami said.

"The planes are doing another pass," said Suoh.  "Lower this time."

"There's a sub just offshore," said Asami, watching the feed.

Suoh clicked the image and enlarged it.  "Russian."

"Mikhail," said Asami.  "Get us in closer, but stay out of range."

"Bring us in, stealth," said Suoh.  "We'll deploy the drones as soon as we're close enough."

The boat's captain engaged the boat's stealth motor, and the boat quietly made its way towards a cove.

The drones were sent in to surveil the island and determine just who was where; specifically Akihito, but also the Russians.  Asami knew Mikhail had likely seen his planes and would be prepared for him.  Just what he had planned, Asami didn't know.

The crime lord and his team had several rescue plans ready, depending on the conditions.  Suoh was carefully reviewing the images from the drones.  His expression was grim.

"Akihito appears to be in the cannibal camp, Asami-sama.  Last visual was that he was tied to a pole, but he's gone now, and the camp is now populated."

Asami looked at the island's layout on the computer screen.  "The Russians are on the north side, and Akihito is on the east."

"The sub has moved to the north side, as well," said Suoh.  "There's another cove on the south-east side.  It's the best place to launch the rescue."

"Keep us just outside the cove," said Asami.  "We'll take the smaller boats in."

Asami and his men changed into camouflage, dark shirts, and boots.  They began donning their gear and weapons.

The decision was made to secretly "extract" Akihito under cover of darkness, as they didn't want to risk injuring him and alerting the Russians with a noisy assault.  They would, however, be prepared to fight cannibals, the Russians, or both.  The order was to destroy anyone and anything that got in their way.

One way or another, Akihito was leaving the island with Asami that night.

***

Aki felt as if he'd been in the tiny hut for days.  After arriving at their village, the cannibals had untied him and tossed him onto the dirt floor of a small, round hut.  Aki had cried and screamed in pain, as there'd been no regard for his broken, purple limbs, which were now twice their normal size.  He was then rubbed all over with some kind of oil.  The chief himself had participated in this task, stroking Aki's skin, touching his prick, and inserting his fingers into his ass.

The chief stunk to high heaven, and his breath was hot and putrid as he ran his hands all over Akihito.  Aki had glanced into the man's eyes, and he'd seen lust and hunger there.  Was the chief going to fuck him and then eat him???  Aki felt as if he was in some obscene nightmare he couldn't wake up from.

He was also running a high fever and lay on the dirt floor, fading in and out of consciousness, for hours.  Nobody brought him food or water, and he became dehydrated.

When night came, the camp fire was lit, and the tribesmen began their dancing and chanting again.  Aki could see the firelight through the cracks in the hut.  Still, no one came to tend him, and he knew he was going to die.

He would never see Asami again, nor anyone else he cared for.  He wondered if Asami would ever discover what'd happened to him, or if the cannibals would so thoroughly dispose of his bones--using them in fences and mounting his skull on a post--that he'd never know.

He thought about Suardika and Ryuichichi.  Maybe the witch would tell Asami about Aki's life on the island.  Perhaps the monkey could somehow communicate Aki's fate.  At least then, Asami would have closure, and he could go on about his new life with Sudou.  Aki moaned in agony when he thought about Sudou in Asami's arms and bed.  Sudou, who was reason he'd been captured by the cannibals.  Asami would never know the truth.

Aki closed his eyes, and awaited his fate, the rising fever distorting the pitch of the chanting so that it almost sounded like laughing.

He didn't hear the noise behind the hut, as his head was facing the other way; the cutting of grass and bamboo.

"Akihito," came the whisper.

Aki didn't hear, as he was fading into unconsciousness again.

"Akihito."

Aki slowly raised and turned his head.  Someone was squatted behind the hut peering in at him through a curved opening.  The person was blurred: green, black, and weird, black eyes with no whites.

The person murmured, "Jack," then pushed up the weird eyes to reveal golden ones.

"Asami," Akihito breathed weakly, "are yooou reeeeal?"  His speech was slow and slurred.

"Yes," said the crime lord, shoving into the opening and grabbing Akihito with gloved hands.

Aki would've cried with joy, but he was so dehydrated, he had no tears.

Others were suddenly there with Asami: Suoh, and two other men.  The two other men had guns drawn and were scanning the area with the same weird, black eyes that Aki realized were night-vision goggles.

And there he was, cradled in Asami's arms.  Aki sobbed and weakly slid his arms around the man's neck, burying his face in his black shirt.  The crime lord kissed Aki ardently several times--his temple, his cheek, and finally his mouth--then nuzzled his hair, his breath hitching with emotion.

"His legs are broken," Suoh murmured, carefully examining Aki's shins.

Asami looked into Akihito's unfocused eyes.  "Your legs, Kitten.  How did this happen?"

"Chief did it," Aki sighed.  "After they caught me n' brought me back."

A low growl rumbled in Asami's chest, and for a moment, he was so infuriated, he couldn't see straight. That these savages had dared to hurt his kitten made him want to kill every one of them and turn their village into a smoking pile of ash.  But that would take time, and his kitten needed medical care now.  Best to stick to the plan.  The other team was just about in position to kick things off.

"So thirsty," Aki murmured.

Suoh handed Asami an open canteen, and the crime lord gave his lover several sips.  "You came for me," Aki murmured.  "You came for me."  He burrowed back into Asami's chest.

Wordlessly, Souh wrapped a nylon sling around Aki and began expertly harnessing him to Asami's body.  Suoh quickly splinted the broken shins together and wrapped them.  This was all done in under a minute.

Asami pulled down his goggles.  Suoh did the same and retrieved his gun.

"Flush," Suoh said into his Bluetooth, and the four-man rescue team disappeared into the jungle.

As they moved stealthily through the darkness, Asami whispered in amusement to a semi-conscious Aki, "Their god is about to pay them a visit, Kitten."

Suddenly a loud noise that sounded like a firework, a screeching "piccalo pete," interrupted the cannibal chanting, and then firecrackers and colored smoke bombs started going off everywhere.  All hell broke loose in the village, as people and dogs panicked and ran, unable to see through the smoke and terrified of the noise.

Magnificent fireworks exploded over the ocean, and the entire tribe ran to the beach to see--gasping and with huge eyes--for they'd never witnessed such a thing.  The children screeched with delight at the beautiful colors, as the men fell to the sand, thinking this was their god and that they had conjured him with their dancing and chanting.

The rescue team continued to move through the jungle towards the cove, where the small motorboats were waiting to take them back to the speedboat.

"Dogs," Suoh said into the Bluetooth, and every gun--including Asami's--was trained on the clearing before them.

The Russians were there waiting, also with guns drawn.

"Get out of my way, Mikhail," Asami said, as Suoh covered him.

"I see you beat me to Takaba," the Russian said dryly.  "That's too bad."

Asami's expression became dangerous.  "Get out of my way."

"There's the matter of my club," said the Russian.

"I told you, I did not sabotage it," said the crime lord.

Mikhail was sizing up Asami.  "We seem to be at a draw."

Suddenly, there was loud slap, and Mikhail had a pancake of what looked like mud in his face.

"What the--"  He wiped at it.  "It's shit!"

Viktor was being rained on.  "Piss!" he yelled, moving away and rubbing his eyes frantically.

Things were falling at tremendous speed from the trees--branches, sticks, fruit, coconuts, a wasps' nest--as if being fired from a cannon.  Only the Russians were being hit.

"Shoot whatever the fuck it is!" Mikhail yelled, but his men looked up and saw nothing, for Ryuichichi was high in the dark canopy and not making a sound.

Asami, Suoh, and the rest of the team had already shoved past the Russians and were running towards the cove.

Viktor raised his gun, and Suoh shot it out of his hand.  Mikhail ran after Asami, taking aim, but the crime lord shot out his kneecap.  The Russian fell to the ground, screaming.

Two of Asami's men were at the beach guarding the cove.  When Asami, Suoh, and the rest of the team appeared, they all got into two inflatable motorboats and sped out of the cove towards the speedboat.  Suoh helped Asami get Akihito unharnessed and into his lap.

In several minutes, they pulled up alongside the speedboat, and Asami carefully handed Akihito up to Kirishima. "They broke his legs," the crime lord muttered angrily.

Kirishima's eyes registered disgust at that revelation, and he gently wrapped Akihito in a blanket.  Asami climbed aboard, took Akihito back into his arms, and carried him to the seats in the rear.  Kei appeared with a loaded syringe.

"For your pain, Kitten," Asami murmured as Kei injected Aki.  Almost immediately, Aki felt the drug hitting his system, taking with it his excruciating pain and making him very sleepy.

Kei held a straw to Aki's lips, and the young man sipped.  It was chocolate, whatever it was.  Aki thought that nothing had ever tasted as good as that drink.

The fireworks team arrived, and the captain put the speedboat in gear.  It headed out to sea in stealth mode until it was safely away from the island.  Then, the lights went on, and the boat practically flew over the waves.

Akihito lay cradled in Asami's arms, wrapped in a blanket, his shins still taped together.  He sobbed drowsily, "You came for me.  You came for me."

"To the end of the abyss, my Akihito," Asami murmured softly.  He kissed his kitten's forehead and nuzzled his hair.  Akihito mumbled something inaudible, then sighed and drifted off to sleep with the crime lord holding him as if he'd never let go.


I suppose the story should start with a little background about my wife and me. We are professional people living on the St Lawrence River in the Thousand Islands area. We are in our mid 50's and a few years ago we downsized our life style (sold the big house and most the stuff in it) so that we could afford a sailboat and spend the summers sailing in and around this beautiful area.

Last summer, we decided to extend our cruising into Lake Ontario, and made up our minds to circumnavigate the lake. That may not seem like much to some of the readers, but it meant that we would be sailing for several weeks and travelling about 350 nautical miles in total. It took about four days to get to the start of Lake Ontario and it was dead calm; so, we had to motor for the first two days. We stopped each night at different towns, met up with a few friends, and generally did the cruising thing we had been doing for the last few years.

Our next stop was the big city of Toronto and the perfect place to dock the boat was at Centre Island, which is a large, municipally run park, just a few hundred yards off shore. There are ferries which take thousands of people back and forth to the island for picnics, playgrounds, and, of course, the beaches. Our plan was to stay a few days and to explore the island and to use the ferry to get into town and explore the big city. We arrived at dusk after a very blustery day on the water; so, we were content to just tie up, cook our late supper and go to bed.

In the morning, we were well rested and happy to be staying put for a few days. We got breakfast and decided to go for our morning run on the paved roadways on the island (there are no cars allowed). So, off we went for a three mile jog in the hot sun of the early morning. About 100 yards into the run, we were on a walking path with many signs to the beach. This was a great place to run and to check out the beach at the same time.

"Hey look at that!" my wife said. So I looked up and saw the sign to the "CLOTHING OPTIONAL BEACH"

"This ought to be interesting." I said. "Let's check it out."

Normally, once we are on a run, we don't like to stop. We had only just started and the sign was a total shock to us. We had no idea that there was a nude beach on Centre Island. At any rate, we decided to walk off the path and cross the small sand dune to take a look. The beach was beautiful and almost deserted. There were only about a dozen people around as it was early morning, but sure enough, they were naked as naked could be. The nearest person to us happened to be the only woman on the beach, and she was doing a very slow Tai Chi routine. She moved with steady, purposeful grace as she bent and stretched through her movements. As weird as this may seem, I was focused on her movement rather than her nakedness. Don't get me wrong, I was checking her out, but the sun, the sand, and the moves, made a greater picture than the nudity.

"God, I'd love to spend some time walking naked around here. What do you think?" I asked my wife.

"Yahhh, I'm sure you would." she replied in a somewhat sarcastic tone, but she did say, "We can do our run and end up at the far end when we come back."

The clothing optional area was about a quarter mile long and there was a fence at the far end to mark it off. I was excited as hell at the sudden prospect that my wife would be willing to walk nude down a public beach. My cock had the first stirring of an erection and I asked. "Do you mean you'll walk down the beach in the nude?"

"You can if you want to, but the sign says ‘clothing optional' so we don't have to be naked." she replied.

Her response wasn't exactly a "No!" so life was looking up, as we started off on the run. The twinge in my cock had not diminished and the old running shorts were developing a sudden bulge. My head was reeling with the prospect of spending time on a nude beach and especially with the possibility of my wife going along with it.

"Hey wait a minute," I thought to myself, "I'm just thinking about this, and my cock is close to rock hard. What will I do when, and if, I drop my drawers in public?" For the rest of the run, I could think of nothing else. Would my wife really spend the afternoon on a nude beach? Would she get pissed off at me for looking at other women? Would I be rock hard for all to see? It was the shortest three mile run of my life. It was not because of the pace, but because I was totally focused on the beach and never once though about the aches and pains of running. Three miles later, we were back at the fence and standing at the gate.

"Are you going to do it?" my wife asked. Before I could answer, she saw that I had my shirt off and my running shorts were around my ankles. Off came the shoes and socks and there I was, naked for all to see, desperately hoping my dick would not grow. I didn't pressure my wife, but I was praying she would not freak and stop the whole idea right there.

She kept her running clothes on. My wife has never been a prude by any means. In our younger years, we had skinny dipped a few times with other friends but those episodes were always a quick strip and dash to the water as fast as you can. They weren't like this.

As we made our way down the beach, we saw the dicks, and boobs, and butts, and crotches. It was a weird experience, but we almost instantly understood what we had heard for years about nudism. Nudist resorts and nudity are not sexual but are more a feeling of freedom and exhilaration.

There were far more men on the beach than there were women. Many were effeminate and we were convinced that most of them were gay. Almost to a man, they were totally shaved. The other thing we noticed right away was the silence of the beach. Everyone was simply lying on towels or walking up and down like us, but there was no yelling, or laughter, or screaming kids throwing Frisbees. It was not like most beaches we had been to in that respect. The other end of the beach was reached in about fifteen minutes and we were set to go back to the boat.

"Do you want to come back for the afternoon, Dear?" I asked.

"Ok but I'm wearing my suit."

"Will you be pissed off at me if I'm naked?"

"You can do what you want? I can look at everybody and read my book. If you want to be nude that's up to you."

About three hours later, it was noon and we had just finished lunch. We decided to take a sleeping bag we had on board to lie on. We had a second glass of wine at the boat, and it was off to the beach. My wife had her two piece black bathing suit on plus a T-shirt. I wore my running shorts and a t-shirt as well. We spread out the sleeping bag and I whipped my stuff off. My wife took her shirt off but was still in her suit. We settled in pretty well, and we were checking out everybody in our area. We were surprised that nobody was staring at us or bothering us at all. Every once in a while, I would have to knock a little drop of ‘dick drip' off my cock, but I was still soft and proud that I could control it ok.

My wife sat up after about twenty minutes and said, "I guess I could take my top off." She unclasped the bra and shook it loose.

All I could say was "That' a girl… nobody's looking at us anyway."

Her breasts are not huge but more than ample and still very firm. They were white below her tan lines; so, she casually reached for the creamy sun screen and gently rubbed it over and around her smooth tits. I'm sure she was playing with me the way she took extra time to do it. Her nipples stood out as they felt the coolness of the liquid mixed with the freshness of the air. For the next fifteen minutes or so, she lay on her back with the sun warming her chest and then she said, "Ah, What the fuck!" She lifted her hips and hooked her fingers just below the waistband of her suit. Off came the last hint of modesty as she pulled them down her legs and over her feet.

Bang! My dick got rock hard instantly. I could hardly flip over fast enough to lie on my stomach. I had spent half an hour looking at naked bodies all over the place and felt only a slight twinge, but when she dropped the suit it was rock hard and pouring pre-cum all over the sleeping bag. If I hadn't tried to hide it, I could have cum on the spot without touching myself. Her legs were bent so that her feet were flat on the ground. I couldn't believe it! Here was my wife, totally naked, lying in full view of everyone. The beach was starting to fill up as we were approaching the heat of the day. More than a hundred people could look at her and me and see all that we owned. It was both tremendously exciting and yet strangely mundane. Nobody seemed to even notice that she was now nude or that my cock was dripping profusely.

"God my dick is hard!" I said.

"Just lie on your stomach for a while and he will come down." she responded.

"Can you feel the breeze on your pussy?" I asked. "I've got to tell ya' that it is tickling my balls and it feels soooo good."

"Mmmm it does feel good doesn't it?" she agreed.

"Man, you look beautiful." I whispered. "You're lying there naked. I love thinking about your crotch open to the world and all these men seeing you; knowing they're jealous as hell."

"They are all gay!" she said. "They are drooling over you, not me." We laughed and started looking around again.

"Check this guy out! Look at his dick." I said My wife turned a bit and saw what I was talking about. One of the gay guys (I assumed) had about five rings pierced into his penis. The five rings were attached to each other by a series of chains that were then tied around his balls. Those made my dick shrivel (thankfully) as I couldn't believe it.

The afternoon continued and it was a beautiful hot summer's day. The temperature was hovering around 30 degrees centigrade. We lay on the bag and watched the men and women as they arrived and stripped or walked quietly back and forth in front of us. My cock would drip a bit from time to time but the sun and sand, and the beautiful water brought us back to ‘just another day on the beach'. We were getting pretty hot though, so I said we should go for a swim. My wife agreed, but she then put her bikini bottoms back on and we headed down to the water. It was unbelievable to me to be walking naked around people lying there and my dick swinging in the breeze. The water was fairly cool so I was praying for shrinkage but the wife swam towards me and wanted to tease me by hugging me and wrapping her legs around mine. Well that was an instant boner! She giggled and teased knowing what was bound to happen. She then headed back to the sand and I had to swim around for a while until I could get out of the surf. I emerged with what I call a ‘pudge' displayed. My cock was thicker than normal but much less than a raging hard on.

I tried in vain to casually cover myself as I walked back towards her, but the effort seemed laughable; so, I just let the pudge swing freely. Back on the sand, we settled down and she took her pants off again, much to my relief. I asked her why she had put them on and she just shrugged and said she wouldn't wear them next time.

The afternoon drifted along, and we had sunned and swam many more times totally enjoying our new freedom and laughing and joking. We saw many more pierced pricks and a few vagina rings as well. A few times, I felt embarrassed when my dick would twitch when some women walked by. However, the thing that really brought the old boy to life was when I'd look over at the woman I've loved for years and saw her pussy wide open. I would think about eating her right there knowing how fast she would cum.

Finally, the afternoon came to a close and we headed back to the boat. We stepped aboard and my wife said, "Not until we have supper." I knew she wanted to fuck as much as I did but she is a diabetic and has to eat her meals on time. I never prepared a barbeque faster in my life. There was an absolute puddle on my running shorts in anticipation of the after dinner treats.

"Slow down" she said when she saw that my shorts were soaked.

I was ok with that because I knew the night would be great. We drank some wine and waited until the sun started to go down. We talked about the beach and this guy's dick and that woman's boobs. Clearly, we couldn't get the day out of our minds.

The bugs were starting to come out so we went below. It was about two seconds into cabin and I put my hand on her ass cheek just under her shorts. She turned and kissed me while I grabbed both sides of her ass with a real sense of urgency.

"God I loved the beach!" she said and I slid my hand around to stroke her crotch over her shorts. "Mmmm ... not too much or I'll come too soon." I quickly slid my hands up under her t-shirt to feel her braless tits. I pinched her nipples and they hardened under my touch. We continued to tongue each other in a deep French kiss. She grabbed my cock by the front of my shorts and said, "God he's big! You loved the beach too!!" I lifted her shirt and she helped me take it over her head. Her shorts were off in a flash as well and we giggled a little because she couldn't get my shorts off. My rock hard cock was catching the waist band of my shorts. We stopped the passionate kiss and concentrated on the freedom of my pecker. When it sprang forth, I flexed my ass cheeks thrusting it forward.

"I wish I could have shown this on the beach eh?" I asked.

"I would have pumped him right there in front of everybody." she responded.

I slid my finger through her pussy lips and over her clit. "Oh ya' … and I could finger you like this, right out in the open." I started to stroke her lips and slide my finger back and forth. She grabbed my cock and pulled on it as if to stretch it even more. My dick had never been bigger or harder but her strong, continuous tug made me feel power and strength in my cock that I had not felt in years. It actually made me swoon and I twisted around and sat on the seat beside me. She turned with me and stood in front of me still with a firm grip on my manhood. I grabbed the base of my cock and forced the head toward her vulva. She helped me guide it and we were both so wet it slid to the hilt in one quick thrust. She sighed and I grunted as we started to rock in unison. It was so intense and I felt so hard that I knew I could last forever. We fucked like that – me sitting and her standing- for a minute or two but her legs were getting tired so she let me fall out and she turned around with her back to me. I got the idea immediately and entered her from behind.

"Ohhhh. God! That is soooo good. He is sooo hard. I can't take it all. He is sooo big." Her words increased my intensity even more.

" Yesssss… I could have fucked you like this when you were lying on the beach. I would have cum in two strokes. Everybody could see my big cock and your dripping pussy. Man, I love to fuck and I love being naked on the beach." We pumped and rocked with me sitting and her bouncing on my dick from behind. I reached around and rubbed her clit with my middle finger as the thrusting continued. It seemed like I could last forever but I wanted her to cum. She was giving it her all, but I knew her legs were getting tired again.

"Let's go up to the V-Berth." I suggested. She stood fully upright and grabbed my prick with that strong tug again and walked me to our bed. We climbed up and under the single sheet on the bed.

"I love you!" I said.

"I love the beach." she said, and again she turned with her back to me but still holding my prick. Thinking I knew what to do, I reached for her cunt and separated her lips to take my raging hard on back up to the hilt. She reached back to stop me.

"I want you up my ass, Honey!" She cooed, "ohhhh. I'd love it up my ass."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. We had tried it in the past a few times, particularly when we were drunk, but without much success. It wasn't that she hated it or that I demanded it. Anal sex just wasn't a significant part of our sex life. However, she wanted it now and I was holding a baseball bat of a cock in my hand. I rubbed the head through the folds of her sex to gather the natural moisture that was abundant. I spread the pre-cum all over my bone and pressed gently but steadily at her asshole. The head popped in surprisingly easily.

"Easy honey…go slow" she said "We've got to get it all the way in." My wife was begging me to shove my prick all the way up her ass.

It only took a few gentle strokes and a little added pressure and before we knew it, I was pumping by huge cock in smooth thrusts all the way back and all the way forward.

"Yes Honey! It's all the way up. I can feel your balls hitting my pussy. Pump him Honey. Fill my ass with your cum"

"Uggg … Aahhhh, Uunnnhhh" was all I could say. I was thrusting and pumping for all I was worth but the peak was not reached. "Shit! I just can't cum."

She didn't flinch.

"I want you to eat me. You can pump your dick while you eat me on the beach."

She pulled away and spun around before I knew what was happening. Her thighs were beside my face and she was begging me to suck her clit. I was on it like a hungry shark. I lapped at her lips and slid my tongue over her clit. My right hand went to my pecker and I couldn't believe the feel of my hardness. I stroked it slowly as I felt the intensity elevate in my wife's pussy.

"I'm going to cum honey… you are sucking me on the beach. Oh eat my cunt! Make me cum. Suck me off on the beach. Oohhh aahhh I'm Cuummming Oohhhhh mmmmmm." It lasted forever. I could feel her contractions and wave after wave of the intensity pouring out of her.

"Ooohhh… God honey. Did you pump your cock? Did you come?" she said as her climax started to subside.

"Not yet!" I said still focusing on her intense satisfaction. "Watch me pump my pecker… talk to me."

"Do you want to go back to the beach tonight?" ….pump.

"You could play with your cock in front of everybody" …..stroke, stroke.

"Then you could eat me on the beach….make your cock shoot… blow your pecker… pump him pump him" I pounded my prick as she talked. All I could say was "I want to see you… on the beach …with your legs spread wide, … your cunt exposed to the world" It brought me to the brink and my cock shot rope after rope of hot cum all over her chest. I started to lightly chuckle with the release of the tension. It turned to laughter and my wife joined in. Soon we were laughing hysterically and we fell into each other's arms reveling in our love.

To be continued