"I don't make love. I Fuck. Hard."

-Christian Grey

With ten minutes to go before midnight, Olga's flight barreled down the runway before achieving liftoff from a nondescript airport in the Big Apple. But unlike the rest of her fellow passengers who dosed peacefully upon feeling their adrenaline levels decline, she ruefully looked around the plane at everyone, wondering how it was possible for them to sleep like babies after their ordeal. By and large, there were no injuries that came from their old plane's encounter with the goose flock, and mostly everyone was shaken up more than anything.

"Mask?"

Olga emitted a startled gasp as the stewardess brandishes a simple (but more importantly, complementary) sleeping mask in her direction; black save for the logo of the airline on the right half.

"Oh…thank you…Brooke…"

Rather than place it on her face, the Pataki woman feels her throat suddenly become parched and dry. Swigging her ginger ale, a sense of longing comes over her as Brooke the stewardess continues to make her rounds down the aisle, passing masks out to others that sleep eluded…

*slap!*

Olga gives herself a gentle slap in some attempt at bringing her back to earth. With a final frustrated sigh, she looked skyward and readjusted her sleeping mask in hopes of getting some shuteye…

"Come on, nobody else is awake but us." The stewardess giggled

"This is so naughty Brooke." Came the excited whisper of a man.

Ten minutes had passed since the flight attendant passed Olga a mask. In contrast to the sharp professionalism she exhibited earlier, Brooke and her male companion had all the decorum of two rabbits in heat as they snuck through the cabin exchanging heavy kisses before groping along the wall to find the bathroom door. Once inside, their licentiousness hit a fever pitch.

Olga wanted to be annoyed but instead she leans closer to the wall, allowing her ears to drink in every grunt, gag, gasp, and giggle Brooke and her partner shared as they canoodled. Biting her lip and closing her eyes, she allows that sense of longing which once ebbed and flowed like a wave to come crashing like a monsoon. Her body tingles as she imagines the frisky fun these Mile High Club inductees engage in. Against her better judgement, Olga allows her hand to involuntarily slide toward her womanhood like a magnet to metal. She curls her mouth into a smile as her fingers teasingly trace along the cotton undergarments separating them from her vagina. Each tender stroke and flick sends shockwaves through her body like a lightning rod…yet she bites the bottom of her lip in some attempt at fighting the urge to join that carnal chorus going on behind her in the airplane's WC. After ten more tortuous minutes. Brooke the flight attendant and her lover shamefully stumble out fixing their clothes in some attempt at saving face. But as Olga watches Brooke again make her way down the aisle of the plane, she notices that amidst the post-coital rush to reclothe themselves, Brooke forgot her underwear; an act of neglect driven all the more home upon bending over to get a passenger a can of ginger ale. Once Brooke's delicious derriere vanishes from her view, Olga closes her eyes and resumes her slumber.

(Olga POV/FLASHBACK)

My time in England boiled down to two mistakes:

Mistake number 1 was not really reading the full details of what being employed at Wellington would entail. The position in question turned out to be temporary, two years to be precise.

And I know what you're thinking; how careless and stupid it was of me to fly halfway around the world for this, uprooting my life, not to mention subjecting myself to all the bureaucratic nonsense that came with being an international worker…in my defense, because I was so desperate to get out and begin cashing in on all the academic promise everyone saw in me, I didn't think this through as I normally would and should have.

Nonetheless, I took all these challenges and more in stride; between giving my all and a whole lot of networking, two years became ten as I found myself pinballed around the Wellington College's temp-to-hire administrative scene taking as many of the jobs I could…all of which emphasized the "temp" part of things, but not so much the "hire". The Bursar's office needed an extra hand, they called Olga Pataki.

Assistant Director of Residence Life, Olga Pataki.

Research Analyst, Olga Pataki.

Admission's Counselor, Olga Pataki.

On and on it seemed to go until one of their sister schools (Saint Enid's Academy, a boarding school for girls age 10-17) had an opening for me that was much more stable; a second library clerk/ front desk assistant.

Enter mistake number 2, Lilly Morgan.

While one might imagine her to be some otherworldly succubae and quintessential embodiment of the hot librarian, Lilly came off as more like the girl next door type; hair resting in a shoulder-length chestnut bob, a resting daydream face made all the more apparent by intensely blueish-hazel eyes and lips that poofed up in a little pout. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses sat on her face and her overall attire was composed of long skirts and sweater vests with long sleeve button ups. This despite being a year and a half my senior.

Our relationship began professionally, colleague and colleague carrying on the grand tradition of stewardship of St. Enid's literary collection. The first sign of things to come was our contrasting attitudes toward the job; my 'service with a smile' approach to library duties versus her passive aggression. But then again, she had been doing this job for five years now, whereas I had yet to be jaded by it all (which she assured me would happen one day). Lilly was also a drinker, not as bad as Mommy, but I remember her asking me on more than one occasion for assistance when it came to masking her breath.

One evening, before a three-day weekend, Lilly invited me for dinner and drinks at a local tavern. Both of us had ingested a substantial share of spirits. In the span of those three hours, I learned that she was not just an only child, but also something of a poor little rich girl in her own right; born and bred in South Africa, her family operated a lucrative leather company in the city of Ladysmith, but between Anti-Apartheid divestiture and the Thatcher economy, her family's company went under and she moved to England shortly thereafter. In addition, many women in her family had been students and benefactors of St. Enid's going back to the reign of Queen Victoria. After about three hours and too many shots to count on her end, she asks me the question that started it all.

"Are you happy?"

Her question stunned me.

"Well…" I began. "I admit that there's much in my life I hope to accomplish and all this potential I probably will never live up to given my childhood…but at the moment I tell myself I've done enough to be proud of and work to be grateful, and from that I find some measure of peace."

"But…are you happy?"

Before I could find a way to paraphrase what I said, Lilly pulls me close to her and gives me a lingering, hungry kiss on the cheek. All my senses go into overdrive as I process her giving my face a gentle nibble before drawing away from me; her face screwed up in a lustful and inebriate smirk. In some attempt to process what just happened, I state the obvious.

"You…just kissed…me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Instead of an answer, she pulls me in again; this time planting her lips onto mine. At first I feel a sickening lurch as the world stops; my urge to resist and defy this set of circumstances is akin to a raptor's prey futilely thrashing for the last time while ensnared in its talons. Yet as I go limp with each hungry advance Lilly makes, I am filled with a warm and tingling sensation that seems to tell me this is right.

Were I use the words 'everything became a blur', as most often do when recounting inebriate intercourse, I would be lying. Sure, there are parts that are still hazy (like how we got back to the library later that night) but all in all, I can recall every kiss, touch, nibble, lick and whatnot we engaged in. Upon paying our tab, Lilly and I, as I said before, somehow made our way back to the library after hours (she has the key and knows which door to enter that isn't under the watchful electronic eye of the security system). Once inside, she took my hand and we practically flew through the rows upon rows of books to a study room. Immediately, she began to anoint my neck with deep and hungry kisses, to which I can only mewl in pleasure as her smooches intensified and her hands slid beneath my bra.

Before we knew it, our clothes laid strewn about the room and our naked bodies entwined with one another. Lilly buries her face into my tender breasts and I in turn inhale the aroma of her milk and honey conditioner. With a gentle shove, I feel the cold sensation of the desktop hitting my back as her lips curl into a starving smirk. Beholding this sight, I could feel my womanly juices flowing with abandon; as if my vagina were a hungry animal salivating, or some kind of flower on a dewy morning. With a lustful chuckle at the vulnerable state she has me in, Lilly traces her index finger along my labia. A healthy and slick layer of my essence coats her finger, glistening in what little light the moon affords us at the moment.

"Beg." She breathily whispers.

"I want it."

"You want what."

"Your finger…in my mouth…"

With one hand, she grasps my cheeks and pushes my mouth open, but instead she gently brushes the finger along my lips, coating them with my womanly juices like a tube of lipstick.

"How does it taste."

"More…" I whisper.

"What?"

"I…want more…"

"Well… you're going to have to wait."

Before I find it in myself to object, Lilly dives into my vagina like a falcon swooping to catch its prey. Each caress of her lips and tongue is like a thousand locks being unfastened in tandem. I grip her hair as the tingles intensify. By now, I have lost all sense of care one can possess as I scream Lilly's name in the heat of passion. Once I have released myself all over her lips and face, I fall backwards on the floor; limp and spent from my orgasm.

My respite is all too brief as I look up and see her squatting above my face. Her mouth curls into a lustful smile as she pulls her pussy lips apart and slowly jills herself. After a minute, a long gooey strand of nectar from the flower of her womanhood starts to drip down and land on my nose. The aroma is delightful, as is the sensation of it sliding onto my lips and teeth. Seeing me excites Lilly as she stimulates herself with increased vigor; causing more of her juices to land on my chin, neck, and chest.

Before long, we both passed out; Lilly on the study table and I laid on the floor looking up at the moon trying to reconcile my life with the last few hours. Was this how Prometheus felt after obtaining fire? Or Eve after that first nibble from the fruit of knowledge of good and evil? I was whole. Complete. Dare I say so, even liberated. All my life I had been a collectable, a commodity, an automaton of porcelain to be trotted out and wound up in some attempt to compensate for mommy and daddy's shortcomings; and courtship/marriage was no exception.

It's funny really; despite the whole repressed Rapunzel routine Daddy set up, he still somehow expected to find a worthy and clean-cut gentleman from the clamoring hordes of boys that saw me as a meal ticket or conquest. Such starry-eyed Naiveté gave us that brief engagement to Doug LeSham who hit all the right notes…until he didn't. Then of course I too found myself getting caught up in the spirit of adventure that came with chaperoning the trip to San Lorenzo (by which I mean the swarthy and sinewy seafarer Che), but he too in time proved himself a dud. But by and large my romantic and sexual fulfillment were at best theoretical and at worst another vicarious accolade to be pointed to.

My post-coital glow didn't last long. The first thing which bought me back to Earth from my thoughts was Lilly who emits a frightened yelp of 'Shit!' after glancing at her watch. Once she is done gathering together her clothes and begin what was supposed to be my walk of shame. Instead, I scamper to her in gratitude, with the aim of giving her a loving peck. With a lustful smirk she pats my head before advising me to follow suit and get dressed.

"Don't think it's over." She purrs. "We've only begun…"

Little did I know it, but that would be the first of many red flags.

Lilly Morgan taught me the truth about my sexuality. She also taught me the difference between "making love" and "fucking". In a more innocent time, I used to think there was no real difference and often used them interchangeably. Sure, one is flowery and the other crass, but are they not euphemisms for the same activity when all is said and done? …but I'm getting WAY TOO ahead of myself.

When two people make love, they engage in some form of give and take; two bodies, two minds and two hearts in tandem with one another's yearnings. There is a level of trust and intimacy that goes beyond the body as lover and beloved give of themselves to the other with the knowledge that what they are to embark upon is built on more than the temporal and carnal. To fuck on the other hand is an act of a primal and selfish nature; rooted only in the shallow and placing what little value it possesses in the here and now.

The thing about red flags, is how easy they are to miss when wearing rose-colored glasses. And drunk on my sexual epiphany, it was honestly so pathetic in hindsight just how much I was her little plaything. Like I said, Lilly liked to fuck, and I was only too happy to submit and indulge every perverted whim that crossed her mind; incense, wine, candles, toys, masks, leather, bondage, the library, the pub, my place, her place, you name it. I was her bitch. Her mewling, begging, panting, puppy-eyed bitch, but it didn't matter to me. After all, I loved her and believed she loved me.

What we shared lasted for about a year before suddenly coming to a stop right around mid-November. There was no warning, no hint, just *snap* off like a light switch, Lilly became distant, speaking only when she had to. The playful gropes and massages she would steal came to a halt. On the occasions I tried to show affection, I was greeted with a blisteringly frigid 'Olga!' that quickly cooled my ardor. This lasted for about a month before she stopped showing up altogether. Apparently, Lilly caught a cold.

Wanting answers and a shot at salvaging what we had, I made a quart of Chicken Soup for Lilly and made my way to her home. Her house was dark, save for the red light illuminating from the upper right window with the curtains drawn…her bedroom.

My heart sank.

Lilly didn't have the decency or smarts or whatever to lock the door, thus negating my need to interrupt whatever sapphic shenanigans she was engaging in at the moment. Creeping up the stairs, my already sad suspicions only got confirmed as I heard a violent buzzing noise coming from Lilly's bedroom as well as the lustful laughs and moans she once upon a time reserved for me.

The door was open a crack, allowing me to hear not only Lilly's voice, but the gagged moans her partner emitted. Peeking in, I could see her strutting about commandingly as she put the last touches of lube on her strap on. Three pairs of feet peeked out from beneath the canopy of her bed. Not wanting to see anymore. I ran. I quietly snuck back out and ran as fast as my feet could carry me back to my home. I was no stranger to crying this hard, whenever mommy and daddy fought, I would weep myself to exhaustion. But this was draining, even for me. Looking at Lilly made me…not even sad, but nauseous and it took a full week for me to be back to some level of functionality. Nonetheless, we continued to keep up appearances for the sake of St. Enid's while I resigned myself to the new status quo.

My world had shattered, but little did I know how worse it was about to get for so many others.

Lilly cheating wasn't enough. It turned out she was a predator who would gaslight students of St. Enid's into thinking they owed library books and "make arrangements" to fix things. Sometime before Christmas break, her activities became public when a student (whose identity I won't disclose) was made to believe she was in possession of an overdue copy of The Four Feathers; a copy which Lilly neglected to conceal better before she visited. The heated scuffle that followed lead to a police response, Lilly's arrest, and twenty-five more students coming forward with similar stories about being coerced into performing acts of this nature in exchange for "overdue" books being waved.

Even still, this wasn't the end. The final secrets of Lilly Morgan came to light in the note she had written before committing suicide with less than a week before her trial began. The only kernel of truth in her biography was that she attended St. Enid's as a child, but not as the riches-to-rags scion of leather smiths. Instead, she was orphaned at the age of three and left in the care of her spinster Great Aunt who made a living as the academy's head laundress/seamstress. While this assured Lilly a place at St. Enid's, she was mercilessly tormented by her classmates who came from families of means and had legacies spanning generations. The bullying only got worse as she got older and sexualities began to emerge; mousey, poor and a lesbian, Lilly gravitated to the library which became by all accounts a second home and began cultivating the ultimate act of revenge. Using her knowledge and newfound passion for library sciences, Lilly would get hired at St. Enid's in her own right knowing full well that it was only a matter of time before her former classmates would send their daughters to the school, and unwittingly serve them to her as pigs for the slaughter.

As much as I've tried to keep things in perspective and realize that the fallout from Lilly's scheme had macro-level ramifications that affected people directly and indirectly, her final assessment of our relationship still managed to twist the knife further for me. Sad and strange as it may sound to expect transparency from a pedophilic librarian with a chip on her shoulder, something about seeing in writing what she truly thought about the relationship we shared shook me to the core:

Everything seemed to go well until some numb-nuts decided to hire a second librarian. The last thing I needed was some busybody destroying all the work I put into my revenge. Initially, I believed there was nothing I could do outright to protest the decision of St. without drawing suspicion.

However, Olga Pataki was a game changer. From the moment she walked in I had her pegged; an over-educated closet case absolutely reeking in repressed sapphism. Seducing her proved to be (if you'll forgive me) child's play in the end. Her callow nature in all things of a sexual nature proved to be the best distraction, especially when it became all too pathetically amusing how under my spell she proved to be.

In a sick way, there was an upside to her duplicity; she all but admitted outright that I was not an accomplice in her revenge plot and cleared me in the eyes of Scotland Yard (thus sparing my legal and professional reputation). I had my innocence, legally speaking, but at what cost? Lilly's presence hung over every memory I could have of St. Enid's like a pendulous storm cloud. I would see her image from the corner of my eye hanging around the library; not as the sinister pederast, but as the coy and inviting lover with whom I shared more than I could ever imagine. Not to mention the looks of horror or worse yet the stink-eyes I would get from the girls and other faculty members for being her colleague as my relationship with her became something of an open secret…

"…After a month and a half, I finally caved in and began the process of quitting while I was ahead and began the process of coming back to Washington. Back to some feeble façade of familiarity…but now…now supposedly…supposedly…"

Arnold pulled off the Riverside Highway and into the parking lot of an upcoming rest stop. Courtesy of his wife's stories, he was all too familiar with how histrionics were; a tactic his sister in law employed all too often as either a last-ditch effort to get her way, or at the very least impart some final shot of guilt on whoever stood in the way of her dream du jour. But as he provided her with napkin after napkin, he stared sympathetically knowing all too well these tears came from a place all too real and all too visceral.

"Olga. I am beyond sorry that you went through all of this." He began slowly. "I'm not going to pretend to imagine the hurt you're feeling. But you're home now; back with people who love and are ready to help you with whatever you may need."

"Thank you, Arnold." She said amid slight sobs. "You've always been so good to so many…and I don't want to burden you with anything more than you're already providing. But I ask one thing of you."

"And that is?"

Through her sorrow, Olga's voice took on an adamant tone. Stressing the all too important nature of what she was to ask of him.

"Nobody. Can. Never. Know. Especially Helga"

"And you have my word that my lips are sealed." He said while resetting his GPS to their destination; 102 Van Dyke Court, Boston Harbor, WA.