Author's Notes:

This differs from the movie canon in that Moira McTaggert is a doctor, not an FBI agent; Scott is alive; Rogue and Kitty have resolved their tension re Bobby (a plot point I always hated - in the comics they were always friends); and Rogue has not taken the ‛cure'.

To parallel the real-world case of Ellen (now Elliot) Page, Kitty has realised she's bisexual but mainly leaning towards girls, and she's developing emotional and sexual feelings for Rebecca Davis, a new character. Jean Grey is still dead, though. Anna Marie's surname of D'Ancanto is pure guesswork; it wasn't in the comics, but appears in Wikipedia.

Alison's Mom (June McEwan, née June Hamilton) being progressive enough to tell Alison about periods before they started? Well, they're rare, to be sure, but such Moms do exist.

I could not resist the scene with Logan, Alison and Sherry, a tribute to the similar scene in Torn with Kitty and Peter, where Logan looks at each and just says, "'bout time." I'm guessing it was a scent thing.

Later in the tale (when I fill in the gap, dammit!) there will be a little nod to Daria. I loved that show, I really did.

Is there a causal link between porn and rape? An argument both refuted and supported online. I can only state my personal opinion that I don't believe there is; as Alison says here, it it were true there would be many more rapes (reported or not) than there are. Sex is indeed everywhere these days.

Plus...Bolivar Trask and the Sentinels. I've had to mix things up a bit and mostly ignore the canon in Days Of Future Past. But since the movie and the comic were very different (Logan going back in time rather than Kate), I feel it's justified. Same with mixing up the timeline re Emma Frost and the Cuckoos. Anyway...this is fanfic. Deal already. 😋

X-Men: Rebirth

Central Park, New York

Two years after the events in X-Men: The Last Stand

Charles Xavier, reborn (though ironically upon his rebirth his physical twin had developed a mental analogue of his former physical injury, and thus he was once again bound to a wheelchair), looked keenly around the park. Through his mental scanning capabilities (he so missed Cerebro!) he had detected the emergence of a mutant whose powers were similar to those of Magneto. Oddly and worryingly, the mutant signature had matched Erik's to an astounding degree. So Xavier's presence here was as much precaution as fact-finding.

He proceeded through the park, coming to the chess tables. There sat a man who looked very familiar.

Too familiar.

"Don't get up, Charles," the man remarked mildly, then noted, "Ah. You can't. It appears this new body shares the physical defects of the old."

Xavier found himself rolling closer to the man, the wheels turning - apparently by themselves. It wasn't fast but, he soon discovered, it was unstoppable. There was only one possible explanation.

"Erik," he breathed. "It would appear the claims for the treatment are exaggerated - it is not, in fact, permanent."

But Erik Lehnsherr shook his head. "No, it is. But I discovered that it is possible, through an enormous effort of will, to gradually overcome it. I was sat here one day contemplating a metal chess piece. I wished with all my mental power for it to move. Very, very slightly, it did. Slowly, gradually, my control increased, to the point where I could move larger objects by magnetism. My powers are not what they were but," he smiled, "they were and are sufficient for me to sense your presence. Hence our conversation."

"I see," Xavier noted, fascinated. "Well done, Erik. Hardly something Warren Worthington II could have anticipated. So what, might I ask, are your intentions now?"

"I no longer possess my mind-blocking helmet," the man observed, "and therefore my mind is as vulnerable as the next man's to your probing. So read my mind and find out."

But Xavier now shook his head. "I will not do that even to a declared enemy, Erik. You have as much right to your mental integrity as the next man, and thus I refuse to use my powers in such a manner. I am asking you. For the sake of the friendship between us, the friendship I hope we still share, I am asking you. What are your plans?"

Lehnsherr smiled gently. "Ethical as ever, eh? Well, let's say my plans have been...modified somewhat. I have lost most of my followers, none of whose survivors possess the same force of will, and my powers are curtailed compared to before. Thus ruling humanity as I had once intended is out of the question. Plus I am less convinced now that your way is the wrong way. Besides," he added bleakly, "I have identified a much greater threat to our kind and thus I need all the allies I can get. Wolverine, for one. Cyclops, for another."

Xavier sighed and shook his head again. "I have no idea at present where Logan is, and Scott, I fear, is dead, killed accidentally - at least I hope and believe it was an accident - by Jean, as the Dark Phoenix."

"No, my friend, Scott lives," Erik told him gently. "At present he is at Alkali Lake, in a coma from which I believe you can revive him. You will need a pair of his special sunglasses, but Scott is in fact alive. Lacking medical training as I do, I dared not move him, and so he is still there."

Xavier let out a sigh of relief. "I am astounded and pleased beyond measure to hear that, Erik. But how did you know?"

Erik smiled. "Oh, I haven't been idle since regaining my powers, Charles. I built a small-scale replica of Cerebro - it lacks the functionality of the original, and of course I am nowhere near the telepath you are, but it sufficed to locate him when I searched for allies. And we shall need him, Charles," he finished grimly. "In accordance with your ethical constraints, I freely invite you to read my mind and see why."

The leader of the X-Men needed no further invitation. He did as Erik bade. The results startled and shocked him. Erik had utilised the contacts he still had to subtly infiltrate the U.S. Government. They had told him of certain classified research, being carried out on a just-in-case basis...at least, it was at first.

But that was before Bolivar Trask was released from military prison. The years had not mellowed him. He had, by pure mentation, continued his research, and had now developed an improved version of his mutant tracker. The science which had gone into the design of his infernal Sentinels had been updated; they were now equipped with on-board AI. All he needed now was funding, and the mutant-tracking Sentinels could be built and unleashed.

"This...this method of tracking us," Xavier breathed, horrified, "is...is it workable?"

Magneto nodded grimly. "Worse, it works, Charles. Bolivar Trask is, I will grant you, a brilliant scientist. He fully intends to use it once he secures funding. He intends to build his brand new Sentinels, to employ a combination of this and the ‛cure' in order to eliminate mutants completely...one way or another. If we are to survive this new threat, my friend, we shall need everyone you can find."

"Then we shall begin with Scott," Xavier decided, "then Logan. In order to save time, I suggest we use a laptop to search the Internet for Logan whilst we proceed to Alkali Lake in order to retrieve Scott."

"I happen to have such a laptop here," Erik observed, producing it, "but I waited until you found me. Naturally yours was the first mutant presence I sensed. Most remarkable," he added. "At first it seemed I had made a mistake. I saw you die."

"May I provide you with a summary?"

"Please do," Erik invited.

Xavier did so. Erik learned how Xavier had survived, how he had been reborn, and his therapy under Dr. McTaggert's tender care - plus his frustration when his body apparently rebelled against his inhabiting it by crippling him even though there was no actual injury. Neither he nor Moira could determine the cause of what they were sure was a psychosomatic effect, yet it persisted. Xavier had finally, reluctantly accepted it, conceding that after so many years he was at least accustomed to the wheelchair.

"Amazing," Erik breathed. "Then again Jean was always extraordinary, even by mutant standards. But now we have pressing business at hand, Charles."

"Then let us proceed," Xavier declared.

They did.

Logan proved surprisingly hard to find; he had remained remarkably low-profile since defeating Ichirō Yashida, apparently travelling the world. He had lost his adamantium claws somehow, and was making do with his natural ones of bone. "I think I can help him there," Erik mused. "I discovered several years ago that the alloy is susceptible to extremely strong magnetic fields, though it is still best worked whilst molten. I have a small supply which should suffice, courtesy of our, ah, friends at Wakanda."

The vibranium mined there, Xavier knew, could be utilised as a precursor of sorts to adamantium, so if Erik possessed the one, then the other could be, and apparently had been, created. "He will need to suffer once again," Xavier pointed out. "The new adamantium must be bonded to the stubs of the old."

"True, unfortunately," Erik conceded. "But the pain will be brief compared to that which he suffered when his skeleton was coated. A small price to pay, I think, for regaining the sharpest blades in the world."

Nodding thoughtfully, Xavier agreed. He continued the search; finally they found him - he was staying near Toronto Airport, apparently intending to cross the border into Miami. There, they mutually decided, would be the best place to intercept him.

First, though...Scott.


Classified Military Research Facility

Location: What part of ‛Classified' don't you get?

At the same time

Bolivar Trask, military scientist (though he would have denied it), straightened up with satisfaction. Given his diminutive height, he hadn't far to go. "That's it," he pronounced, "the feedback is eliminated. All I need now is funding, and my Sentinels can be built. And this time, Magneto cannot interfere, as he has been rendered human and therefore, by mutant standards, impotent. The Mutant Tracker System itself is perfect."

His assistant, Dr. Ellie Nesbit, frowned. "Given the attitude of the current President, Doctor, it's unlikely that you'll get such funding." Let's leave aside the fact that you've been in a military jail for years, after selling secrets to foreign powers. In fact, how the hell did you get out?

"True," Trask conceded. "But he did at least approve the Worthington treatment. That's a good start, but it's only the beginning. It must be applied to mutants, whether they want it or not, by agents they cannot affect, i.e. the Sentinels. It is the only way we can survive the war which I am certain is now inevitable. There are more mutants now than ever."

In truth Ellie was not a supporter of Trask's ideas...because her younger sister Sarah, whom she adored, was a mutant herself. But she didn't dare say a word for fear of her and her family being examined by Trask et al. The last thing he wanted was for the sister of a mutant (and, for all she knew, perhaps a potential mutant herself!) to be working with him.

Thank God the Tracker hadn't reacted to her presence...yet.

But if she was a mutant, she thought fearfully, sooner or later it would show, there were such things as late developers...and she had no idea what would happen then. No way would Trask let her work with him; the U.S. Government had tried to work with mutants before - Weapon X and XI, for example, and Sabertooth.

To put it mildly, it hadn't gone well.

What can I do? Dear God, what can anyone do?

She had no idea that the issue was being tackled at that very moment.


Alkali Lake

Near the shore

Little had changed, Xavier saw. The landscape was still snowbound, the lake expansive and beautiful. A passing wolf looked at him curiously, but a brief mental encouragement sufficed to move it - him - on. Lying at the shore was a man. A young man.

A joyfully familiar man.

"Scott," Xavier breathed, and wheeled to him. The low-power but highly effective forcefield Jean - or Dark Phoenix - had placed around him as protection faded and vanished. Clearly it had been keyed to react to the presence of anyone who could help. He could tell that Scott was indeed comatose, but it was a relatively light coma. It would be simplicity itself to awaken him. First, though...

Scott, he sent gently, can you hear me?

Gradually Scott surfaced from the coma, his eyes still prudently closed as he realised his sunglasses weren't there. His thoughts were at first confused.

So much pain...then the joy of finding Jean...his incredulity as she effortlessly used her telekinetic powers to constrain his optic blasts and, for the first time ever, look him straight in the eye...the deep kiss...then...then...

No, Scott, Xavier sent, try not to think of that. Much has happened in the two years you have lain here. A moment whilst I provide you with a summary.

Has it been two years? Wow. Seems like just a moment. Where's Jean?

That, my young friend, Xavier reported wryly, is a far more complex question than it appears. The summary...

He concisely outlined the events of the last two years. Scott was astounded, saddened and pleased in roughly equal proportions. The main thing he seized on was Xavier's alliance with Magneto. Are you sure this isn't a mistake? Scott wondered. Not far from here, he did try to use you to destroy humanity.

True. But that is long past. In any case, our current threat outweighs any possible enmity between us. He reached out - with a pair of Scott's special sunglasses, specially made of ruby quartz to contain Scott's optic blasts. We need you, Scott. Will you come back and serve again as you once did? Even with Jean technically gone?

Sure I will, Scott confirmed. Hey, where's Logan?

Near Toronto Airport, Xavier replied. Erik and I are preparing to fetch him. You, meanwhile, should return to the mansion, regain your strength with a good meal or two and some rest, and then...well, it is hard to say what will happen then.

Okay, Scott nodded. But -

No buts, Scott, Xavier interrupted. Back to the mansion with you. I have your passport here. Scott took it, putting it into a pocket.

Scott put the sunglasses on, sat up, and the very first words he said out loud in two years were: "Even after you've been dead, you're still the same Professor X that you always were." He grinned and carefully rose, a little dizzy at first, but it soon passed. "And I'm glad of it!"

Xavier happily accepted the man-to-man hug Scott gave him. "Welcome back, my dear friend. We shall see you soon."


Miami Airport

The next day

Logan saw the advert for Trask Industries out of the corner of his eye on the overhead TV, but dismissed it...not knowing he was wrong to do so. He arrived at the podium. Knowing as he did that passing through the metal detector would drive it crazy owing to all the adamantium coating his skeleton, he told the airport official, "I'll take the pat-down."

"Opt out," the official called to his colleagues. They started to move in order to search him manually...then he noticed the coins and other objects - all the metal objects - in the X-ray machine's tray were shaking...and floating. He became aware of someone behind him.

The nearby attendant told him politely, "You can go ahead, sir."

An all too familiar voice answered him, "I'll wait."

Almost by reflex Wolverine whirled around and popped his bone claws, but found himself helpless in the grip of one of Magneto's magnetic fields. With an effort, without even trying to discern how Magneto was doing this after Wolverine had "cured" him, he snarled, "What do you want?"

Magneto's reply was entirely unexpected. "There are dark forces, Wolverine. Evil forces, building a weapon that could bring about the end of our kind. What I want...I want your help."

"Why would I trust you?" Logan managed.

"You wouldn't," Magneto conceded calmly, well aware of their past enmity.

Logan was released abruptly. But he didn't attack...because he'd realised that everyone except he and Magneto had suddenly stopped dead in mid-movement. He'd seen that happen before.

But the only person he knew who could do that was...

No, it was impossible. The Dark Phoenix had torn him apart, rendered him into no more than atoms. He was dead.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a wheelchair being operated. The wheelchair stopped near him and another voice, even more familiar to him than Magneto's, said, "Hello, Logan."

Stunned, Logan beheld the familiar sight of Processor Charles Xavier. Alive.

"How is it possible?" he gasped.

Xavier smiled slightly, remembering as Logan did how they'd met, and confirmed his identity by answering, "As I told you a long time ago, you're not the only one with gifts." He neglected to explain straight away, preferring to do so in more familiar surroundings. Thoroughly stunned, Logan numbly allowed himself to be escorted to where a flight to New York was just boarding. Xavier proffered three tickets to the flight attendant; she smiled and processed them and the three passports he handed her.

Logan had absolutely no idea where Xavier (if it was him, but surely it was impossible!) had obtained the passport for him. In fact Xavier had done nothing of the kind; instead he had retrieved Logan's passport details from its owner's mind and passed them on mentally to the attendant. As far as she knew, she was looking at a legitimate passport for one James Logan. She entered such into the computer system, and shortly it delivered three boarding passes. They exchanged routine but polite greetings, and Xavier and his companions went on their way.

"Doesn't trickin' her go against your ethical principles?" Logan asked in a low voice.

"A little," Xavier allowed. "But for one thing I merely imparted details of your actual, legitimate passport to her, so there is little practical difference, and for another, the deception was necessary. Needs must, and all that."

"Fair enough," Logan conceded. "Just hope the food's okay."

A few hours later they boarded flight American Airlines AA-107, bound for Kennedy International Airport, without incident. The flight took a little over three hours, and again was without incident (and the food was first-class). Once they landed Logan received a pat-down inspection, which cleared him; the others passed through the X-ray scanner as usual. A Yellow Cab took them straight to the mansion, and it was there that Xavier explained how it was that he was alive and well.

A lot happened after that, such as Ororo and the other X-Men greeting Xavier with a combination of incredulity and joy. "Welcome back, Professor," Ororo enthused. "I take it you'll be assuming the position of Head once more?"

"Well," Xavier teased, "you would appear to have done an excellent job in my absence; perhaps I should enjoy my retirement."

"Oh, no," she laughed, "my self-appointment was only temporary until I found someone permanent. Now you're back, there's no need. That," she added with feeling, "is a major headache out of the way for me!"

There was general laughter. Kurt pronounced, "The Good Lord has seen fit in His infinite mercy to make it possible for you to return to life, Herr Schulleiter, and we should not waste this gift." He grinned. "We should throw a party, as only the X-Men can!"

The idea was greeted with considerable enthusiasm, and thus they did just that.


Cerebro, two days later

Xavier finished scanning for newly emerging mutants, sighing in satisfaction; it was so good to use Cerebro once again. One, he suspected, would prove extremely useful as a counsellor, if he could but persuade her. He made a mental note to research Dr. McEwan's career. Thanks to Erik's contacts, he had managed to find and download at least the bare bones of the Sentinel AI, which Kitty was now studying, cross-legged on the walkway. She looked up from her laptop and sighed.

"That," he observed, "does not sound good."

"Wasn't meant to, Prof," she admitted.

He frowned. "I have never understood the proclivity of teenagers to employ slang terms and abbreviations. The proper term of address is ‛Professor'. As you are perfectly well aware," he chided.

Shadowcat sighed again, this time in mild exasperation. "Here I am studying a potential threat to all mutantkind, and you're worrying about being called by your proper title? Skewed priorities or what?"

He smirked. "The privilege of seniority, Kitty." He turned serious. "For the moment, please sum up your findings of the Sentinel AI in one word."

Her reply was anything but reassuring: "Unstable."

Xavier exhaled. "I see. Now a more detailed summary, if you would."

"Okay," she nodded. If there was one thing Kitty took seriously, it was her IT work. "There are too many open-ended logic loops, and their parameters are too broad. There are too many options for the Sentinels to misinterpret their orders and go off half-cocked. In fact," she finished worriedly, "there's way too much scope for independence - in theory they need it to adapt to changing strategies, but in practice it could and probably will lead to them creating their own agenda. They might even, God forbid - being a Jew, can I say that? - heaven forbid, actually become self-aware."

"A tremendous danger to us even should they adhere to their orders," Xavier observed. "A much greater danger if they do not."

She nodded unhappily. "Whichever way you slice it, if those things go online with that AI and the tracker thingy, we are so screwed."

"Are the IT specialists aware of this problem?"

Kitty shook her head. "Not as far as I can see, they're not at my level." It was said in a matter-of-fact manner, entirely without boasting; Xavier did not doubt her for an instant. "And if there are any doubters, Trask is shuttin' 'em down - or up."

"Well done, Kitty. Keep working on it - it you find other flaws and/or vulnerabilities we might exploit, please let me know."

"Sure, Prof. Professor," she added hastily on seeing his ferocious frown.

Scott, having eaten and slept, asked keenly, "I wonder what effect my optic blasts would have on these things?"

"Initially you could make toast out of 'em," Kitty answered, but frowned. "But they'd likely adapt after one or two Sentinels were trashed."

"So we need something more basic," he nodded, "something to take them all down at once, ideally from the inside."

"Like programming? Possible, but from what I can tell, Trask's taken that into account - the Sentinel AI seems resistant," Kitty groused.

"Damn, I wish Jean were here," Scott murmured, "she could figure it out."

Kitty hugged him. "For more reasons than the Sentinels, I wish she were here, too."

"As do we all," Xavier mused soberly.


Alison McEwan's apartment

Early morning, a few days later

The day Alison McEwan's life changed forever - for the better - started as a typical day. She awoke, and yawned. She wasn't surprised to find herself alone; her one-night stand, Olivia Trent, was still unsure about her sexuality and probably felt guilty about doing stuff with another woman. I'll call her, reassure her that lesbian sex is perfectly natural and normal - which it is.

Ooh, I love her bald beaver, she mused, thrilling to the memory of everything she'd done to/with Olivia and her sexy wet slit; like Alison, Olivia was an innie. Alison was also an uninhibited, shameless sensualist, loving the wet, messy aspects of sex and the various scents, including her own. She sniffed her discarded knickers and her hairy armpits; mmm, yes, the blonde armpit and cunt hair was definitely doing its job of capturing the heady smell of her. Shivering in delight, she debated not bothering with a shower, knowing she smelled of sex and sweat - of woman - and liking it that way.

But there was, she knew, such a thing as propriety. Sherry, for one, would know she hadn't showered from the smell; women had keener noses than men. Possibly one or two of her patients would, too, and that decided it - going to work smelling like the randy slut she knew she was would be disrespectful to them, and that simply wasn't on. Part of her success lay in the fact that she was always trusted by her patients, because they knew she always respected them; such a gesture would undo that, however much she might enjoy it. Her patients came first with her, as always.

Hell with it. I will have a shower. I'll have a frig first, though - ooh, I do smell sexy, if I do say so myself.

So before she showered she laid in bed and masturbated, delighting as always in the feel of her own full breasts and nearly hairless labia (a few years ago she'd tired of men asking ‛does the carpet match the curtains?' when she or they took her knickers off and left a tuft of pubic hair, just to prove she was a natural blonde - plus she liked her pubes capturing the scent of her wet slit). Having climaxed, she then arose naked, still stroking her 34C breasts and playing with her prominent coral-pink nipples, and padded to the shower.

Objectively Alison knew she was beautiful - fully 5'9", which was tall for a woman, 34C breasts tipped in coral pink; idly she fondled them again, recalling with a shiver of lust that Olivia had liked them, too. She had honey blonde hair which, this year, she was wearing long - each year she fancied a change. She'd had a pixie crop more than once, a bob, bangs à la Elliot Reid of Scrubs fame - once she'd even had a Number Two, her hair shorn close to her skull.

Got a lot of lezzie action that year - a lot of 'em thought I looked butch. Mmm, that was a nice year - I came every day.

Before she decided to leave a tuft of pubic hair and stop shaving her armpits, she'd experimented with different hair colours, mostly shades of red, a new formulation which gave a natural-looking colour. That got her a lot of male attention, mainly from the crowd who wanted to know if she really was a redhead - from that, she decided to stay natural blonde and trim her pussy accordingly. She soon discovered the truth of the Clairol advertising spiel, "Blondes have more fun". She was pretty sure Marilyn Monroe had said it, too.

Going black attracted a lot of girls - even one who was, she felt, too young. Turning her down gently without breaking her heart had taxed Alison's counselling skills greatly, but she managed it.

Alison had inherited high cheekbones and vivid blue eyes from her Mom, and she kept in trim from exercise, mainly walking to work. Her cheeks had a nice glow, so a former lover had told her. Alison's mouth was of a decent size, framed with naturally red lips, and she had perfect teeth courtesy of her Dad.

But her best feature, several lovers of both sexes had told her, was her butt - nicely shaped, moving in a figure of eight as she walked with her womanly hips - all in all it was a butt that just wouldn't quit. Eloise Mann had loved spanking her, and had told her she was born for it. She'd quivered in delight at the praise. She also loved the way her butt turned pink on being spanked.

As for her pussy, always the focus of attention for men, she was an innie, a neat bodily design. She shaved bare except for a blonde tuft on her mons veneris, shades of Jia Lissa of SexArt and Blacked fame. Funny, she once quipped to a male lover, how men spend nine months trying to get out of a cunt, and the rest of the time from their puberty trying to get into one.

He'd laughed. Encouraged, she went on, There's an old joke: a girl is taking a bath with her Mom and remarks that she'd maybe like a cock instead - and her Mom says to her, "Honey, with one of those," she indicates the girl's cunt, "you can get as many cocks as you want!" He'd laughed harder, tickling her, one thing led to another, and...ooh, such orgasms.

Whilst luxuriating in the hot spray (and briefly regretting washing away her sexy scent), she reflected idly that she should schedule a counselling session with Marty; she was starting to feel as if her days were becoming a bit same-y, and for her, given her profession, that was a very bad idea. As always she made sure not to get soap inside her vulva, warm water only; soap was alkaline and could alter the pH balance, to kill off friendly bacteria and encourage smelly species, leading to B.O. She hadn't done that since she was five.

She fondly remembered herself crying in her innocence, "Mommy, why do I stink? I should smell nice, I had a shower!" and hearing Mommy's gentle explanation. God, she'd loved her Mom - always so patient with her even when she was naughty, always with good advice on such things as bodily hygiene and cooking, explaining gently what was happening when she grew pubic and armpit hair plus, to her shock, breasts.

Her Mom had measured her for a bra when she was still only a 30A, and had told her confidently, "Oh, you've got the Hamilton - that's my maiden name - the Hamilton breasts and no mistake, sweetheart. You'll be a C-cup in a few years, you mark my words." She had been right, too; Alison's breasts had indeed settled at 34C by the time she was 16 - Mom herself was a 36C. She'd chuckled, "Big enough to be a good handful, but not so big as to be a waste."

Being a progressive Mom, she'd told Alison, before she started to bleed, about periods - what they were, what they meant and how to deal with them. But she'd been shocked at first by Mom explaining masturbation - at first, the idea of touching herself, especially when she was bleeding, was terrible and shocking - until Mom told her about Abby Lee and her online blog. Reading Girl With A One-Track Mind, Alison was shocked, intrigued and (as Mom also explained) turned-on by Abby's explicit accounts.

"It's not intended to be sexual per se," Mom had told her, "but it is. I nearly came from reading her description of her male neighbour sucking off his lover. Ooh, men can be so sexy when they do stuff with each other. That's why they're often so fascinated with lesbians - the intimacy and eroticism do it for them. Women, too," she'd chuckled.

The idea of achieving pain relief soon override Alison's shock, and she discovered just how good orgasms felt. She'd been happy to explain to a friend what to do about her period pains. Curious, as many ten-year-olds are, she and Missy took delight in touching each other - and that, though she didn't know it then, was the start of her career as a shameless fun-loving bisexual slut.

Mom had also explained why boys were different (she'd discovered this when she was just four, and was both shocked and intrigued) - and, the local boys soon found, she liked to explore them, fascinated by erections, and she wasn't shy about displaying herself. At eleven she'd encountered a naked couple having sex, and again she was shocked and intrigued. She'd asked Mom if it was wrong to watch (which, unknown to the couple, she had, wondering about the tight feeling in her nipples and between her legs, to say nothing of her flush - it had felt very nice, though).

Mom had chuckled and answered, "If it is, the whole porn industry is about to explode." Despite the illegality of a girl of eleven viewing a porn site, she had shown the Nubiles website to Alison, cautioning her not to mention it to anyone, given the legal aspects.

"But if it's illegal, why are you showing me? Wow, look at her breasts! She's got studs in her nipples!"

"Because, darling," Mom had told her firmly, "it's far more important to me that you learn the facts of life - what the couple you saw were doing, and why. In fact, your Dad and I did the exact same thing to make you, sweetheart." She'd ruffled Alison's hair fondly. "Call me biased, but I believe we did a very good job. If you'll forgive my explicit language, he was - and still is, bless him - a terrific fuck."

She had loved her Mom very deeply, and still missed her wise, gentle advice. But Mom had died when she was 17, of an aneurysm, before the nightmare of rape which in many ways had defined her adult se!f. She had sworn on Mom's grave not to let it colour her experience of men, knowing that Mom would never have done that (Alison was later appalled and fascinated to learn from her dying Dad - lung cancer - that Mom had in fact been raped before she was conceived, and that that was how they had met).

Since Dad had been a counsellor, that was the start of Alison's own ambitions in that direction (the best tribute she could pay, she firmly believed, to both her parents - one as a putative victim, the other as her trauma counsellor). On the day she graduated, her faculty advisor, who'd known her Dad, had told her both would've been proud of her.

With her having graduated, he no longer had a duty of care towards her, and so she had fucked him. Ooh, she had so loved him licking red wine off her nipples. Good times, Robert. You were a cute fuck, and a good one.

The Vulcans of her beloved Star Trek had a saying, especially in Margaret Wander Bonanno's excellent novel Strangers From The Sky:

None can know the future.

This was true of her as well. Thus she had no idea, not the slightest hint, that this day would be totally unlike any other in her experience.

In Star Trek III Commander Nyota Uhura had said to a lieutenant: Be careful what you wish for. You may get it.

This, too, was about to prove to be true for her. And again, she hadn't a clue.

Once she was squeaky clean, Alison dressed whilst having breakfast (coffee and toast), and went to work as usual. Sherry Thomas, her receptionist/secretary, smiled on seeing her (and subconsciously, Alison suspected, noting and appreciating her clean, fresh, sensual scent; Sherry herself always smelled lovely and fresh). "Couple of messages for you, Dr. McEwan: the Rhine Institute called, and Elaine Foster would like a consult."

A counsellor's work is never done, Alison sighed mentally. She loved her job and was dedicated to it, but at times it got on top of her. She resolved again to call Marty; unless she received counselling herself, her performance would soon suffer - and thus so would her patients. They deserved better than that. "Thanks, Sherry, I'll deal with them in my office." She started towards it - then glanced back. Fortunately Sherry was intent on her own work and didn't notice.

Being intensely bisexual, Alison had often debated making a pass at Sherry, who was tall, slender and very attractive, refraining because she was a) Sherry's boss (in theory) and b) afraid of intimidating her and thus losing her friendship of more than ten years. That definitely wasn't worth a casual fuck, she decided, and she knew from counselling her patients that sex always changed everything - even when you didn't want or mean it to, even between two women.

It was a shame, though. She had a feeling it would be fun, if Sherry was interested in women at all. She'd long ago decided, reluctantly, that if anything sexual were to happen it would be Sherry, not herself, who would initiate proceedings. Thus far, Sherry had displayed not the slightest hint of any such intentions.

Then again, maybe Sherry was thinking along the same lines, bless her.

A girl can dream, Alison mused, enjoying at least the thought of eating Sherry out, feeling her shapely bottom and hearing her climax.

Sherry continued working diligently, completely unaware of the lurid sexual fantasies in which she was the central star. Alison herself had no idea that had she but known, Sherry would have been a) shocked and b) very excited.

Such was life in the day of a counsellor and her secretary/friend.


Dr. McEwan's office, ten minutes later

Alison was working on Elaine Foster's case and was about to ring Marty Feldman, her own counsellor, when the door to her office opened. She looked up in surprise. The last thing she'd expected to see was a middle-aged man in a wheelchair, greeting her with a merry smile. "Good morning, Doctor. My name is Professor Charles Xavier. You may possibly have heard of me."

The name did ring a bell; he was an expert geneticist, specialising in the so-called ‛mutant problem'. He's got an uphill battle with that issue, she mused wryly.

"I think I have, but," she asked curiously, "how did you get past Sherry? She's very diligent about visitors when I'm working. She doesn't usually allow them, even if they're from the IRS. Especially if they're from the IRS," she quipped.

The bald man broadened his smile. For some reason she found herself liking him. "Oh, you want to see me, I assure you."

Her curiosity increased. "You're confident."

"With good reason," he answered as the door closed behind him. "Shall we begin?"

"Okay," she nodded, "what's this about?"

"It is about you, and about a certain talent you possess," the man told her. "While studying for your PhD you wrote a number of papers, all of which were extremely well-received. One paper in particular springs to mind: We Are Only Human: The Importance Of Balancing Compassion Against Scientific Investigation."

Alison smiled fondly, remembering the paper and its enthusiastic reception. "Oh, I adored writing that paper. It was very much a labour of love, which swung the dissertation committee towards granting my degree." She especially recalled the paper's closing remarks:

"We must, as always, be scientific and avoid bias, for there is no place for it, none whatsoever, in a scientific study. Yet in the field of counselling, we must always remember too that we are dealing with people, not lab rats. As Shakespeare said, If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. He was making the point that ultimately we are all the same, all human. These people share our desires, our ambitions, and most especially our fears.

"Whatever they may have done, they are every bit as human as we are, and they deserve as much respect. The balancing of these two, compassion and discovery, lies at the very heart of this paper. I hope I have taught people successfully."

She roused herself from pleasant reminiscence. "Though I do appreciate the flattery from one colleague to another, that's not why you're here, is it?"

"Indeed not," he agreed. "You have embarked upon a most successful career, treating patients thought by the rest of your profession to be untreatable and/or beyond reach."

"I've won awards," she said with a little pride. "One patient was the subject of a controversial but valid thesis which gained me a qualification. But to me the most important aspect is that I've helped people."

"Yes...but how?"

"Excuse me?"

"How, exactly, did you help them?"

Alison frowned. "Well, I talked to them. I found the root causes of their problems and I helped them to resolve them."

"That's very true. I have spoken with one or two of them. They describe you as most helpful, understanding and compassionate," he complimented her. "But you have misunderstood my question. What precise method did you use?"

Alison felt a sudden chill. "What do you mean?"

Xavier smiled gently. "Alison, I assure you that you have nothing to fear, least of all from me. I shall not reveal your secret. A secret," he added, "of which I suspect even you are as yet unaware."

"W - what secret?"

"That you are a highly capable telepath," Xavier said softly, "and while you believed you were talking to your patients, you were in fact reading their minds, to discern the root causes of their problems and thus devise more effective, targeted solutions, not always chemical. I believe you are also an empath, feeling and sharing their emotions, which enabled you to see their point of view - a most important talent for a counsellor."

She was stunned. She'd heard rumours of telepaths, but even in the context of mutants she'd mostly dismissed them as National Inquirer territory, hardly worthy of her time. For him to state that she was one...!

"That's nonsense, telepathy has never been proven to exist," she denied.

"Yet it exists nonetheless," he told her solemnly. "Your case is proof of it."

"How so?" she inquired skeptically.

"There is the fact that since I entered your office and the door closed, and we began our conversation, neither of us has said a single word out loud," he answered simply.

To her shock she realised it was true. Thinking back, yes, his lips had never once moved, except when he'd smiled at her, yet she'd heard him speak and she'd replied. But now, to her further shock, she realised that she hadn't spoken aloud either.

"How...oh my God...how...?"

"The answer is simple. Like me, you are what is commonly referred to as a mutant. When I asked ‛shall we begin?' I did so telepathically - and your ability is so refined that even unconsciously you responded in like manner. It's been a few years since I detected someone with capabilities similar to my own. It makes a nice change," he added pleasantly.

No, it's impossible, she thought incredulously. I - I can't be a telepath!

Can I...?

Yes, you can, came the amused reply. Indeed, you are. A true scientist does not ignore or dismiss incontrovertible facts.

"But - mutation, as I understand it, is an inherited trait. There's nothing abnormal or even unusual about my parents." This time she spoke out loud - still in denial, though she was barely starting to believe it.

"Nor is there anything unusual about mine," he agreed, similarly out loud. "Yet I was born with the ability to receive and transmit thoughts; sometimes the trait skips a generation, or even two - I have known mutants whose parents and grandparents were ‛only' human. I don't use it often; most people, quite rightly, value their mental integrity and privacy. I do my utmost to respect that privacy.

"I possess a device known as Cerebro, which detects and pinpoints emerging mutants. You are a late developer, which is why we have never met before; Cerebro detected you, and I have researched your career with considerable interest. I believe your talents could be useful at my school." He smiled again. "I invite you freely to look into my mind and see just what sort of school it is."

"But - I - I can't -

"You can, Dr. McEwan. Just accept the shock and allow yourself to believe."

"Professor, telepathy has never been proven to exist," she insisted. "All kinds of studies have been done, including genuine scientific studies, some by the Russians. Hell, I took part in one when I was nineteen, as an elective! But none of the studies or the subjects ever showed any sign of true telepathy!"

"True again. But the experimental subjects were purely human," he told her. "Had I taken part in such studies, the researchers would have obtained a very different result. Like any true scientist, however, you require proof. As the late, great Carl Sagan said, Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. Very well:

"To begin with, your very first sexual partner was called John." She gasped. "He was a one-night stand, a result of your being somewhat inebriated. You were sixteen, and very happy that you had become a woman. But you never told anyone, for you were embarrassed that it happened whilst you were not fully in your right mind. Everyone who knows you believes you lost your virginity to Steven Jameson a year later - until now this has been your secret. I swear to you that I shall divulge this to no-one," he added with solemnity.

"Especially as I was underage at the time," she pointed out feebly, unable to believe that he knew about it at all. Her Dad once said, "Best way to keep a secret? Keep it to yourself." She had followed his advice, delivered when she was just four, ever since. John had been so handsome, though, with a body sculpted by football practice - but without the attitude so prevalent amongst jocks. No, he'd been a gentleman, with a nice sense of humour.

And she'd discovered as they'd talked that she was wet and willing. They'd shared a drink together, her inhibitions fading with each swig of the cider. After only a pint, she was more than willing. After two, she wasn't nervous any more.

Three pints in, she was practically begging for it, soaking wet and flushed clear to her breasts. Ooh, too many girls don't enjoy their first time, but I sure as hell did!

"But consent was sought and freely given," Xavier observed, "and even then the position of the Law was that it be the girl's choice. It certainly was in your case, plus John was only a few days older. To continue:

"Some time after your happy liaison with Michael, you were raped by Brad Carlson." He looked sympathetic. "It was terrible, I know; he was so brutal to you and cared nothing for your pain. In your understandable fury at his callous treatment of you, Alison, you almost castrated him, and would in fact have killed him had two passers-by not intervened. Later, after you learned that he had been murdered in prison, you, ah, peed on his grave. In all honesty, I cannot blame you. In your place, doubtless I would have done the same.

"You harbour a secret passion for oranges; they were the first fruit you tasted, when you were two, and remain your favourite. I quite like apples myself.

"The teacher you most respected had the most unusual name of Serenity Raincloud; she was half Cherokee, and taught you English. Her teaching methods were unorthodox, but effective. Every year you visit her grave and place a daisy, a dandelion and a buttercup there; they were her favourite flowers. The first time you went, you were alone, it was raining...and you wept for your beloved teacher," he finished softly. "Does that suffice?"

Alison just sat there, totally stunned. She wasn't an especially private person, but these were things she'd never shared even with her most intimate friends or her family. Everyone, she firmly believed, had a right to secrets, and these were hers.

John...dear God, she'd nearly forgotten about John Mayhew. Shortly after their drunken but happy encounter he'd been killed in an accident, and she'd been too embarrassed to tell anyone he'd popped her cherry, especially as she'd been drunk. The last thing she'd wanted was a reputation as a tart (though nowadays she knew she was, and she didn't give a fuck what people thought - hell, she was proud of being a tart, and a slut!). She remembered that it hadn't hurt at all. No, she'd been too wet for that, too excited.

He'd been so kind. So gentle and patient, even when she took ages to climax despite her excitement. She'd bled a little, and he'd helped her with it. They hadn't used a condom and she wasn't on the Pill - since she'd never expected to need to be - so she got lucky in that she'd had sex for the first time during the period when she wasn't fertile. Another three days, she knew, and she'd likely have gotten pregnant.

She'd teased him about the birthmark on his cock, and in joking retaliation he'd remarked on hers - one on her left breast, the other on her left buttock. Beauty spots, he'd called them. She'd thrilled to his kissing them.

Though she didn't think of him often these days, whenever she did she missed him. Not that she'd had any basis for comparison back then, but he was a good fuck. She'd had all kinds of sex since, good and bad, and John had definitely been among her better experiences.

But the worst, Brad Carlson - she trembled in fury as she remembered him, the evil rapist bastard. He had been so brutal, just using her, laughing callously as she'd cried - and that was when she'd gotten mad. She'd torn at his cock with her nails, and she'd almost enjoyed the blood and his pain as he'd howled.

He'd expected her just to crumble, as most rape victims do, but he'd had no idea that she had received training in counselling and thus she knew too well how women who'd been raped usually felt - and she'd felt a sudden determination not to be pigeonholed into that category. A prison warden, a friend, told her about the rough if poetic justice he'd received in jail.

God, pissing on his grave was so satisfying.

Though not a vengeful person by nature, she enjoyed the knowledge that he had suffered before he died. The other prisoner - whom she discreetly contacted, visited and thanked - had done to him exactly what she had intended to do. "You'd have gotten away with it," he told her. "Revenge for rape tends to be excused by the courts. And I'll say this for cops, they hate rapists - especially with kids."

And it was true, she loved oranges.

She'd also admired Serenity, who had cultivated a small weed-filled garden (though like Serenity and Heinlein, she failed to understand why such pretty flowers as daisies, dandelions and buttercups were known as weeds - Author's Note: I don't get it either), and in the last year of the teacher's life she had grown to love her. The first time she'd been to the grave was April 3rd, a year after Serenity's sudden death by heart failure. Her tears had mingled with the rain.

Oddly, every other time she visited the grave, the weather was sunnier and dandelions had sprouted at the site. It was almost as if Serenity had gently approved of her tears, and granted her better weather to repay her. She left the dandelions be. Serenity would have.

But these were things no-one knew about her. Certainly no-one knew about John.

Except this man.

The only place where that secret existed was in her mind. Therefore, logically, the only way he could know was if...if what he was saying was the truth. That he could read minds.

And, it seemed, so could she.

Now she understood how she'd known that Quinn Blaine had screwed his stepdaughter Julie. God, his wife had been furious to learn that, but she'd honestly felt that Anne had to know. And Hiram Morris - he'd been cooking his firm's books without their knowledge, without anyone's knowledge.

But she'd known. She'd gently guilt-tripped him into putting it right. The slight guilt for abusing her position was outweighed by her conviction that other people would suffer if nothing was done. In order to learn about the feelings of the less fortunate she'd volunteered during her PhD at a soup kitchen, and had been saddened by the fact that there were so many people there. The supervisor had been grateful for her help, and wrote a report so glowing that the dissertation committee had actually applauded her for that part of her work.

"It's true," she whispered, awed and stunned, but calming as the explanation penetrated. "It explains so much. I'd always wondered how I knew the most intimate details of my patients' lives. But...I never used it to finesse my exams. I don't think I had it then, and I would never have used it for that even if I had." She was certain of that. She had never been inclined to cheat, even slightly.

"Nor do I," Xavier agreed. "As I stated earlier, you were and are a late developer."

"But..." she trailed off as she realised something. "I...without meaning to, I...I violated patient privacy and confidentiality...oh my God...!"

Xavier could see immediately that she was honestly horrified at the inadvertent breach of medical ethics. She was a highly ethical person, which was why he'd approached her. She would, he was certain, fit in very well at his institute, where ethical issues were frequently discussed. But first he would have to console her, else she would at the very least abandon her profession. Indeed, as a dedicated counsellor she might take more...drastic measures.

Suicide, for example. Quite apart from needing her services, he had no wish whatsoever to push her into that.

"But I have seen in your mind that never once have you used the knowledge you acquired for your own gain," Xavier gently assured her. "Nor would you have, had you been aware of your talents, which came to full flower at around the time you embarked upon your career. You have only ever aided people. When you have read their minds, it has been solely for the stated goal of helping them. And you have helped them. You are helping them."

That, too, was true. There had been times when the thought had crossed her mind that such knowledge, used for blackmail, could be highly lucrative. She was, after all, only human, and therefore flawed. But she'd never done it; her own sense of morality and ethics wouldn't allow her to do it.

"Which is why I feel I can trust you with the mental well-being of my students," Xavier concluded.

"You want me to be a counsellor to them?" she surmised.

"Indeed. Some - many - most, I suppose - come to my Institute traumatised by their first experience of their powers. A young girl called Marie, or Rogue, is perhaps the best example. When she was fifteen she first kissed a boy...and, without meaning to, put him in hospital for three weeks in a coma. Merely by touching someone she can unwillingly drain their physical and mental energy, their thoughts and personalities and, in the case of mutants, their powers, for a time. Alas, she wields almost no control whatsoever over this, which is why she regards it as a curse.

"When she first came to my Institute and comprehended the nature of the students and teachers, she hoped to find a ‛cure' for her condition, or at least some way to control it. Unfortunately no such ‛cure' exists. She has acquired a small degree of control, but once it starts she can stop it only with a tremendous mental effort. There is a very small part of her - a part she hates - which always wishes to consume her...victims. She has never yet killed anyone with it, but I firmly believe she could."

"Poor kid," Alison sympathised. "So if someone was, say, a skilled juggler, and she touched him, she could juggle, too?"

"Exactly," Xavier nodded.

"Could be a useful trick...if only she could control it," Alison supposed. "I take it that that, in part, is the reason for your Institute: to help mutants learn to control and contain their powers," she guessed. "It's as much a safe haven as it is a school."

"Absolutely correct. I must confess that some of them, lacking control, could be dangerous. It is an unfortunate aspect of human nature to fear that which we do not understand. Ordinary humans understand little of our kind. This is another purpose of the Institute: to teach that understanding. Recently, thanks to Ororo Munroe, a former student and, for a time, the acting head, the Institute has opened its doors to ordinary, if gifted, humans - just as I had always hoped and intended. Mutants and ordinary humans, working together in peace and even friendship," he finished with pride.

That, she thought, sounded like quite an undertaking, albeit a noble one. She'd dealt with anti-mutant prejudice before - prejudice of any sort was a bad idea, but to discriminate against people (she had never believed mutants were inhuman monsters, just different people) just for being born different...no. The only logical conclusion to that line of thought was civil war. They'd already had one in the States, and its devastating effects were still being felt today. What effect such a war would have today, with modern weapons and tech, simply didn't bear thinking about.

She, with her empathic viewpoint, had always advocated peace. Fortunately the current President had passed legislation to deal with that issue. The current issue of the mutant ‛cure', for example - security at Worthington Labs had been greatly increased, to ensure the formula didn't fall into the hands of either mutant haters or mutant supporters. It was, luckily, impossible to derive from studying former mutants' DNA or blood.

A number of cases, such as that of the famous ‛Blue Ghost', had made the papers. Her case, certainly, had been tragic. As her puberty set in Yvonne Grace had gradually and unstoppably turned blue and insubstantial - a blue ghost, indeed. No-one knew exactly what evolutionary advantage this was supposed to convey, but for her it meant she could never touch or be touched, ever again.

When the Worthington treatment was first announced, Yvonne had begged for it, and Worthington - seizing on a chance both to promote the philanthropic aspects of the treatment and increase his profits through the favourable publicity, a case of enlightened self-interest - had paid for it himself. No-one was certain which aspect was more important to him, though he pointed out in interviews, "Does it matter? We're helping her, that's what matters!"

Her desperate, plaintive plea of ‛Need body...whole body...need be human...please...' had touched peoples' hearts all over the world. Alison was glad the researchers found a way to apply the treatment even to a ghost, and it was entirely successful. Yvonne had cried with gratitude as she solidified and, for the first time since her periods started, hugged her parents and older brother (who, somehow, was not a mutant). She was now spending a lot of her time nearly naked, laughing, "See? No blue anywhere! Just pink!"

The last thing anyone wanted, Alison knew, was a return to Nazism. Some mutants were known to be dangerous, it was true, but to deal with them purely on that basis? Too dangerous. Follow that line of thought and next would come the treatment of ‛good' mutants, perhaps by employing force, to prevent them from turning ‛bad'. Then anyone who carried even the potential for mutation. It would lead ultimately to civil war. No. There had to be a better way. There had to be.

"But we have barely begun, and there is still so much to do," Xavier added, as though he agreed with her - doubtless he did. "Humans are now somewhat more accepting of us, but we must still work to gain their trust. I would hope you will be a part of that. However, there is no obligation." He handed her a card which bore his name, and contact details for the Institute. "The choice, Alison, is entirely yours. I bid you adieu." With that, he wheeled to the door, opened it and left.

In the outer office, Sherry was still in the daydreaming state in which he had left her. He gave her a mental instruction: In a moment you will awaken. You will have no memory of my visit. I was never here.

When she emerged from her daydream state, she was alone. For a moment she frowned; she was sure she'd forgotten something...

Hell with it, she decided, and resumed working. Then a stray thought crossed her mind, and she relaxed with the memory of what she, Tom Elba and Mike Currie had done last night; she became flushed and wet, her nipples hard...God, I came so many times...!


Alison didn't resume her work for nearly an hour. She just kept staring at the card, marvelling at the revelation Xavier had imparted to her. So many things she'd wondered about for years now made so much sense. But though she had used the ability, as she now realised, she had never, ever abused it. True, she had breached her patients' mental privacy - but only to help them.

But now that I know, she thought eagerly, I could be even more effective, more selective. I'll try to develop it, enhance it, while still respecting my patients' privacy - their mental privacy in particular. I could branch out, liaise with the FBI, and help serial killers to reform.

Hmm. Maybe Professor Xavier could help. He's older than me, so he must know a lot about telepathy. He could create a course of study for me. Then her scientific curiosity came to the fore, and she wondered idly if the ability worked as well on ordinary humans, i.e. non-telepaths.

Sherry, for example.

I wonder what Sherry's thinking right now? Alison thought excitedly. Does this thing work at a distance?

She concentrated briefly - and suddenly she knew what Sherry was thinking.

And even she, randy bitch though she'd been since she popped her cherry and discovered to her delight just how fucking good sex could be, blushed furiously.

God, such thoughts!

Alison knew that last night Sherry had indulged herself with two black guys, with huge...appendages, shades of Angel Smalls or Angie Evans on Blacked - the first being filmed with a black guy who had a massive cock, the second with two men, and both loving it. Like Angie, Alison knew, Sherry had been happily spit-roasted and DP'd; she'd given and received oral; she'd had several orgasms; she'd been left covered in sweat and with lots of spunk in and on her mouth...

My God, Alison breathed to herself, feeling a combination of shock, arousal, admiration and astonishment. I never knew Sherry liked black guys so much. Or that she so enjoyed anal and oral sex, even rough stuff verging on rape. She adores the musky salty taste of spunk - she never spits, she always swallows. Randy bitch! What a dark horse!

God, she shivered in delight, I wish I'd been there!

But of course she could never discuss it with Sherry, because she would of course ask how Alison knew - and she certainly wasn't ready to share that with anyone any time soon, even her best friend!

She spent the rest of the day cheekily dipping into Sherry's lurid memories of Tom Elba and Mike Currie, and what Sherry had done with/to them - and they with/to her. She did not ring Marty - because she had a feeling that none of her days were ever going to be the same again, and she was glad of it. Unlike most people, Alison McEwan loved change.

However, she did finger herself repeatedly.

When they left, bidding each other a cheery farewell, Sherry wondered about the almost impish look on Alison's face - unaware that Alison had had several climaxes from sampling her memories. She did wonder about the slight, unusual scent of what she could have sworn was pussy, but she dismissed it when she recalled that Tom and Mike would be bringing Isaac, another big black guy, with them to her apartment - and that Isaac was both bisexual and a spanking expert.

Ooh, should be fun! Sherry thought lustfully.

Her friend read her mind one more time before they parted, became aware of what would likely happen, picked up on Sherry's latest thought and wished her all the best. Go for it, you randy bitch!


Alison's apartment

12:15 a.m.

That night in bed with a relaxing mimosa, she recalled Sherry's memories, allowed herself to feel arousal again - God, Sherry so enjoyed spit-roasting, especially with well-hung black guys! It was fucking delicious, she got so wet and sweaty! - and slipped a hand between her legs, and wasn't surprised to find she was soaking wet, her clit already engorged. I bet she's indulging herself with Isaac! Ooh, I hope he spanks her - Sherry would look terrific with a pink bottom and her mouth, ass and cunt full of spunk!

As a qualified and experienced counsellor, she knew perfectly well that for women, certainly, masturbation before sleep was absolutely normal and even healthy. Shades of Nancy Friday (who admittedly never had the qualifications Alison had), she had frequently discussed sexuality and masturbation with her patients, and they, upon coming to trust her, confided that they did it, too.

The women did, anyway.

Over the course of such discussions Lucy Aniston realised that she was in fact a lesbian, and upon trying it - not with Alison; randy or not, as she freely admitted she was, she had standards and would never breach moral or ethical guidelines by fucking her patients, even ones as gorgeous as Lucy was! - she found her issues were resolved, and she settled into a long-term, happy relationship with a woman five years her junior. Alison still received cards at Christmas and Thanksgiving from the couple, and wished them well (while frigging at the thought of what they got up to!).

We're checking out Sapphic Erotica, Dyked and Slayed, and they're giving us ideas, believe me, Lucy said in the last card with an emoji showing a sexy smile. Having reviewed - and frigged over - the sites, Alison couldn't help but agree; their lesbian shoots were sexy as hell. Ooh, she loved explicit porn, even after having been raped. In fact, she loved rough sex, loved totally letting go as she was fucked hard.

Her laptop showed Angie Evans on Blacked, and her nipples hardened on seeing her with two big black guys getting the seeing-to of her life. It wasn't hard for her to imagine Sherry there in place of - or as well as! - Angie. She looked lovely and so fucking good after sucking off both guys and getting her luscious lips, teeth and tongue coated in spunk. She greatly admired Angie's pierced nipples; she'd debated doing the same.

Usually a single, gentle frigging session was enough to send Alison off to slumber, but on this occasion she masturbated no less than four times, very roughly, before climaxing hard, sighing with sheer animal pleasure and slipping into a relaxed, satiated sleep.

Alison's last thought before sleep took her (apart from Ooh, I'd love to watch Sherry getting spit-roasted on Blacked, the thought's getting me wet again, ohh!) was:

I think I will check out the Xavier Institute on Saturday.