"Have you any idea what this is about?" you
ask your deputy, who sits at her desk across from you.
"The General wants to see me in his office tonight at
2100 hours."
"Oh, does he?" Your deputy is no help, and you could
swear you see her trying to hide a smirk. She's so
smug lately, just because she's finally gotten that
artillery officer she'd been mooning over. "What
should I wear?" You begin to pace the office.
"May I suggest clothes? Presumably your uniform?"
"You are such a smartass." "Just answering
questions, ma'am. You can't show up in your merry
widow. Wear your uniform. You want to look crisp and
efficient." "Yes, crisp and efficient," you say,
almost to yourself. "I know I'm obsessing, but I have
to get this right. This could be my chance at . . ."
". . . General-nookie?" Your deputy giggles, and you
find yourself joining in.
"I mean, I've adored him from afar for ages, and now
I've finally been granted an audience." You realize
that you sound rather ridiculous, like you are talking
about some lofty religious figure rather than your
C.O. "I just wish I had some clue what he wanted with
me."
"You'll find out soon enough. Stay calm, boss." She
grins at you. "And be yourself. They like that.
Besides, he's Jedi. He'll see right through you if
you aren't natural."
"What if he knows I...want him?!" You are suddenly
alarmed.
"Then you won't have to tell him." You know
your deputy is right, but she doesn't have to be so
damn infuriating about it.
"Have you finished making that surplus report,
Deputy?"
"About the Alda-Seltzer? Plop, plop, fizz,
fizz, boss."
"What?!" Yes, definitely infuriating. "I
meant 'yes.' I hope that means we're done for the
morning, because if we're not, I'm going to suggest
that you not place any orders while you're like this.
You know what that leads to." "Oh, hush. You just
hate writing the surplus reports."
"I won't lie to you about that. Now, stop pacing.
We're going to go get lunch."
"I can't eat anything!" you exclaim.
"Yes, you can, and you should. You'll be
lightheaded."
"Okay, okay."
You let your deputy half-drag you to the mess hall,
where a droid hands you identical trays of something
steaming and malevolent-looking. You and she sit down
at an empty table, but are soon joined by a tall man
with black hair and unusual eyes.
"Hi, Zandru." Your deputy goes gooey next to you,
and you roll your eyes. Of course, if she got her
Jedi, then there's hope for you.
"Hi, ladies." Zandru smiles at you both, and then,
to your deputy, he says, "I already ate. I can't
stay; I've got the next watch in the turret, but I
just wanted to make sure we were still on for
late-night tea."
"Of course we are. Enjoy your shift, dear." Your
deputy grins ear-to-ear and blushes when Zandru drops
a kiss atop her head on his way out.
"Anyway," you say firmly enough to jolt her out of
her goo-trance.
"Yes, boss?"
"What should I *do*?" you wail.
"Well, he might have questions about inventory or
somesuch, so remember to take your datapad with you.
Make sure you know your stuff," she says sensibly.
"That's easy. I can answer any question he asks. If
there's anyone who knows what shit is on this ship,
it's me," you say confidently.
"And how will you explain our, er, surplus issues?"
she asks.
"Well, um . . ." You can feel a blush creep up your
cheeks. "I need to think up a good reason for that,
don't I?"
"Well, don't lie to him, either. He'll know," your
deputy points out.
A tray bangs down on the table across from you, and
you look up with a start.
"Hi, Elsah," you say.
"So, are you ready for your meeting with the
General?" Elsah asks without preamble after greeting
you and your deputy.
"We were just talking about that. My deputy thinks
he's going to ask me questions about inventory and our
ah, surplus situation," you say.
"It's not going to help you if you blush whenever you
say the word 'surplus,'" remarks your deputy.
"Is she doing that?" asks Elsah.
"Yes, she is. She's going to have to do something
about that," replies your deputy, as if you aren't
even there.
"I don't think she's blushing about the surplus. I
think she's blushing about the *reason* for the
surplus." Elsah practically cackles.
"Well, wouldn't you?" you say, exasperated. "I
can't tell the man, 'Yes, I ordered an extra ton of
Corellian duracrete, an extra gross of training-room
mats, an extra ten cases of Alda-Seltzer, and
sixty-eight crates of toothpaste we didn't need, all
because I can't stop daydreaming about you?"
"Toothpaste?" Your deputy looks interested.
"I did the surplus report on that myself," you say.
"And don't look so interested. I'm not telling you
where I put it. I figured the toothpaste was ripe for
one of those stunts you and Elsah like to pull."
"But . . ." Elsah is the picture of innocence.
"Or maybe he wants to talk to me about your pranks!"
you exclaim. "What if he holds me responsible for
them?"
"I'm sure he doesn't," says your deputy firmly.
"Well, if you say so. But what the hell am I
supposed to give as a reason for those surpluses?"
"Say you were distracted and you won't let it happen
again," says Elsah.
"That sounds good," you say thoughtfully. "It isn't
a lie, at least."
"Exactly. Now eat," orders your deputy. "You
haven't touched your lunch."
"What in nine hells is this?" you ask, looking down
at your tray for the first time.
"It's sloppy nerf." says Elsah. "It really isn't
too bad."
"But it smells like--" you protest.
"*Eat*," your deputy and your friend command in
stereo.
You take a few bites, barely tasting it.
"Good for you," says your deputy, sounding like a
mother praising a reluctantly-eating child. "Now, you
will go to your quarters and have a bath and a nap
after you've cleaned your tray."
"Beep me when you wake up, and I'll braid your hair
for you if you'd like," adds Elsah.
"Actually, no. We'll come by at 2000 hours to make
sure you're up," your deputy decrees. "It won't do
for you to be late to your General appointment."
Annoyed as you are by their bossiness, you know your
friends mean well, and you gobble down your sloppy
nerf, which really isn't horrible. Your deputy and
Elsah drop you off at your quarters.
You're grateful to have the afternoon off, and you
realize that your deputy knew that you wouldn't be
able to get any effective work done in the office.
You haven't had the opportunity to luxuriate in a
bubble bath for so long, and you decide that you're
going to make the most of this one.
You turn on the tap and pour bubble bath under the
water flow. You strip off, and, almost as an
afterthought, you program the sound system to play
soft harp music from your native planet. Seeing that
the tub is almost full, you shut off the water and
sink down into the bubbles.
Your muscles relax almost immediately, and you linger
in the bath, cleaning your skin languidly and letting
your thoughts wander to the General. As you fantasize
about the General's burnished gold locks, you wash
your hair with your special-occasion shampoo from the
fancy lavender bottle.
You rinse off and get out of the tub, wrapping a
towel around your head and using another to dry your
body. You slip on a sleepshirt and get into your cool
bed with the towel still around your head.
*******
Everything is beeping. Why is it beeping? Your
commlink and your alarm chrono beep a duet from your nightstand, and your door signal is beeping, too. You give the alarm chrono a vicious smack to silence it and answer your comm as you walk groggily to the door.

"We're outside your door!" chimes Elsah's voice over
your comm. With a snarl, you snap off the comm and
open the door. Elsah and your deputy march in
carrying . . . stuff.
"Sit down," orders your deputy, practically shoving
you into a chair.
Elsah unwraps the towel from your head. "Couldn't
you have spared two minutes for the dryer?" she asks
woefully, finger-combing your dampish locks.
"I brought one." Your deputy pulls a sonic dryer
from one of the bags she brought and slaps it into
Elsah's hand like a healer's vibroscalpel.
While Elsah dries your hair, your deputy holds
various colored tubes and pots up to your face. She
settles on two pots and a tube and lays them aside.
"What are you two? The Corellian cosmetic strike
force?" you ask, bewildered.
Elsah, finished with your hair, clicks off the sonic
dryer and wields it like a blaster pistol. She
salutes. "At your service, ma'am."
"Now, your clothes," announces your deputy bossily,
striding over to your wardrobe and opening it. She
thumbs through the hangers for a bit before declaring,
"This'll do" and pulling out a plasteen bag.
"But that's my dress uniform," you protest.
"Hush, child," says Elsah, who is running a comb
through your hair. "She's right. That skirt shows
off your legs very nicely, and the jacket is the only
one you've got that still has a full complement of
buttons. What happens to them, anyway?"
"They're in the candy dish by my bed," you say
weakly.
"Gods, woman." Your deputy rolls her eyes. "Do you
eat them at night? No, never mind. Elsah, let's
dress her first. Then we'll do her hair and face."
"What about that . . . thing?" asks Elsah.
"Oh, right," replies your deputy. "I almost forgot."
She bends over to dig in one of her bags and pulls
out a smaller bag, which she hands to you. "We were
saving it for your birthday . . ."
". . . but we decided that tonight required this."
Elsah smiles, and she and your deputy look at you
expectantly.
You open the bag, and as soon as you glimpse its
contents, you feel your eyes mist up. "Thank you both
so much," you whisper as you lift the fancy lavender
bottles out of the bag. It's lotion and perfume in
the same scent as your special shampoo from home.
"However did you get this?" You gaze at your crazy
Corellian friends in wonderment.
"Um, never mind how we got it." Your deputy fidgets
and you decide you don't want to know.
"Just enjoy it." Elsah beams. "Now, get yourself
dressed." You stand up to collect underthings from
your wardrobe. "Wear nice underwear," she directs.
"But why?" you ask.
"Haven't you ever read those ABHs and PWPs on the
commnet?" Elsah asks, exasperatedly.
When you shake your head, puzzled, your deputy
exclaims, "I knew I wasn't the only one who didn't!"
"*Anyway*," says Elsah, handing you a pair of black lace-topped stockings and a garter belt. "I think you want to go with all black here."
After massaging some of the scented lotion into your
skin, you slip into the black satin bra and panties
and slide the stockings up your legs. You put on your
uniform and let your friends fuss over your buttons
and seams.
"Okay, sit down." Elsah drapes a towel around your
shoulders and goes to work on your hair. While Elsah
braids your hair, your deputy applies color to your
face from the pots and tube she chose earlier. They
finish at roughly the same time. The towel is whisked
from your shoulders.
"Fabulous," says your deputy.
"Divine," agrees Elsah, steering you over to your
full-length mirror. You are surprised by what you
see. Your hair is pulled back sleekly and braided
down the back of your head; neat but still attractive.
Your deputy has used a light touch with the makeup,
giving you just a little color; not quite so much that
you look like you should be dancing in a cantina, but
enough so that your face looks soft and attractive.
Your uniform looks crisp and neat. There is one
problem.
"I don't have on any shoes," you say.
"I'll take care of that," says your deputy. "Elsah,
take care of that other thing."
"Oh, right." Elsah scurries toward a bag and walks
back over to you and the mirror with a glass. "This
will help you."
"Thanks," you say, accepting the glass and taking a
sip. "Oi!" you squeak, startled by the contents of
the glass.
"It's Corellian brandy. You need to loosen up a
little. Now c'mon, I only poured you a splash,"
coaxes Elsah.
Just then your deputy approaches you carrying your highly-polished, rarely-worn boots. "But my regular shoes are fine," you protest.
"Boss, those shoes are a crime against the Republic.
These will look sexy with that skirt." You know your
deputy is right, but you love the old, scuffed shoes
you usually wear.
You knock back the rest of the brandy and let Elsah
help you into the boots. Out of the corner of your
eye, you see your deputy coming at your butt with the
sonic dryer. "What in nine hells are you doing with
that?" you yelp when she switches it on.
"Easy, easy. Your skirt wrinkled a little when you
sat down; I'm just smoothing it out," explains your
deputy. She flicks it off and demands that you open
your mouth. You're beyond asking for explanations at
that point, so you just do it, and immediately
something is placed on your tongue. "Breath chip,"
says your deputy. "Just let that dissolve. It
wouldn't do for you to show up reeking of Coronet's
finest."
"She's right." Elsah dabs perfume behind your ears.
"Now, you're finished, and it's time for you to go."
"Your datapad." Your deputy tucks it under your arm.
"You two aren't going to walk me down there, are
you?" you ask, half-afraid, half-hoping.
"Hell, no. It's dinnertime for us," says your
deputy.
"But beep me the minute you get back," adds Elsah.
"Good luck," your two friends chorus.
*******

Your heart moves closer and closer to your throat as
you get nearer and nearer to the General's office.
When you finally reach the door, you pause with your
hand inches from the door signal and take a deep
breath. You've got to get yourself together before
you go in; you know that once you enter his office,
you won't have another chance to do it. You breathe .
. .in . . . out. That's better. You close your eyes
and repeat your breathing exercise. Just as you
regain your center, a cultured baritone orders you to
"Come in!"

Clutching your datapad for dear life, you enter the
General's office. Kenobi stands behind his desk, arms
crossed over that broad chest of his. "General." You
salute.

"At ease, Officer."

You relax only a fraction.

"Chief of Supply and Ration. Do you know why you're
here?"

"No, Sir."

"Well, Officer, do you think we have an infinite
amount of room on this ship?" he asks you, politely,
as if he's asking if you think it'll rain.

"No, Sir."

"Well, Officer," he continues in that same
conversational tone, "you seem to be ordering supplies
as if we do."

Well, what in the galaxy are you supposed to say to
*that*?

"Well, for starters, I'd like you to explain these
surpluses to me."

You open your mouth to answer him, and then you
realize that he's answered the question that was in
your head. Gods have mercy. "General, those
surpluses occurred because I made over-orders." You
mentally congratulate yourself for not blushing when
you said "surplus."

"Corellian duracrete, training-room mats,
Alda-Seltzer, toothpaste? Try as I might, I can't
make any sort of connection between those items." He
smiles a little, and the curve of his lips is like a
bolt to your heart.

"General, there is no connection, Sir, other than the
fact that the over-orders happened because I was
distracted. I shan't let it happen again."

"Distracted?" Dammit, now he looks concerned, and his concerned look is just as sweet as his smile. "Is everything all right? You know I can arrange for you to have time off if you're sick."

"No, no. I'm not sick, Sir."

"Are you under a lot of stress, Officer?"

"N-no, not really." You feel sort of bad; you don't
want him to feel like he's playing a guessing game,
but neither do you want him to find out the real
reason for your distraction.

"Do you have a problem I can help you with?" he asks
in that damnable concerned voice.

Palpatine's pantyhose! You can't believe he asked you
that! Your datapad clatters to the floor and you're
sure your face is Sith-saber red, since your body
temperature has just risen to approximately Sith-saber
heat.

Kenobi seems to notice that you are paralyzed and
rooted to the spot, because he moves smoothly toward
you and picks up your fallen datapad. "Officer," he
says gently, "I think you are under stress about
something. You look so tense. And you're beet-red."
He looks at you with genuine concern.

You still don't trust yourself to speak. He must
think you the idiot of the galaxy.

//No, I don't.// Damn and blast. His mind-voice is
like cream.

Well, if he's in your mind now, then he must have
found out that your main stressors are *him* and those
eyes and that smile and that hair, and, Force help
you, that body of his. You hear him take in his
breath sharply. Oops. *Now* he's found out.

"I had no idea that it was my fault you were stressed
out and distracted, Officer."

"It is, General," you admit. The cat's already out of
the bag; you may as well feed it. You begin to back
away from him slowly. "I'm so sorry. I know I'm
silly, and that I really have no business--"

"Officer!" he says sharply, startling you so that you
back into his desk and stumble, nearly falling.
Kenobi reaches out to help put you to rights, but his
arms linger around your waist well after you are
stable on your feet. "Do you think I would have
called you down here if I thought you were silly and
had no business feeling the way you were?" he asks
sternly.

You have to struggle to listen to his words, because
the feeling of his arms around your waist is playing
havoc with your head. You feel strangely calm,
though, despite the fact that you feel like your heart
should be jitterbugging out of your chest, and you
realize that his touch must be imbued with the calming
power of the Force.

"No, Sir," you answer.

In fact, you feel sure that the Force is the only
thing allowing you to play it cool, even though you
are starting to notice that, through no movement of
your own, you and the General seem to be moving closer
and closer together by the second, until somehow we
are cheek to cheek. He smells wonderful . . . clean,
with a faint smell of sandalwood from your home
planet.

"Mmmmmm," you sigh.

"Yes, Officer?" He pulls back just a tiny bit to
look straight into your eyes, and his deep blue-green
gaze hits you like summer lightning.

You are slowly acclimating to the situation
and thankfully becoming more coherent. "Oh, no,
nothing." You smile at him. "I was just thinking
how beautiful you are," you whisper.

"How strange . . . I was thinking the same of
you." Kenobi smiles at you. If he hadn't been
practically holding you up, you would have fallen
right over.

Then he gets an excellent idea. He leans toward
you, and you close your eyes, thrilling with
anticipation. Then, finally, his lips come down on
yours, with a wonderfully gentle firmness and
authority. After a moment, you part your lips, and
your tongues dance for what seems like one long,
excruciatingly delicious hour.

"My, my." he whispers, shifting slightly downward
to kiss your neck, then bite your earlobe gently.

//If you'd told me what was distracting you right
after the duracrete thing, we could've been doing this sooner.// That silky mind-voice again.

//And if you'd called me in to see what was wrong
right after the duracrete thing, we could've been
doing this sooner,// you shoot back as you twine your
hands in his glorious hair and sigh when his tongue
finds its way into your ear, then traces a burning
line down to the little hollow of your clavicle. He
bites lightly at the skin there, and you shudder
rapturously.

"Ohhhh . . ." you sigh.

He comes back up to your face, smiles down at me, and
kisses your cheek.

"Hello, General Kenobi." you say breathlessly.

"Obi-Wan, since you've had your tongue in my mouth,
Officer." His eyes sparkle impishly at you.

"Well, by that same rule, you may call me by my first
name as well, Obi-Wan." You wink, and he kisses you
again.

You run your tongue around your lips to see if you can
still feel them. He sticks out his own tongue and
touches it to yours, then draws you into another warm,
wet kiss.

When the kiss ends, you move slightly to kiss the end
of his lovely, aristocratic nose, which is something
you've always wanted to do. He smiles at you and you
giggle and do it a couple more times. "I've wanted to
do that forever." you explain, this time touching the
tip of his nose with the tip of your tongue. Obi-Wan
grins, then moves suddenly.

"You're adorable." His words are muffled through a
mouthful of your neck. You close your eyes and bury
your face in his delicious russet-gold tresses. After
he is done attacking your neck, he gives you a
squeeze. Suddenly, you are very aware of his body's
proximity to yours, and almost involuntarily, you push
your hips against his. You know he can feel it, and
the hardening bulge you feel through his tight pants
excites you.

//It excites me, too.// His mind-voice is
wry-sounding and edged with desire.

He wraps his arms around you more tightly and kisses
the top of your head. You smile up at him, noticing
for the millionth time how good-looking he is. His
straight, shoulder-length red-gold hair frames a
breathtaking face, with bone structure that looks as
if it has been fashioned by a sculptor’s
vibrochisel--lovely high cheekbones, a long, straight,
nose, a classic strong jawline, and a wonderful chin,
accented by an enchanting little cleft. His
intoxicating eyes are rimmed with golden eyelashes.
And his lips, oh, Gods, his lips . . . lips that any
model would kill for--sensuously full and wonderfully
soft.

"Has anyone ever told you how great-looking you are?"
I whisper.

A slight blush rises on Obi-Wan's cheeks, and I nearly
melt.

"Nobody like you." He smiles again. You've seen the
man smile more tonight than the whole rest of the
time you've been under his command.

//There isn't usually much to smile about. There *is*
a war on.// "But, right now, in here, there is no
war," he says aloud. Let's live in the moment, as a
wise man once told me to do." And with that, he
sweeps the clutter of his desk to one side and lifts
you onto the desk.

Obi-Wan stands before you and slides off your boots,
running teasing fingers up your stockinged legs.
Then, he is sitting next to you, removing his own
boots. You are mildly surprised when he lays down on
the desk.

"You are the only thing I've ever seen on this desk
that I *wanted* to do," he says, voice thick with
desire as he pulls you on top of him.

You smile down at him, and the two of you share a
deep, violent kiss, a gorgeous, sloppy affair with
hands all over the place. When the desktop grope-fest
has subsided, you sit up, still straddling his hips.
"I promise you that this will be the best thing you
ever did at this desk, General."

"I expected no less." He grins lazily up at you as
you shrug off your uniform jacket, which, you note
sorrowfully, now has only one button.

"Don't worry about your buttons, dear one." Obi-Wan
winks up at you and moves his hand a little. You see
nine buttons gather from all corners of the room, line
up in the air and then deposit themselves neatly in a
pile on a shelf. "Anyway," he says, as he caresses
your bottom, undoing the zipper of your skirt with his
other hand.

You elevate yourself to your knees for a second to
allow your Jedi to slide the skirt over your head
using the Force. And then you must take the
requisite second to think, *I'm sitting astride
General Obi-Wan Kenobi in my underwear on top of his
desk!*

"That is true, sweet one," he says, and you lean down
to work on the remaining buttons of his uniform top,
which soon joins your jacket, skirt, and boots on the
floor next to the desk.

You lay back down, and the feeling of his skin on
yours is sublime. You feel him sigh contentedly, and
just hearing it makes you smile. You lift your head
to look directly into his face, and you nearly have to
close your eyes, because what you see is so blindingly
lovely. A slight flush rides high on his glorious
cheekbones, his eyes sparkle like crystallium come to
life, and his gorgeous mouth is arranged in an angelic half-smile.

"My Gods, you're beautiful," you sigh, leaning down
to kiss his cheek, which is now about ten shades
redder than it was before you said that. You know you
keep saying it, but you feel his beauty is such that
you can't say it enough

"And you are stunning." He kisses you then, gently, lingeringly. As you kiss, you slide a hand between your body and his to undo, then slide off his pants.
You reach down and close your hand around him, and he
moans into your mouth as you begin to stroke up and
down his rigid length. You slide down his
golden-skinned body, never stopping what you're doing
with your hand. Pausing to nibble at his neck, you
kiss your way down his chest, stopping to dip your
tongue in his navel, then continue downward as you
feel him reaching the point of no return.

As you take him into your mouth, a wonderful, musical
sigh escapes his luscious lips. You look up at him,
and during the split second your eyes meet his, he
smiles at you. You concentrate on not melting as you
close your eyes and attend to the task at hand. Your
hands are soon helped at their task by your lips and
tongue, with which you suck gently and timidly.
You've been told you're good at this, but you're a
little afraid of the General, er, Obi-Wan.

Then you open your eyes momentarily, and the look on
his face is heavenly. His eyes are closed, long
golden eyelashes resting on his cheeks, which are
quite flushed, and the corners of his mouth are
slightly upturned. He looks like a portrait of the
rapture of a saint. That look on his face is all the encouragement you need.

You immediately stop being timid and go after it like
a possessed woman. You nibble gently at the sensitive
skin of the head, still using a masseuse's firm,
rhythmic pressure with your hands on the shaft. Then
you do a trick that you've finally perfected . . . you
take it all down, every inch. It's still a sensation
you can't take for very long, so you pull back up
after a couple seconds, silently thanking Obi-Wan for
not grabbing your head.

Then you feel his body go stiff, then limp as he
gushes into you, and you swallow every drop. You
raise your head to smile at him.

"Come up here, lovely one." So you do, and he holds
you close, smiling at you again. "Thank you."

"For what?" you query.

"For ah, everything. You didn't have to-"

"I wanted to do that, you silly boy. I believe a
mental picture of that very event was what caused the
duracrete surplus." You kiss his nose.

"Is that so?" He laughs as he scoots off the desk,
then helps you off. You walk over to the viewportal
and look out. You want to scream to the galaxy
outside, "I just gave head to General Obi-Wan Kenobi
on top of his desk!" But of course, you don't.

Then you feel gentle arms around your waist, turning
you around and scooting you up against the wall. He
pulls you to himself and kisses your lips, then down
your neck, to your breasts, to your stomach, then
down, down, until he is kissing you through your desire-dampened panties.

"Have you ever come standing up, dear?"

"No, General," you breathe.

"Permit me, then, Officer." He pulls down
your panties, and the world falls away. There is only
you and the lovely golden one, as he makes love to you
with his wonderful tongue.

"Obi-Wan . . . Obi . . . Obi-Waaaan . . . Obawan . . .
GENERAL KENOBI!" Tears flow down your cheeks, and you
clench and unclench your fists as you scream out your
ecstasy.

He stands up and pulls you to him again. You crush
your lips to his, and thrill as you taste yourself on
his tongue. "Thank *you*," you sigh.

"The pleasure was mine, sweet girl." He kisses you
again, and when the kiss ends, you look down and find
that your bra is gone and that the General is again
standing at attention and ready to salute you, proof
positive that what Elsah told you about Jedi readiness
is no Corellian urban legend.

"Now, do it now," you whisper into his ear. And he
does, lifting you up slightly and pinning you against
the wall. Then you are filled with him. His thrusts
are exquisite torture for both of you, and he doesn't
take long at all. You feel him sighing into your
mouth as he flows inside you. The sheer force of his
orgasm brings on your own second orgasm.

Finally, your bodies relax and he disengages from you,
scoops you up, and carries you over to the sofa, where
you lay together, lazily entwined.

"So, Officer . . . those last few things I did to you
. . . were mental pictures of those responsible for
the surpluses of training mats, Alda-Seltzer, and
toothpaste?"

*******
FIN