Next weekend

During the next week, Erica was at Michael's apartment almost every night. They sought each other with a constant and fiery passion, not only in the bedroom, but in the shower, the kitchen floor, the dining room table and against walls.

They explored each other, they hungered for each other, they fell apart, sweaty and sated, only to wake a grapple joyously again.

At work, now that she was no longer job shadowing, they exchanged salacious emails, rousing each other to a pitch of lust that could barely wait to find privacy.

On the following Saturday they curled on his bed in the afternoon, having woken from a hedonistic drowse. She rested her head in its familiar place on his chest and played with the light fur on his belly.

"Michael?"

"Mmm?"

"I want you to show me something new," she said quietly.

"What?"

"Something we haven't done. Something I haven't done. I don't care what. I just want you to do something different to me."

He lifted her head and looked into her eyes. "Be careful what you wish for," he said, and she gave a happy little shiver.

"Are you a dangerous man?"

"Yes. Yes, I am," he smiled. "Your safety word is 'Wisconsin.'"

"What?" She sat up, bemused.

"Wisconsin. If you don't like what's going on, say it and I will stop."

"Why not just say stop?"

"Because that can sound like part of the game, part of the fantasy."

She looked at him thoughtfully, finally nodding. She leaned forward and kissed him tenderly. "You are such a good man."

"No, I'm not. But I can fake it pretty well."

She pinched him, laughing. "Ok, I've got it. 'Wisconsin.' Now do something that might make me say it?"