I walked into the bedroom, and there was Katie, with flecks of blood on her. She had been scratching her ear and cut herself, I think. And if you've ever had a head wound, you know they bleed like a mutha. If you had asked me before this happened, how I thought it would affect me, I would've said that I'd get queasy over that much blood on my beloved dog. But I think Katie is slowly training me to get used to it. I just sighed, got some cotton pads (the ones Deb uses to take fingernail polish off) and some hydrogen peroxide and went to work.

The whole inside of her ear was just coated. And she's got some big m-f-ing ears. But she didn't act like there was any pain at all. So no big deal I guess. I will admit that when I saw all the blood, my first thought was, "Oh man, not another emergency vet clinic visit." Actually, I never even found a cut that she was bleeding from. She's fine this morning.

The rest of the Monday night story:

We were ready to play the stalking game.

Confident that she would win, Jules had told me that while she got the autographed script if she won, I could name my price if I won.

We each had our little flashlights. I had one of my short ropes in my back pocket. I'd made a slip-knot loop in it thinking I might be able to sort of lasso Jules in my takedown. The house was dark. Almost.

The streetlight in front of the house flooded the living room with light that crept into the dining room as well. Enough light to make me unsure about whether this game would work at all.

Just before we started, I stood very close to Jules and said quietly, "Do you remember that night under the boardwalk?"

"Yes ..." Of course she did.

"If I win, that's what I want. Except more." She started to protest, and I told her she'd better go hide. We had five minutes to get into position.

I started circling the house. Jules was in hiding. Staying in one place. I'm pretty sure she started out in the front study. As I walked through the hallway outside that room, I whispered, "I'm going to get you, Jules. I'm going to take you down."

It felt like I was making huge amounts of noise. Footsteps and floor creaks. Eventually I heard her moving through the house, too. I think I was in the dining room, crouching behind the table when she pulled the script out of the sideboard.

I had discovered that the back end of the house was the darkest, so I kept switching between rooms there. I was lucky to be in the back bathroom when she snuck back there, trying to get her five seconds in her last two rooms�the bathroom and the utility room.

She was only three or four feet from me. I was standing right there, but it was so dark she couldn't be sure it was me. She hesitated. I saw the script in her hand and pounced.

I got her in a full-nelson and up against the wall, made her drop the booty. She was flapping a washcloth at me. I still don't know what that was about. But she kept struggling. Jeez, did she stuggle. All the way up the attic steps. She wouldn't cooperate. I was behind her and scared that I was going to go ass-over-head down the steps if I didn't get her under control. I reached around to her front, gave her one last chance to go upstairs willingly, then grabbed her nipples and led her up the stairs pulling on them. She went up on her own power after a couple of steps.

Upstairs she admitted defeat. I told her we had to do an interrogation.

"Why? What's the point? We never did that before," she said.

"I always wanted to," I replied. "And besides, maybe you can talk yourself out of it. Maybe you can convince me you're not a spy and still get the script."

I set up a chair with a clip-on lamp (clipped onto the multi-purpose St. Andrew's Cross) pointed at it. Kind of just like in the movies. She made disparaging remarks about the untidiness of my room while I tied her to the chair.

It was really fun. We were in this teenager headspace, so our characters couldn't stay serious for very long before we had to say something smart-assy to each other. Then I'd try to pull our focus back to serious again.

She thrashed her feet around while I tried to tie her ankles, but I got them bound securely. I tied her upper body to the chair, but her hands were still free.

I started asking questions like, "Who are you? Who do you work for?"

She was Anna Petrovla-something-something and would tell me nothing, followed by some sort of political insult. My world political knowledge is somewhat lacking, so I couldn't come up with much good in the way of matching insults. I mean, you can't exactly call the Russians stinking reds anymore, can you?

Then I blindfolded her. Then I took a Polaroid. She got pissed. She tried to undo her ropes around her body. I tied her hands to the chair.

We played around like that for awhile, and then I started trying to get her to admit that she'd always liked being tied up. She refused at first, and then relented. I talked about a time when we were kids when I'd tied her to a tree, face toward the trunk, and then gone to the house to get a soda and came back to find her rubbing her hand between her legs under the guise of trying to wriggle out of the ropes. She had to admit it then. I told her I'd always liked tying her up.

We kissed. Hard. It wasn't long after that that I had to untie her. She still had all of her clothes on, and her legs were effectively tied shut. I didn't have a choice if I wanted to get any further.

I led her to the bed, lit some candles, turned off the interrogation lamp. We started making out. We kept talking, making admissions, confessions. Was she a virgin? No. Was I? Yes.

I'd had a crush on her for a couple years before we even kissed for the first time. She'd never thought of herself as good-looking enough to attract anyone back then. I suckled her breasts. She stroked my hard-on. I told her I wanted to make her come.

"You've been making me come since I was eight," she said. All those times. Starting with when we used to play with the puppy cage. I would lead her around on a leash and then lock her in the cage. She would cover herself with the dog blanket and masturbate, not even realizing what she was doing, only knowing that she loved doing it. She talked about how bummed she'd been when my mom sold the cage at a garage sale.

Yes, this is how elaborate our scene conversations get. This one really got me hot. We fucked mostly hard and fast. I wasn't strapped on, so it was all by hand. If she ejaculated at all, it wasn't much. She doesn't shoot off as much if she's trying to pace herself over a weekend.

That's about all I remember, except that it was really cold outside, and we still had to retrieve the dogs from next door. I volunteered to get dressed and go get them. She said she loved me sooooo much for doing that.

After I brought the dogs upstairs, we read in bed for awhile. I put my book down and went to sleep because I knew I had to get up and go to work in the morning. She kept reading. Ended up with a bit of an insomnia night.

Anyway, that's what Monday night was like. I can't remember if we made love again on Tuesday morning.

I do remember that I found pieces of cat food in strange places around the house. Sara had put some in her pocket and tried to make distracting noises by throwing them around in the dark, but they didn't make enough noise. Hah. She should've used pennies, like me.