The rest of the week, I left her pretty much to her own devices. I didn't touch her, once. We had the usual cursory chat at breakfast/coffee before I dove into work each day. Somebody had to pay those credit card bills. We had a pleasant dinner together, one or the other of us doing the cooking. Every evening, she would read a dirty story to herself and masturbate on the couch in the study in opposite me, her eyes on me. I would remind her to do her "exercises." And that would be that. Except that I would find her watching me from time to time. When I made eye contact, she would blush and vanish into her room. And we were back to "dad," not "Jack." And we both knew we had a 'date' coming up on Saturday. I told her, "Look, forget if you can that this is some sort of 'test.' I'm going to treat you the way you should expect and demand to be treated on a date. Here's the scenario. Be dressed and ready at 5PM. I will drive up to the front curb. I will come to the front door, not honk the horn. I will come in to the house to greet you, not expect you to come out to the car. If I were going to do this really right, I'd have a discussion with your father about my 'honorable intentions,' but I don't feel right talking to myself." She laughed into her hand. "We'll do whatever the date is, in this case, dinner and the Opera. Relax and enjoy yourself--if you can't, one of us is doing something very wrong. If you don't feel like a princess at least at some time during the evening, ask yourself whether you want another date with this clown. But will you be 'one step ahead' of me? In this case, assume that we've been dating for a couple of months, progressed to necking and touchy- feely, but you've refused more. I've made it clear that I'm ready for more than a smooch and a grope, and I'm about out of patience. Otherwise, tonight is a 'last hurrah.' You've decided that the relationship has matured enough for the next step. Sometime during the evening you'll have an opportunity to show off the skills you've been learning. Let the situation develop. Play the role. Take the initiative if feels right. You're a high school girl being taken on a date by an 'older man' named 'Jack.' As an instructor, I'll be watching for your technical execution of the skills, but more importantly for your judgment on what's called for given the development of the relationship. As your date, I'll bring you home and walk you to the front doorstep. If the evening has gone well, I'll kiss you goodnight. Again, in the real world I'd turn you back over to your father, but too bad. I'll drive away. A few minutes later I'll park the car in the garage, and we can 'drop role' and do a post mortem of the evening over coffee or drinks. OK?" And so it happened that in the fullness of time Saturday rolled around. I put on the suit that I kept in the closet for meetings with other 'suits', dragged the Lexus out of the garage, drove around the block, and pulled up to my own front door. Funny, I had to corral the butterflies in my gut as though I were a teenager again. Deep breath, Jack, and center. I walked up to the house and pushed the button. After making me wait just the right amount of time, the door opened, and there was my Allison. No, not my Allison. She stood, well, regally. A teenage incarnation of sex, in another dress I'd never seen, a maroon item that was classy, but too tight in too many places, too short in too many others. If I were acting as her father, I'd forbid her.... "Jack!" she squealed, and was in my arms. Instant erection. No wonder I was dizzy: all the blood in my brain had rushed to my dick. She twisted around in my arms to face the open front door. "Daddee!," she tossed over her shoulder into the hallway behind her, "byee!" Never mind that the house she was shouting into was empty, it was clear that she was into the role. She freed one arm from my embrace to close the door behind her and offered me that arm. "Shall we?" I won't bore you with the most of the proceedings. Dinner was at a small, quiet restaurant on the fringe of downtown. We were early enough that the dining room was mostly vacant. Service was instant without hovering, the scallops were perfectly done, and we begged off of dessert lest we fall asleep during the Opera. Allison glowed. Her spine never touched the back of the seat. And then the Opera. Ah, yes. Verdi's "Aida," and not by accident. The next week would have been "Othello," which wouldn't have done at all. But here we have the queen enslaved, falling in love with her owner, who has fallen in love with her. Perfect. As we waited at the curb for the car afterward, Allison gushed about the lead soprano. I turned to her, wrapped my hand under her chin, kissed her, and said, "But who had the power in that relationship?" I might as well have spoken Swahili. But the question sank in, and I could almost hear the gears turning in her head on the silent drive home. "OK," she finally said. "I think I get it. It's a kind of vicious circle, isn't it?" I glanced over her as I drove, her face illuminated by the instrument lights on the dashboard, and kept my mouth shut. "I mean, they owned her, she was property, like...I don't know...a pet rock, or a goldfish, or something." She shivered. "Aida was a slave, for chrissake! So he had the power. But he loved her. So she had the power. She betrayed him, and when he was punished for what he'd done for her, she found that she loved him, and he had the power. And then around it went until it blew up. And everybody died, of course, like all operas." I said I thought that would do as a plot synopsis. As I got back to our suburb and pulled off at the usual exit, Allison turned to me and said, "Could we stop by Cornell Park, 'Jack,' just for a couple of minutes? I don't have to be home just yet." I said sure. Cornell Park was a small park in a nice neighborhood cut off by the way the freeways had cut through the town, and there wasn't a lot of traffic through that area. I pulled into a dark spot and cut the engine. The almost imperceptible grumble of the engine died away, and she was in my arms, her lips to mine, pressed to me as best she could over and around the center console of the Lexus. Damn, I hate making out in a car. I thought I got over that when I got my own place. One of us was going to need a chiropractor. I pushed her back. "Allison," I said, staying in role, "we need to talk about whether this relationship can continue like this. I really don't think I want to hurt you by...." "Please?" she interrupted me. I played dumb. "Please," she said again, "touch me, there?" She had twisted around so that she was lying across the two seats, facing rearward, and therefore facing me, and her hand fell to open my fly and begin her own kneadings. Her position made it easier for me to put my right hand where it needed to go, to do what it needed to do. The whole thing was not quite anatomically impossible. Never one to refuse a desperate woman, I ran my fingertips beneath the hem of her dress and up her thigh. "Imagine my surprise," as the saying goes, when I found, not pantyhose, not panties, but thigh-high stockings and moist flesh. "Well, what do we have here?" I said as I commenced exploratory manipulation. "Sluts dress like this. Are you a slut, or do you just dress like one?" She began to squirm under my efforts. "Ah, 'Jack,' you know I want keep seeing you, but I've been raised to be a 'good girl.' I've held you off, I know you're fed up, but can you accept that I want to take it slow? Can I make it up to you a little, like...this?" A squeeze. "I've never...touched any man...like...this before." Academy Award stuff, this. And loose on the down stroke, firm on the upstroke. Where did she learn that little twist of the wrist? OJT? "Tonight felt special. I knew I was ready to give you more, at least a little more. At the intermission I knew I didn't want anything to get in the way, so visited the little girl's room to...clear the way. For you. I'm not a slut, ah, yes, there, but I'm beginning to think I might want to be /your/ slut, if you'll...teach me? Am I, am I doing it right, for you?" Real desperation in her voice, or at least, really good acting of real desperation. I found that I didn't care which. My efforts were being rewarded, as were hers. Both of us were standing on the cliff. I drew a ragged breath. "Baby, I'm going to make a mess on my suit if you do that any longer." Her eyes focused on my face as best she could, and she made a little smile without slacking the motions of her hand. Then the next thing I knew, her mouth was around the head of my cock and I was erupting into that hot cavern, and her thighs clenched around my hand as I pushed her off of her own cliff. The short drive home was, you'll forgive the expression, anticlimactic. I did the walk, did the kiss at the front door, did the "I'll call you this week, maybe" and she let herself in and, with a lingering glance, closed the door. Through the closed door I heard "Dadeee, I'm hoome." I shook my head, took a deep breath, and went back to drive the car into the garage. By the time I got into the house, she was in her robe, and had a sherry for herself and a Scotch for me already made. I excused myself to change, hung up my suit, and was back in the living room in a few minutes. We sat in our robes and nibbled our drinks, and I said, "OK, post mortem time. Talk to me." She looked up at me through her eyelashes (where do they learn that?). "What do you want me to say? What an evening! You told me I should feel like a princess. I did. I had a relationship with 'Jack' that I wanted to keep going, but 'he' was tired of waiting for me to decide to keep 'him' happy, happier than I'd been willing to do in the past. I wanted the relationship to continue. I made some decisions, dressed for the occasion, took some risks, and used what I've been taught." She paused, with a small smile. "Tell me, 'Jack', how did I do?" It was odd, being referred to by my own name as though it were a pseudonym. I tried to put on my face of an instructor doing an evaluation. It didn't work. "Ahhh. Where do I start? You did fine. More than fine. Obviously, you ...." Damn. OK, Jack, another deep breath. "Two things. I was astonished when you took me in your mouth. Very good. Oh, very good. On the other hand, you might have been a little more 'hard to get.'" She placed the brilliantly red nail of her forefinger to her brilliantly red lips and put on a wide-eyed, puzzled expression. It was a caricature, a '50s pinup. "Hard to get!? But Jackee, baby, whatever would I have done with my hands?" We both collapsed in roars of laughter. I sent her to her room, and went upstairs.