Slaying the Green Dragon
			      by Cory Kerens

Carla and I have been lovers for a while now.  Although I have a
husband and another lady love, and Carla has as many lovers as
there are days in the week, still the bond between Carla and me is
special.  Of course, making her lovers feel special is something that
Carla is awfully good at.  For example, Carla would look at me
appreciatively and say, "Mmmm.  I love tall women."  This is true, but
like many of the things Carla says, it isn't the WHOLE truth.  If I
were a foot shorter, Carla would look at me, and with equal sincerity
say, "Mmmm.  I love petite women."  And, of course, if I were
medium-sized, she would tell me, entirely truthfully, that she loves
women who are neither too big nor too small.  The fact is that Carla
just plain loves women, period.  But, since I love them, too, I can't
complain. 

Carla is as tall as I am but bigger-boned, and where my hair is fair
and straight, hers is black and curly.  Carla is a sculptor, and when
she laughingly threatens to "go commercial," as she does periodically,
she says that she could make a GREAT pair of salt and pepper shakers
out of us.  She only does this so that I will threaten mayhem on her
person if she goes through with it.  Carla likes a little mayhem from
time to time.  Well, so do I.

Friday night, Carla was due to have a show of her new pieces, and of
course I was planning to go.  Her last show, two years ago, was a
series of mother-daughter pairs -- some loving, some fighting, some
coldly indifferent.  Carla's work is always very realistic and packed
with emotion, and lots of butch-looking dykes broke down and cried at
the last show.  Yeah, a lot of women have some left-over
mother-daughter shit to take care of, and Carla knew how to tap into
it all.  Carla had been mysterious about the theme of her new series;
all she would say was, "It'll get you where you live, Polly."  (My
name is actually Leah, but Carla almost always calls me Polly.  She
says it's short for "polymorphously perverse," which is partly a
Carla-style compliment and partly ragging on me for being bi when she
herself is pure dyke.  It's typically Carla to combine a compliment
with an insult, so I wouldn't know whether to squirm, defend myself,
or feel proud when she called me Polly.  Yeah, she's a bitch, but
she's also magnetic as hell.  I can't get enough of her.)

So, I dressed myself up and took myself off to the opening.  There was
a small crowd of women already present when I got there -- I had timed
my arrival so that this would be true.  I didn't want Carla standing
over me when I first saw her pieces -- I wanted to be able to react to
them honestly.

I approached the first piece in the show and started to giggle.  Like
her previous show, this show appeared to be of a series of life-size
pairs of women, but they weren't mothers and daughters.  The first
piece showed Carla and Mary; in fact, it showed Carla with her fist
inside of Mary.  It'd met Mary several times and had even had a
threesome with her and Carla once, and she did indeed like fisting --
that was what made me giggle -- Mary looked EXACTLY as she had looked
when I last saw her -- head thrown back, mouth gasping for air, cunt
stretched impossibly wide.  Carla was wearing a sexual grimace
herself, and I wondered how Carla the sculptor knew what Carla the
sexual person looked like while in the act.  Does she masturbate and
then run to the mirror, I wondered, or did she photograph herself
somehow?  It seemed somewhat disconcerting to appraise oneself
dispassionately enough to sculpt when one was engaged in the most
passionate of activities.  If sculpting required dispassionate
appraisal, however, the result left the viewer anything but
dispassionate -- looking at Mary's sculpted form made my fingers itch.

The next piece showed a standing Stephanie, legs spread wide, and a
kneeling Carla with her mouth on Stephie's vulva.  I'd met Stephie at
parties at Carla's house and wondered what she looked like under the
baggy garments she often wore.  Now I knew, and I liked what I saw.
Tasty-looking pussy, too.

In the third piece, Connie and Carla were sucking each other's
nipples, which would have been somewhat tame compared to the first two
pieces if it were not for the incredible greed that Carla had managed
to portray on both faces.  Carla always did like to suck a lot on a
person's tits; I gathered Connie did, too.  Looking at them, I decided
I couldn't think of it as foreplay anymore.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth pieces were all of Carla making vanilla
love to three of her many loves.  I knew all of them, of course, and I
was amazed at how well she managed to make each woman's personality
come through.  What a gifted sculptor she was!

The seventh and last piece was different.  It showed Carla, whip in
hand, arm upraised, about to beat a woman who was lying belly down but
with her head turned round to look at Carla, an incredibly lacivious
expression on her face.  The small brass plate at the bottom of the
piece read "Samantha."  It wasn't anybody I'd ever seen before.  It
wasn't anybody I'd ever even HEARD of before.  "Why didn't she tell
me?" I thought.  "Is there some reason for keeping this woman a
secret?"  I tried to think of a reason why Carla would hide Samantha
from me.  "Does Carla like her better than me, and that's why she can't
tell me about her?"  As soon as I heard myself saying this, I was
overcome with shame.  "Oh, shit, not JEALOUSY.  I thought I'd gotten
over that."  Evidently I had not gotten over it, because here it was
again, beginning to consume my love and my reason and my better
nature.

I found Carla, told her the show was magnificent, even better than the
last one, and left as quickly as I could.  I tried to act normally
while doing it, since I didn't want to ruin her show with my
childishness, and I think I succeeded.  

As soon as I got home, I gave in to my feelings.  I was angry with
Carla for loving others more than me.  I felt hurt that she had lied
to me.  My pride was wounded, and my self-esteem.  One minute, I felt
scared that I would lose her; the next minute, I declared to my empty
apartment that I was through with her -- we were finished, over,
kaput.  The next minute, the thought of never seeing her again made me
cry as if my heart would break.  And overlaying it all was shame.
Shame that I was feeling such a dishonorable emotion as jealousy,
shame that I was engaging in sniveling self-pity, shame that I seemed
to care more about my own foolish insecurities than about Carla's
happiness.  It was not a pretty sight.

Eventually I stopped raging and crying and making resolutions, but I
still didn't feel that I had resolved anything.  I was still angry at
Carla, and I was still ashamed of being angry at her.  I spent the
next few days avoiding her, hoping to put myself back together before
I saw her again.  

But, Friday was my night (when you have as many lovers as Carla has,
some scheduling is necessary), and we had a date to go out dancing.  I
could break it, or I could show up.  There was never any chance that I
would break it, but I was afraid to show up, too.  I always was a
coward.

I picked Carla up in my battered green Volkswagen and drove to CG's,
the local gay bar/disco.  When we got there, she didn't get out of the
car, but turned and looked at me.

"I was surprised you didn't stay for the party after opening night."

"I wasn't feeling too well,"  I said.  This was true, I figured --
mental illness counts, too.

She looked at me and waited.  I hate it when she does that.  She can
endure a silence longer than I can, and she can get whatever she wants
out of me, just by being quiet and looking.

I looked at the dashboard.  I think VW's are cute, but I was pretty
familiar with this particular dashboard, so it wasn't all that
interesting.  I examined the stickshift, then the handbrake, then the
heater controls.  "I never have understood why Volkswagen decided to
make the heater controls look like baby handbrakes,"  I said.  God,
I'm a scintillating conversationalist.

"Leah, you ran out of the show, and you've been avoiding me for days.
Just tell me what the fuck the problem is."  

"I must really be in trouble," I thought, "she called me by my right
name."  Aloud, I said, "The show was great.  The pieces were very
powerful.  You're the best, Carla."

Again that silent stare.  I wasn't going to be getting off the hook.
I might as well just tell her.

"Um, I'm sort of bothered about the last piece."

Dead silence.  She wasn't going to make it any easier.

"Uh, it upsets me that you never told me about Samantha."

"And?"

I took a deep breath and babbled it out, all at once.  Maybe it would
be easier if I blurted it out, and didn't stretch it out.  "Carla, I'm
feeling jealous and hurt and angry, and I'm ashamed of myself for
feeling this way.  I haven't been able to face you all week, because
I've felt too guilty for feeling this way, but I haven't been able to
STOP feeling this way."

"Yeah, you always hate yourself when you discover you're human."

She was trying to make me laugh, but it didn't feel like a laughing
matter.  (I always take myself too seriously, too.)  

"What do you want, Leah?"

"I guess I want you to reassure me that you still love me, too.  But
I'm not sure that I'm very loveable right now.  Jealous people aren't,
usually."

"Oh, Polly, you are such a silly goose."

Polly.  Halleluiah -- I was back to being Polly.  That one silly word
reassured me more than more formal declarations of love would have.
Carla was an expert at the formal declarations of love biz, but
"Polly" just slipped out without her thinking about it.  It wasn't
calculated, so I knew it was real.

"Yes, I still love you, even though you're being jealous.  Do you
still love me, even though I've `betrayed' you?"

"I guess I deserve that, but I'd really rather you didn't make fun of
me."

"Well, even though I still love you, I am a little angry at you.
You're still a little angry at me, are you not?"

Miserably, I admitted it.

"Good!"  Her eyes gleamed in the way they have when Carla is plotting
some devilment.  The first time I ever saw that expression on her
face, I didn't know Carla very well.  We were both putting up posters
for the campus gay organization, when a bunch of frat-boy types
started hassling us.  "Pair of fucking faggots," one of them said.
Carla had whirled on them.  "Get your terminology straight," she had
said.  "Gay *men* are faggots; *I* (she drew herself up proudly) am a
DYKE!"  For a moment, it had seemed as if we were likely to get beaten
up by a bunch of angry frat boys, then they had guffawed instead.  I
had dragged Carla away before she could get us in real trouble.  Even
though it was this spit-in-their-eye spirit that attracted me to her,
I was still always trepidacious when it came up.

"Good?  Why is it good?"

"Because things are so much more reciprocal that way.  You get to
punish me for being unfaithful, and I get to punish you for being
jealous."

"Carla, you weren't planning to take anger into a scene with you, were
you?"

She pursed her lips in mock horror.  "Oh, my, no.  That would be
TERRIBLY politically incorrect."

I grinned at her.  "Which, of course, means that you have to do it."

"Of course."

I still wasn't sure it was a good idea, but now that Carla had decided
that the PC police were after her, it wouldn't be possible to talk her
out of it.  Oh, well.  I'd never gone wrong by trusting Carla before.
Even the frat boys had only ALMOST beat us up.

We drove back to her apartment, dancing forgotten for the moment.
"Who goes first?" I asked.

"Well, my, er, transgression came before yours, so I should be
punished first, don't you think?  Besides, if I'm to punish you for
being angry at me inappropriately, you can't then turn around and do
it again, can you?"

"Oh.  Right."

She took my face between her hands and stared into my eyes.  She was
being serious.  "Polly, you're not into the spirit of things.  I want
you to really get in touch with your anger and really punish me for
hurting you."

That sounded dangerous.  I wasn't sure I wanted to.  But Carla was
right there, staring into my eyes, daring me to follow her.  I don't
usually accept dares.  "Only a fool takes a dare" was my motto before
I met Carla.  It's still my motto with everyone except Carla -- the
incomparable Carla, whom I follow even when I don't know where we're
going.

"Okay."  I said.  "Take off your clothes and lie face down on the bed.
I want to beat your skinny little ass."

"It's not skinny,"  she said.

"Anybody tell you to talk, bitch?"

"No, my Lady."

"Then you should shut up, shouldn't you?"

"Yes, my Lady."

Well, she had told me to get in touch with my anger.  I could feel it
flowing back into me, once I let the wall down.  It was scary but
exhilarating at the same time.  I was starting to feel excited at the
idea of beating her, of braiding all my little resentments together
and snapping them against her ass.

I picked up a thin leather strap, one that would bite.  I hit her with
it lightly at first, letting her get used to it.  She sighed.

"Talk to me," she said.  "Tell me how angry you are."

I wondered if she was afraid that I would cheat, that I would only
pretend to be angry while keeping my true anger walled off.  I
realized with amusement that although she was the one saying "my Lady,"
and I was the one with the whip, Carla was topping this scene.  Well,
she usually does.  Bitch.

"Bitch,"  I said, swinging the strap harder.  "Who the fuck do you
think you are?  You play with all of us, but you don't care about any
of us, do you?  You collect people's hearts, but you never give your
own."  Did I feel that?  I never realized I felt that.  

I was really getting into it now, swinging the strap with all my
might.  Carla screamed beautifully but didn't safeword, so I kept
going.  Again and again I beat her, panting with the exertion.  Again
and again she screamed.  "Bitch," I said again.  "I'm tired of your
hiding behind your faces.  I don't want the I'm-so-sophisticated face
or the I'm-such-a-bad-girl face or the what-a-dyke-I-am face.  I want
your naked heart and your naked soul, and I want them NOW."

Carla was bleeding -- the thin strap had a tendency to cut -- and her
screams were starting to sound frantic.  "Seven more," I said, "one
for each of your other lovers, and then I will stop."  I gave them to
her, seven hard ones, the thin strap biting into her soft flesh, then
I stopped.  I looked at the bloody ass of the woman I loved most in
the world and felt a confusing jumble of emotions.  I was appalled at
my own viciousness.  I had beaten Carla before, but never so hard or
so long, and I had never before taken so much pleasure in her pain.  I
felt obscurely proud of both of us, for being able to use real
emotions in a scene, rather than just playing.  I felt shame that I
had ever been jealous of my amazing Carla, had ever even considered
punishing her.  I felt a tremendous rush of love for her.  And I felt
horny as hell.

I put my hand gently on her shoulder and spoke softly into her ear.
"How are you doing?"

She lifted her wet face from the bed and looked at me, then,
incredibly, gave me her bad-girl grin.  "I feel pretty good for
somebody who just got the shit whipped out of her."

"Be serious."

"Polly, if I can joke, I must be okay.  Yeah, you got pretty heavy
there for a while, but you were getting lots of bad stuff out.  I
learned some stuff about my reactions to pain and to you, and all in
all, I'm glad we did it, and I'm glad it's over."

"What do you want for your ass?  Cool cloths or ice or what?"

"Just a little neosporin ointment, I think."

I applied ointment to her ass as gently as I could, wincing whenever
she did.

"Polly, you're never gonna make a bad-ass top, if you wince whenever
the victim does."

"Quiet, or I'll smack you."

"Almost.  Once again, with feeling."

I laughed.  "Oh, Carla.  You are the CARLA-EST person."

"I hope that's a compliment."

"It is."

"And I'm glad you're all laughing and merry, because now it's my turn
to punish you.  You still feel all ashamed and guilty?"

"Yeah.  But not jealous anymore."

"Call the psychologists -- tell 'em catharsis works after all."  She
moved closer to me and took off my tank top.  "Sit on this table --
it'll put you at the right height without my having to sit down.  I
find that I don't want to sit down."  She gave me a significant look.

"I'm sorry, Carla."

"Oh, you will be, you will be.  I'm going to tell you what I'm going
to do to you, because the anticipation will make it worse."

I gulped.  The playful Carla had vanished, and in her place was a
mean-eyed Carla with a hard voice and an angry manner.  The change
was frightening.  "She told me to get in touch with my anger," I
thought, "she must be getting in touch with hers now."

Carla grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head close to hers, staring
into my face and emphasizing each word with a little jerk of my hair.
"There's something I've always wanted to do, but it never seemed right
before.  It always seemed a just a little too cruel.  But today
cruelty is called for, isn't it, bitch?"

I thought the question was rhetorical and didn't answer.  This was a
mistake.  Carla pulled my hair hard, jerking my head up and down in a
forced nod.  "Isn't it, bitch," she said more loudly.

"Yes, my Lady."

"You dare to tell me what I can and cannot do.  You dare to be jealous
of me, as if I were property instead of a free human being.  You dare
to focus on your own sniveling insecurity instead of on the truth of
us.  You have a small soul, Leah."

I started to cry.

She went to her toybox and came back with some electrician's clips.
She'd never put them on me before; she knew I was afraid of them.
When she spoke, she used a voice I'd never heard before.  She
practically hissed at me.  The change was scary.  "I've put these on
people before," she said, "but once on, they've always
been...stationary.  When I put them on you, I'm going to twist them
and pull on them until your nipples are as bloody as my ass."

I didn't know if she meant it or if she were just trying to scare me,
but I couldn't take my eyes off the clips in her hand.  She pinched my
nipple with her fingers, lightly at first, then harder.  Once she had
me hissing, she started to twist as well as pinch.  

She broke in on my reverie.  "Don't think I've forgotten about the
clips," she said.  "I just wanted to...tenderize your nipples a little
before I applied them."

She dug her fingernail into my nipple, hard, and I squealed a little.
"Did that hurt?" she asked in mock surprise.  "But that is nothing."

She continued to pinch and twist and pull until my nipples were indeed
tender, then twisted so viciously that I screamed.

"How gratifying," she said.  "I think maybe you're tender enough now."
First one, then the other, she put the clips on my already-sore
nipples.  They were just as bad as I was afraid they'd be.  I wanted
to ask her to take them off, but I remembered the beating she had
taken at my hands and contented myself with screaming instead.

She reached out and took each clip between thumb and forefinger.
"It's going to get worse," she said.

She twisted the clips slightly.  "Who do I belong to?" she asked.

"Yourself!"  I screamed.

She twisted harder.  "Who is the ultimate judge of my behavior?"

I was having trouble talking.  "You are,"  I managed to choke out.

Keeping them twisted, she then pulled on the clips.  "Who may I love?"

I couldn't say "Anybody you want" -- my mouth was otherwise engaged.
She took my lack of answer as a license to twist and pull some more.
Her expression was fierce and frightening.  It was clear that she was
enjoying herself immensely, and somehow that was the scariest part.

When my nipples were covered in blood and I had screamed myself
hoarse, she stopped.  She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed
deeply.  When she opened them again, she was the Carla I knew.

She removed the clips and held me tenderly.  "Do you want some sort of
first aid for your nipples?" she asked.

"I want you to hold me more."

She did, cuddling me and rocking me and murmuring loving words into my
ear.

"Carla, are, um, are you still mad at me?"

"Leah, my darling, I may never be mad at you again."

The "Leah" wasn't a cold denial of our relationship this time.  She
said it more like an invocation to the Goddess.  I shivered.

"You wanted true faces.  That was one of them.  It's one of the
reasons for the others."

There was nothing I could say that would not sound trite, so I kissed
her instead.  Not a passionate kiss -- I couldn't summon the energy at
that point to swat a flea -- but a long, slow, tender, loving kiss.
It was an answer of its own.

*****

Copyright 1992 by Cory Lea (no, no "h" :-)) Kerens
May be distributed electronically, but hard copies are limited to
single copies for personal use.