Since her first, adolescent, sexual explorations, Nora had a hazy awareness of His presence; for decades and with increasing certainty, she’d known that He was a crucial part—*the* crucial part—of her destiny. She’d never told anyone about Him; she’d never told her husband Barry, or “Bear,” never feeling it was really his business. Then He started coming to her, at first just a fleeting phantom in the half-light of their bedroom, some time between midnight and the small hours of the morning, her husband beside her, mute and paralyzed but experiencing the same thing. He—her Master, she’d known immediately—spent a month grooming her, gradually escalating from allowing Himself to be seen, to physical contact—lacerating her nipples with His razor-sharp fingernails and suckling from her gently, holding Himself in check, tracing his designs on her body, marking her as His—Barry, beside her in bed, conscious, terrified, and help to do anything. And—in the cold light of day—Nora still wouldn’t talk to him about what was happening. When He deemed Nora ready, He had taken her—one of the quirks of his anatomy allowing him to do so “doubly.” There followed a month, at the outset of which Nora broke Barry, or quickly finished the work her Master had begun, the terms of his avoiding banishment being utter subservience to both Nora and to her Master, who—she had not the slightest doubt—would be back to claim her more fully. She waited eagerly; Barry waited in abject terror and humiliation, confused, stunned, and power. Nora didn’t know what would happen when He came back; she was sure it would be the fulfillment of her destiny. Her Master, having waited for centuries, looked forward with pleasure, as well, to the fast approaching day when He would—finally!—crown his Queen, when Barry would become the ultimate sacrifice on the altar of Nora’s needs, desires, and destiny.