The cool summer breeze felt soothing as afternoon heat filled the small writing studio. It was a welcome distraction from the sheet of paper with the dangling last sentence and mocking blank space that followed. Dangling sentences he could handle. Mocking pushed him over the edge. It was a sign to take a break, shift gears, change focus. Sometimes he switched to a different story. Sometimes he worked in the garden. Whatever. The first step was to put the pen down.

With a deep exhale, Coyote pushed back from the desk. The chair creaked in protest. The studio, even the yard felt too small, too confining. Outside, the world beckoned. Life was happening somewhere out there. He could hear it calling.

He stepped out onto the wooden porch. The heat wrapped around him like a warm embrace, skin prickling with anticipation. A strong wind stirred the air, carrying whispers of sage and sun baked earth. He needed to move.

Coyote drifted down the dirt path that snaked through his yard, each step grounding him in earth, dust. The high desert stretched out to the north, a landscape of ochre and rust. He turned south toward town, lured by the thought of grabbing a cold one and watching the kids play baseball at the city park. Life was good. Summer, beer and baseball. The dangling last sentence that took an hour to write, and really didn’t want to be there, was already fading into the background.

The walk to Main Street took six minutes if you were motivated and an hour if you let yourself get distracted. Coyote counted lizards, admired new blooming wildflowers, and stopped at the edge of the ditch to watch killdeer swooping through the grass.

He paused close to town, unsure if he wanted to be seen. There was a certain lure to being invisible. He could, if he wanted, follow the river and keep going, straight into the scrub hills and away from whatever was going to happen next. He looked up at the sky, silently asking, then decided against it.

Coyote turned right, away from the wasteland and toward town. That’s when the wind began.

It was only a whisper at first: a shiver at the base of his spine, a rearrangement of the air. Then it built, steady, picking up powdery dust and bits of grit and slapping them against his shins. He squinted against it, blinked, and kept walking.

The storm hit all at once. Not rain, just wind and dust and a sky that flickered from blue to purple in moments. Lightning bared its teeth, silent and close. Thunder followed, but only as a rumor, delayed and indecisive.

Coyote’s ears popped. He looked up, tried to gauge the direction of the front, but everything was moving in random directions. A garbage can rolled into the street. The windows on the antique store rattled. A pair of sagging American flags at the hardware store snapped like wet towels. He braced himself and pressed forward, one hand shielding his eyes. The sky had gone weird, lime green at the horizon. A plastic grocery bag twirled like a ghost. He felt the change before he saw it.

A fierce gust shoved him toward a narrow passage between the post office and a former art gallery, its windows obscured by tattered brown sheets. The wind was funneled here, swirling and unpredictable. Halfway down the alley, he stopped, thrown off by a detail that hadn’t been there yesterday. Or ever, as far as he remembered.

An empty storefront, windows dark and grimy, a broken sign with letters too faded to read. He blinked, tried to summon a memory, but the wind howled down the alley and knocked all thoughts away. His mind spiraled down to one word: shelter. He ducked into the entryway, the wind slamming his body against the glass door like a rag doll. He hunkered against the door, trying to make as small a target as possible, and tried to wait it out. He listened to the storm chew up the world.

Sheets of rain blew sideways. Lightning made the world flicker, the alleyway visible for a split-second at a time. He closed his eyes and let the smell of ozone and wet concrete fill his skull. His breath steamed in the little entryway, and he counted the space between flash and rumble. One. Two. After the next flash, he only got to one. Another flash. He didn’t get to one.

A white hole swallowed the world. The concrete radiated heat, the metal door frame vibrated. The sound registered late, a concussive slap that rolled through his molars. For a second, everything was silent except for a high-pitched whine, a tuning fork struck inside his skull.

Then everything went white.

He waited for the pain, the sound, the burning ozone. Instead: nothing.

He floated. Or maybe he was just lying flat on his back in the alley, but the usual signals, pain, panic, the steady thump of a racing heart, were absent. He tried to open his eyes, realized he didn’t know how. He wasn’t sure if he’d lost time, or if time had simply decided to skip ahead without him. The wind was gone. The alley was silent. Gradually, the white started to dissolve at the edges, slowly revealing pixels underneath. He didn’t so much regain consciousness as get handed a small piece of it and left to figure out the rest on his own.

Coyote felt a something beside him. A warm touch to his cheek stirred some distant memory. Sounds were assaulting him, but they didn’t form into anything. The warm touch moved along his jaw and around his head. He wondered, briefly, if he still had a head. Did it matter? A gentle pressure seemed to reset a scrambled circuit. Sounds began to coalesce into a voice he almost recognized.

“Coyote. Can you hear me?”

He wanted to say yes, but his mouth was confused. Opening his eyes instead, he watched the sky pulse between colors. It was day, then dusk, then day again. Time wasn’t following its own rules. It was easier to keep his eyes closed.

“Don’t move,” the voice said. He felt a hand on his chest, steady and insistent. “Breathe,” the voice said. He focused on his breath and counted. One, in. Two, out.

After twenty breaths he opened his eyes, “Doris?” It came out as a croak.

She nodded, eyes smiling, the way only Doris could.

She stroked his face, “Welcome back, Coyote. Wasn’t sure you’d make it.” He pretended to know what all those sounds meant.

“You ever been hit by lightning?” she asked.

He shook his head. It hurt less than talking.

She eyed him. “I saw you go down. Looked like someone yanked your plug. Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

She helped him up by the armpit. He stood, the motion unfamiliar, as if his body was only loosely attached to the idea of movement. He wiped his face, expecting blood or grit, but his hand came away clean. The alleyway was empty. The rain was gone, air dry and sharp. He staggered on his feet, legs rubbery and unreliable. She helped him take a few shaky steps, seeing if they would work, through the battered door of the cafe.

Doris guided him to a wooden table, sat him in a rickety chair. “You okay, hon?” Coyote nodded, exhausted at the effort to get there. “How ‘bout some coffee, black? Just the way you like it.” He smiled, licking his lips at the returning memory of coffee.

Coyote squinted at the world outside, which looked pixelated and overexposed. He wondered if the lightning had fried some essential thing. He looked around. The place was empty, no regulars at the counter, no ranchers or kids. Somewhere in the back, a radio played static and the half-remembered words of a country song. Could have been Hank Williams.

Doris returned with a mug. She set it down and took the chair across from him. The coffee smelled strong, and on the second sip he tasted the whiskey. Jack Black. It hit the raw place in his throat and then, mercifully, his brain.

The clock behind Doris was stuck at 2:31. The wall calendar, a promo from a seed company, had been torn down the middle, days and numbers missing.

He pointed. “Time’s broke.”

Doris followed his gaze. “Time’s always broke here.” She made a show of checking her wristwatch, then set it on the counter. The minute hand ticked backward for a second, then died. “Not relevant.” His mind tried to wrap around that, without success. Curious.

She watched him look around the cafe, like he was searching for someone. She touched his hand, the sensation resetting another circuit somewhere in his brain. “Sometimes the voices linger, even after they leave.”

“Okay,” was all he could manage. It would have to do for now.

Doris settled across from him, sipping from her own cup, studying him with a curious, almost forensic, interest.

“What do you remember?” she asked.

“Everything and nothing,” he said. “There was a door.”

“There’s always a door,” Doris replied, like it was the punchline to a joke he didn’t get.

They sat in silence, the thick kind that can only happen after a near-death experience or during a bad marriage.

He sipped on the coffee and set the cup down, harder than he meant to. “This place isn’t right,” he said.

Doris laughed. The sound of tires on gravel. “Never was,” she said, “always is. Depends on your perspective,” and reached across the table to ruffle his hair.

He let her, then stood, swaying a little. The world held together, but the colors were off, too vivid and too flat at the same time. The urge to pace was strong, but his legs weren’t convinced. The clock still read 2:31

Coyote was starting to put things together, feeling blood pulsing through veins, air flowing in and out. Relaxing into it. A small red flashing light started expanding somewhere behind his right ear, quickly filling half his skull. Sitting down hard on the chair, he raised his hands to his head and slowly collapsed onto the table.

Pain pierced through heavy eyelids. A cacophony shattered the stillness, screams of a siren, blaring alarms, a relentless buzzing. Coyote's head throbbed like a drum, each pulse sending shock waves through his skull. He blinked rapidly, trying to piece together fragments of reality.

His body jolted, bouncing against something hard and unyielding. Metal clanged, voices shouted, but they felt distant, muffled by the haze that clouded his mind. Panic washed over him as he registered the sterile scent of antiseptic and something else. Fear?

“Shit!” A voice cut through the chaos, firm but laced with urgency. “Randy! He’s waking up. Vitals are tanking. What do I do?” Coyote could feel the panic in her voice. She leaned in, “Don’t die on me, mister. Please don’t die.” Coyote felt a sharp pang of regret. Sorry he really couldn’t do much about the dying part.

From somewhere else, Randy’s voice cut through the chaos. “Push 5mg morphine drip. Now.” Coyote liked the sound of that, thought Randy might be a decent guy.

The shaky voice next to him shouted back, “You didn’t call it in. I can’t.”

Randy’s voice, sounding calm and certain, said, “You’ve got one minute, Taylor. It’ll take them three to find someone to authorize. I’ve got more experience than anyone on that end. Do it. Do it now.”

Apparently time was not broken here.

Taylor checked the IV. Felt his pulse. Sweat broke out on her face.

Randy continued. “Forty-five seconds, Tay. You wanted to be in charge, be in the back of the bus. Do you want your first patient to arrive DOA?”

Coyote was liking this guy more with each moment that flew by, even with the pain expanding past any semblance of tolerance.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” was all Taylor could muster, tears rolling down her cheeks. Coyote tried to lift a hand in encouragement. It was strapped down.

“Thirty seconds, Tay. Follow protocol, he dies. Time to step up, quit playing it safe.” Coyote imagined Randy had been through this a few times.“He dies, we spend the rest of the week filling out paperwork and doing mandatory grief counseling. Taylor, I’m six months from retirement. If I have to sit through that bullshit one more time, I may have to shoot someone.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Randy.”

Coyote felt his vision swirl, ended up looking down instead of up. The pain disappeared. It seemed to stay with the poor guy strapped to the gurney. He could hear Taylor praying, checking the monitors, hoping they would magically change. Randy was doing 80 mph down the highway, wondering if he would still get his pension in prison or a psych ward if he shot someone. This was getting interesting.

He felt Doris nearby, “Don’t worry, hon.” So, he didn’t.

“Ten seconds, Tay. Pressure’s on.”

Coyote watched her, moving in slow motion, grabbed a syringe. “Good girl,” he whispered.

Trying to sound calm and in control, and failing miserably, she said, “Push 5 morphine. Done.”

“Good call, Tay. Welcome to the big time. ETA: ten minutes.”

“Copy. Vitals stabilizing.”

He felt a strong jerk, slamming back into his body. A cold rush moved through his veins, like ice sliding over molten lava. Slowly the pain receded, a tidal wave retreating back into the ocean. Closing his eyes, he counted breaths.

Coyote heard the cafe before he saw it. The buzz of neon. Spoons clinking in porcelain mugs. Liquid being poured. Then, smells followed: coffee, dust, aging wood. He took a risk, opening one eye to see Doris adding another shot of Jack Black to his coffee cup.

“That was close, Coyote. Here, sip on this.” It was then that he knew she was an angel. There was even a halo of light around her head. Or, maybe, it was streetlight filtering through the window. Either way. “Take your time, hon. No rush.”

The dark, bitter coffee and pungent, warm Jack combined to slowly ease Coyote back. To what, he wasn’t sure. Whatever, wherever, it was better than the screaming pain threatening to implode his brain.

When he could put words together, he said, “You’re a great doc, Doris.”

She laughed, eyes sparkling with delight. “Among other things, Coyote.”

“Now that you’re back,” Doris said, leaning in, “Rebel’s been in rare form since you last passed this way. Girl’s been asking after you.” She paused, swirling the bourbon-coffee with a steady hand. “Says she’s got something for you, over at Ashland’s.”

“Rebel?” He realized he’d said it out loud.

“That’s the one,” Doris said, sliding into the booth opposite him. “Paint on her hands. Leather satchel. Looked like she hadn’t slept in three days.” She let it hang, let him stew.

His heart did a weird thing. “She ask about me?”

“Hon, she didn’t shut up about you. Wanted to know if you were dead, or just hiding out.”

Coyote closed his eyes and let the words scramble through the remains of his brain. The name uncoiled a memory: Ashland’s art studio, Rebel restrained and suspended from the ceiling. Crop marks and nipple clamps.

Coyote sipped, let the heat roll through him, tried to shake off the image. “So where’s Ashland’s studio these days?”

Doris snorted. “Same place it always is. You know that.”

He stared at her. Doris tilted her head, eyes narrowing in playful challenge. She gestured toward the back door, the neon red exit sign flickering like a heartbeat.

Coyote felt a pull toward it. He stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. “What’s behind that door?” The question slipped out before he could catch it.

“Everything and nothing,” she said, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “But mostly everything.”

He stepped closer, drawn to the door. The café faded behind him, the air thickening. He squinted against the dimness, something caught his eye. Just below the flickering exit sign, someone had scrawled a word in bold black marker: “Reality.” It stood stark against the peeling paint.

Coyote paused, fingers hovering over the cold metal handle. Exit Reality?

Curious.

______________________

The door handle turned cold under his palm. Metal against skin. A threshold between worlds. Coyote pushed through and the cafe dissolved behind him like smoke. The air changed. Coffee and whisky became turpentine and linseed oil. Dust motes hung suspended in diagonal shafts of light.

Ashland's studio materialized around him. High ceilings with exposed beams. Skylights cutting geometric patterns across wood floors splattered with decades of paint. Jackson Pollock might have danced here. Or bled. The walls held canvases in various stages of completion. Some faced out. Vibrant abstracts in reds and blacks. Others turned away, hiding their secrets. The space smelled of creation. Wood shavings. Dried acrylic. Fresh canvas. Something else underneath. Sweat. Fear. Arousal. The cocktail of transformation.

In the center of the room, she hung.

Avery. Though he'd barely met her, he knew. The long red hair cascading down. Fair skin dotted with freckles across shoulders and cheeks. Five-eight stretched taut by suspension. Wrists bound in leather cuffs, attached to chains that ran through pulleys in the ceiling beams. Her ankles spread wide, secured to a metal bar. Three feet of separation. The position opened her completely. Naked. Vulnerable. Displayed.

She breathed shallow. Controlled. Each inhale lifted her ribcage. Made the chains sing quietly. Her muscles trembled. Not from exertion yet. From anticipation. From the weight of being seen.

Coyote circled her. Slow. Deliberate. His footsteps on the paint-stained floor marking time. Her skin prickled as he passed behind her. Goosebumps rising along her spine. She couldn't see him but felt his presence. The air displacement. The weight of his gaze.

He completed the circle. Stood before her. Her green eyes tracked him. Alert. Nervous. Curious.

"Did Rebel arrange this?"

Avery's throat worked as she nodded. A swallow. "She told me about you." Her voice came out steady. Like she'd rehearsed this moment. "About what happened here. With her and Ashland."

Coyote waited. The studio's silence pressed in. Somewhere a clock ticked. Or maybe it was the chains settling.

"I saw the change in her." Avery's words gained momentum. "Her art. It was always good but now it's..." She searched for the word. "Alive. Raw. Like she broke through something."

He moved again. Behind her. His breath touched her shoulder blade. She shivered. The chains rattled softly.

"She told me about the discipline. The pain. How it opened her up." Avery's voice dropped. "I've been watching her all semester. The confidence. The way she moves through the world now. Unafraid."

Coyote traced a finger along her spine. Barely touching. Just enough to announce contact. Her back arched involuntarily. Pushing toward and away simultaneously.

"And you want that."

Not a question. He could smell it on her. The need that lived beneath the careful control. The hunger she'd probably never named.

"My parents." She started, stopped. Started again. "They kept me safe. Too safe. Private schools. Supervised playdates. No risks. No edges. My boyfriend is..." She laughed. Bitter. "Vanilla doesn't begin to describe it. Missionary position with the lights off. Once a week. Maybe."

Coyote moved to face her again. Studied the flush spreading across her chest. The way her nipples had hardened without being touched. The slight part of her lips.

"You're curious about more than transformation."

Her eyes met his. Direct. "Rebel said you see things. In people. Things they don't know are there."

"Or things they won't admit."

"Yes."

He reached out. Cupped her chin. Tilted her face up. "And what do you think I see in you?"

Her breathing changed. Faster. Shallower. "I don't know."

"Liar."

The word hung between them. She closed her eyes. Opened them. "Someone who wants to stop playing it safe. Who wants to feel something real. Even if it hurts." She paused. "Especially if it hurts."

Coyote released her chin. Stepped back. Let her hang there with her confession. The studio's light shifted as clouds passed over the skylights. Shadow and brightness alternating across her suspended form.

She continued, "Ashland's in Prague for the summer."

"I know."

"Rebel set this up. She said you'd understand what I need."

He walked to a table against the wall. Ran his fingers across the implements arranged there. Leather straps. Wooden paddles. Riding crops. Each with its own weight. Its own song. Avery's eyes followed his movements. Her body tensed with each item he touched.

"Understanding and providing are different things."

"Please." The word escaped before she could stop it. Raw. Honest.

Coyote picked up a riding crop. Flexible. Well-maintained. The leather tip worn smooth from use. He returned to her. Walked another slow circle. This time dragging the crop's tip along her skin. Over her hip. Across her lower back. Along the curve of her ass.

She gasped. Her body swayed in the chains. The movement made her breasts bounce slightly. Drew attention to their weight. Their vulnerability.

"Rebel's transformation took time. Pain was only part of it."

"I know."

"Do you? Do you understand what you're asking for?"

The crop traced up her inner thigh. Stopped just short of her pussy. Held there. The anticipation made her hips push forward involuntarily.

"I want to stop being lukewarm. About everything. My art. My life. My body." Her voice broke slightly. "I want to burn."

Coyote saw it then. The fire waiting to be lit. The potential energy stored in her suspended form. The way her body already knew how to respond even if her mind hadn't caught up. She was ripe. Had probably been ready for years. Just waiting for someone to see it. Name it. Release it.

The crop moved away. She whimpered. So quietly he almost missed it. But he heard everything in spaces like this. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every suppressed need finally given voice.

The crop rested against her hip. Not striking. Just present. A promise.

"Ashland understood something about Rebel." Coyote moved as he spoke. Slow orbits around Avery's suspended form. "Her art was technically perfect. Everyone said so. But it lacked something."

His fingers traced her collarbone. Light. Barely there. Her skin prickled in response.

"Soul?" Avery's voice came out breathless.

"Worse. It lacked honesty." The crop moved up her side. The leather tip dragged across her ribs. Each bone counted. "She painted what she thought she should paint. Safe compositions. Acceptable subjects. Nothing that would disturb or challenge."

Avery nodded. Her hair swayed with the movement. "Her early work. I've seen it. Competent but..."

"Forgettable."

"Yes."

Coyote stopped in front of her. Met her eyes. "Pain breaks down barriers. Strips away the masks we wear. The roles we play." His hand cupped her breast. Gentle. Then his thumb brushed across her nipple. Once. She gasped. "But it's not just pain. It's what follows. The arousal. The surrender. The honesty that comes when you can't hide anymore."

Her nipple hardened under his touch. Both of them did. Her body responding without permission. Without thought.

"My parents." Avery started. Stopped. Breathed. "They meant well."

"They always do."

"Private schools with uniforms. No dating until seventeen. Then only group dates. Chaperoned dances." She laughed. Hollow. "I had to sneak romance novels. Hide them under my mattress like contraband."

The crop traced down her stomach. Circled her navel. Her abs tensed. Relaxed. Tensed again.

"And now? University? Freedom?"

"I picked the safest boyfriend possible. David. Pre-med. Steady. Reliable." Her voice turned bitter. "Boring. God, so boring. He fucks like he's following a checklist. Foreplay: five minutes. Intercourse: ten minutes. Turn over. Fall asleep."

"But you stay with him."

"Because it's safe. Expected. My parents love him." The crop moved lower. Traced the line where her pelvis met her thigh. So close to her pussy. Not close enough. "I'm lukewarm about him. About everything. My art looks like hotel room paintings. Pleasant. Inoffensive. Dead."

Coyote walked to the table. Selected implements with deliberate care. A leather strap. Two inches wide. Supple. A wooden paddle. Small. Dense. The riding crop he already held. Avery watched each selection. Her breathing quickened with each choice.

"What do you really want?" He returned to her. Held the strap where she could see it. "Not what you think you should want. What lives in those hidden novels under your mattress?"

She closed her eyes. Opened them. "To be taken. Pushed past every boundary I've built." Her voice dropped. "To be made to feel something so intense I can't think my way out of it."

The strap touched her inner thigh. She jerked. The chains jangled.

"What do you need right now?"

"I don't know."

"Incorrect answer." The strap moved away. She whimpered.

Her hips pushed forward. Seeking more contact. "I need to trust you."

"Good. Honest." The strap returned. Pressed against her pussy. Not striking. Just pressure. "You don't know me."

"Rebel does. She said you're a predator. Not a monster." Avery's eyes searched his. "She said you see what people need. Even when they can't."

Coyote increased the pressure. The leather strap pressed harder against her clit. She moaned. Low. Involuntary.

"She's right. I am a predator." He moved the strap in small circles. Her hips followed the movement. "I hunt for the truth people hide. The desires they bury. The needs they won't name."

"And what do you see in me?"

He pulled the strap away. She cried out. Frustration. Need.

"A woman who's been asleep. Safe behind walls. Waiting for someone to wake her up." He traced the strap along her spine. "But not with a kiss. With fire. With pain. With something real enough to shatter the walls."

"Yes." The word came out desperate. "God, yes."

"Rebel said you could trust me."

"She did."

"That I'd be honest with you."

"Yes."

The strap cracked against her ass. Not hard. A warning. She gasped. Her body swayed forward. Back. The chains protested.

"Then I'll be honest. This will hurt. You'll want me to stop. You'll beg." Another strike. Harder. Her back arched. "But your body will tell a different story. It already is."

He was right. Her pussy was wet. Had been since he'd started circling her. Each touch. Each word. Building arousal she couldn't control. Couldn't hide.

"Look at me."

She did. His eyes held hers. Dark. Knowing. Seeing everything.

"You'll have to be honest, too. With me. With yourself." The strap traced patterns on her skin. Random. Unpredictable. "No more hiding. No more playing safe. Can you do that?"

"I want to try."

"Not good enough."

The strap struck again. Her other cheek. Symmetric. The pain sharp. Clean. It bloomed across her skin. Spread inward. Became heat.

"I will. I'll be honest."

"Even when it's uncomfortable? When it reveals things you'd rather keep hidden?"

"Yes."

He set the strap down. Picked up the paddle. Showed it to her. Her eyes widened. The wood was smooth. Polished. It would hurt differently than leather. Deeper. More thud than sting.

"Your boyfriend. Do you think about others when he's inside you?"

The question caught her off guard. Her face flushed. "Yes."

"Who?"

"No one specific. Just... someone who would take control. Make me feel something." She paused. "Sometimes Rebel."

"Since her transformation?"

"Yes. The way she moves now. The confidence. The way she looks at people. Like she knows secrets."

The paddle touched her breast. The underside. Sensitive skin. She shivered.

"She does know secrets. Hers. And now she'll know yours."

"What do you mean?"

"She arranged this. She'll know how it went. What you discovered." The paddle moved to her other breast. "What you become."

Avery processed this. The idea of Rebel knowing. Seeing her differently. It should have been frightening. Instead, it made her pussy quiver.

"That arouses you. The idea of her knowing."

Not a question. He could see it. The flush spreading down her chest. The way her thighs pressed together as much as the restraints allowed.

"Everything about this arouses me." The admission surprised her. The honesty of it. "I've never been this wet. Never wanted something this much."

Coyote nodded. Set the paddle down. Picked up the crop again. The familiar weight of it. The precise control it offered.

"Now, we begin."

The first strike landed across her ass. Clean. Precise. The sound cracked through the studio. Avery's body went rigid. The chains rattled. A gasp escaped her. Not quite a scream. Not yet.

"Breathe." Coyote's voice. Calm. Steady. An anchor. She breathed. In. Out. The pain spread from the point of impact. Bloomed across her skin. Became heat.

The second strike. Lower. Where ass met thigh. This time she cried out. Her body swayed forward. The chains caught her. Held her. Coyote's hand followed. Traced the warming skin. Gentle. The contrast made her shiver.

"Your body knows what to do." His fingers moved between her legs. Found wetness. More than before. "See? It's already responding." Two fingers slipped inside her. She moaned. Her hips pushed back. Seeking more.

The fingers withdrew. The crop returned. Three strikes in succession. Left cheek. Right. Left again. Building a pattern. A rhythm.

"Count them."

"One. Two. Three." Her voice shook. But, she counted.

His mouth found her breast. Sucked the nipple hard. Teeth grazing. The sensation shot straight to her clit. Made her forget the count.

The crop struck again. "Ah…four?"

His fingers returned to her pussy. Circled her clit. Pressure. Not enough. Never enough. Building need without satisfaction.

"Five. Six." The numbers came out between gasps.

He switched to the leather strap. Broader impact. Deeper. It thudded against her back. Her shoulders. Working down her spine. Each strike pushed air from her lungs. Made her whole body tremble.

"You're fighting it." His observation. "Stop thinking. Just feel."

The strap found her breasts. The tops. The sides. Never the nipples directly. Building anticipation. Her nipples ached. Begged for contact. Direct stimulation.

When his mouth finally found them again, she screamed. Pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Or pain so precise it became pleasure. The distinction blurred. Ceased to matter.

The paddle came next. Against her ass. Already sensitive from the crop. The wood created different sensations. Deeper impact. Vibrations that spread through muscle. Through bone.

Her sounds changed. No longer gasps. Something primal. Moans that came from somewhere deep. A place she didn't know existed. Or had forgotten.

"There." Coyote's approval. "Now you're letting go."

His fingers worked her pussy. Three now. Stretching. Filling. His thumb on her clit. Circles. Pressure. Building toward something massive.

Close. So close. Her thighs trembled. Her breath came in pants. Almost. Almost.

He stopped. Removed his hand. She screamed. Pure frustration.

"Not yet."

The crop returned. This time to her inner thighs. Light taps. Teasing. Each one made her pussy tremble. Desperate.

"Please." The word broken. "Please let me come."

"No."

More strikes. Harder now. Her ass. Her back. Her thighs. Pain layered on arousal. Arousal amplified by pain. A feedback loop building toward overload. His fingers returned. Worked her with expertise. Bringing her to the edge. Holding her there. That impossible space between climbing and falling.

"Look around you." His command.

She opened eyes she hadn't realized were closed. The studio came into focus. But different. The paintings on the walls. She saw them now. Really saw them. Not just colors and shapes. But emotion made visible. Pain transformed into beauty. Raw honesty splashed across canvas.

"This is what Rebel found." His fingers curled inside her. Found the spot. "This clarity. This presence."

The paddle struck her ass. Hard. The impact drove her forward onto his fingers. Her body convulsed. So close. Right there. Right fucking there.

He stopped again. She sobbed. Actually sobbed. Tears streaming down her face. Not from pain. From need so intense it rewired her brain.

"I can't." Her voice broke. "I can't take anymore."

"You can. You will." The crop traced patterns on her skin. Light. Almost gentle. "Your body is capable of so much more than you know."

He was right. Despite the frustration. The denial. Her body vibrated. Every nerve alive. Every sensation magnified. She'd never felt more present. More in her body.

The strap cracked across her ass. A line of fire. She screamed. Her body rigid. Suspended between pain and pleasure. Between resistance and surrender.

"Let go." His voice in her ear. "Stop fighting."

Another strike. Another. She stopped counting. Stopped thinking. Became sensation. Became response. Her body moved with the impacts. Danced in the chains. Found rhythm in the pain.

Coyote's hand returned to her pussy. Fingers fucking her deep. Thumb working her clit. This time he didn't stop. Didn't pull back.

"Come for me." Command. Permission. Release.

The orgasm hit like lightning. Every muscle seized. Her vision blurred. She screamed. Or maybe she was silent. She couldn't tell. Couldn't process anything except the pleasure ripping through her. Wave after wave. Endless. Consuming.

When it finally released her, she hung limp. Only the chains keeping her upright. Her entire body thrummed. Vibrated. Alive in ways she'd never experienced.

"Again." Coyote's fingers never stopped. Working her oversensitive clit. Building toward another peak.

"I can't."

"You can."

The crop struck her breast. The nipple directly this time. Sharp. Precise. The pain shot through her. Mixed with the pleasure. Became something new. Something that made her whole body become electric.

The second orgasm built different. Deeper. From her core outward. When it crested, she felt it in her bones. In her teeth. In places that shouldn't have nerve endings but suddenly did.

She was sobbing now. Openly. Her face wet with tears. But not sad. Not broken. Cracked open. Raw. Honest.

Coyote's hand gentled. Slowed. Let her come down gradually. His other hand stroked her hair. Gentle. Grounding.

"Look at the paintings again."

She did. Through tear-blurred vision. A different seeing. The intensity in them. But also the beauty. The way pain and creation intertwined. The honesty that could only come from going to the edge. Over it. Coming back changed.

"I understand." Her voice hoarse. "I see it now."

"What do you see?"

"Why Rebel's art changed. Why mine hasn't." She breathed. Deep. Centering. "I've been painting from the outside. Observing life instead of living it."

The crop traced down her spine. Gentle now. Almost loving. "And now?"

"Now I have something real to express. Something that comes from here." She would have touched her chest if her hands were free. But he understood.

"The pain is just a doorway." His fingers traced the marks on her skin. Raised welts. Tomorrow they'd be bruises. Reminders. "What matters is what you find on the other side."

She nodded. Understood. Her body still thrummed. Still sang. Every mark a note in a symphony she was just learning to hear.

"This is just the beginning." Coyote moved to face her. Met her eyes. "Real learning starts when you next pick up a brush. When you try to capture this. Transform it into something others can see. Feel."

"Will you help me?"

"No. This part you do. But Rebel will be there. She knows the journey."

Avery looked at the art surrounding her with new eyes. Saw the journey mapped out in paint and canvas. The change from external to internal. From safe to honest. From lukewarm to burning.

She was burning now. Could feel it in every cell. A fire that wouldn't go out. That would demand expression. Demand honesty. Demand she stop playing it safe.

The studio door opened.

Rebel stood in the doorway. Backlit. Hair wild. Paint under her fingernails. Her eyes took in the scene. Avery suspended. Body marked with red stripes. Face tear-streaked. The implements on the table. Coyote standing beside her. She understood immediately.

"You did it." Not a question. Recognition.

She moved into the studio. Purposeful. Her sneakers silent on the paint-stained floor. She circled Avery. Studying. The way Coyote had earlier. But different. An artist examining a masterpiece. A sister recognizing transformation.

"Look at her." Rebel's voice held wonder. "She's glowing."

She was. Avery's skin seemed lit from within. Every mark a brushstroke. Every welt a line in a larger composition. Beautiful. Raw. Honest.

Rebel moved to Coyote. Stood close. Her hand touched his chest. Felt his heartbeat. Still steady. Still calm.

"Thank you." Simple words. Loaded with meaning.

She pulled him down. Kissed him. Deep. Passionate. Her tongue invaded his mouth. Claimed him. Her teeth caught his lower lip. Bit down. Just enough to sting. She pulled back. "For showing her what I couldn't."

"You could have."

"Not like this. Not with the distance needed." She looked at Avery. Still hanging. Watching them through heavy-lidded eyes. "I care too much. Would have held back."

Rebel moved behind Avery. Wrapped her arms around the suspended woman. Hands cupped breasts. Gentle. Caring. Avery moaned. Leaned back into the embrace as much as the chains allowed.

"Shh." Rebel's lips found Avery's neck. Kissed softly. "I've got you."

Her hands massaged. Soothed. Working around the marks. The sensitive skin. Avery's body relaxed. Tension draining. Trust building.

"She needs care." Coyote's observation.

"I know." Rebel's hands never stopped moving. "I remember my first time."

"Can you handle it?"

Rebel nodded. "I've been where she is. I know what she needs."

Coyote watched them. The way Rebel's hands knew exactly where to touch. How to soothe. The way Avery melted into the contact. Surrendered.

"I need to go."

Rebel looked at him. Understanding in her eyes. "Back to Doris?"

"Always back to Doris."

Rebel's hands moved to Avery's hair. Stroked gently. "I'll take care of her. Prepare her. When Ashland returns, she'll be ready."

Coyote reached out. Traced a finger down Avery's cheek. Following the trail of dried tears. She leaned into the touch. Seeking connection. Confirmation.

"You did well today. Better than most their first time."

"It didn't feel like enough."

He smiled. "Good. That's how you know you're ready for more."

His hand dropped. He stepped back. The space between them suddenly vast. The door to Doris's cafe called to him. A strange gravity that pulled him back.

"Take care of her." Directed at Rebel but his eyes still on Avery.

"Like she's my own."

He moved toward the door. The one that hadn't been there before today. Would probably vanish after he passed through. The logic of Doris' cafe. Never questioned. Simply accepted.

"Coyote." Avery's voice stopped him.

He turned.

"Will I see you again?"

"Maybe. We'll see."

"You came back for Rebel."

"I came back because the story wasn't finished." He looked between them. "Yours is just beginning."

He reached for the door handle. Cold metal. Familiar. The threshold between worlds. He paused. Pulled the door open. The smell of coffee and whisky drifted through. Doris' cafe beckoning. He stepped through without looking back.

________________________________

The door clicked shut behind him. Wood against metal. Sealed. The studio's turpentine and sweat dissolved into coffee grounds and old whiskey. Doris's café materialized around him like smoke curling inward. The neon sign above the register buzzed. Angry wasps trapped in glass.

Coyote stood in the doorway. Let his body remember how to exist here. The checkerboard linoleum under his feet. Cracked. Yellowed. Real in a way Ashland's studio hadn't been. Or maybe real in a different way. The distinctions blurred. Probably didn’t matter.

The clock behind the counter read 2:31. Still. Always. Time broken or irrelevant or both.

"Welcome back, hon." Doris already had the coffee pot in hand. The whisky bottle in the other. No pretense about ratios. "You look like you've been somewhere."

He moved to a booth. Third from the door. Red vinyl patched with duct tape. The table wobbled when he put his elbows on it. These details mattered. Helped to focus.

"Ashland's studio." His voice came out rough. Like he'd been screaming. Had he been? The memories felt slippery. "Avery."

"The redhead." Doris poured coffee. Added whisky. The proportions reversed from earlier. More whiskey than coffee now. "Rebel's friend."

"She wanted transformation."

"They always do." Doris slid into the booth across from him. The vinyl squeaked. "Until it happens. Be careful what you ask for, sweetie."

"Not her. She's ripe."

The radio in the corner sputtered. Static forming almost-words. Almost-songs. Johnny Cash filtered through dimensions. Or maybe Patsy Cline. The signal kept shifting.

Coyote lifted the mug. Heavy. His arm trembled slightly. When had his body become so tired? The whisky-coffee burned going down. Good burn. Medicinal.

"She was suspended." He set the mug down carefully. Concentrated on the motion. "Chains. Spreader bar. Completely open."

Doris nodded. Listening. Her fingers traced patterns on the tabletop. Circles. Spirals. Sacred geometry worn smooth by years of similar tracings.

"I used the crop first. Then the strap. The paddle." Each word required effort. Like speaking through honey. "She did well. Better than most."

"Pain's easy." Doris's fingers never stopped moving. "It's what comes after that matters."

"The honesty. The rawness." Coyote watched her fingers. The patterns seemed important. Hypnotic. "She understood. About her art. About playing it safe."

"And Rebel?"

"Came at the end. She’ll help Avery until Ashland's back."

"Full circle then." Doris's fingers stopped. Pressed flat against the table. "The student becomes the teacher."

“It all goes around, doesn’t it?” Coyote looked intently, expecting she knew the answer. Doris raised a finger, lightly touching his forehead. An audible click happened somewhere deep in his brain. Something shifted into place. Okay, then.

The neon sign flickered. Casting pink and green shadows that moved independently of their sources. One shadow reached across the wall. Stretched toward the clock. Touched it. The minute hand shuddered but didn't move.

"How does it work?" Coyote's tongue felt thick. The words coming slower. "The doors. The moving between."

Doris leaned back. Studied him. "You really want to know?"

He nodded. The motion made his head swim.

"Your body stays put." She gestured vaguely. "Always has. Lightning scrambled your circuits. Opened pathways that are usually closed."

"But the studio. Avery. It felt real."

"Real's a flexible concept. When you are here, this is real. When you are there, that is real. Trying to fight that only brings suffering."

Her fingers resumed their tracing. "Your mind travels. Finds the stories. Lives them. But your body?" She shrugged. "Your body's been lying in that hospital bed for three days."

The radio static shaped itself into words. Clear for a moment. "…patient in room 347 showing signs of…" Then back to static.

Coyote's arms felt heavy. Leaden. He tried to lift the mug again. Couldn't. "Three days?"

"Time moves different depending on where you are. Here, it doesn't move at all." She pointed at the clock. "There, in the hospital, it races. And where your mind goes?" Another shrug. "Could be minutes. Could be years."

His eyelids drooped. The café lights seemed dimmer. Or maybe his vision was fading. "Why can I travel?"

"The doors only open for those who belong." Doris reached across the table. Touched his hand. Her skin felt electric. "You're a storyteller. You belong in all stories. Live them. Shape them. Bring them back."

"But it's exhausting."

"Crossing back and forth takes a toll." Her voice sounded distant. Like she was speaking from another room. "Each trip costs something. Energy. Time. Pieces of yourself left behind. It’ll be easier next time. You’ll figure it out."

“Next time?”

“Once you’ve been here, you’ll find your way back. Watch for an in-between place. Not quite awake. Not quite asleep. Relax into it. Look for my cafe door.”

“Are there other doors?”

“Yeah, but I’ve got the best coffee around.”

The whisky-coffee sat untouched now. Coyote couldn't remember how to reach for it. His body felt disconnected. A puppet with cut strings.

"The hospital." The words came out slurred. "They think I'm crazy."

"Aren't you?" Doris smiled. Sad. Knowing. "By their standards anyway. Not necessarily a bad thing."

The shadows on the wall grew longer. Darker. One reached for Coyote. Wrapped around his wrist. Cold. But not unpleasant. Like old friends embracing.

His head felt impossibly heavy. He let it drop forward. The table rushed up to meet his forehead. Cool formica against heated skin.

"The medication." He mumbled into the table. "They're giving me something."

"Strong ones." Doris's hand moved to his hair. Stroking. Maternal. "Trying to close the doors. Keep you grounded in their reality."

"Will it work?"

"For a while. Nothing's permanent."

The café lights dimmed further. Or maybe his eyes were closing. Hard to tell. The radio static formed a lullaby. Broken. Beautiful.

"Sleep, Coyote." Doris's voice came from very far away. "You'll need your strength for what comes next."

He wanted to ask what came next. Couldn't form the words. His consciousness scattered. Fragments drifting like confetti. Part of him still in Ashland's studio. Part in the hospital. Part here in the café that existed outside time.

The last thing he heard was Doris humming. An old tune. Sounded like Loretta Lynn. Maybe something older. Something that existed before music had names.

Then darkness. Complete. Welcoming. The kind of darkness that promises eventual light. Someday.

______________________________

Fluorescent lights. White. Sharp. They pierced through his eyelids like needles. Coyote tried to turn away. Couldn't. Something held his head in place. Not restraints. Just weight. The impossible weight of returning to a body that had been empty too long.

Sounds filtered in. Mechanical. Rhythmic. A monitor's steady beep. The wheeze of a ventilation system. Footsteps in a corridor. Distant. Growing closer. Stopping.

He forced his eyes open. Blinked against the harsh light. A ceiling came into focus. Acoustic tiles. Water stains spreading like inkblots. A fluorescent fixture with one tube flickering. Dying.

His body felt wrong. Heavy. Disconnected. Like wearing a suit three sizes too big. He tried to lift his arm. It moved. Slowly. Something tugged. An IV line. Clear fluid dripping steady. Medications flowing into veins that felt like rivers of concrete.

The room smelled of disinfectant. Industrial soap. That particular hospital smell that tried to mask sickness and death but only amplified it. His throat felt raw. Scratched. Like he'd been intubated. How long?

A door opened. Soft footsteps. Someone approached his bed.

"You awake?"

Female voice. Familiar but distant. Like hearing through water. He turned his head. The motion took enormous effort.

Taylor stood beside his bed. Chestnut hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Paramedic uniform neat. Pressed. Professional. Her hazel eyes studied him. Concern mixed with clinical assessment.

"Tay." His voice came out as a croak.

Her eyebrows rose. "You know my name?"

“I heard everything.” Each word scraped his throat. "You saved me."

"That was three days ago." She moved closer. Checked the monitors. Read notes on a tablet. "You've been in and out. Mostly out."

Three days. Doris had said the same thing. Time moving different in different places. His mind traveling while his body lay here. Tethered by tubes and wires.

"Water?"

She poured from a pitcher. Added a straw. Held it to his lips. The water tasted like plastic and chemicals. He drank anyway. Throat easing slightly.

Taylor set the cup aside. Her fingers drummed against her thigh with nervous energy. "How do you feel?"

"Foggy. Disconnected." He tried to sit up. The room spun. "What are they giving me?"

"I shouldn't."

"Please." He caught her wrist. Weak grip but she didn't pull away. "Check the chart. I need to know."

She glanced at the door. Back at him. Something in his eyes must have convinced her. She pulled up his chart on the tablet. Her brow furrowed as she read.

"Haloperidol. Risperidone. Lorazepam." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "These are antipsychotics. Heavy ones."

"Why?"

She scrolled further. Her eyes widened. "They think you're delusional. The notes say you've been talking about portals. Other worlds. Having conversations with people who aren’t there."

The café. Doris. Ashland's studio. All of it dismissed as delusion. Madness. His mind's attempt to process trauma.

"There's more." Taylor's face paled. "They're planning to transfer you tomorrow morning."

"Where?"

"Psychiatric facility. Involuntary commitment for evaluation." She set the tablet down. Stepped back. "They think the lightning triggered a psychotic break. Danger to self and others."

The medications made sense now. The heavy feeling. The disconnection. They were trying to close the doors. Keep him grounded in this reality. Their reality. The only one they knew.

"The medications." His words came urgent despite the effort. "They're blocking something. My ability to..." He struggled for words that wouldn't sound insane. "To control my mind."

"The delusions will fade as the medications take effect." Taylor's response sounded rehearsed. Professional distance. Not real.

"They're not delusions."

She looked at him. Really looked. Past the patient chart. Past the diagnosis. Saw something there. Truth maybe. Or just desperate honesty.

"The doors are closing." He pushed himself up on his elbows. The effort made him dizzy. "If they transfer me. Increase the doses. I'll lose access completely."

"To what?"

How to explain? The café that existed outside time. Stories that lived and breathed. The ability to walk between worlds. It all sounded like madness. Even to him.

"To who I am." Simple. True. "They'll make me safe. Stable. Normal. But I'll stop being me. I’m only slightly dangerous" he said with a weak smile. “Do they know who I am?”

Taylor hesitated, kept looking through the chart. “John Doe - transient.”

“Good.”

“What is your name, anyway?”

“Coyote.”

Laughing, Taylor replied, “Of course. Totally fits.”

Coyote mustered as much strength as he could to hold her gaze. “Tay, you know what happens if they put me in that place.”

Taylor nodded, not wanting to admit it. “Yes. It’s a dark side of medicine.”

“After saving my sorry ass, do you really want me to end up a doped-up zombie in a psych ward?”

Taylor's internal conflict played across her face. Medical training warring with intuition. Professional duty against human compassion. Her fingers drummed faster against her thigh.

"What can I do?"

“Help me get the fuck out of here.”

"You're asking me to help you escape."

"I'm asking you to stop playing it safe."

The words hung between them. An echo of Randy's voice in the ambulance. Her first real patient. The choice between protocol and instinct.

Coyote played his last card. “You pleaded with me to not die on you. Well, here I am.”

She looked at the door again. The hallway beyond was quiet. A code blue alarm sounded somewhere distant. Another wing. Staff would be distracted. Rushing to help. Perfect timing. Or maybe something else. The kind of synchronicity that happened around fractured reality.

"Fuck." Whispered. Decision made. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

_________________________________

Nobody looked twice at the paramedic pushing a patient in a wheelchair down the hallway to the elevators.

As the elevators door closed, he had to ask. "Why help me?"

She met his eyes in the elevator's polished steel doors. Their reflection distorted. Warped. But honest.

"Because playing it safe hasn't gotten me anywhere." Her voice steady now. Committed. "And because something about your story feels true. Even if it shouldn't."