My books are crammed into milk crates as full as the milk crates can be packed. I had to sacrifice some of my crates because we couldn't fit all the crates into the back seat and trunk of the car in one trip without leaving behind my suitcase and bedding, so all the books got double and triple stacked. I can always steal more milk crates. Free modular bookcases, available behind cafeterias and convenience stores in the wee hours of the morning, if you're quick about it and keep yourself covered.

He's keeping the computer Lydia gave me. There's no room for it in the car. Besides, I won't have any need for a PC of my own if I have access to the campus computer lab, nor will I need to use the AOL account to access the internet on campus.

A large shopping bag sits on the floor, with a new pillow in it, a couple of towels, and a twin-size bed-in-a-bag with striped sheets and pillowcases and a dark paisley print comforter inside it, all from the department store in the mall we visited earlier today. The home goods section was nearly picked clean; I was lucky to find something that I liked. This time of year, there are a lot of college students getting dorm furnishings.

Another shopping bag is stuffed full of cheap white cotton undershirts from the men's department. There are enough disposable shirts in there to cover my back for two months before I will need to buy more, if my back still needs protective coverings by then. It probably won't, but it never hurts to be prepared.

I can fit most of the rest of my possessions in a single large suitcase, which I bought from the same department store where I found the bed linens. My regular clothing barely takes up half the space; my winter coat fills up the other half. There's plenty of room in among the clothing to fit the rest of my belongings, most of which are presents Erastes has given me over the years we've been together: The brocade fabric and trim from various Yule present wrappings that I eventually sewed into an altar cloth - not that I've ever bothered setting up my own altar, but someday, I might. A deck of tarot cards that look like they were inspired by Alphonse Mucha. Crowley's Thoth deck. A large gazing ball made of obsidian. An ornate jewelry box containing the ouroboros pendant, the opal choker, my earrings, and some other trinkets he gave me because he said they reminded him of me.

One of the photos Lydia took of the two of us the day she had me pose for her in the cemetery is stuffed inside a book. I dithered over whether to take any of the pictures, but ultimately, I decided that I wanted the option to look at his face, some time in the indefinite future. He's keeping most of them, though, including the framed photo.

The manacles go into the suitcase, then the steel-tipped scourge and the riding crop. I would have the other riding crop as well, the one that was his before we met each other, that over the years I covered with my bite marks and various bodily fluids, but he wants to keep that to remember me by, although he'll never use it again. A few other sex toys that are mine by default, because they can't be used on anyone else now that they've been inside me, go in as well.

All that's left is the red-handled cane. I never did find out what wood it's made of, but whatever it is, it's incredibly sturdy, given the heavy use it's seen. I place the cane on top, diagonally, and start to zip the suitcase, but then decide it would be safer to just carry the cane separately. I don't want to risk breaking it.

The tears start flowing when I zip the case shut.

I'm still crying when he comes into the bedroom. I must have gotten loud. I was trying to keep my sobbing quiet. I don't want to burden him with this, not when he's hurting, too. We're trying to handle this rationally. That our attempt isn't working is irrelevant.

I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want our last night together to be spent in tears.

He puts his arms around me gingerly, and I cry into his shoulder.

We have about a month and a half left before I go off to college. Usually, the heat and stickiness make the summer drag, for me, while I wilt miserably and think of cooler days to come, but now the summer is moving too quickly. The days and nights can't be long enough. Of course, the only way to make them long enough would be to stop time altogether.

We had the blinds drawn all day to keep out the sunlight. Too much extra heat. It's been an unusually hot summer, so far. The air conditioner helps combat the humidity, but it's not up to keeping the apartment cool. Today the heat was so oppressive that the extra floor fan didn't even help circulate the air well enough to the bedroom; we wound up dragging our pillows into the living room, along with a couple of sheets, and tonight will be spent on an air mattress. Moving the futon into the cooler part of the apartment seemed like too much work.

We'll inflate the air mattress when we're ready to sleep. We're not ready yet.

We writhe together on the couch to the drone of the air conditioner, our skin covered with sweat. He has me pinned by my arms, and the things he's doing to my neck with his tongue and teeth are wringing cries of desperation out of me. I try to reach him with my pelvis, to drive him into me, but he's maddeningly out of my range. I have to settle for pushing against him.

He rubs up against me, hard with desire, letting me feel his length without actually entering me. I whimper from frustration.

"Did you like that?" he whispers.

"Yes."

"More?"

"Yes. Please, yes."

Another rocking movement that makes me cry out.

"Do you want my cock inside you?"

"Yes, dear God, yes..."

"Hmm. I think I'll make you wait a while. You're very pleasing this way."

A small groan escapes my lips, and he chuckles softly.

"Perhaps you do need a little more attention than I've been giving you," he whispers into my ear, putting my wrists together into one hand while he reaches down with his other hand to stroke the wet spot between my legs. His fingers enter me, one by one, with slow and practiced teasing; I arch, desperately trying to get him further in.

"More. Please. Don't stop."

He continues to whisper into my ear, maddening me.

"More. Please."

"You're so beautiful like this," he says, a wistful tone creeping into his voice. "This moment should last forever. I want to remember you exactly like this. Look at me now, beloved. Your eyes are so lovely when you're hungry." And he slowly pulls out his hand, leaving me empty and gasping.

"Please, I want you," I cry out, "please, my Erastes."

"Don't worry. I'm not going to leave you perpetually hanging. After all, that would be cruel, wouldn't it? I promise I will give you your release - in a short while. Get up and drape yourself over the couch arm, please."

Now he's smiling. After all these years, I know what that means. For that matter, even in the early part of the relationship, I knew what it meant when he started grinning like a Cheshire cat.

He opens the living room chest, releasing scents of saffron and sandalwood and cedar into the air, and rummages. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see he's pulled out the red-handled cane.

"It's been a while since I've used this one on you," he muses. "Did you miss it?"

I briefly consider not dignifying that with an answer, but I give the matter some thought, and after a few moments I surprise myself by saying, "Yes." It's one of the wickedest implements of destruction in our apartment, and yes, I've missed feeling it against my skin these past few months. Go figure.

"We'll have to make up for lost time, then. Don't move."

The wood bites into me hard, making me cry out.

And again.

"I love you," I cry, when the third blow lands, burning like fire. "I love you, I love you, I love you." Over and over, with every harsh stroke. It becomes both a mantra against the pain and a plea for more. "I love you..."

Eventually, the blows stop, and he's behind me, leaning into me, kissing tears off my cheeks and sweat off my neck, reaching around me to tease my labia and clit with his fingers. It doesn't take long for him to finish me off; his own need is unrelieved, however, and mine is, as usual, quickly resummoned. "I love you," I scream as he plunges inside me, and then we are pumping and bucking against each other until we are both screaming.

He collapses on top of my back. "Se philo, eromene. Se philo."

I sigh into the sofa cushion, crumpling my face into the fabric, and reach for his hands.