Caitlin normally swam laps at the same time as Riley had his squad training. If she had to be up early to drive him to the pool, she figured she might as well do something productive with her time instead of sitting around waiting. Caitlin never put on weight. She knew she was lucky in that regard, because some girls were always trying one new fad diet after another, but she did like to feel fit and healthy. Caitlin had a hearty appetite and was almost embarrassed by the amount of food she needed to keep her body fuelled.

She was neither short nor tall and her long legs, average hips and small waist were all in proportion. The problem with swimming—although she loved being in the water—was that wearing a swimsuit made it easier for people to notice her D-cup breasts.

Firm and round, they appeared to stick out rudely and she thought they looked out of place on her body. Caitlin and her breasts had not got along since puberty, when they’d seemed to grow to an enormous size almost overnight. Her enjoyment of participating in sports had taken a beating at the cruel taunts from other teens. At one point, Caitlin had actually considered breast reduction surgery.

That, of course, would not be possible—at least for the foreseeable future. Not after all that had happened recently.

Caitlin fingered the bracelet on her wrist lovingly, and pushed those sad memories from her mind. She always revelled in the solitude of swimming laps once she got started. It calmed her to listen to herself breathe in and out while her arms and legs sliced through the water, stroke after stroke. Just being around water soothed Caitlin.

The other bonus of early morning swimming was that there was no need to worry about the harsh Australian sun burning her very pale skin. Giving herself one last pep talk about the water being warm once she got wet, she headed out to the swim deck, trying, as usual, to push her mop of hair under her pink swimming cap.

As Caitlin did some stretches in preparation, she noticed the players from the local rugby league team on the other side of the fifty-metre pool. Most of the players were walking up and back in a lane, laughing and pushing each other in mock fights. All except for him.

Caitlin had observed the giant of a man before. In fact, on many occasions she had actually sought him out with her eyes. Why wouldn’t you? she thought to herself. He was gorgeous—such a perfect specimen. Caitlin had watched him stretching his large body, which rippled with the mass of well-defined muscle that made up his impressive physique. Caitlin had also watched him standing, sitting, walking, running and swimming, all in such a skimpy pair of swimmers that not much was left to the imagination, and Caitlin had found she had a good imagination when it came to him.

On more than one occasion she had dreamt of him, waking to find her body sweaty, the ache in her core unbearable and moisture coating her panties. Caitlin had begun touching herself to try to ease that unfamiliar longing—quietly, discreetly, her strokes reluctant at first. The thought of masturbation had been disturbing, somehow wrong.

But not wrong enough to stop. On those occasions, she would inch her fingers towards that throbbing, hot place. She’d slide her hand down the front of her panties, past the layers of curls that covered her folds.

It was always the same. She’d visualise his broad shoulders and washboard abs and her breath would start to come in little puffs and pants, her nipples pulling tight. Caitlin always felt them forming hard button shapes even before she’d let her free hand touch them. She would touch and rub her sensitive nipples as she imagined his face—that sexy, yet sombre-looking face.

There was something about him that drove her to this point. Nothing and no-one else had ever caused Caitlin to caress her own body in such a way. This uncontrollable need was new, coinciding with her awareness of his existence. She’d slip her finger in between her folds. They were always slick and warm, and she’d begin to move that finger in a circular motion. Tiny sparks of something indescribable would start to form beneath her finger, her body striving towards some place, some ending to fulfil her ache. As she focused on the memory of his deep voice, which she had overheard when he’d spoken to his teammates, she’d imagine him talking to her, touching her. She’d pretend it was his fingers plucking at her nipples and his hand creating so much havoc within her body.

Finally, knowing she was nearing that peak that caused her so much bliss, Caitlin would find her clitoris, the place that held the release of that pleasure spike, and she’d rub furiously at it. Push and circle, hard and fast, assaulting her own body until finally the gratification came, a wave of pleasure and relief washing over her slick, wet body, leaving her breathless, boneless, sated.

Caitlin both loved and hated to remember those times she lost control. She’d heard that masturbation was a normal human need, but it didn’t make her feel any less uncomfortable with her own actions.

Seeing him in such a state of near nakedness didn’t help. Shaking off her silly, girly fantasies, her stomach fluttering in response to her wilful thoughts, Caitlin stepped onto the block and did a graceful racing dive into the water. For the first few laps she tried to find her rhythm, reprimanding herself for her body’s response to the man by chanting a mantra over and over in her head. “I don’t have time for men, I don’t have time for dating, I don’t have time for men, I don’t have time for dating...”

Previous forays into the dating scene hadn’t filled her with much confidence. These so-called dates were nothing but a bunch of octopus-limbed disappointments who seemed to think buying her a drink, or dinner, gave them the right to grope her at will. Just the thought had Caitlin angrily pounding her arms into the water.

Mandy's He-Man

Mandy had not been expecting her ex-boyfriend to grab her by the throat, not in such a busy nightclub. When she’d noticed him heading her way, she had tried to hide her instant, mind-numbing terror by standing as tall as her short-statured body would allow. Though she’d had a little too much to drink, she’d tried not to sway as she’d planted her black boot-clad feet firmly on the ground. With her legs spread slightly apart, head up and chin stuck out defiantly, she’d done her best to portray the image of a strong woman, and not that of the vulnerable victim she had been. But the rough feel of his fingers as they’d wrapped around her throat had been something she could not have prepared herself for.

Mandy, shocked by the suddenness of his attack, feared for her life, believing that he was there to follow through on what had been a constant barrage of threats to kill her. He would do it there and then in this grungy, dark club. The sounds from the heavy metal band would be the last thing she would ever hear. The colours swirling in Mandy’s head were in synch with her terror—sable and claret, violent reds and angry yellows spinning into a kind of black, angry vortex in her mind, making it hard for her to react.

Mandy always saw colours in her mind, ones that matched her emotions. She had since she was very young, not just the typical 'black means sad' and 'red means mad', but combinations that could rival any home decorator’s paint charts. Depending on her mood, varying shades, tones and shimmering hues—too many to even describe—splashed and swirled throughout Mandy Magenta’s head. Her mind’s colours, usually a comfort to Mandy, were now doing nothing to help stabilise her emotions. She needed to get a grip on her fear, push through the angry vortex and find some shades of power to give her the courage to fight.

As Conx—her biggest mistake—started dragging her by her throat towards the exit of the club, Mandy used all the strength she could muster to try to slow him down. She dug her heels ineffectively into the club’s sticky carpet, hitting and scratching at the hands gripping her throat, which had delivered so much pain in the past. Her efforts brought no response from her vicious ex, so Mandy began flailing her arms wildly to try to get someone to notice what was happening and intervene.

Perhaps the doorman will help me? If I could just get his attention, she thought.

Con leaned towards her and whispered, "Amanda, you’re a bad girl, hiding from me. It has taken up a lot of my time and energy to track you down. I told you what I would do to you if you made me angry again, and you know how much I enjoy our little games. It’s time to play."

The familiar, threatening tone had an instant effect. A paralysing ripple of fear travelled through her body, leaving a cold fever in its wake. Mandy was unable to stop the rash of goosebumps from breaking over her skin as a heaviness formed in the pit of her stomach, accompanied by memories of pain and degradation.

Mandy was now way past frantic. She couldn’t let Con take her out of the building. She had to fight harder.

I may as well die here, instead of in some back lane, probably more painfully. Fight him—kick, scream! C’mon, girl! she told herself, trying desperately to inspire some extra burst of inner strength to overcome her terror. But as she found the courage to continue her struggle, her efforts were quickly defused.

Con spat in her face. The shock of this disgusting action and the feel of the sticky glob of wetness dripping down her cheek made her gag, and she stumbled. The pain in her shoulder as Con jerked her upright again was so severe that it was all Mandy could do to stay conscious. As all hope faded, Mandy simply prayed that she would survive another of Con’s brutal attacks.

Mandy wasn’t sure what happened next. One second she was being choked, terrified for her life, in pain and being dragged away. The next she was standing behind a behemoth of a man and Con was in a heap on the floor.

She was crying. Big, fat tears rolled uncontrollably down her cheeks. She could not believe she had escaped from Con again. Her throat was painful and sore, but she would live.

JT had saved her.

What is he doing here? How could I have missed him in the club earlier? The air around her usually seemed to spark when JT was near. Mandy hadn’t thought this club would be the type of place he frequented—not that she really had a clue what type of place JT did like. She loved it there though. Because of the loud music and grungy look and feel of the place, Mandy fitted in—or at least, didn’t stand out. She knew some of the regulars, fellow stallholders from the local flea markets around Sydney. Markets like Glebe and Paddington, with a trendy and slightly feral feel about them. Places Mandy could sell her art and handmade jewellery, or draw portraits.

Con had always hated these types of clubs. It was probably another positive in the club’s favour, in Mandy’s opinion. He had preferred chic, trendy clubs full of what she suspected were superficial people just wanting to be seen in the 'right crowd'. In fact, the more Mandy thought about her relationship with Con, the more she couldn’t understand why he had even been interested in her at all. Mandy was not the 'in crowd'.

None of this thinking answered her original question, though.

What was JT doing there? Should she check and make sure that he hadn’t killed Con?

Not that she was worried for her ex. It was more that Mandy knew that Brodie, her neighbour’s boyfriend, would be pretty pissed off at her if he lost his Sydney Jets teammate to a jail cell.

Everything was going to be okay!