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"Take your shirt off."

The words arrive as a wet whisper against his ear and he feels a liquid tug pull him deeper into the well. It has no bottom, and he fears if he descends too far into it, the rope will unravel, the bucket will tumble and he'll lose himself inside. The little boy who fell down the well. Broke his leg and no one ever found him. He vaguely remembers being read such a story when he was a small child.

He pretends he does not hear her, and continues his ministrations. For a moment, he's convinced she won't speak again, at least not for the next twenty minutes--maybe less. He's really begun to figure out how to slice minutes off of her clock.

But it's clear she won't let herself be pulled under, at least not yet. She repeats her whispered request, now sounding like more of a plea. "Take your shirt off."

He pauses and looks down at her. "What?" She deliberately fingers the buttons against his collar. "Why do you want me to do that?"

He supposes she thinks it odd that he never completely disrobes when they're together. The truth is, he's never completely disrobed for anyone, with a few exceptions. As much of a being of the senses he likes to think he is, he draws the line at complete exposure. He's learned that most women relish the sense of being overtaken by the man in the suit. Keeping his clothes on has always given him that extra bit of power. And power is intoxicating.

But he knows power, at least his, means nothing where she is concerned. She's the Queen, after all.

"I want to see you."

Little boy in the well. Leg shattered. Calling up for help but none of the townspeople come. No one comes. They find his skeleton years later, bones and fragments of a skull are the only things left to see. Splintered shards of a bucket and a broken femur...

"Be with me," she whispers now, pulling his head down to her so she can get into his ear, into his mind. "Just take it off."

He swallows. He knows that if he complies to her request, heeds her beckon, he will be lost. It's not about power anymore. It's descent into completely foreign and inevitably fatal territory.

Now she closes her eyes. "Chuck..."

And then he thinks, surprisingly, maybe the frayed rope holding the bucket will snap or maybe it will hold together. Maybe he trusts her.