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By the time Janel collected herself and, brought her seething emotions under control, her blackmailer was gone. He’d no sooner finished with her than he’d cleaned himself up with a damp towel and dressed, standing in front of the mirror to tuck in his shirt and knot his tie. Janel lay naked on the bed with the spread pulled over her, trying to collect herself and think of something to say that might somehow redeem herself—in her eyes at least, if not in his—but absolutely nothing came to mind, so she kept quiet, hardly daring to look at him as he dressed. Her orgasm had left her weak and trembling and terribly ashamed. She’d already been embarrassed by the photographs of herself masturbating on her roof, and then humiliated that he’d been able to use those photographs to blackmail her so easily into having sex with him. But worse than either of these was the shame she felt over the shattering orgasm she’d just experienced, an orgasm the likes of which she’d never known. The ferocity and totality of her release had shocked her and left her stunned and speechless, and he’d been witness to it. As she lay there in her shame and confusion, she realized that all she’d thought she knew about sex was nothing at all. Compared to what she’d felt under this man’s hands, her previous sexual experiences had all been no more than the mere bodily friction. This stranger and blackmailer had taken her farther and higher in twenty minutes than anything else in her life had ever taken her, and he’d done it with no more love or regard for her than he might feel for some stranger on the street. She didn’t know what to make of it. He came over to her as she lay in the bed and looked at her and she looked away, knowing she wouldn’t be able to stand it if she saw any hint of male arrogance in his eyes. But he wasn’t gloating.

“You can have the pictures,” he said, nodding toward the manila envelope on the dresser. “I have the originals on disk.” He leaned over and gave her a totally unexpected kiss on the forehead. She felt the burn of his lips as he put on his coat and straightened the collar, then walked to the door where he stopped with his hand on the lock. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.

The moment the lock clicked shut behind him, the tears began. She sat up in bed and wept, not knowing why. It was if all the emotion from her orgasm had been dammed up inside and now it all spilled out. She thought about the way he’d taken her, the things he’d made her do—how he’d made her undress before him and walk so he could watch her, how he’d touched her, the selfishness in his touch, the way he’d used her. She thought about how he’d made her masturbate as he fucked her from behind, leaning her over the dresser, and the shameful pride she’d felt. He’d fucked her like an a****l, not even giving her the respect of taking her face-to-face. She still felt his hands upon her breasts and her hips and the angry spear of his cock inside her. And she thought of the way he’d squeezed and pinched her nipples at her moment of climax, how that pain had sent her screaming over the edge, coming with him inside her, coming with a depth and a ferocity like nothing she’d ever known before. And with her shame came a flood of arousal again. She was horrified. She got up out of the bed and ran to the shower. She turned the water on as hot as she could stand it and she washed. She washed her breasts, pussy and body wherever he’d touched her. She washed her face and her hair. She stood under the steaming spray, washing and crying until her skin was raw.

“Jackson?”

“Hey! Janel! How are you, baby! You know, I was just thinking about you?” “Were you?” she asked into the cell phone. “That’s sweet. Listen, I was wondering if you’d maybe like to have dinner tonight? My place?” She was stuck in traffic on the Portnoy Avenue exit, a route she’d been taking home for the past three days, ever since it had happened. By getting off here, she missed the construction on Division Street and, moreover, it took her past the motel where they’d met. She told herself it was faster, really, even though it was a bit out of the way, but she also wanted to see the motel again. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she just had to see. “Tonight? Really?” There was a bit of a dead spot as she went under the cloverleaf but she picked up his signal soon enough to hear him ask, “…occasion?” “Nothing special. I just haven’t seen you in an awfully long time and I thought it would be nice to get together.” She tried to put a hint of sexual playfulness into her words, but it didn’t come off with quite the right tone. Still, it was close enough for Jackson, who never needed much prodding. “Sounds great,” he said. “But hey, don’t blame me, you’re the one who’s always working. What time? Eight?” “Eight would be perfect.” “Red or white?” “White, I guess. I’m making salmon.” “Great. Need anything else? Dessert or something?” She was coming up to the motel now and she wanted to get off the line. “No. Nothing else. Just bring your usual gallant and charming self, Jackson. Got to go now. Traffic’s opening up.” She clicked her cell closed before he’d even rung off, and she dropped it on the seat so she could put both hands on the wheel and hang on, as if she might be unexpectedly sucked out of the car. She got into the right-hand lane and slowed down.

The same old parking lot. More cars this time. There were no people about, and she was alarmed at her own sense of disappointment. But then, what would he be doing here again? He certainly didn’t make a practice of blackmailing women into sex at this motel. With a dismay that surprised her, she noticed that the door to their room on the second level stood open. She couldn’t see into the dark interior, but as she watched, a short, dark woman in a maid’s outfit came out stuffing a pillow into its case. Janel exhaled with relief. She chided herself for her misplaced sentimentality. She’d been ****d in that room. If **** was sex against your will, then she’d been ****d, hadn’t she? Once again she thought of stopping and going into the office and trying to find out if they knew anything about him—his name, his license plate number, anything. She was embarrassed at the hungry tug she felt in the pit of her stomach. She had expected to hear from him by now. She stepped on the gas and drove off.

Janel hadn’t really planned on making dinner, but the market always had good fish and Jackson was no gourmet anyhow. She bought salmon steaks, capers, fresh rosemary, lemons, new potatoes and frozen green beans. A bag of salad, a loaf of French bread, some ice cream, a six-pack of Jackson’s favorite beer, and she was done. The first few days after it had happened, Janel had walked around in a daze, avoiding people. She knew what the books said about ****, that shock was the normal first reaction, so she thought she might perhaps be in shock. That’s why she felt no horror, no sense of outrage, and she had dreaded the day that it would wear off and she’d have to deal with the anger and depression that would be the second stage, but strangely that day never came. Instead, as the reality of what had happened sank in, she found herself seeking out people and company, looking for something. Calling Jackson had been an act of some desperation, but he seemed to be the closest she could find to what she wanted now. But not close enough, she realized later. Dinner had been sufficiently good so as not to raise his suspicions, but Janel couldn’t wait to get him on the sofa in front of the TV, where most things started between them. Jackson put his arm around her. He kissed her and she kissed him back. His hands went to her breasts and she unbuttoned her blouse and leaned back for him, but she knew already that it wasn’t right, it wasn’t what she wanted. Jackson was as sweet and considerate as always, but now that wasn’t what she wanted at all. He was too gentle and deferential, too timid and polite. He’d learned some new moves since they’d last been to bed together, but Janel could tell that’s just what they were, moves learned from some magazine article or book. His new techniques annoyed her, and as he searched industriously for her G-spot she got more and more frustrated. She didn’t want to be manipulated, she wanted to be taken. She wanted to be taken and fucked. His tongue flicked at her nipples and she grew embarrassed for him when she realized that he was tracing out the letters of the alphabet on her skin. She stopped him at “K” and tried to show him how to pinch her, how to treat her rough. He did what she wanted, tentatively, but it was still no good. Passion can’t be faked, and Jackson was always a conscientious lover but never a passionate one. She thought she might have orgasmed—at least she experienced what she had always thought was an orgasm up until her encounter in the motel—but no sooner had he finished on top of her than she wanted him gone so she could use her memories and her hand to give herself what Jackson couldn’t. She made some transparent excuse to get him out the door, then went into the bedroom, trying to recreate the rude, hungry feel of her blackmailer’s hands on her. She put on the same shoes she’d worn, the heels lifting her ass and making her feel sexy and obscene as she leaned over her dresser and spread her legs, letting her breasts hang free beneath her. She tried to recall his hands upon her, remembering the hard, insistent excitement she’d felt in his touch as he’d slid his fingers down to her cunt and pried her apart, then found her excited clitoris and rubbed and pressed against it in rhythm to his fucking, demanding she come, pushing her beyond where she’d ever been. She tried to recapture that thrilling feeling of not being able to escape, that certain knowledge that he wouldn’t let her off with the minor frisson of pleasure that had always served her as orgasm. He’d insisted that she act the slut, demanded that she give him her whorish pleasure, and she remembered her sheer joy in being taken and fucked by a man who knew her for what she was. Her fingers dipped into her cunt with lewd ferocity, and at the last minute she captured her nipple between thumb and forefinger and bore down hard, letting the spear of pain nail her to her orgasm. She came with a clean and vicious joy that was almost just enough. Almost, but not quite.

It was Wednesday morning at work, a week to the day since the encounter, when her phone rang at 10:30 a.m. “Hello, Janel,” he said. “It’s me. The Doctor.” It was as if his voice reached out and touched her through the phone, pushing her back into her chair. She’d been leaning over the papers on her desk, now she sat up straight and her eyes flicked nervously around the room, as if he might be in there with her. Her eyes went to the clock on the wall and she stared at the red second hand as it ticked slowly around. “Yes?” she said. She didn’t know what else to say. “I want to see you again. The same place, but room one-twenty-one. Tonight.” “I can’t. I have work,” she heard herself say. “Yes, I know,” he said dismissively. “You always have work. Be there at eight o’clock. Wear your work clothes. I like you in your work clothes. And wear that same lipstick you wore that day. It looks good on you.”

“Wait,” she said. “Wait…listen. I need to talk to you. There’s something I… I need to talk to you. How can I get a hold of you?” She heard a silence on his end of the line and she was afraid she’d overplayed her hand. “Well, you can always go back out on your rooftop and leave me a message.” She could hear him smiling over the phone. Then he got serious again. “You can talk to me tonight. Just be there, and don’t try anything stupid, all right?” “No. I won’t. Nothing stupid. I…” She wanted to tell him, but how could she? What could she say? That she’d missed him? “Eight o’clock. Room one-twenty-one. It’s a suite.” Janel fumbled with a pen and a piece of paper, even though she knew she’d never forget that room number if she lived to be a hundred. “All right. Room one-twenty-one at eight. All right. But wait,” she said. “Wait.” “Yes?” Her fingers were holding the phone so tight her knuckles were white. “Tell me what you’re going to do to me,” she said. “Please. I want to hear it.” She felt herself color and her feeling of humiliation mixed with a sudden surge of almost unbearable nervous excitement. Now she heard him laugh, an easy, relieved laugh. It humiliated her terribly, but she bore it, eyes closed, gripping the phone. He’d thought she was going to make trouble, and now he was relieved. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?” He lowered his voice a notch and said, “I’m going to fuck you, Janel. I’m going to strip your clothes off you and make you get down on your knees and suck my cock. Then I’m going to tie your wrists behind your back and throw you down on the bed and eat your pussy ‘til you come like a little whore. I’m going to eat you until you beg me to fuck you, ‘til all you can think about is getting my big hard cock inside you, and then I’m going to teach you what a slut you are. We’re going to find out together. Won’t that be fun?”

She took off work early, begging out with a headache and missing the usual Wednesday productivity meeting. She went shopping for new underwear and stockings, and then she bought some new shoes as well. She bought three new sticks of lipstick. She went home and showered and shaved herself smooth. She dressed, then changed her outfit, changed her underwear. She tried to eat but the food wouldn’t go down. She poured a glass of wine and then decided she didn’t dare. She was already dizzy. The man was a blackmailer and a r****t. And yet—the things he’d made her feel. And he’d kissed her forehead before he’d left too. Surely that meant something.


In her agitation, Janel bumped a car in the parking lot as she pulled into a space. Thank God the alarm didn’t go off, and she gave it only a cursory look as she jumped out, looking for the door one-twenty-one. She didn’t wear what he’d told her to wear, not really. Instead of wearing office clothes, she wore a charcoal gray, pinstripe suit that was several years old and a size too small to wear to work. It made her ass look great, which was why she couldn’t wear it to the office anymore. She wore a tight, white blouse with pleats in the bodice, also too snug for work, and beneath she had on the new, white panties and matching shelf-bra she’d bought that afternoon. She’d given it a lot of thought and decided that he was a white-underwear kind of man, that black was just too blatant for him. Or maybe she wanted him to think that she was a white-underwear kind of girl? Perhaps she wanted to come off as being more virginal and pure, as if she could convince both of them that she really was being forced into this. The lewdness of the white shelf-bra was just what she needed to give the lie to that fiction. She wanted her clothes to give the message that she herself wouldn’t do anything, but that there was no limit to what she would let him do to her. She stopped at the door and willed herself to calm down. She knew what it felt like to need sex, and she knew what it felt like to feel sexy, but the way she felt now was something different. She felt entirely sexual and female in a way that went beyond politics and beyond apologies, and it felt terribly exciting and powerful. She was ready to be devastated. She knocked. “It’s open,” he called out, and Janel suddenly felt foolish. She prepared herself to be disappointed, but now even her sudden uncertainty served to excite her. She knew that when she crossed that threshold she would no longer be responsible for what happened. She pushed the door open and walked into the dim room, letting the door close behind her. He was standing up and pouring himself a drink. The room was a suite—the best, she supposed, that the place had to offer. This room was a kind of sitting room with a kitchenette in the back. There was a cheap sofa and a couple of armchairs, a TV, and back by the kitchen, a small breakfast table with one ill-matched captain’s chair. The other chair stood in the middle of the room, looking ominous with ropes tied to the arms and the front legs. Janel glanced at the chair then back at him. She felt a thrill of delicious fear. The bottle he held was the same brand of scotch he’d brought last time, and there were the same two plastic cups filled with motel ice. He put down his cup and poured her a drink without asking. “You’re right on time,” he said. “That’s good. Water?” She nodded. She wasn’t about to play any games. He ran some water into her glass and handed it to her. When he raised his glass in salute, she tentatively raised hers, too. What else could she do? She remembered the taste of the whiskey from the last time, the feel of the plastic cup against her lip.

He was wearing black wool trousers and a black vest over a gray shirt. Whatever he did for a living with his little camera, he dressed well. She searched his hands for a ring, but he wore no jewelry of any kind. She gestured toward the chair. “Is that for me?” “Yes.” She pulled her eyes away from the chair and looked at him. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said. She still hadn’t moved from her spot by the door. He cocked his head, prepared to listen, but all her words suddenly left her. She just stood there, her eyes darting from him, to the chair, and back again. Everything she had prepared to say just evaporated and she had no idea of how to begin. This wasn’t the way she’d imagined it. In her fantasies, she stood there and spoke quite earnestly about her feelings and he sat there and listened to her with understanding and sympathy apparent in his intelligent eyes. In her fantasies, he understood her concerns and realized that she was more than just a sex object, that she had feelings and dignity, and that she was used to a man’s care and respect. In her fantasies, she spoke at length and with honesty about the astonishing things she’d felt the last time, and he listened attentively, then smiled and came to her and took her in his arms. The pictures were involved, too. In her fantasies, they were thrown into the trash, or in some way discarded—burned perhaps—and then he took her to bed and made love to her, different this time, more sweet and loving, though in the end she had the same transforming orgasm. But this was not her fantasy, and after standing there silently for some moments, all she could think of to say was, “I don’t even know your name.” “Troy,” he said. “You can call me Troy. Now, take off your jacket. We can talk later.” Janel put down her drink and stepped away from the door. She had expected more. She had expected a caress, some sort of physical contact, but she realized now that she wasn’t going to get it, and she felt the loss as clearly as she would have felt his hand upon her skin. “Come on,” he said, dropping into a chair. “Take it off.” She realized then that he was right. They could talk later. Right now she needed to hear his rough, male arrogance, his easy command of her. She needed to be ordered to do simple things she could do, and taking off her jacket was one of them. She slipped the jacket from her shoulders and folded it up. She threw it down on the sofa. The blouse was tight. The pleated front exaggerated her bust and the bra she wore left her nipples exposed, to rub and press against the fabric. She felt them now, hardening and growing firmer as she stood there under his gaze. She felt that expectant tightness in her sex and the nervous thrill in her stomach. She loved this. “Take off your blouse,” he said softly, then, “No, wait. I’ll do it. Yes, I’ll do it for you.” He got out of the chair and came to her, and once again, Janel felt him next to her. She smelled his scent, salty and clean, terribly masculine. He filled the space next to her, making her feel deliciously small and powerless. She found herself almost trembling with excitement and she couldn’t look at his face, so she dropped her eyes to his hands and watched them as they went to the buttons on her blouse. He had strong, clean hands and they popped the buttons easily, one by one, sliding them through the holes and tugging her blouse open, taking his time. When he came to her bra and saw that her breasts were bare, he grunted with a kind of crude pleasure that made her heart hammer in her chest. She hadn’t known how much she’d wanted him to find her desirable or how much she’d needed to arouse him, and now, hearing that little grunt of pleasure, some part of her relaxed while another part swelled with excitement. Without a word, his head came down as one hand pulled her breast from her little bra. He held her breast up and took it in his mouth and she thought she might swoon at the easy way he took command of her. She reached up and put her hand on the back of his neck, but he stopped. “No,” he said removing her hand. “You don’t touch me. Like last time, remember? You don’t touch me until I tell you to. Keep your hands at your sides.” Janel did as she was told and he went back to her breast. He took them both in his hands and squeezed them, holding them so that her nipples were pushed toward each other, and he began to suck and lick them both. Spears of pleasure pierced her body, and without thinking, she reached around his head again, wanting to hold him in place, wanting to lean on him as he pleasured her. “I’m sorry,” she said when she realized what she’d done, but he’d already stepped back from her. He picked up a piece of rope from the chair and came back to her. “Turn around.” “No, please,” she said. “I said I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” “I know you won’t. Now turn around.” She stood there as he threw several loops of rope around each wrist and tied them off, making a rope cuff for each wrist. She knew she was insane to let him do this to her. With her wrists tied, she’d be helpless to defend herself against anything he might want to do, but she trusted him and she let him do it. His saliva cooled on her bare nipples as he pulled her hands behind her back and held them there. From somewhere he produced a metal clip and worked it under the strands of rope. When he was done, her wrists were securely bound together behind her back. Having her wrists tied flooded her with unexpected excitement, and it excited him, too. This was so unlike her, it was almost like being in someone else’s body or watching herself from afar. At work, in all the rest of her life she was the one in charge, she was the one giving the orders, and yet it felt so good to have him take control of her like this. It felt good not to have to do anything but react.

He pushed her back against the wall and leaned against her as he finished unbuttoning her blouse and pulled it from her skirt. His hands played roughly on her breasts, squeezing her, pinching and rolling her nipples, sucking and biting them with selfish pleasure and Janel moaned with an anguished and indefinable joy. Here was the rough greediness she’d missed so much from Jackson’s touch. This man touched her not in order to please her as Jackson had, but in order to please himself, and that made all the difference in the world. His bulk loomed over her, his weight rested upon her, and as Janel pressed her chest into his hands their eyes met and his gaze pierced her own, seeing past the frightened woman and past the ball-busting executive and directly into her need. When his lips came down on hers she threw herself into her kiss, finally able to tell him what she’d wanted to say at the start, and what she’d had to say was not that complicated, not that complicated at all. “You little liar!” he breathed as he pinched her nipple and twisted it. “You love this, don’t you? You love being treated like this!” She couldn’t say yes and she wouldn’t say no. She longed for his lips on hers again so she wouldn’t have to say anything. Her nipples hurt from his rough treatment and yet ached for more, and below she knew she was a swamp of wet, female need. It was his need for her that did it, the passion with which he took her. It left her dizzy and panting for breath. It made her pussy throb with an empty yearning to feel his roughness on her there, feel his strength between her legs. He kissed the side of her neck, burying his face there and inhaling the fragrance of her hair and her perfume. His hands slid down her back and cupped her ass. He squeezed her buttocks through her skirt, squeezed them possessively as if they were his. His hands went to her thighs and he began to gather up her skirt in his hands, pulling the hem up slowly over her legs. Janel lifted her head and pressed it back against the wall, biting her lower lip against the maddening tickle of the fabric moving up her thighs. She’d worn no slip and she could feel the cool air on her naked flesh as it was exposed by the rising skirt. She knew her panties were already damp and that he would feel them, but it hardly mattered any longer. She had ceased pretending that she felt anything other than intense sexual arousal at his touch. She no longer felt shame, or rather, the shame she felt at giving herself to this stranger was part of the fuel that fed her fire, part of the excitement. The hem of her skirt slid higher, above the tops of her stockings now, and higher still as he gathered the fabric around her waist. He was sucking at her breasts as he raised her skirt and Janel braced herself for the feel of his fingers at her crotch. She knew it was coming, yet even so, she wasn’t prepared for the blast of shuddering satisfaction she felt when first he touched her there and pressed the slick fabric of her panties against her sodden flesh. She had waited days to feel this again, to be touched the way he touched her, and she groaned with deep pleasure and jerked involuntarily as he claimed what was already his. He kissed her as his fingers moved the wet fabric to the side and slid along her crease, and when he slid one fingertip inside her she clenched her eyes tight and bit his lip just as she would have bitten her own to keep from crying out. The feel of his hand on her was electric, like the fit of some key made only for her. She had no idea of how he managed to make her feel this way, how he stole her will and turned her into a vessel of such terrible sexual need. She only knew that he had somehow figured her out, that he knew her better than she knew herself. “You’re soaking wet,” he said to her, whispering into her ear. “I haven’t even done anything to you yet and you’re just dripping. You love this, don’t you? You love everything I’m doing to you.” “No,” she gasped. “No. You’re wrong!” He leaned back so he could look at her. “Is that right? Well, we’ll see. We’ll just see about that, won’t we?”

He held the crotch piece of her panties to the side and slid his finger into her, his thumb pressing against her clit. Janel crumpled against him, the pangs of her desire too much to bear. She tried instinctively to grab on to his shoulders but the ropes held her wrists fast, driving home the extent of her helplessness. He reached behind her and seized her hair, pulled her head back and held her up like that. She grimaced against the pain as his finger continued to fuck into her. Her blouse was completely open and her breasts exposed on their little shelf-bra. Her skirt was up around her waist, and the lewdness of what he was doing to her, the easy way he took total control of her body flooded her with helpless excitement. She was close to orgasm and they both knew it. He could feel her losing control of her body. “Look at you,” he hissed at her. “You’re about to come, aren’t you? You’re going to come standing there, just from getting finger-fucked like some high school tramp!” Janel fought against it. She had little dignity left, but what she had she couldn’t just give over to him like this. She reached out and bit his shoulder, frantic in her lust. He snarled in anger and jerked away. For a second, she thought he might slap her. She had bitten him hard, desperate to make him stop, and she braced herself for the blow, but it never came. Instead, he took her arm and pulled her away from the wall. She stood in the middle of the room with her wrists tied behind her as he pulled first her blouse, and then her bra, down her arms. He pulled her skirt back down enough that he could get to the zipper and open it, then tugged it roughly down her legs, holding her up with one hand on her arm. Her panties followed, and she was forced to twist this way and that as he yanked the sodden garment down her thighs and threw them aside. “No,” she said. “Wait, please. Not like this…” He stopped and looked at her in her sudden agitation. His eyes were flashing again, filled with his hunger for her, and once again his gaze left her powerless. Once again she was naked in front of him and almost helpless in her need. Her nipples were hard and distended, her shaven pussy gleamed with her own juices, and still she asked him to wait. “Wait?” he asked her. “Wait for what? What do you want, Janel? Violins and flowers? Do you want me to romance you and sing you love songs? Is that what you want? Come here!” He pulled her roughly toward the chair and thrust her into it. Shoving her head down to make her lean forward, he lifted her arms over the back of the chair and then sat her back up. He tied her wrists, in their tangle of clothes, to a rung between the rear legs, forcing her shoulders back and her breasts out. He made her spread her thighs, pressing them against the armrests of the chair. He used the attached ropes to tie her knees to the arms of the chair, then tied her ankles to the legs in front, leaving her spread open, exposed and obscenely vulnerable. The sight of her in the chair seemed to inflame him, and he came to her and took her hair in his hand and pulled her head back. He stared into her eyes and saw her fear and excitement, then his lips came down on hers and he kissed her, kissed her long and hard as his free hand plundered her body, playing with her breasts and her belly, dipping down between her legs, squeezing the soft skin on the inside of her thighs, as if he just couldn’t get enough of her. “No,” he said. “You don’t want that romantic stuff. You think you do, but this is what you really want. You want to be taken, don’t you, Janel? You want someone who’ll take you and do what they want with you. That’s what you want, and that’s why you came back to me, isn’t it?” She was too confused to speak, too confused and too incredibly aroused. The ropes on her arms and legs were simply the most erotic thing she had ever felt in her life—the way they held her tight and spread open for his pleasure. It was degrading and embarrassing, but at the same time it was terribly arousing, almost more than she could stand.

Troy pulled her hips forward in the chair, as far forward as the ropes would allow, then he squatted down in front of her. He extended his middle finger and ran it over her lower lip. “Suck it,” he said softly. “Suck it and get it good and wet. I want to show you what you are.” Janel whimpered. She opened her mouth and sucked his finger inside, grateful for the contact. She sucked him deep, swirling her tongue around his finger, thinking that if she could make it good for him he’d give her something more substantial to suck on, something she wanted very badly. But it didn’t work. He pulled his finger from her mouth and trailed it slowly down her body and over her stomach, over her navel, down to her hairless sex. “Watch me, Janel,” he said. “Watch what I’m going to do to you.” She couldn’t have moved her eyes had she wanted to. She saw his finger part the baby-soft petals of her sex, saw the coral-pinkness of her most intimate flesh, saw his finger poised with just the tip inside her, and then he pushed it up into her. “Oh God!” Janel moaned and closed her eyes. It was not the feeling of his finger inside her so much as it was the way he took her. It was the most simple, inelegant, sexual gesture, adolescent in its artlessness, and yet so lewd and primal. Man penetrates woman. Man takes possession of woman, not with his cock but with his hand, his finger. It was the exact opposite of everything Jackson had done with her, and it was a thousand times more arousing. “Look,” he said. “Open your eyes and look. I want you to see this.” She looked down and saw her stomach contracting sharply with little spasms of pleasure as he rolled her clit around with his thumb. It was so mechanical, as if she weren’t even a human being, as if she were some sort of machine or instrument. She saw his finger emerge, shiny and coated with her own lubricious secretions, and she saw his eyes, gleaming with lust as they studied her degradation. Her shame excited him. It excited her as well.

“I’ve got all night,” he said. “And you’re not going anywhere. I’m going to sit here and play with you until you come on my hand, Janel. We’re both going to sit here until you come.” “No,” she said. “Fuck me. Make me do what you want. I can’t stand it like this.” It was too degrading, being manipulated like her body was some sexual toy. “Sorry.” He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her open pussy. “I want you to come right here. Tied in this chair like a little tramp. I want to watch you. I want you to see.” He put his finger back inside her, then two fingers, and he began to fuck her with them as his thumb manipulated her clit. His gaze went first to his fingers moving in and out of her open pussy and then up to study the expression on her face. Janel threw her head back. She pulled at her bonds but they were too tight. She tried to close her thighs but the ropes held them open. There was nothing she could do but sit there and let him finger-fuck her. She felt his gaze on her, boring into her, seeing into her and seeing her helpless pleasure, and he was right. She was a whore. She was a slut who was going to come from this man’s fingers inside her. She was going to provide him with entertainment. She fought it. She fought her own escalating arousal, the feeling of shame that inundated her and threatened to drown her in its red heat. His fingers continued to pump in and out of her, working inside her pussy, coldly, mechanically with the steady inevitability of a machine. It was more than she could bear, and the more she tried to fight off the rising tide of excitement, the more surely it came thundering down on top of her. She was going to come. In all her life, only once had Janel climaxed against her will. Only once had she been made to give in to her body’s own need for relief, and that had been with this same man when he took her before in this same motel in the same way—intent on his pleasure and with no regard for her own. And now it was about to happen again as she sat in this chair being rudely manipulated, a slave to his obscene touch and her body’s savage demand for the release of orgasm. “Oh God!” she moaned. “Oh God!” She bit down on the end of the last word as she felt it start, coming up from her feet and down through her scalp. She arched in the chair, a galvanic current of unbearable pleasure coursing through her body as every muscle went rigid and trembling. He felt it too, saw how red she got as she held her breath, her body clenched too tight for breath, unable to do anything but come. He reached out and took her nipple in his hand and squeezed it, knowing just how to season her pleasure with pain and send her over the edge. Janel burst through herself like a butterfly from its cocoon, sailing through the air on wings of obscene, sexual surrender.

He untied her from the chair but kept her wrists lashed together. She leaned on him as he walked her into the bedroom, where the king-sized bed consumed much of the space. She was shaky from her orgasm, but not as shaky as she pretended to be as she leaned against him and felt the comfort of his arm around her. “Why are you doing this to me?” she asked him as he led her to the bed. “Wasn’t once enough? You’re never going to stop, are you? It’s going to be one week after another, anytime you want. Anything you want to do to me.” He took off his vest and stepped out of his shoes, and as he unbuttoned his shirt he turned to her. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked. “Do you? We can make this the last time right now, if that’s what you want. We can finish up right now and you can walk out and never see me again.” Janel squirmed on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable way to lie on her bound hands. Although she had exaggerated her weakness, her orgasm had been powerful and had left her feeling weak and drained, yet still she wanted more—not just more sex, but something else. There was something she wanted from this man, something like respect, or maybe just understanding, something she couldn’t put her finger on. He slid his pants and shorts down over his legs and took off his socks. He was painfully erect, and though she’d seen her share of hard cocks in her life, she’d never seen one so terribly eager, so aggressive. Seeing this evidence of his desire for her gave her some consolation even as her mouth went dry at the sight of him. So hard, so angry and engorged with blood. “I forced you the first time,” he said, “because I could. Because I knew something about you. You don’t know me, and it doesn’t much matter now, but I did business with your company, sizeable business. I was even introduced to you, but you don’t remember. You were too busy and I looked different then. But because your company wanted my business, your bosses were rather free with their information about you. Darryl Foster, in fact, talks too much, especially when he’s had a few, and he has quite a crush on you, Janel. Strictly paternal, I’m sure. You turn quite a few heads in that office.” “What’s your name?” she asked, sure that she would remember the name they did business with even if she couldn’t recall his face. “Never mind that. That’s not important now. What is important is that I saw a woman who was wasting herself. I saw someone I wanted. Then, when I saw you on your roof, I saw a way to have you.” “You stalked me? You followed me! That’s how you got those pictures!” “I was there on legitimate business reasons, which is more than you can say for what you were doing up there on your rooftop.” He smiled. “And anyway, what does it matter? What matters is that the last time we were together, I saw you for what you are. I know you, Janel. I know all about you now.” “You don’t know anything about me,” she said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He picked up two pieces of rope from the nightstand. There was rope all over the place. He must have spent some time getting ready for her. “No?” he asked. “Well, we’ll see.” He took her ankle in his hand, wrapped three turns of rope around it and tied it in a cuff as he’d done to her wrists, then did the same to her other ankle. He rolled her over onto her side and untied her hands, then pulled off the tangled mess of her bra and blouse and threw them aside. Janel finally made a token show of resistance. She tried to pull her arm free but he held on to her wrist with a steely grip. He gave one good warning tug and she went limp. She was no match for his strength. “Put your knees up,” he said. “Do it!” Excitement and fear again. It was his stock in trade. She was on her back, and now she drew her knees up as he’d ordered and he pulled her wrist down to her ankle and fastened them together with a clip of some kind. She flexed her arm, testing the connection as he did the same to her other arm. When he finished he stood up quickly, like a calf-roper who’s completed his tie. Janel was helpless now, her wrists clipped to her ankles, her knees up. She fell over onto her side to hide her shame. “Do you now what a sexual submissive is, Janel? Do you know anything about BDSM, dominance and submission?” She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She was tugging at her bonds, the feeling of her captivity making her terribly excited again, making her pussy drool. “Most people think that a submissive is some sort of doormat,” he said. “Someone with no self-respect or self-esteem, but nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, it’s a woman who’s so highly sexed that she needs more than what most people settle for—more passion, more desire, more intensity. That’s what the ropes are for, not to punish you or hurt you, but to hold you still while I can take you to that level of desire. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He knelt on the bed at her feet and picked her knees up so that she rolled onto her back. “When I told you loved being treated like this, you said ‘no’, didn’t you? But we both know that was a lie. Outside of here you’re Janel the hard-ass, executive-bitch. Inside, with me, you’re something else, aren’t you? Now show me. Let me see what you really are.” He parted her knees and she didn’t have the strength to stop him. He pressed them down toward the mattress and lowered his head. She saw him open his mouth and his tongue come out and he made contact with her pussy. Janel cried out as if he’d struck her. “No! God! Stop!” But he didn’t stop. He licked her pussy, sliding his tongue between her labia and working his way up to her clit, and when he let go of her knees Janel made no move to close them. He ate her like he was famished for her, like he just couldn’t get enough, and she’d never felt anything like it. She’d had oral sex before. Jackson especially always wanted to do it for her, but Jackson was so tentative and controlled in what he did. This man ate her for the selfish joy of feeling her flesh in his mouth. He ate her like he kissed—with the same wild abandon, the same greediness and hungry, selfish pleasure. He ate her in a way that showed her that he loved her body, and it took her breath away. She might have come, she couldn’t be sure. The entire feeling was so intense, and all she knew was that at one point when she had turned completely to liquid down there—to a sweet, buttery syrup—his mouth left her and he loomed over her, on his knees, like a barbarian conqueror. “Fuck me,” she begged. “Oh God, fuck me!” He came inside her all at once, filling her completely. He immediately began to fuck her hard, brutally slamming his hips against her, holding on to her shoulders to keep her in place to take the savage thrusting of his cock.

Beneath him, Janel twisted in her bonds. With her wrists tied to her ankles, all she could do was raise her knees to her chest and cradle him as his hips pummeled against her. His big prick spread her open, reaching deep up inside her, driving the breath from her lungs in a series of a****l grunts and cries. He went wild on top of her, his hands all over her body—on her ass, her breasts, pulling her hair to make her tilt her head back for his smothering kiss, pinching her nipple and reaching down to press urgently with his fingers against her clit. Janel had never known such wildness in a man, and with a deep thrill she realized that he was every bit as excited as she was, that his need for her was just as great as hers was for him. He might be the master of the ropes and of what he made her do, but inside, he was as helpless as she was. They were in this together, and it was his desire for her that drove him on—it was his desire that made him tie her up and fuck her like this. She heard his masculine groans of pleasure as he thrust deep into her womanliness. “Take it, Janel, take my cock! Take it inside you and get ready for my cum. I’m going to come inside you, Janel, you’re going to make me come. Take it! Take it all!” She threw her head back and her mouth opened in a smile of breathless ecstasy. She pulled hard at the ropes, never wanting them to let go, never wanting to be free again, just as she felt his big cock swell inside her and he thrust into her hard and began to come, pouring his hot ejaculate into her. As if a switch had been thrown, Janel was launched into her own orgasm, an orgasm of both body and soul, rich and obliterating. She screamed, her scream echoing off the walls of the cheap motel room and she seemed to leave her body and join him in his rapturous fury, his cum mixing with hers and filling her with incredible heat.

He gave her his number. He gave her his number at work and his cell phone number and he gave her strict instructions on when she was allowed to call him. When she called she would let the phone ring once and then hang up and he would call her back. She was not to call him for anything frivolous. He gave her a list of things she was to purchase, clothes and underwear and sexual toys. He told her where to find them online. The list included whips and spankers, vibrators and clips for her nipples, chains and cuffs. She was to keep these things at her home in their original box until he opened them. And he gave her what she wanted. He held her in his arms afterwards and kissed her with such tenderness that tears came to her eyes and yet, despite his tenderness and despite her tears, his kisses aroused her shamelessly and her savage desires rose insistently to the surface yet again. His every touch reduced her to a state of devastating need. He fucked her again. Knowing what she wanted, he tied her hands in front of her and fucked her as she stood leaning over the dresser on her forearms, just as he’d done in their first session. He watched her as she looked in the mirror so she could see her own face contorted with lust and sexual satisfaction, or shift her gaze and see him behind her, thrusting his cock into her, grimacing with lust and pleasure and satisfaction, looking for all the world like some pagan king glowering in judgment over the mortal kneeling before him. And when he came, once again her body flowered open to him. She opened to him as she had never opened to any other man and again the depth of her orgasm amazed her. Only this time she was filled with joy as well, knowing there would be more, knowing that this was only the beginning.