Chapter 1 Rain poured steadily from an ashen sky. Outside the car, the sidewalks were a riot of brightly colored umbrellas, a sea of people flowing beneath the pattering droplets. The windshield wipers made a whup-whup counterpart to the drumbeat of rain on the roof. "I still don't see why this is necessary," she said. He glanced over at her. "Legal stuff. The state requires a blood test before it will issue a marriage license." The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Unless you're thinking of changing your mind?" "No! It's not that. It's just that I don't understand why we had to drive all the way out here. I already have a doctor!" "I know. But can he work you into the schedule for a full exam before the wedding?" "I don't need a full exam!" She sat back and folded her arms, petulant. "I only need a blood test! Besides, I hate doctor's offices." "I'm just trying to be efficient." He shrugged and returned his attention to the road. "Might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?" She stared out the window. They drove for a while in silence as he guided the car out of the city. They passed through the suburbs, trees and buildings washed in gray. Finally, he pulled into a nondescript medical park, low buildings in bland industrial style clustered around a large and nearly vacant parking lot. "Aaron is an old and good friend of mine. We go way back together. He normally doesn't take new patients, especially on short notice. I asked him to do me a favor." He smiled. "You'll like him, I promise." She made a noncommittal sound. "Oh, don't be that way." He opened the door and fumbled with his umbrella. "Next week we'll be married and on our honeymoon in London. Doesn't that make you happy?" She said nothing, but he saw her smile. "There, that's better." He climbed out of the car and opened her door for her; she rose under the shelter of his umbrella, stately, elegant, a John Singer Sargent painting come to life. He marveled, not for the first time, at her beauty. He escorted her to one of the buildings scattered through the medical park, and held it open for her. They passed into a nondescript waiting room, blandly appointed in pastels and peach. He shook droplets of water off the umbrella and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be back to pick you up in about an hour." "Wait! You aren't staying?" "No. I have some errands to run." Before she could protest, he was gone, back out into the steady drizzle. She watched the watery yellow glow of the headlights as he pulled away from the curb. "Miss?" She turned, startled. The voice came from a glass window set in the wall. "Miss? Are you a returning patient?" She crossed the room. On the other side of the partition, a matronly woman, wearing scrubs covered in a pattern of blue and yellow duckies, looked at her expectantly. "Huh? No. I'm new." "Ah!" An expression of delight crossed the woman's face. "Yes, of course! You're Mrs. Miller. I've been expecting you!" "Miss. Miss Miller. Eileen. I'm not married yet." "Of course. Forgive me, please. Miss Miller. I have…" She looked around her desk, then opened a drawer and pulled out a thin file folder. "Here we go! I have your file right here. Let's see. Umm…" She flipped through its contents. "Ah, good, good. We already have most of your paperwork. Your husb—excuse me, your fiancé took care of this already. We have your medical records. Now, if I could just get you to fill out…oh, where is it? Ah." She slid several sheets of paper through a narrow slot. "If I could just get you to fill out the consent form, here, and the privacy notice, and the patient care information, and…yes, yes, that will do nicely." Eileen accepted the papers automatically. She looked around, feeling lost, abandoned by her fiancé. The waiting room was completely empty save for her and the receptionist. A small group of chairs sat clustered around a low, heavy table in the center of the waiting area, but there were no magazines, no television. The room seemed almost Spartan in its utility. She filled out the papers mechanically and passed them back through the slot. The receptionist glanced over them, smiling. "If you'll just have a seat, dearie, the doctor will be with you quite soon. He's with another patient now, and the appointment is running a few minutes late. I'm dreadfully sorry about that. We usually don't keep our patients waiting." Eileen perched uncomfortably on the edge of one of the seats. The feelings of abandonment grew stronger. She ran her hands up and down her arms, shivering slightly. The minutes ticked by; she stared blankly at the wall and fidgeted. After a time, the door beside the receptionist's window opened. Eileen looked up as a woman stepped through, a strange, blissful expression on her face. Her chestnut-brown hair was slightly disheveled, and she walked unsteadily. For an instant, their gaze locked, and something indefinable passed between them. The woman smiled. "Are you a patient of Dr. Moreland's?" "I…A new patient. This is my first visit." "Really?" The woman's face lit up. "Oh, you'll like Dr. Moreland. I wish I could have my first visit with him all over again…" Her eyes half-closed, dreamy. "I'm Kathy. Maybe I'll see you again." She winked. Eileen watched the woman leave. That was weird, she thought to herself. The brief exchange made her feel uncomfortable, though she couldn't quite put her finger on why. She briefly considered leaving. No, wait, she thought, I don't have a car… The door opened again. A man in a white lab coat stepped through, a stethoscope draped around his neck, a file folder tucked under his arm. He was blandly handsome, with an open, genial smile that put her instantly at ease. He radiated calm, friendly confidence. "Miss Miller?" "Eileen." "Eileen." He strode across the room and offered his hand. "Very pleased to meet you. I'm Dr. Moreland. Call me Aaron, if you like. I've heard so much about you." She took his hand, and he shook warmly. "Anthony and I are friends from our Army days. When he told me he was getting married, I was quite delighted. So naturally when he asked me if I could take you on as a patient, how could I refuse?" He gestured toward the door. "Please accept my apologies for the delay. Normally, I try not to make anyone wait. It's one of the advantages of a very small practice." She followed him down a long hallway. He led her to a scale at the end of the hallway, bade her to step up on it. "Mmm, good, let's see…" He weighed and measured her efficiently, wrote in the folder. "This way, if you please." He opened a large, heavy door, ushered her into a small examining room. "Now, I'm told that you're here for a standard pre-marital blood test and a physical exam, yes?" "Um…yes." "Okay, good. If you could just disrobe for me and put this on, I'll be back in a few minutes. Okay?" He handed her a thin paper gown. "And relax! You look like you're here for a root canal. We'll have you in and out in no time." He left and closed the door behind him. She sat gingerly on the edge of the examining table with a sigh. After a moment's hesitation, she started peeling off her long blue sundress. The disquiet was back; she felt awkward and self-conscious. She looked around for a place to put the dress, then folded it neatly and set it on the edge of the sink. Her bra and panties followed, then her shoes and stockings. She put on the paper gown and tied the strings behind her. The back gaped open, and she felt even more self-conscious. The least they could do is make these things fit better… She rose from the table at the sound of a knock. "Come in!" Her voice broke. The door opened again. Dr. Moreland—she couldn't bring herself to think of him on a first-name basis—stepped through. A tall, willowy woman followed him, sandy blonde hair in a neat ponytail, a clipboard folded in her arms. "Eileen, I'd like to introduce you to my nurse, Samantha Bowes. She will be assisting me today." They shook hands politely. "Now, if you can have a seat, we can start with some basic background and history. Eileen sat back on the edge of the table. The doctor took the clipboard and uncapped his pen. "Anthony's already had your records forwarded over from your previous doctor, so I'll probably only need to ask you a few questions. No allergies or family history of any serious diseases, I see." "No." "No diabetes, no heart problems, no hospitalizations or surgeries…" "No." The nurse took her arm and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around it. "No fainting or dizzy spells, no history of turning into a newt…" "No—what?" "Just seeing if you were paying attention." He smiled, and she relaxed a fraction. The nurse inflated the cuff and pressed a cold stethoscope against her arm. "Okay, now, there are some questions which aren't covered here. Are you currently sexually active?" "No. I mean, not really. We're…it's been a long time." "So you are not currently engaging in sexual intercourse with your fiancé?" "No. Um, we decided to wait until we were married." "I see." He made a notation. "How long has it been since you were last sexually active?" "Three years." "Okay. Now…do you currently engage in oral sexual contact, giving or receiving?" "No!" Fire colored her cheeks, and she made a small sound of disgust. "No, I do not. Absolutely not." "Anal sexual contact?" "Excuse me?" She glared at him. "What do you think I am? Where do you come from, asking me things like that?" He put down the clipboard and regarded her calmly. "Miss Miller, please understand that I am not trying to upset or offend you. I am your health care professional, and in order to provide you with the highest possible level of care, I need to know these things about you. I am not here to judge you. These are questions I ask all my patients. There are medical conditions that can rise in conjunction with certain sexual practices, which as your health care provider I need to be aware of. I'm sorry if these questions offend you, but I am only trying to do my job." He picked up the clipboard and regarded her levelly. "Now then, do you engage in anal sexual contact?" She flushed bright crimson at the question, and her glance moved back and forth between the doctor and Nurse Bowes. The nurse ignored her, entirely indifferent to her discomfort. "No! No, I absolutely do not engage in anal sexual contact," she said through clenched teeth. "One forty over eighty-four." The nurse pulled the cuff from his arm. "Seventy-eight beats per minute." "Good." The easy, genial smile came back. "My apologies for offending you. Eileen." She looked down, abashed. "It's okay. I know you're just trying to do your job." "See? That's better. Shall we get started?" He handed the clipboard to the nurse. With one hand on her shoulder, he unfastened the drawstring of the paper gown. She felt acutely aware of his presence. The heat of his hand through the thin paper made her shift uncomfortably. "We will start with a breast exam." He slipped the paper robe off one shoulder, exposing her breast to the cool air. She looked away, self-conscious. His fingers pressed and probed the soft skin; she flinched and drew away. His other hand remained firm on her shoulder, holding her steady. His hand slid under her breast, questing fingers probing and pressing, causing her to squirm in self-conscious embarrassment. The intimacy of the touch, and his clinical detachment, made her feel acutely self-aware. She trembled as his hand moved around her breast in a long slow spiral. He brushed her nipple. She suppressed a small shudder. Having a stranger's hands on her body in such a familiar way was almost unbearably uncomfortable. She sighed with relief when he finished and slipped the gown back up over her shoulder. "Now the other one." He undraped her other breast and repeated the procedure. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes as he caressed her breast, unable to keep herself from shrinking back from his probing fingers. "You seem distressed. Relax, please." His hand pressed more firmly as it slid up over the curve of her breast. He pinched her nipple, rolled it between his fingers. She moved to turn away; his other hand came up her back, and pressed her forward. "Don't move." She held her breath, eyes still closed tightly. His fingers manipulated her nipple. She froze and gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. Then he was finished. When he had covered her again, she sighed and opened her eyes. "Everything looks good." He nodded to the nurse, who made a notation on her clipboard. "That wasn't so bad, was it? Now if I can just get you to lie down flat on your back, please." He pulled the stirrups from the end of the table, unfolded them. "Place your feet here." She turned awkwardly and lowered herself onto the table. She stared at the ceiling as she moved her legs apart, placed her ankles in the cold metal stirrups. The gown offered little concealment; she felt awkward and horribly exposed. He drew up a small wheeled chair. "I don't mean to cause you any more discomfort than necessary, Eileen. However, I am going to have to strap you down now." He nodded to the nurse, who drew a pair of wide, heavy canvas straps from beneath one side of the examining table. Moving quickly, the nurse wrapped one of the straps around Eileen's upper arm and drew it tightly under the table again, pinning her arm in place. She repeated the same motions with the other strap, drawing Eileen's lower arm firmly against the table, binding it in place. "Hey! What—" "I'm sorry. New insurance regulations. Someone fell from an exam table last year in Wisconsin and sued the clinic, and now my insurance carrier requires me to provide safeguards against patient injury. You may file a formal complaint, if you like. My receptionist can give you the paperwork." She glared up at the ceiling and clenched her teeth. "Let's just get this over with." He nodded to the nurse, who with equal efficiency restrained Eileen's other arm, then drew a strap across Eileen's upper body, just above her breasts. Another strap was pulled over her hips and buckled into place, almost too tight for comfort. The doctor closed metal brackets around her ankles and latched them shut. Eileen tried to turn, and realized that the straps held her completely immobilized. The metal brackets held her ankles tightly, preventing her from drawing her knees together. A rush of emotions, discomfort and anxiety and a small tremor of fear, passed through her; she felt her heart beat faster, felt butterflies in her stomach. Cool air played between her legs, reminded her of how exposed she was. "Nurse Bowes, if you could prepare a tray for me, that would be lovely. Thank you." The nurse moved to the counter, drew out a steel tray piled with instruments. Eileen lay on her back, bound tightly to the table, legs spread wide, and listened to her heart pound. An inexplicable image of the woman she'd seen leaving—Kathy, did she say her name was?—flashed through her mind; for some reason she couldn't quite understand, the memory of the woman's face made her shudder. A strange tingle grew in her stomach. A sense of heat spread between her legs. She tried again to shift position on the table, but the straps held her down firmly. The tingle grew stronger. She felt lightheaded, and realized she'd been breathing heavily. "So how long have you and Anthony been together?" The doctor's voice, calm and reassuring, guided her back into reality. "About seven weeks. We met through a friend." She drew a shuddering breath and tried to relax. More butterflies fluttered in her stomach. He drew on a pair of gloves; for some reason she couldn't understand, the simple act made her heart lurch. He rolled the chair to the foot of the table, between her legs. His hand brushed her thigh; she closed her eyes and bit her lip. He leaned forward and spread her open with his fingers. "Nurse, please make a note that the subject is lubricating very heavily." "What did you say?" Eileen's voice sounded raspy and strained in her ears. He didn't reply. She felt the touch of cold metal, and then the unyielding inflexibility of a blunt steel speculum sliding into her. She whimpered involuntarily as it opened her up. More butterflies swirled in her stomach. She felt a profound feeling of helplessness. Fingers entered her, warm in contrast to the cold metal. She grunted, and pulled impotently against the straps. His fingers pressed deeper, and a sudden shiver ran down her spine. "So Anthony tells me that you have erotic dreams about being kidnapped and raped by pirates. Is that true?" His hand moved inside her, twisting, fingers pressing and probing, exploring her. "WHAT?! He told you that?" "Oh, yes. He's told me a great deal about you." His hand moved deeper still; she felt him pressing harder, felt herself stretching nearly to the point of pain to accommodate him. Her face turned crimson. She stared up at the ceiling, angry and humiliated. "That bastard!" she fumed. "Why would he say that? I can't believe he told you that! I've ever told anyone else!" "He's told me a great deal about you. We talk about you often." His fingers withdrew, and he slid the speculum out. He lifted a tube of lubricating jelly from the tray. "It's why I agreed to take you on. You're an interesting case." She felt something cool and wet being spread between her legs. "I know that as a young woman, you would masturbate to fantasies of being ravished by strangers, then feel guilty about it for days afterward." Something pressed against her, probing her, seeking entrance into her anus. She cried out in rage and shame. "How dare you! Let me go! This instant!" The feeling of pressure vanished. "Nurse, please make a notation that the subject is highly resistant to anal penetration even with a single finger." "What do you think you're doing?" Eileen roared. "I demand you release me at once!" The doctor gazed at her, unperturbed, and stroked his chin. "What do I think I'm doing? Hmm. Has Anthony told you why he sent you to me?" She craned her head forward and glared at him. "No?" He smiled. "No matter. I have a very…" He paused for a moment. "…specialized practice." His gloved hands slid over her inner thighs. "I train sex slaves." "What? Is that some kind of sick joke?" "Oh, no. No joke at all. Your fiancé brought you here so that I can evaluate your potential and develop a training program for you. He is independently wealthy, as you already know, so there is no need for you to work outside the home. He has…another job in mind for you. One besides just an ordinary housewife." His thumb pressed between the folds of her pussy lips. "Hmm. Make a notation that the subject appears quite agitated and upset at this point in the exam, and is lubricating much more heavily than before." "You're insane!" She twisted to look at the nurse. "He's insane! Help me! Call the police!" Samantha stared back at her, a strange, faraway look in her eyes. Her cheeks flushed, and as Eileen watched in horror, one hand crept up her body and fondled her breast through her uniform. Oh, my God, this is a nightmare! This is turning her on! Icy panic gripped her. She twisted and strained wildly against the straps. The doctor watched her with a benevolent smile. "Let me go!" "I am not finished with your evaluation yet." He rose from the chair and looked down at her. "I need to see how your body responds before I can recommend a program for you. Nurse, if you would, please…" Samantha set down the clipboard and stepped to the table. With a single quick motion, she tore the paper gown open, exposing Eileen completely. Two more quick motions and the gown lay in shreds on the floor. Eileen shrieked. "You may scream, if you like," the doctor said mildly. "Did you notice how thick the door to this room was? This particular room is entirely soundproofed. I do all my initial evaluations here." He crossed to one side of the examining room, and drew a long white curtain from the wall. "Now, you will not be permitted to watch the next part of the examination." He pulled it across a track in the ceiling, until it divided the room in half. The curtain hung directly over Eileen at mid-torso, draping across her body, preventing her from seeing him. She heard the sound of a zipper, followed closely by a rustle. Warm hands touched her thighs. His voice drifted through the curtain. "I am now going to begin my initial evaluation of the subject's response to undesired forcible sexual penetration." His hands moved up her thighs. "No!" She felt something press against her between her legs. "No, you can't do this! Those are just fantasies! They're not real! Stop!" In one smooth thrust, the doctor impaled her deeply. She screamed and threw herself violently against the straps. The nurse moaned. He took her roughly, violating her with a barrage of hard, deep thrusts. She screamed and twisted; tears poured from her eyes. "No! No! Stop!" His calm voice floated through the curtain. "Nurse, are the subject's nipples erect?" Samantha stood over her and leaned forward. Eileen saw with a sickening sensation that the nurse was flush with sexual arousal; her nipples stood prominently against the starched white uniform. She reached down and slid her hands over Eileen's breasts. Eileen screamed again and tried to will herself to sink down through the table, away from the humiliating touch. "Yes, Doctor." The nurse's hands groped and fondled her. "The subject's nipples are very hard. I think she likes this." "No!" Eileen shrieked. "No! Please! Please, please…" Her voice dissolved into sobs. On the other side of the curtain, the doctor thrust harder into her. "Nurse, please clamp the subject's nipples." Samantha withdrew two small objects from her pocket and leaned over again. Eileen felt something bite into her nipples, and screamed again. Fresh tears flowed. "Please! Please, you're hurting me!" "Yes," the nurse moaned. Her hands caressed her captive's breasts, stroked her shoulders. "And you look so beautiful this way." Her fingers combed through Eileen's long black hair. Eileen thrashed and cried, long sobs wracking her body. The doctor used her roughly, violently; his fingers dug into her thighs. Fire radiated from her nipples, spread through her body. The tingle returned, urgent, became a burning need, coiled deep inside her. Then, something within her exploded. The violation, the pain, her humiliation and shame, that strange butterfly feeling inside her—it all became too much, and in the instant when she could no longer bear it, it changed, became something new. Her screams changed, too, and wave after wave of agonizing, excruciating ecstasy slammed through her. She arched her back off the table, enslaved by the grip of the most intense orgasm she had ever known. When it was over, he withdrew from her. She lay naked and sweaty, bound to the table, whimpering softly. Her body shook. He drew back the curtain and removed the harsh metal clips from her nipples. New pain spiked through her breasts, drawing out a sharp gasp. "Nurse, please make a notation that the subject reached orgasm from unwanted forcible sex." Samantha drew her hand away from her breast, panting, on the edge of an orgasm of her own. She picked up the clipboard, forced herself back into composure. "Yes, Doctor."

“The movers should have brought all your boxes over while we were away and put them in one of the bedrooms upstairs. If you want, you can start unpacking this afternoon before the party.” “Okay,” Eileen agreed, glad of the opportunity to distract herself with something else. Without another word, turned her back on him and left. She climbed the sweeping stairway to the second floor and moved down the hallway, opening doors as she went. The movers had indeed done their job; Eileen found all her boxes stacked in a small, Spartan bedroom. The sight of all her worldly possessions, boxed up and neatly labeled, awaiting her in her new life, reminded her of how little she actually owned. She’d already sold or given away most of her furniture just before the wedding; the rest of her possessions occupied a surprisingly small space. She spent the next several hours in the bedroom alone, opening boxes, sorting her things, trying to decide what to do with them. Anthony had told her that any of the bedrooms upstairs could be hers if she liked. Somehow, arranging her things around the room didn’t seem to make the space feel like it belonged to her. The house was already completely furnished with Anthony’s things, and standing in the room trying to figure out what to do with the odds and ends of her life reminded her of that. She felt like she had set out to capture a husband, and bring him into her life, and somehow the exact opposite had happened. After a while, she grew restless and bored with unpacking, and decided to explore. The elaborate renovation and modernization of the house that Anthony had done downstairs didn’t seem to extend to the upper floor. Most of the upstairs doors opened into small bedrooms like the one in which her boxes were stored, each equipped with a small bed and night stand and each with a musty, disused feeling. One door revealed a narrow bathroom with an antique pull-chain toilet, a small porcelain sink, and white lace curtains. The only upstairs room she found that seemed to be in use was Anthony’s office, a large space with a computer desk and an enormous drafting table. A worn leather office chair on wheels sat in front of the largest monitor Eileen had ever seen, and stacks of drawings and papers sat piled around the desk in barely controlled chaos. The door at the very end of the hallway was locked. Eileen twisted the knob fruitlessly. She went back downstairs to find Anthony cleaning the enormous table in the formal dining room. “Anthony!” she said. “What’s in the room upstairs at the end of the hall?” He grinned his most mischievous grin, eyes sparkling. “I was wondering when you would ask me that. Follow me. Let me show you something.” Eileen followed him into the master bedroom. From the drawer in the night stand, he took a small, intricate wooden box, long but very narrow, and handed it to her. “Here. Look inside.” She opened the tiny latch and flipped back the lid. Within it, nestled in red satin, was an old-fashioned skeleton key made of silvery metal. She lifted it out of the box; it felt surprisingly heavy in her hand. Her name had been engraved in a flowing script along the barrel of the key. “What is this?” “It’s a key, silly!” he answered. “For the door. See for yourself!” She half-walked, half-ran up the stairs, suddenly overcome with curiosity. The key fit easily into the keyhole on that mysterious door, and it opened outward toward her. She had expected to see a room on the other side, but the door opened into a tiny space that looked like it had once been a closet. A narrow flight of wooden stairs angled steeply upward. They seemed to be an architectural afterthought, installed in the confined space long after the house had been built. She climbed the high wooden steps carefully, and found herself on a tiny landing barely large enough to stand on, facing another locked door. This one, too, submitted to the ministrations of the key and opened silently. Eileen stepped through into the room beyond. The space looked as though it had once been an attic that had been partly refinished but never quite completed. It was as wide as the bedrooms downstairs, and very long. The floor underfoot was made of narrow strips of wood, rough and slightly uneven. Daylight flooded in through three dormer-style windows extending outward through the wall, illuminating the space in a golden glow. Shafts of light hung like living things in the dust that danced in the air. The ceiling overhead slanted upward steeply along the length of the room, scarcely five feet tall where it met the outside wall, but more than twice that on the other wall. The entire length of the room was filled with a jumbled assortment of things that she had to work to make out. Beneath the window nearest to her, Eileen saw a low, wide bed, made of black iron, with a mattress that seemed to be covered in leather. Four manacles on short chains rested on the corners of the mattress, open, waiting. The chains seemed welded to the bed frame. Farther down, in front of the center window, she saw an old-fashioned stock, a heavy plank of wood with holes for a person’s head and arms resting on a wood pillar. It reminded her of the things she had seen in movies about colonial America, devices into which a person could be locked in the town square for some transgression, and ridiculed by the people passing by. Farther down still was the thing that Anthony had strapped her to in London, the device he’d called a “Sybian,” with its modifications—the dildo projecting through the upward arm, the cuffs into which he had placed her wrists. At the end of the room were two cages in black iron, one very tall and narrow, barely large enough to stand in, the other wide but only a couple feet high. The door to each cage stood open. Each had a large, black metal padlock hanging from the latch The far wall, opposite the windows, was lined with pegboards. From metal pegs hung an array of objects—a wide variety of paddles, some narrow, some wide, some made of leather and lined with fur, others made of wood; blindfolds; gags in different sizes and colors; clamps of all descriptions, some attached to long, thin chains; cuffs; coils of rope. Below the pegboards ran a long shelf with a row of dildos in an astonishing array of sizes, colors, and textures lined up neatly along it. Large bins of some white plastic were stacked in one corner. Vague shapes, unrecognizable through the milky plastic, lurked inside. From the ceiling overhead, heavy chains dangled. Round metal rings were bolted to the floor at regular intervals. Eileen took a trembling step backward. Strange, conflicted emotions battled in her. Her eyes moved wildly around the room, not quite able to take it all in. The arousal she had battled down earlier came roaring through her, causing sudden dampness between her legs. Her nipples hardened in response to the tension and longing that bubbled up from some deep wellspring inside her. She took another half-step back and ran into Anthony, who had climbed the stairs silently behind her. His hands slid around her from behind. “What do you think, little whore? I made this room just for you. When you are disobedient, you must be punished.” He kissed the back of her neck tenderly. “This is where your punishments will take place.” He cupped her breasts. His fingers danced over her nipples, drawing a moan from her. “And if experience is any indication, this is where you will have many orgasms indeed.” She shrank away from the room and its contents, pressing herself against him. She felt his erection through his pants, pressing into the cleft of her ass, and shuddered. The feel of his hands on her breasts brought the roiling arousal almost painfully to the surface. Without intending to, she ground her hips back against him. The feel of his hands on her body, his warmth, and the firmness of the bulge between his legs pressing against her were suddenly overwhelming. In that moment, the thing she wanted most in the world was for him to strip her bare, chain her down to that bed, and force his cock roughly into her. She moaned over and over again, pussy clenching. Then the moment was gone, and horror replaced the arousal. She squirmed away from him and fled for the stairs, nearly tripping in her haste to escape. The key dropped from her hands and bounced down the stairs after her. Anthony watched her go, smiling slightly. The door below slammed shut. He followed her at a leisurely pace. When he reached the key, he bent and picked it up, rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers. After he had locked the room back up and gone downstairs, he found Eileen sitting on a corner of the couch watching TV. He grinned and moved to kiss her, but she pulled from him and turned away. He went into the bedroom to return the key to its box in the night stand. When it was safely tucked away, he thought for a moment before he opened the drawer again and withdrew a compact folding knife—the same one he had used in London. When he came back out, Eileen was still sitting exactly where she had been, arms folded. Slowly, deliberately, Anthony stripped naked. A muscle in her neck twitched, but she gave no other indication that she was even aware of him. He sat next to her on the couch and moved to kiss her. She drew away again. He grabbed her arm and pulled her body toward his. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. He turned her around and kissed her hard. She squirmed and twisted in his grasp. He unfolded the knife one-handed with a practiced motion. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. He slipped the blade sideways under her shirtsleeve, and with one sweep sliced it almost all the way across. A flap of fabric fell away from her breast. She shivered and gasped. Anthony bent over to wrap his lips around her exposed nipple. She pressed into him, fingers curling through his hair. His tongue swirled around her nipple, and she sighed softly. With the sigh, her façade crumbled into dust. She could no longer push the arousal away. He straightened. She looked up at him, chest heaving, and made no move to resist as his strong hands tore away what was left of her shirt. Cold bright metal caressed her breast. She looked up at him, naked longing in her eyes, and her nipple tightened against the edge of the blade. “Yes,” she said softly. He set the knife carefully down on the coffee table before he turned his attention to her pants. She neither helped nor hindered as he unfastened them and pulled them from her. Wetness glistened between her folds. “From now on,” he said, “I want you to wear only skirts or dresses. Something that gives me easy access to your cunt. Now turn over.” He took her by the leg and turned her face down. He grabbed both of her ankles and dragged her around so she was kneeling over the cushion. She trembled, aching with longing and need, and waited for what would happen next.

   >I have an interesting night planned for you. I want you to be nice and clean when we start. Strip and take a shower. I’ll watch. When you’re done, bring the toys out to the living room and wait for further instructions.< The words hung there in the chat window, a few simple lines of text that made my heart race. I smiled at the round unwinking eye of the tiny camera atop my laptop. I imagined him sitting on a bed in some forgettable hotel room in Los Angeles, loosening his clothes. I rose from the couch, excitement rising inside me, fingers already unbuttoning my blouse. I let my hands wander over my body, caressing myself through the thin fabric, before I slipped it off my shoulders. I could feel his eyes on me like a physical thing through the unwavering gaze of the camera. Smiling, I unhooked my bra. I slid my hands over my breasts, teasing my nipples until they hardened. We have an arrangement, Robert and I. He tells me what to do, and I do it. When we first met six years ago, I’d just come out of a long and vaguely dissatisfying relationship, perfect in every way save that I always had an undefined sense that something was missing. When I met Robert, that changed. My life now looks nothing like my life then. It’s not really that simple, of course. Banker by day, submissive sex kitten by night...it’s more complicated than it sounds. After he was promoted to field engineer and started spending a lot of time on the road, it got even more complicated. His long absences forced us to get creative. Eventually, we came up with a system to keep our relationship going even during his long absences. Part of that system is the network of tiny cameras and microphones in every room of the house, all connected to a server in the closet, running custom software he’s written. He can see and hear everything in the house. The system is purely one-way; he usually keeps the camera in his laptop turned off, so I can’t see or hear him. I am limited to words on a screen, floating in a chat window. It’s more exciting that way. My mind has to fill in the details. I imagine him taking off his clothes, picture what he is doing to himself while I perform for him. I can’t see the effect I’m having on him. That encourages me to go overboard when I perform, just to be sure. I bent over to slip off my shoes, giving the camera a good view of my breasts. Next, I unhooked the skirt and let it fall. Naked, I caressed my body with my hands again, feeling myself beginning to get wet already. He likes when I wear skirts with nothing underneath. Easier access, he says. I smiled and winked over my shoulder to the camera in the corner near the ceiling. I could almost feel him watching me as I walked into the bathroom. The camera in the bathroom is mounted just above the door, where it looks into the glass-enclosed walk-in shower. I flipped on the water and let it warm up while I went into the bedroom to find a prop. He’d been teasing me all day, sending me text messages on my phone to let me know that he had something special lined up for the evening, so I decided to return the favor by giving him a show. He gets hot watching me shower. A little turnabout seemed in order. Back into the bathroom, I stepped into the enclosure, letting the spray of water cascade around me. I was curious what entertainments his imagination had dreamed up for the evening. When he’s out of town, he loves watching me put on shows for him, telling me what to do to myself for the cameras. I had a feeling that tonight he might have something new up his sleeve. Curiosity fueled my excitement. I leaned back under the water, closing my eyes and shuddering slightly, and ran my fingers through my long black hair. I was looking forward to the evening. When he first started spending long weeks on the road, our relationship suffered. But the new traditions we built helped us bridge those times, and eventually even brought us closer together. I loved the shows I did for him, delighted in the imaginative ways he found for me to please him even from thousands of miles away. He became even more imaginitive in the ways he exercised his control over me, and I took delight in finding new ways to use my body to tease and pleasure him. I poured a large dollop of shampoo into my hand and began lathering my hair, letting the thick sudsy lather run down my back. I turned toward the clear glass shower door, making sure the camera had a good view as I ran my hands down over my body, fondling and caressing my breasts. I felt my nipples grow harder as I soaped my breasts languidly, taking my time, cupping and squeezing them for the camera. I picked up the toy I’d brought into the shower with me—a thick, heavy silicone dildo. I stroked it sensuously, wondering if, in his far-away hotel room, he was thinking about my hand sliding along his cock. When it was sudsy, I leaned back against the wall of the shower, arching my back and sliding the dildo slowly up and down between my breasts. I gradually moved it faster and faster as I slid my other hand over my body, fondling myself and pinching my nipples. I moaned, just loud enough for the microphone to pick up over the sound of the running water. When I felt myself starting to clench between my legs, I picked up the bottle of body wash. Holding the bottle high over my body, I squeezed sharply. A jet of thick white cream spurted over the head of dildo and across my breasts. I let out a gasp as it spattered over me. I looked at myself in the mirror on the far wall. My breasts and body were covered in thick lather from the shampoo, and I was splattered with creamy white body wash. I set down the dildo and picked up a sponge, wetting it in the streaming water from the shower, and began washing myself. The sponge soon became very soapy as I scrubbed myself. I slid it between my legs and squeezed, sending sudsy water coursing down my inner thighs as I moved it against my clit. I had intended to linger over myself, giving Robert a nice, long show, but it didn’t take long before my heart started hammering wildly with an oncoming orgasm. I pressed the dildo slowly into my desperate pussy and held it there, relishing the way it filled me. My fingers danced over my clit, faster and faster, until I felt that moment where I balanced on the edge of a long, hard orgasm. At the last possible moment, I stopped, sliding the dildo out and dropping it to the shower floor. One of the rules of our relationship is that I am not allowed to come without his permission. It’s a fun game to see how close I can get myself, knowing that if I go too far and slip over the edge, I can expect a sound spanking—or worse—on his return. He loves seeing the desperation on my face, the wild frantic need written in my body. I took my hands away and leaned against the wall, gasping, my body shuddering. I was already worked up into a state of absolute desperation, and we hadn’t even started yet. I suspected that in some nameless hotel room half a continent away, Robert was almost as turned on as I was. Finally, I turned off the shower and dried myself with a big, fluffy blue towel. I put on a gauzy, translucent robe, and went back into the bedroom. I picked up the large box of toys from its place beneath the night stand and went back out into the living room, where I seated myself on the couch in front of my laptop. “What did you think?” I asked, smiling at the tiny camera.    >Very nice.< “I’m all nice and clean now,” I said. “Did you enjoy the show?”    >I don’t think you’re clean at all. I think you are a very, very dirty girl.< “How can I be dirty? I just took a shower!”    >Some kinds of dirt can’t be washed away. Are you wet between your legs?< I leaned back on the couch, letting the robe fall open as I spread my legs wide. I brought a finger to my lips and flicked my tongue against it, then ran my fingertips very lightly down my body. I caressed my breasts lightly, running just the tips of my fingers over them. Then I continued moving my hand down across my belly and over my mound. I slipped one finger inside myself, causing my breath to catch in my throat. “Yes,” I gasped.    >You like being a dirty little slut, don’t you? I bet you’re pretty worked up right now.< I whimpered, eyes half-closed, running my finger in small circles inside myself. “Oh, yes. You have no idea.” My other hand moved to fondle my breast. “I need it.”    >Stop what you’re doing. Stand up and take off your robe. Let me see you.< I whimpered as I slid my finger out. I rose and slid the gossamer robe from my shoulders, letting it fall at my feet.    >Good girl. I want you to show off that body of yours. Get the oil. Oil yourself up.< I opened the toy box—actually a large red and black tool chest with drawers and little compartments, repurposed for storing erotic accessories. We keep everything that I might need for these shows in there, including a bottle of massage oil. I poured the oil into my hands. With a smile at the camera, I began caressing myself, oiling my arms and neck, running my hands down my sides, smoothing the oil over the sides of my breasts. I lifted one leg onto the coffee table, offering a close up view of my pussy as I oiled my leg. I repeated the process with my other leg, stroking and caressing the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. I stepped back, my body glistening.    >Very nice. You look positively delightful. Grab your breasts.< I slid my hands over my breasts, feeling my nipples harden again. “Mmm...”    >Not like that. Listen carefully. From now on, your hands are my hands. When I tell you to touch yourself, I want you to picture my hands doing the touching, do you understand?< I nodded. “Yes.”    >Good. Put some more oil in your hands.< I picked up the oil and spread it over my hands, entranced. An icon on the screen that told me he was still typing.    >Now grab your breasts HARD! Your hands are my hands, and I intend to be rough with you this evening. You know how I like to touch you.< I grabbed my breasts and twisted them, harder than I had intended to. A cry escaped my lips. I felt myself plummeting into that place where I became his, completely, and everything he did was bliss. My hands, unbidden, continued to squeeze and twist my breasts roughly. I felt my fingers—his fingers—bite down tightly on my nipples, and I cried out again. I felt them pull, stretching my nipples and clamping down still harder, until I gasped in pain.    >Good girl. Sit down on the couch. Spread your legs nice and wide for me. Keep squeezing your breasts with one hand. Put your other hand between your legs. Shove those fingers hard into that delicious little cunt of yours.< I sat with my legs spread wide, my knees hooked up over the arms of the couch. One hand fondled and squeezed my breast. Shivers ran through my body. I slid my other hand between my legs, delighting in the shivers that ran through my body. I penetrated myself hard with two fingers. My hands seemed possessed, moving of their own volition, beyond my control. My fingers thrust roughly and insistently in and out of my dripping pussy. I squeezed my breast hard, eyes tightly closed, as the world shrank away. For a time, the only thing that was real was the feel of my hands, groping me, penetrating me. A series of short, sharp cries escaped my lips as my fingers thrust deep. Soon I felt the hot flush of an orgasm building between my legs. It took every ounce of willpower I could muster to jerk my hands away. I heard myself scream, a desperate cry of anguish, as my fingers withdrew. I leaned back against the cushions, panting and gasping, my eyes half-closed and my body quivering. Finally, after some timeless time, my breathing slowed and the world began to reappear around me. I opened my eyes and looked at the computer.    >No, no, no. That won’t do at all. You only have two fingers inside yourself. Pick up the oil. Spread yourself open. Pour the oil over your cunt. I’m waiting...< My fingers slid back between my legs. I spread the lips of my pussy open for the camera, imagining what it must look like on his screen. I picked up the bottle and poured it slowly in a thin stream over my lips. The sensation of the cool oil dripping over my exposed clit made me shiver. A small pool formed on the leather cushion of the couch, oozing down between my ass cheeks. I heard myself moan softly, as if from a great distance.    >Now get three fingers in there.< I set down the bottle and ran my fingertips lightly over my slippery pussy. Slowly, teasingly, I slid three fingers inside me. I gasped and rocked my hips against my hand, driving the fingers deeper.    >Spread yourself open. Angle your hips toward the camera. Let me see.< I pressed my hips forward, pushing my fingers deeper still and spreading them apart, forcing myself open. A feeling of vulnerability and exposure washed over me as I spread myself intimately for him, letting the camera peer deep into me.    >Very nice, but we’re still missing something. Get out the small vibrator. You know the one. Lube too. Get the vibrator all slippery.< “Oh! Do you want me to—”    >Yes.< My hands shook as I reached for the toy box. I fumbled for a bit, then slowly withdrew a slender but powerful vibrator, a bit bigger in diameter than my thumb, and the tube of lube. I could still feel the oil squishing its way between my legs. I squeezed a thick ribbon of lube along the hard plastic vibrator, hands trembling. “Do you want me to—”    >Yes. You know what to do.< I spread my legs again, tilting my hips to give the camera atop the laptop a better view as I pressed the blunt end of the vibrator against the entrance to my ass.    >Good girl. All at once. Say you’re a slut when you push it in.< My cheeks suddenly flamed. “But—”    >Do it. Say it loud. Push it in. Say you’re a slut.< I took a deep breath, then in one smooth motion, I slid the vibrator deep into my ass. “I’m a slut!” I cried. “Oh, God, I’m a slut!” I felt my anus close tightly around the intrusion. “I’m a dirty, filthy whore! Oh, my God!”    >Turn it on.< I whimpered. “No! I’ll come!”    >Turn it on. All the way. Don’t you dare come.< That vibrator is one of my favorite toys, but it is also a source of merciless torment. When it’s buzzing deep in my ass, it’s almost impossible for me not to come. Robert knows exactly what it does to me. He’s fond of using it to torture me. He loves making me masturbate with it but refusing to allow me to orgasm. It’s difficult under the best of circumstances—I have earned many spankings courtesy of what it does to me. Tonight, as worked up as I was, keeping control of myself would be especially difficult.    >Turn it on. Now.< I reached between my legs and twisted the small knob. It came to life instantly, sending shockwaves through my body. “Oh, oh God,” I moaned, struggling to keep control.    >Does that feel good?< “Oh, God, yes,” I said.    >I have a surprise for you. I didn’t tell you earlier. I gave the address of the server to a friend of mine. He’s been watching you all evening.< “What?” I sat bolt upright, my face flushing red. Embarrassment, shame, disbelief, and humiliation poured through me. Heat traveled up to my ears. My pussy twitched, and I suddenly became aware of how hard my nipples were. I covered my breasts with one arm, reaching for the robe with the other. “You wouldn’t!”    >I would. I did. Put the robe down. Take your arm away from your breasts.< I slowly dropped the robe, my eyes averted from the camera.    >I said take your arm away from your breasts. Do it now.< My face turned even hotter as I slowly did as I was told, still not looking at the camera. I could feel the insistent buzz of the vibrator buried deep in my ass, and my shame battled with arousal. “Who—“    >No. I’m not going to tell you. Don’t you worry about it. He can’t see what I’m typing, but he can see and hear you. Now turn toward the camera and spread your legs.< “No!” I said. My arms rose of their own volution to cover my breasts again. The idea that someone else might be in on my show, that I might be performing for someone besides Robert, frightened me. “I can’t!”    >You should not have said no. Open the toy box. Take out the speculum.< “You can’t be serious!”    >Are you going to say “no” again?< I shook my head, silently, my eyes downcast. I reached into the toy box, trembling, one arm still draped over my breasts. The metal speculum felt heavy in my hands. My heart thudded. He knows how embarrassing it is for me when he spreads me open; the idea that he would make me open myself up like that for someone else mortified me. He was bluffing. That had to be it. He wouldn’t really make me do this while someone else watched, right? He was goading me, trying to see how I’d react. There was probably nobody else watching the feed at all. I held my breath, telling myself over and over that it was a bluff. I felt a stab of disappointment at the thought. He’d teased me about it before, talked about making me show off to other people. The idea always filled me with dread and excitement in equal measure. I suddenly became aware again of the vibrator buzzing in my anus, and without warning a dizzying wave of raw sexual arousal swept over me. My body seemed to have a few ideas of its own about being put on display for other people. I reached down automatically to touch myself, stopping suddenly with my hand halfway between my legs. The sight of the tiny camera lens made me realize what I was doing. I snatched my hand away and covered my breasts again. The chat window told me that he was composing a message, and my breath caught in my throat, waiting for him to tell me he’d made it up, it was a ruse to provoke a reaction out of me...    >You are not doing what you are supposed to be doing. Put the speculum down on the couch next to you. Take your arm away from your breasts and sit facing the camera directly. Do not try to cover yourself.< I shuddered again, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. Turning toward the camera, my legs held tightly together, I slowly drew my arms away from my breasts. It’s a bluff, I thought. You can do this, Jackie. It’s a bluff, it’s a bluff, it’s a bluff... Yet I could almost feel a strange pair of eyes on me. I wondered what he was doing, that strange man who might be watching me. Was he aroused? Naked? Stroking himself while he watched? The idea made me shiver. I imagined him, this stranger, sitting alone in a dark room, watching me on his computer...watching me shower, watching as I ran my hands over my body, coveting me as I oiled myself up. I could picture him fantasizing about me as I masturbated, wanting me, hungering for me as I put on my obscene show. I began touching myself unconsciously, my hands squeezing and fondling my slippery breasts. The vibrator inside me worked its insistent magic, and I felt the familiar heat begin building within me. I opened my eyes and looked at the screen.    >Your hands are my hands. Remember?< I nodded silently.    >Put your hands on your knees. Force your legs apart. Nice and wide. Let us see you.< I slid my hands down my body. I could feel the quivering tension in me, the little trembles of excitement and embarrassment. When my hands reached my knees, I gripped them tightly, the way I knew he would. I pictured my mystery admirer, imagined how desperate he was to see me open my legs for him, visualized him leaning toward the glowing screen, eyes lit up with excitement. In one sudden motion, I pushed my legs apart, spreading them wide for the camera, exposing my oiled pussy and the end of the vibrator buried deep in my ass.    >Fuck your ass.< I grabbed the end of the vibrator with both hands and began thrusting it savagely, rocking my hips on the couch to receive each thrust. With every thrust, I cried out, arching my back with desperate pleasure. Deep down inside, I felt shame and humiliation building, as I imagined a strange man’s eyes greedily devouring the sight.    >What are you? Say it!< “I’m a slut! I’m a dirty, filthy anal slut! Oh, God, I’m a dirty little cock whore!” The humiliation grew as the words spilled out of my lips, not only for what I was saying and doing in front of a stranger but also for the fact that I wanted it, that knowing he was watching turned me on, that I wanted to fuck myself in the ass until I came for him. I knew in that instant that I wanted him to see me in the throes of orgasm, wanted him to know what a slut I was. “God, I’m so dirty, I want to come, please let me come!”    >No. Stop. Take your hands away from your body. Stop touching yourself.< A howl of frustration ripped its way out of me. I grabbed the arms of the couch, my fingers digging into the soft leather as I struggled to stop the orgasm, to calm down. My breathing came in ragged gasps. I thought about a stranger seeing me this way, oiled and sweaty and desperate. The thought nearly sent me over the edge. I dug my fingers harder into the sofa as the vibrator buzzed demonically, urging me on. I wanted to come so badly that for a moment, just for a moment, I considered giving in, and accepting whatever punishment I might receive for having an unauthorized orgasm. Another impulse, just as strong, came over me, to show the unknown watcher how obedient I was. I battled the orgasm down, and finally felt it slip away from me    >Good. Good girl. Are you my slut?< I nodded wordlessly, panting.    >Say it!< “I’m your slut! I’m your obedient little fuck toy!” The words came surprisingly easily. He loves making me talk dirty, loves hearing me call myself all kinds of filthy names. It excites me too, even when—in fact, especially when—it’s hard to do.    >Yes, you are. Keep your legs apart. Take a dildo out of the toy box. Put it on the couch next to the speculum.< I reached into the toy box and withdrew a large black dildo, deeply textured and veined, with a wide head. I set it on the couch next to the gynecological tool, my body still screaming its need.    >I want to see how wet you are. Use the speculum. Spread that cunt wide open.< I felt myself turn red, barely choking back the “No!” even as my hands found the cold metal instrument. I watched myself as if in a dream, saw myself slide it into my throbbing pussy. I heard myself gasp as the cold, hard metal violated me, felt myself moan as I worked the lever to stretch myself open wide. The vibrator in my ass made the metal speculum buzz, sending ripples of sensation through my body. I wondered if the man watching me had ever seen a woman so exposed, had ever looked so deeply and intimately into her sex.    >Look at you! You have creamy white juices just dripping out of you. I’ve been recording this evening’s activities on my hard drive; I can hardly wait to watch it with you.< Instantly, the shame rose in me again, at the thought of watching myself so aroused by my responses to the unknown observer. I shrunk away from the camera, partly covering my breasts with my hands, my legs still spread.    >Don’t cover yourself! We’re not even close to being finished yet. You still have more of a show to put on. Pick up the dildo.< I did as I was told, grabbing the center of the thick silicone dildo with both hands.    >That’s better. Bring it up to your lips. Kiss the head. Leave your legs spread. Show him what an oral slut you are. He’s seen what you can do with your cunt and your ass. I want him to see what you can do with your mouth.< I started to speak, even as my hands rose automatically, bringing the thick head of the dildo to my mouth; what came out was a surprised and muffled squeak. I thought about the mystery man masturbating as he watched. I wondered if he was fantasizing about bringing his cock to my lips. My pussy twitched against the vibrating speculum.    >Kiss it. Run your tongue around it. Make him want you.< I closed my eyes and parted my lips, bringing the head of the dildo partway into my mouth as I kissed it sensuously. My tongue rolled over tip, slowly, as I pictured myself bringing a warm, soft penis into my mouth. Without warning or conscious thought, my hands twitched upward, pushing it deep. A surprised moan, muffled by the dildo, escaped me.    >Greedy girl! Look at that hungry mouth. You want it pretty bad, don’t you? Suck that dildo. Show him how you like to suck cock.< I slid the rubber phallus out of my mouth, very slowly, letting my tongue caress the head as it slipped from between my lips. Leaning back on the couch, I slid it into my mouth again, still moving slowly. My hand slid sensuously up and down along the shaft as I drew it deeper. My eyes closed again as I teased it the way I like to tease a cock, moving my lips in long, slow strokes up and down. I pictured the man standing in front of me, imagined myself on my knees, taking his cock into my mouth, running my tongue along the underside of his erect penis. I drew the dildo out of my mouth again, running my tongue along its length the way I wanted to with his cock. I imagined myself teasing him, driving him wild with lust. I felt my hips begin to move, thrusting slowly up and down, pressing the vibrator deeper and feeling the metal speculum hum within me. I moaned around the dildo, imagining myself taking his cock all the way into my mouth, feeling it at the back of my throat. I wanted to make him frantic. I wanted to make him as desperate and needy as I was, bringing him to the edge, denying him release, over and over again until he grabbed my hair and fucked my mouth passionately. I wanted him to explode, his come gushing down my throat. I wanted him to call me names, say dirty things to me as his semen filled my mouth. I wanted... I became aware that I was moaning steadily as I sucked, my hips bucking against the couch. My body shooked. Pleasure started to take me. I pulled the dildo from my lips and screamed, grabbing my breasts tightly with my hands, my fingers digging in hard, twisting them, hoping the pain would help me regain control. My eyes squeezed shut as I struggled to hold off the orgasm, feeling my pussy beginning to contract painfully around the speculum. Finally, the feeling ebbed, leaving me shaking and gasping, so close that in that instant I felt I would give anything, absolutely anything, just to be allowed to come. My eyes snapped open, and I looked at the computer screen, barely able to focus.    >Stop. Take the speculum and the vibrator out.< I reached down and pulled the instrument out of my pussy, crying out as it slipped out. I pulled the vibrator out in one smooth motion, gasping again, and turned it off. I collapsed against the back of the sofa, panting hard, feeling empty.    >Now pay attention. I am about to give you some instructions. I expect you to obey these instructions to the letter. Do you understand?< I nodded weakly, unable to speak.    >Good. First, I want you to shut down the server. Stop the video feeds. Set the camera in the living room and the one on your laptop to record to disk. In exactly three and one-half minutes, there will be a knock at the door. You will open it wide. Do not get dressed. Do not attempt to hide yourself in any way. A man will be there. Let him in. You will do whatever he tells you. You will let him do whatever he pleases to you. The cameras will record the entire thing. I will not be watching. You and he will be alone.< “What?!” I sat bolt upright. Fear, shame, and humiliation swept over me in a wave, and I felt my nipples tighten again.    >When I come home, I will watch the recording you have made. I will expect to see you give your body to him completely. After he is finished with you and he has left, turn the video feeds back on and let me see you. I will be waiting.< The chat program flashed a message to tell me he had signed off. I sat on the couch trembling, fear and lust and need battling within me. Slowly, I reached out to the computer and did as I had been instructed, shutting down the video feeds, setting the cameras to record to disk. Then, shaking, I waited.

Large things often begin with small things, easily overlooked. The late nights were easy to explain. He was a junior lawyer at a huge firm, looking to make partner; it might have been more surprising if he didn’t come home late. The random hair on his shirt collar could be completely innocuous; after all, he worked with clients every day. The tiny corner of a foil wrapper she found on the back seat of his car might have been from a condom, sure; but it could just as easily have been from a packet of ketchup, a remnant of a late afternoon lunch on the way back to the office. Small things, easily explained. But sometimes, small things hint at bigger things. It was a slip of paper that finally convinced her. A small thing, just a couple of inches wide, with a few lines of text printed on it. She stared at it for a while as its meaning sank in. He’d said he was at the office, working on an important case for a prominent client. Yet here it was, this slip of paper on the floor of his car, quietly declaring that on that Friday evening, he had paid for parking at a cheap motel on the far side of town, not too distant from the office. Small things are easily overlooked, until the day they become big things. For days, she moved in a haze, shocked, wondering what to do. Part of her wanted to confront him, yell angry accusations at him, but she still wasn’t quite sure. A trail of small things, however convincing, never leads to the whole truth. Asking him seemed pointless. Each small sign had, on its own, any number of innocent explanations. Only taken together did they hint at something hidden. And there was something surprising in the way she felt. She was angry, of course, but beneath the anger and the betrayal, those small hints stirred up something else as well, some vague feeling she didn’t understand, something hard to pin down. So she waited. About a month after the discovery of the parking receipt, she found her opportunity. An old acquaintance, almost forgotten, messaged her to remind her of her high school reunion. The prospect of spending a night in a distant city talking with half-remembered strangers from years ago sounded dreadful, but the invitation brought the outlines of an idea. She mentioned it casually to her husband. He looked at his calendar and shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I’ll have to be in the office all weekend working on the Rothchild Enterprises account. They’re buying one of their competitors. It’s keeping all of us busy.” “Well, then, I won’t go,” she said. “It’s not really that big a deal. I hardly know these people anyway.” “No!” he said. “No, I think you should go. How many high school reunions do you ever get to have?” “Well...” “I’ll be fine. You can fly out on Friday and come back Sunday night.” “Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?” “Positive. It’s settled.” She smiled to herself. As easily as that, the trap was set. Over the next few days, she went through the motions of preparing for the trip. She pretended to buy airline tickets online. She packed a suitcase with clothes she wouldn’t need. When the day came, she kissed him goodbye, explaining that she would take a cab to the airport and would not be home when he finished work. Then she watched him leave, smiling a secret inner smile. The moment he was gone, she sprang into action. She rearranged the closet to make room for a small folding chair. From it, the louvered doors offered a passable view of the bed. That task done, she left the house, navigating through twisty suburban streets onto the interstate. She drove south for a time, until the city gave way to sleepy bedroom communities. Before long, she found what she was looking for, a generic, big-box discount store, its parking lot crowded with cars. She stood inside the cavernous store, in front of long counters crowded with digital cameras. Eventually, her obvious indecision attracted the attention of a salesman. He smiled as he approached, eyes flicking with detached hunger over her body. “Can I help you, miss?” “Misses,” she said. “Mrs. Silver. Or Ms, maybe. That remains to be seen.” She flashed him a wide smile. “Maybe we should just stick with Amy. I’m looking for something small, that can take stills and movies. Lots of memory.” “Not a problem,” he said. “We have lots—” “And fast,” she added. “No shutter lag. I don’t like cameras that have a long delay after you push the button.” “Ah,” he said. “That narrows the field a bit. What sort of photography are you doing?” “Action shots,” she said. A quick, wry smile flickered across her lips. “I expect.” “Um, I see. Outdoors?” The quick smile flickered again. “Unlikely. It’s possible, I suppose.” “Okay, Mrs...um, Amy. So you want good low-light sensitivity and fast shutter response, on top of small and high-capacity. I hope you weren’t expecting cheap.” “No,” she said sardonically, “I suppose that would be a bit much to ask, wouldn’t it?” “Well,” he said, “we have a couple of models that fit the bill. This one—” “—is red,” she said. “I like it. I’ll take it.” “But don’t you want to see the other?” “Will this one do what I need?” “Um...yeah, it will. Sure.” “If this will do what I need it to do, it’s fine. Thank you.” “You make decisions quickly,” he said. She raised an eyebrow. “I try.” With the new camera tucked safely in her handbag, she got in her car and threaded her way through traffic. The Friday afternoon snarl on the freeway was much worse than usual. She sat idling in the warm midday sun, surrounded by cars, watching the clock count the minutes. Her anxiety grew. She was embedded in a solid mass of unmoving traffic. If he got home before she did, the plan would be ruined. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. The wall of car crept forward. Ahead of her, Amy saw flashing lights. Only one lane was open. She glanced at the clock. Less than forty-five minutes remained until he was off work. Panic gripped her. What if he left the office early? It was important to get home before he did. She made a decision and jerked the wheel, squeezing through a narrow gap and cutting across a lane of traffic to an exit. She had a brief glimpse of a startled face staring at her from the car next to her, eyes wide. She guided the car through Boston’s bizarre tangle of surface streets, heart beating fast. What if the trail of small things didn’t lead anywhere at all? They might be completely innocent, an unfortunate confluence of events creating an illusion, a phantasm preying on her suspicions. She frowned. The thought filled her with a strange sense of disappointment. She caught that feeling like a fish in a net and looked at it, turning it over in her mind. The idea that he was capable of betraying her offended her on a very deep level. But there was something else there, too, lurking in the basement of her subconscious; some other feeling she hadn’t quite pieced together yet. There would be time to think about that later. Right now, she had to get home. Traffic on the surface roads was only slightly better than on the freeway. By the time she’d reached her neighborhood, the clock stood at five minutes to five. Thankfully, the driveway was empty when she pulled in. She breathed a sigh of relief and walked into the house, clutching her purse tightly. She carried the new camera into the closet. With the door closed, the space was cramped. The slats in the door partly blocked her view. It took some experimenting to find a position that offered a good shot of the bed. She played with the settings, changing the sensitivity and silencing the beep. Soon, everything was in place. She thought about what she might see, wondering whether her suspicions were fantasies of an overactive imagination. What would she do if nothing happened? She would have to explain why she was sitting in the closet with a camera instead of on her way to her reunion. He would likely be upset at her suspicion. How would she explain herself? On impulse, she undressed and slipped into a silk robe, cream colored, printed with cranes and reeds. Perhaps, she thought, if nothing happened, she could say she had decided to surprise him with a weekend of sexy romping, a reward for all his hard work. Perhaps that was what she really wanted after all, and her suspicions were just tricks played on her by her own mind... Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car in the driveway. Seconds later, she heard another car. Her pulse quickened. She heard a key in the front door. She looked out through the louvers, holding her breath, waiting. Her eyes widened at the sight of her purse sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. The front door opened. With a deep breath, she darted out of the closet. Moving quietly, heart pounding, she snatched the purse. A feminine laugh, low and throaty, came from just outside the bedroom door. The doorknob turned. She froze, trapped. The closet suddenly seemed miles away; there was no way she would make it in time. Her blood froze. The door opened. She ducked beneath the bed, clutching her purse tightly. She saw a familiar pair of shoes come into the room. Her breath caught in her throat. The bed offered a poor hiding place. In just a second, he would see her... An unfamiliar voice came from outside the bedroom. Footsteps came down the hall. “Hey, sexy,” said the strange voice. “Where did you go?” “Over here,” her husband answered. “In the bedroom.” “My, aren’t you eager,” the strange voice said. Beneath the bed, Amy held her breath. The shoes came closer. “No time like the present,” he said. The bed bowed as he sat. From inches away, Amy watched him unlace his shoes, slip them off. She closed her eyes, trying to stop her heart from pounding. She could easily reach out and touch him. “Offer a girl a drink?” “Sure!” The bed creaked as he stood. Amy peered out, watching his feet head for the door. A second later, the doorway was clear. She rolled out from under the bed and bolted into the closet, heart hammering. More laughing from the front of the house. The refrigerator opened. Glass clinked. A thump sounded, like someone being pressed against a wall. Wild and tangled emotions surged through her. More sounds came from the kitchen, muffled and indistinct. Low voices, the words unintelligible, reached the closet. Time slowed. She stayed in her hiding place, hardly daring to breathe, for what felt like an eternity. The giggling from the kitchen turned to a gasp. She heard a soft moan. “Oh!” said the unfamiliar voice. “Hello, sailor.” More laughter, followed by another moan. Waiting in the tiny space, surrounded by his shirts, Amy felt a powerful surge of jealousy, so strong it made her hands shake. She battled down the urge to leap from the closet to confront him, telling herself to be patient, to wait until he gave her the opportunity to collect irrefutable evidence of his wrongdoing. A laugh rippled through the air. “You have a lovely home,” the unfamiliar voice said. “What’s down this way?” “Let me show you.” Her husband’s voice sounded warm, playful. Amy seethed, roiling with anger. Footsteps sounded in the hall, drawing nearer. Her heart beat so furiously she felt it would surely give her away. Footsteps reached the doorway. Amy held her breath, frozen in place. “Wow!” the stranger’s voice said. “That’s the most beautiful bed I’ve ever seen!” Anger flared hot inside her. How dare you! she thought. How dare you come into our home like this! The woman giggled again. She heard a thump against the bedroom door. From where she sat, she could just make out her husband, pressing the stranger against the door. The closet constrained her view; no matter how she twisted, she couldn’t quite see the interloper. She heard a sigh. “Mmm, that’s nice,” came the voice. Amy felt hot, dizzy with anger. Not yet, she told herself, not yet. Wait. A tightness formed in her chest. He backed up, a smile on his face, until he collided with the edge of the bed. Then, at last, the woman came into view. Waves of red hair spilled down over her shoulders. She wore a white blouse and a long skirt in deep navy. She pushed him down onto the bed and straddled him. Amy peered through the slats, shaking with rage. The woman slid her hands over her husband’s shoulders. Their lips met. She watched them kiss. A complex knot of betrayal, anger, and jealousy welled up inside her. He drew her closer. His hands slid up her back. From her hiding place, Amy watched the woman lean over, her hands on his chest. She kissed him deeply. As their hands traveled over each other, Amy felt something new, a wild hunger that grew within the swirling tempest of emotions. The two of them, her husband and this intruder, touched each other with the easy comfort of familiarity. With a start, she remembered the camera in her hand. The woman took her husband’s wrists and pinned them to the bed, leaning over him, her long hair falling down around her face. Amy raised the camera and started snapping pictures. The air in the closet closed around her, suffocating. The woman unbuttoned his shirt. He reached up to unfasten the buttons on her blouse, one by one. Amy’s hands shook so strongly that she nearly dropped the camera. The stranger parted her husband’s shirt. Her hands caressed his bare chest. He pulled her blouse open to reveal a black lace bra with red trim. His hands folded over her breasts. She sighed. Amy felt a hot flush pass through her. She watched, panting, while her husband slid his hands over her shoulders, letting the blouse fall. He unfastened the woman’s bra, exposing firm breasts with bright pink nipples. Through the tumultuous anger that seethed inside her, Amy felt the strange longing grow stronger. Her skin buzzed. She kept watching, taking photo after photo from the closet while his hands explored the strange woman’s body. The woman sat upright, still straddling him. With a shrug of her shoulders, the lace bra fell away. She smiled down at him, finger tracing over his chest. “We have the whole weekend to ourselves?” He smiled. “All weekend.” His fingers stroked her nipples. “How delightful.” She leaned forward. Their lips met again. Amy shuddered. Hot anger surged in her. Beneath it, the strange longing grew. The camera in her hand whirred and clicked. The kiss went on. The strange woman on Amy’s bed pressed herself tightly against him, hot and eager. His hands ran lightly up her back. She sighed, a soft sound that sent a jolt through Amy’s body. Amy felt hypnotized, unable to take her eyes off the scene unfolding on the other side of the flimsy slatted door. The woman’s hair formed a cascade of fire down her back. Her hips moved sensuously, gracefully, against him. Her lips parted for his tongue. Another soft sigh escaped. Amy felt her hands tremble, making the tiny image on the camera’s screen wobble uncertainly. The strange woman, this intruder in Amy’s life, began planting a row of kisses down her husband’s body, inch by inch. She touched him with an effortlessness that made Amy’s blood boil. Bit by bit, without haste, she worked her way down, placing small kisses along his bare chest, down his stomach. Her bright pink nipples, plainly erect, brushed lightly against his skin. Amy struggled against a tornado of emotions. She watched the woman’s fingers search out the button on his pants. It yielded quickly to her attention. She slid down his zipper, a small smile curling the corners of her mouth. His pants opened, revealing the bulge of his erection straining against his underwear. Amy felt dizzy. She raised the camera with shaking hands, as if to block the sight of what was happening. On the screen, the woman lowered his underwear, just enough to reveal the head of his cock, glistening with wetness. Amy’s body flushed. She felt her nipples tighten, so suddenly it was almost painful. The woman planted a soft kiss on the head of his erect shaft. Another dizzying wave passed through Amy. Almost unconsciously, she pressed her fingers between her legs, and was surprised to find wetness. The woman slid his pants down, languid, unhurried. When they were around his knees, she did the same with his underwear, lowering them bit by leisurely bit, placing kisses along the underside of his erection as it came into view. Amy flipped the camera to its movie setting. A red dot in the corner of the screen began to blink. The woman straightened with a playful smile. She stood at the edge of the bed, grinning, and turned her back to him. Playfully, teasingly, she unfastened her skirt. Moving sinuously, she slid it down, revealing a lacy black thong with red trim. Amy swept the camera up the woman’s body, the slats of the door partly interrupting her view. Her husband sat up on the edge of the bed and slid his hands along the woman’s hips. She squirmed out of his reach with a throaty chuckle. “Why such a rush? You said we have all weekend.” She took his hands in hers and folded them back onto his lap. Then she resumed her slow disrobing, letting her skirt slip to the floor. Amy felt her breath catch in her throat. The swirling mass of emotions, jagged and contradictory, swept higher. She wanted to scream her rage at the interloper, this intruder who dared to lay her hands on her husband this way. She wanted to bring down all the fury of hell on both of them, for daring to pollute her matrimonial bed this way. She wanted to see his cock slam into her, hear her scream as it slid deep... Her nipples swelled. She slid her fingers deep into herself, fighting not to moan. With her other hand, she held the camera precariously against the closet door, still recording. The woman slid off her thong and dropped it in his lap. She knelt on the ground in front of him and finished taking his pants off. As she leaned over, Amy expected to see her take him into her mouth, but at the last second she moved aside to kiss his thigh. A large drop of white fluid formed at the tip of his cock. Amy fumbled clumsily with the camera’s controls, one-handed, zooming in on it as it rolled down his shaft. She wanted to see the woman lean over, lap it up with her tongue, take the head between her lips... Her fingers worked rapidly between her legs. Her breath quickened. Outside the closet, the woman stood. She placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. She knelt over him, as gracefully as a leopard stalking its prey. “Are you ready to fuck me?” she asked. “Yes,” he said. “God, yes.” The dam holding back Amy’s emotions collapsed. With a howl, she kicked open the closet door. She burst out into the bedroom, holding the camera with one hand. Time slowed. The closet door slammed against the wall. The two of them, her husband and the stranger, looked at her, expressions of surprise frozen on their faces. “Do it, then!” Any said. “Let me see how you fuck another woman when I’m out of town. Show me!” The woman screamed, her face nearly as red as her hair. She snatched a pillow to cover herself, eyes wide with horror. “I thought you said your wife was gone for the weekend!” “I thought she was!” he said. He scrambled away from her as if he’d been bitten. “It’s not...I mean, it isn’t like...” “It isn’t like what?” Amy said. “It isn’t like you’re cheating on me? It isn’t like you are bringing a strange woman into our home to fuck?” “No!” he said. “It—I, I mean, I, uh...” “Save it! I don’t even want to hear it. Do you think I’m a fool?” “What? No! I—” “Then how is it you imagined that I wouldn’t figure it out?” She zoomed in on his face until his chagrined expression filled the screen. “Get on with it!” “I—what? Get on with what?” “Fucking her. Show me how you fuck another woman in our bed. I want to see it.” The words surprised her as they spilled out. Amy froze, astonished at what she had just said. Inside her, the jagged mass of emotions crystallized into something new, a strong and furious desire, an animal lust she had never felt before. She wanted to see him do it, but more than that, she wanted to force him to do it, make him finish what he had started, right there in front of her. The strange woman turned a brighter crimson, the color starting at her ears and crawling down her body. “What? No!” he cried. “I can’t!” The hot anger inside Amy turn instantly to ice. When she spoke, her voice was clear and precise. “Greg Silver, there are exactly two paths you can take out of here.” Every word was as cold as a late winter’s frost. “You can do exactly what I tell you to do. Or, if you prefer, I can find a very good lawyer with a very high price tag and give him the memory card from this camera.” She took a deep breath. Time slowed even further. “Fuck her.” He looked away. “No! I—” “Do it,” the woman said, very quietly. “What?” “Do what your wife says.” Amy held her breath. She felt unstable, like she was standing on a razor’s edge, not sure which way she was about to fall. Greg hesitated. “But—” “Do it,” the woman repeated, not quite looking at him. Amy turned the camera toward her. The woman shivered slightly and turned her face away. “I...I don’t...” He looked flustered. “I don’t think I can.” Amy swiveled the camera back to him. He looked sheepish. “I don’t...I mean, I can’t. I just...can’t.” Amy glanced down. He had gone flaccid. “Well, then. You,” she said, pointing to the ground. “On your knees. Right there.” The woman hesitated for a moment. Slowly, with faltering steps, she obeyed, covering herself with her hands. “Get him hard,” Amy said. “Make him ready to fuck you.” “What?” he exclaimed. “You can’t—” “Try me,” Amy said. She glanced down. “Do as I say.” The woman leaned forward. Tentatively, she parted her lips. She raised the end of his cock to her mouth, with a sound like a strangled whimper. Her hands stroked his shaft, up and down. The tip of her tongue moved along the head. “This is insane!” he said. “You can’t make us have sex!” “Stop talking,” Amy said curtly. She moved to one side to get a better view. The camera whirred as she zoomed in close. The woman’s motions gradually became less tentative. Her fingers curled tighter his shaft, coaxing him to respond. When he began to harden, she took him farther into her mouth, her head moving in long, slow strokes. Amy zoomed in closer still, captivated, watching this strange woman’s lips wrap around her husband’s sex. Eventually, his erection grew again. He gasped, panting as she sucked. “Stop,” Amy commanded. “Get on the bed. Lie on your back. Spread your legs.” The woman blushed. She lay down on the bed without a word. Her legs parted slowly to reveal a hint of dampness. Amy felt a trembling, heady excitement quiver through her. “Get on top of her,” she ordered. “Let me see how you kiss another woman when you’re having an affair.” “No! This has gone too far!” The woman reached out and touched him gently. “It’s okay,” she said. Her fingers twined with his. She took his hand and placed it carefully, deliberately over her breast. “Do what she says.” “But it’s—” “It’s okay,” the woman repeated. She drew him down beside her. “Kiss me.” Her hand ran up his back, caressed his hair. His protest died on his lips when she drew him down into a kiss. Amy walked around the bed, filming them from all angles. Greg looked up at her. “What are you doing?” “Shh,” the woman said. “Don’t worry about it. Do what she says.” She brought him down into another kiss. The tip of her tongue brushed his lips. Amy felt a wild, intoxicating sense of power, unlike anything she had ever known before. Her body sang with a feral arousal. She watched the two of them make out, his hands on her body. The woman moaned, a tiny involuntary noise. For a brief second, Amy felt as though she might come on the spot. Amy pulled the chair from the closet and set it beside the bed. She sat down, still filming them. She lifted one leg onto the bed. The robe slipped away, leaving her leg bare. Her free hand slid down between her legs. “It’s time,” she said. “Show me how you fuck her.” “I—” “Shh,” the woman said. She lifted one finger to his lips. As Amy watched, she positioned herself beneath him. Her arms wrapped around his back. She looked up into his eyes as if nothing else existed. “It’s okay. Do it,” she whispered. Greg froze. For one brief instant, Amy thought he would not obey. She wasn’t sure where this was going, but she knew, in some little place down inside, that if he failed to do what she said, their relationship would end. The moment passed. With one long, slow motion, he thrust himself into her. A sense of raw, carnal power swept through Amy, so strong that her vision blurred. She pressed her fingers into herself and felt herself tighten powerfully around them. On the bed, the woman arched her back and let out a loud cry. Amy ran the camera up to her face, capturing the ecstasy written there. “Show me!” she said. “Show me how you fuck another woman!” He moved in long, hard thrusts. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him in. Her back arched to meet every thrust. Her arms wrapped around him, holding him close in a lover’s embrace. Amy’s fingers danced over her clit. She kept the camera on their coupling, recording every detail. The woman’s moans gradually turned more urgent, her body trembling with her impending orgasm. When she came, it was spectacular. She screamed, her head thrown back, thrashing under him, her hands clawing at his back. A split second later, he roared, a deep guttural cry, his hips pounding hard and fast against her. Amy cried out herself, fighting back her own orgasm, trying to focus on recording every instant of their union. When it was over, he rolled off her, panting. She lay still, her eyes closed, breathing heavily. He reached for his pants without a word, as if suddenly unwilling to be naked in front of her. “Go wait out in the living room,” Amy said. “I would like to have a few words with your girlfriend.” “She’s not my girlfriend,” he replied. “It’s just—you know, just sex. It’s not like I care about her or anything.” In an instant, Amy felt the arousal drain away, replaced by the winter chill. “Oh?” she said coldly, biting back her anger. “So you betrayed me for someone you don’t even care about? Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?” “I didn’t mean—” “Leave us. Let me talk to your mistress.” “I don’t like that term,” the woman said. “Why not? It fits,” Amy said. She looked away. “Well, if you’re not his girlfriend and you’re not his mistress, what are you, then?” Amy asked. “His concubine?” Neither of them said a word. An awkward silence grew. “Concubine, then. Go.” She pointed at the door. “I want to talk to your concubine.” “I—” “Leave!” she barked. Chastened, he picked up his shirt and fled. The door closed behind him. Amy put down the camera and regarded the disheveled woman lying naked on her bed. Another awkward silence settled over the room. Eventually, the woman sat up, one arm over her breasts. She moved to gather her clothes. “Maybe I should just—” “No,” Amy said. “What is your name?” “Amber.” “Amber,” Amy said. “That’s a lovely name. How do you know my husband? Other than Biblically, I mean.” Amber blushed. “We work together.” “And what is it you do there?” “I’m a senior partner in the intellectual property division.” “A senior partner,” Amy said. “So you outrank him. You mean to say that not only is my husband having an affair, but he doesn’t even have the good sense not to sleep with his boss?” “We work in different divisions. I’m not technically his boss...” “But it would still be a big deal if you were caught?” She looked away. “It might be.” “Well, consider yourself caught,” Amy said. “On video.” She paused for a moment. “What am I going to do about you? How long?” “How long?” Amy sighed. “How long have you been fucking?” “I don’t know exactly—” “Wrong,” Amy said. “You know. Women don’t forget these things. I bet you know the exact day you first kissed, the day you first touched, the day you first sucked his cock, the day he first stuck it in you. Assuming they weren’t all on the same day, anyway.” Amber’s face flushed. “It will be five months next Wednesday.” “I see. Is he a good lay?” “I don’t know. I guess.” “You will be fucking him for five months next Wednesday, and you don’t know if he’s a good lay? I find that very hard to believe.” “Yes!” Amber stammered. “Yes. I...he’s a good lay.” “But he apparently doesn’t care about you.” She looked down, silent. “Did you know he was married when you started fucking him?” “Yes. I did.” Amber pulled her knees up to her chest, unable to meet Amy’s eyes. “I don’t have any excuse. I knew he was married. I just didn’t think...I thought it would be some harmless fun, you know? A fling. Not...” She looked down. “I have no excuse. I’m sorry.” “Sorry you fucked someone else’s husband, or sorry you got caught?” She trembled but did not reply. “Okay, then,” Amy said. “There’s still a question. What are we going to do from here?” “I won’t have sex with him any more,” Amber said. “I can get a transfer, or put him in for one, so we won’t see each other any more.” “No,” Amy said. “What?” “No. That’s not good enough. You don’t get caught having an affair with my husband and then simply walk away like nothing happened. That is not acceptable.” “What do you want?” Amber asked. Her eyes flicked to the camera. Amy rose. She paced back and forth, restless. “I don’t know. I think you owe me. Both of you owe me.” She hesitated. “By all rights, I should be calling a lawyer right now. I suspect these pictures would be extremely damaging to him in a divorce, don’t you think? They might hurt you, too. I don’t care so much about that, really. Collateral damage, I suppose.” “Are you going to...” The woman’s voice trailed off. “Am I going to what? Come after you? Ruin your life?” Amy looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t hate you. I’m not even angry at you. Well...” She paused. “Maybe a bit. I’m mostly not angry at you. But you do still owe me.” “Owe you what? Money?” Amy laughed. “Money? No. Is that what you think? I’m going to shake you down?” She picked up a hairbrush from the vanity and stared at it absently, as though she couldn’t quite recognize it. “Whatever it is you owe me, it has nothing to do with money.” “Then what do you want?” “Honestly? I’m not sure yet.” Amy turned the hairbrush over in her hand, feeling the smooth antique wood. “You’ll have to pardon me if I’m a little bit uncertain here. I’ve never been cheated on before.” The anger surged. A sudden urge to hurt this woman, punish her for what she had done, flashed through Amy. Her hands tightened around the hairbrush until her knuckles turned white. From nowhere, a sudden image flashed into her mind, as bright and hard as lightning: this woman, bent over her lap, the hairbrush coming down on her ass, hard, teaching her the consequence of sleeping with another man’s wife... Amy blinked rapidly. Another long silence grew. Amber looked down, avoiding Amy’s gaze. She looked so lost and uncertain that Amy felt her anger soften. She crossed over and sat down on the bed next to Amber. The woman pulled away slightly. Amy regarded her, the gears turning in her head. “You are a lovely woman,” she said finally. “He has good taste.” Amber tucked her knees up closer against her body. “I think we might find a path out of this that can make us all happy,” Amy said. “I am going to ask you some personal questions. I want you to answer them honestly. We’re past the point of hiding things any more, don’t you agree?” The woman nodded, her gaze still averted. “Are you fucking anyone else right now?” “Sometimes,” Amber said softly. “There’s this friend of mine who I sometimes see, and we...play together. He works out of our San Antonio office. I don’t see him very often.” Amy regarded her. She seemed lost and alone. “If you could, would you like to keep fucking my husband?” “What? No!” Agitation played across her face. “I’m not trying to poach him away from you, that isn’t—” “That’s not what I asked,” Amy said, She reached out and touched Amber’s shoulder. The woman flinched. “If you could, would you still want to keep fucking him?” “I don’t know! I don’t think so.” “Why not? You said he was a good lay.” “Because...you know about us now, so...” “So it’s okay to fuck him as long as it’s behind my back, but it’s not okay if I know about it?” Amy felt a hot ember of anger. The woman said nothing. The silence stretched out for several long minutes. Amy touched the woman’s back lightly. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed. “You have beautiful hair,” Amy said softly. “When I was a little girl, I had a friend who had hair like yours. I was always so envious.” She ran her fingers through it. “Thank you,” Amber said quietly. Amy realized suddenly that the woman was near tears. Slowly, without conscious intention, Amy began brushing the woman’s hair. Amber shivered slightly. “Do you think you would like to keep sleeping with him?” “I don’t know. Maybe.” “Did you enjoy having sex with him in front of me?” Amber shivered again. “I...I don’t know.” “Did it feel good?” “It...yes.” They sat in silence for several moments, Amy brushing her husband’s illicit lover’s hair. She could feel her relax by just a fraction, a tiny bit of the tension uncoiling from her body. “Do you agree that both of you owe it to me to try to make up for cheating on me?” Amber nodded. “So you acknowledge that you have a debt to me, and you’d also like to keep fucking my husband.” “What...are you suggesting?” Amy looked at her thoughtfully. A swarm of contradictory impulses swam in her. Part of her still wanted to punish this woman, make her scream for what she’d done. Another part of her wanted to watch her husband do things to her again, hear the sounds she made. She felt confused, uncertain. Finally, she spoke. “I’m not suggesting anything yet. I’m still trying to find out where we are. I would prefer not to get a divorce. You would prefer not to get involved in a messy situation at work. You would also like to go on fucking my husband. I think that you both owe me for having sex behind my back. Does that sound like the lay of the land to you?” Amber nodded. “Okay. Another personal question.” Amy lifted the woman’s chin until she was looking directly back at her. A strange, wild idea flickered to life in her mind. “Have you ever fucked another woman?” “Why? Are you going to—to—” “I’m just asking a question. Have you ever fucked another woman?” “I...yes. When I was still an undergrad in college. There was this—it wasn’t a serious thing. Why are you...” She shivered. “What do you want?” “I don’t know,” Amy said. Her fingers ran lightly over Amber’s shoulder, where her pale skin was lightly dusted with freckles. “I started to suspect there was something going on with Greg a while ago. He’s not very careful. I knew that if he was having an affair on me, he wouldn’t be able to resist taking her home if he thought I was out of town. I thought I’d catch him in the act. Surprise him, you know? Get evidence, take pictures, file for divorce. But then something happened.” “What?” “It turned me on to watch him fuck you.” Her fingers trailed down Amber’s arm. “That doesn’t mean that you don’t still owe me, though. Or that I’m not still mad at him. But it might mean that there’s a way out of this for all of us.” A strange expression, equal parts hope and fear, flickered across Amber’s face. “Like what?” “I’m still not quite sure how this is going to work. You said that you two have been sleeping together for five months as of next week?” She nodded. “Yes.” “Five months is twenty weeks. We’ll call it nineteen. I feel like you owe me those nineteen weeks.” “What do you mean?” “It means you will get your wish. You will keep fucking my husband.” She took a deep breath. “But both of you will pledge yourselves to me. You will fuck each other when I say, and only when I say. You will fuck where I say, how I say, in whatever position I say. You will be my husband’s concubine and my servant. Both of you will cater to my every whim. Do you understand?” Amber stared at the wall, her eyes unfocused. “I—that—yes. I understand.” “Does that seem reasonable to you?” “I...” She trembled. “I don’t know. What...what will you make me do?” For the first time that evening, a smile crossed Amy’s lips. “I don’t know yet. It will be awfully interesting to find out, don’t you think?” “What about Greg? What will he say?” “He needs to agree too, or else the deal’s off.” “What does that mean?” Amy shrugged. “The usual, I suppose. Divorce lawyers. Alimony. The card from this camera.” “I don’t know if he’ll be willing to do...something like that.” “I don’t either,” Amy said. “Get dressed. Let’s go ask him.”