“Tell me, Helene,” he whispered in mock concern. “Are you always so wet? Do you always walk around with your pussy dripping like this?”
She couldn’t answer. There was nothing to say, besides, his finger was sliding in greasy circles around her clit, forcing her stomach to clench in hot, eager spasms that brought little grunts of obscene pleasure to her lips. She tried to turn these into sounds of protest, but she wasn’t fooling anyone any longer—she was on fire to be touched and taken like this.
He stood there holding her and playing with her as her struggles grew weaker and more halfhearted, and then finally ceased. Her protests turned into sobs of surrender as she shuddered in his grasp. He held her tight, leaning back slightly so that her body was extended. She was suddenly aware that she’d unconsciously spread her legs for him and was working her hips against his hand, pushing back at him and trying to entice him to enter her, to put his finger where she needed to feel it. She thought she’d die of embarrassment but she couldn’t seem to stop. It was as if he spoke directly to her body, and she was merely a horrified observer clinging to his arm, her eyes closed so that she wouldn’t have to witness her own degradation in the mirror across the way.
All those years of denial had caught up with her and her nerves were stretched razor-thin, aching for his rough touch. His strength and her helplessness ignited the repressed lust within and her thighs trembled, licked by the greedy flames of impending orgasm.
Then suddenly he let her go.
“Take off your panties,” he said.
He went to his chair and began to quickly but calmly remove his clothes, taking off his shoes and loosening his tie.
Helene felt dizzy, as if she might fall. “No,” she said.
He gave her a look of mild surprise but he didn’t stop undressing.
“No,” she said again. “Not that. I won’t.”
He dropped his pants and stepped out of them then skinned off his briefs. Helene saw his massive cock spring into view, long and thick and as proud as a rampant stallion, standing out from between his shirttails. Her throat went dry.
He came over to her and took her easily by the back of the neck, pushed her down over the dresser so that she was forced to bend over, her breasts pressed against the cold surface, her ass in the air. He held her easily like that with one hand on the back of her neck and with the other, he yanked her panties down her legs, ripping the thin fabric and leaving them tangled around her thighs.
Helene gasped in fear at his sudden violence, but before she could do anything he began spanking her with flat, angry blows, hitting her like a disobedient child and making her flesh vibrate and jiggle. She was completely outraged, speechless, so shocked that she just leaned there and took it before she could even think to do anything. But there was nothing to be done. His hand on the back of her neck was like iron and her hands were trapped beneath her, useless.
He slapped her with the flat of his hand and each slap was like a pistol shot in the room—a sharp, flat sound accompanied by her squeal of pain and outrage. All she could do was wiggle and roll her hips, trying to escape the blows, and all that did was distribute the spanks all over her trembling ass cheeks until her entire bottom was red and on fire with masochistic heat.
She screamed, a snarling, feral sound of violation, but he didn’t stop. His fingers dug into the back of her neck and the blows rained down upon her and through the haze of shock and outrage Helene became aware of a new sensation. The shaking and jiggling of her ass communicated itself to her already-aroused pussy and lit a fire there—a fire that burned deep and began to glow with hot incandescence. Her skin burned and each sting from a blow melted into the molten liquid at her core until she was burning with need. She needed to be touched and filled. She needed him.
And he needed her too. He was hitting her not out of anger but out of lust. She could feel it in the way his spanking hand lingered for a brief moment on her hot skin, the way his other hand trembled as he held her down. Not because it took any strength—she had stopped struggling after the first few blows—but because of his own need for her. He wanted her, and that’s what this was about. This man wanted her so much he was shaking.
There was no possibility of her escaping now, and moreover she no longer wanted to. When he let go of her neck and stepped back she stayed where she was, bent submissively over the cheap dresser. The violence and humiliation of the blows echoed through her body like the fading tones of a gong, the feel of his trembling hand still on the back of her neck. She lay there panting, with her chest pressed down on top of the dresser and her knees locked, her buttocks thrust lewdly into the air, red and burning from his lustful punishment.
“Touch yourself,” he now ordered her. “Reach down between your legs and play with your pussy. Do it, Helene!”
With an abject groan of acceptance, she reached back between her legs and ran a manicured nail down her wet slit. She was totally exposed to his gaze and in the mirror she could see him behind her stripping off his shirt, getting ready to fuck her. He looked like a Greek god, like Zeus himself with his thick curls and salt-and-pepper beard, a dark and furious glower on his face. His cock stood out before him like the god’s own thunderbolt.
Helene felt no shame now, no compunction. He’d won and she was the spoils. He’d been right about her, just as he’d said, and suddenly she felt an overwhelming urge to show him just how right he’d been, show him what a slut she really was. It was just like her masturbation fantasies now, but this one was real, and at last she didn’t have to hide herself from anyone and play the demure princess. He knew that deep inside she was a shameless whore and she knew it too, and now she wanted to prove it to him.
She was filled with a fierce, female pride. She was no match for his strength and his male power, but she had power of her own—the power of her own sexuality and desirability which made him every bit as weak as she was now. She slid her finger up and down her empty and hungry slit with obscene deliberation, smearing her wetness around, spreading herself open with two fingers and showing him what she had for him, what she was. In the mirror she could see his eyes grow wild with hunger and pure, naked lust, and she wanted to laugh with joy for the sudden freedom she felt.
He came into her savagely, just like she wanted, fucking into her so hard that he lifted her feet off the floor. He reached beneath her, grabbed a breast in one hand and dug into her pussy with the other, finding her clit and forking his fingers around it, rubbing her in rhythm to his powerful thrusts. Helene arched her back to take him deeper and covered the hand on her breast with her own, feeling the strength in his fingers. She reached down between her legs and showed him where to touch her, and then gasped, shocked by her own savage joy as his own hand took over and did to her what she’d always wanted a man to do—take her, use her. He dug his fingers into her tender flesh and punished her, insisting that she yield up her pleasure to him. All the while his big shaft sluiced in and out of her cunt with desperate male fury, wanting to possess her and make her his. He stuffed her full and then pulled out, leaving her aching for him, and the fury of his pistoning cock sent her higher and higher into her own dizzy heaven of lust.
Helene dared a glance in the mirror and saw him standing behind her, leaning back slightly, the big muscles on his chest hard and filmed with perspiration, a look on his face of satisfaction mixed with mild disdain, the look of a haughty conqueror. It was the disdain that did it for her, that look of arrogant satisfaction that caused an emotional thrill to burn through her body, bringing her to the very edge of a shattering orgasm because she knew that he’d been right about her, that he’d been right all along. It was no accident that she’d been out masturbating on her roof when he’d caught her, fucking herself with her fingers while she dreamed of a man shoving his hot cock up into her ass, showing her wantonly to the world. It was no accident that she’d come here and stripped for him, let him bend her over the dresser and spank her ass, and then fuck her within an inch of her life, as if she were a common whore.
It was who she was, and who she’d always known she was. And as she clenched her eyes tight and bit down on the ferocious sweetness of her thundering orgasm, it was all she wanted to be.
Chapter Two
By the time Helene collected herself and, brought her seething emotions under control, her blackmailer was gone. He’d no sooner finished with her than he’d cleaned himself up with a damp towel and dressed, standing in front of the mirror to tuck in his shirt and knot his tie. Helene lay naked on the bed with the spread pulled over her, trying to collect herself and think of something to say that might somehow redeem herself—in her eyes at least, if not in his—but absolutely nothing came to mind, so she kept quiet, hardly daring to look at him as he dressed.
Her orgasm had left her weak and trembling and terribly ashamed. She’d already been embarrassed by the photographs of herself masturbating on her roof, and then humiliated that he’d been able to use those photographs to blackmail her so easily into having sex with him. But worse than either of these was the shame she felt over the shattering orgasm she’d just experienced, an orgasm the likes of which she’d never known. The ferocity and totality of her release had shocked her and left her stunned and speechless, and he’d been witness to it.
As she lay there in her shame and confusion, she realized that all she’d thought she knew about sex was nothing at all. Compared to what she’d felt under this man’s hands, her previous sexual experiences had all been no more than the mere bodily friction. This stranger and blackmailer had taken her farther and higher in twenty minutes than anything else in her life had ever taken her, and he’d done it with no more love or regard for her than he might feel for some stranger on the street. She didn’t know what to make of it.
He came over to her as she lay in the bed and looked at her and she looked away, knowing she wouldn’t be able to stand it if she saw any hint of male arrogance in his eyes. But he wasn’t gloating.
“You can have the pictures,” he said, nodding toward the manila envelope on the dresser. “I have the originals on disk.”
He leaned over and gave her a totally unexpected kiss on the forehead. She felt the burn of his lips as he put on his coat and straightened the collar, then walked to the door where he stopped with his hand on the lock.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said.
The moment the lock clicked shut behind him, the tears began.
She sat up in bed and wept, not knowing why. It was if all the emotion from her orgasm had been dammed up inside and now it all spilled out.
She thought about the way he’d taken her, the things he’d made her do—how he’d made her undress before him and walk so he could watch her, how he’d touched her, the selfishness in his touch, the way he’d used her. She thought about how he’d made her masturbate as he fucked her from behind, leaning her over the dresser, and the shameful pride she’d felt. He’d fucked her like an animal, not even giving her the respect of taking her face-to-face. She still felt his hands upon her breasts and her hips and the angry spear of his cock inside her. And she thought of the way he’d squeezed and pinched her nipples at her moment of climax, how that pain had sent her screaming over the edge, coming with him inside her, coming with a depth and a ferocity like nothing she’d ever known before. And with her shame came a flood of arousal again. She was horrified.
She got up out of the bed and ran to the shower. She turned the water on as hot as she could stand it and she washed. She washed her breasts, pussy and body wherever he’d touched her. She washed her face and her hair. She stood under the steaming spray, washing and crying until her skin was raw.
* * * * *
“Jason?”
“Hey! Helene! How are you, baby! You know, I was just thinking about you?”
“Were you?” she asked into the cell phone. “That’s sweet. Listen, I was wondering if you’d maybe like to have dinner tonight? My place?”
She was stuck in traffic on the Portnoy Avenue exit, a route she’d been taking home for the past three days, ever since it had happened. By getting off here, she missed the construction on Division Street and, moreover, it took her past the motel where they’d met. She told herself it was faster, really, even though it was a bit out of the way, but she also wanted to see the motel again. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she just had to see.
“Tonight? Really?” There was a bit of a dead spot as she went under the cloverleaf but she picked up his signal soon enough to hear him ask, “…occasion?”
“Nothing special. I just haven’t seen you in an awfully long time and I thought it would be nice to get together.” She tried to put a hint of sexual playfulness into her words, but it didn’t come off with quite the right tone. Still, it was close enough for Jason, who never needed much prodding.
“Sounds great,” he said. “But hey, don’t blame me, you’re the one who’s always working. What time? Eight?”
“Eight would be perfect.”
“Red or white?”
“White, I guess. I’m making salmon.”
“Great. Need anything else? Dessert or something?”
She was coming up to the motel now and she wanted to get off the line. “No. Nothing else. Just bring your usual gallant and charming self, Jason. Got to go now. Traffic’s opening up.”
She clicked her cell closed before he’d even rung off, and she dropped it on the seat so she could put both hands on the wheel and hang on, as if she might be unexpectedly sucked out of the car. She got into the right-hand lane and slowed down.
The same old parking lot. More cars this time. There were no people about, and she was alarmed at her own sense of disappointment. But then, what would he be doing here again? He certainly didn’t make a practice of blackmailing women into sex at this motel. With a dismay that surprised her, she noticed that the door to their room on the second level stood open. She couldn’t see into the dark interior, but as she watched, a short, dark woman in a maid’s outfit came out stuffing a pillow into its case. Helene exhaled with relief.
She chided herself for her misplaced sentimentality. She’d been raped in that room. If rape was sex against your will, then she’d been raped, hadn’t she? Once again she thought of stopping and going into the office and trying to find out if they knew anything about him—his name, his license plate number, anything.
She was embarrassed at the hungry tug she felt in the pit of her stomach. She had expected to hear from him by now.
She stepped on the gas and drove off.
* * * * *
Helene hadn’t really planned on making dinner, but the market always had good fish and Jason was no gourmet anyhow. She bought salmon steaks, capers, fresh rosemary, lemons, new potatoes and frozen green beans. A bag of salad, a loaf of French bread, some ice cream, a six-pack of Jason’s favorite beer, and she was done.
The first few days after it had happened, Helene had walked around in a daze, avoiding people. She knew what the books said about rape, that shock was the normal first reaction, so she thought she might perhaps be in shock. That’s why she felt no horror, no sense of outrage, and she had dreaded the day that it would wear off and she’d have to deal with the anger and depression that would be the second stage, but strangely that day never came. Instead, as the reality of what had happened sank in, she found herself seeking out people and company, looking for something. Calling Jason had been an act of some desperation, but he seemed to be the closest she could find to what she wanted now.
But not close enough, she realized later. Dinner had been sufficiently good so as not to raise his suspicions, but Helene couldn’t wait to get him on the sofa in front of the TV, where most things started between them. Jason put his arm around her. He kissed her and she kissed him back. His hands went to her breasts and she unbuttoned her blouse and leaned back for him, but she knew already that it wasn’t right, it wasn’t what she wanted. Jason was as sweet and considerate as always, but now that wasn’t what she wanted at all. He was too gentle and deferential, too timid and polite. He’d learned some new moves since they’d last been to bed together, but Helene could tell that’s just what they were, moves learned from some magazine article or book. His new techniques annoyed her, and as he searched industriously for her G-spot she got more and more frustrated. She didn’t want to be manipulated, she wanted to be taken. She wanted to be taken and fucked.
His tongue flicked at her nipples and she grew embarrassed for him when she realized that he was tracing out the letters of the alphabet on her skin. She stopped him at “K” and tried to show him how to pinch her, how to treat her rough. He did what she wanted, tentatively, but it was still no good. Passion can’t be faked, and Jason was always a conscientious lover but never a passionate one. She thought she might have orgasmed—at least she experienced what she had always thought was an orgasm up until her encounter in the motel—but no sooner had he finished on top of her than she wanted him gone so she could use her memories and her hand to give herself what Jason couldn’t.
She made some transparent excuse to get him out the door, then went into the bedroom, trying to recreate the rude, hungry feel of her blackmailer’s hands on her. She put on the same shoes she’d worn, the heels lifting her ass and making her feel sexy and obscene as she leaned over her dresser and spread her legs, letting her breasts hang free beneath her. She tried to recall his hands upon her, remembering the hard, insistent excitement she’d felt in his touch as he’d slid his fingers down to her cunt and pried her apart, then found her excited clitoris and rubbed and pressed against it in rhythm to his fucking, demanding she come, pushing her beyond where she’d ever been. She tried to recapture that thrilling feeling of not being able to escape, that certain knowledge that he wouldn’t let her off with the minor frisson of pleasure that had always served her as orgasm. He’d insisted that she act the slut, demanded that she give him her whorish pleasure, and she remembered her sheer joy in being taken and fucked by a man who knew her for what she was. Her fingers dipped into her cunt with lewd ferocity, and at the last minute she captured her nipple between thumb and forefinger and bore down hard, letting the spear of pain nail her to her orgasm. She came with a clean and vicious joy that was almost just enough. Almost, but not quite.
* * * * *
It was Wednesday morning at work, a week to the day since the encounter, when her phone rang at 10:30 a.m.
“Hello, Helene,” he said. “It’s me. The Doctor.”
It was as if his voice reached out and touched her through the phone, pushing her back into her chair. She’d been leaning over the papers on her desk, now she sat up straight and her eyes flicked nervously around the room, as if he might be in there with her. Her eyes went to the clock on the wall and she stared at the red second hand as it ticked slowly around.
“Yes?” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.
“I want to see you again. The same place, but room one-twenty-one. Tonight.”
“I can’t. I have work,” she heard herself say.
“Yes, I know,” he said dismissively. “You always have work. Be there at eight o’clock. Wear your work clothes. I like you in your work clothes. And wear that same lipstick you wore that day. It looks good on you.”
“Wait,” she said. “Wait…listen. I need to talk to you. There’s something I… I need to talk to you. How can I get a hold of you?”
She heard a silence on his end of the line and she was afraid she’d overplayed her hand.
“Well, you can always go back out on your rooftop and leave me a message.” She could hear him smiling over the phone. Then he got serious again. “You can talk to me tonight. Just be there, and don’t try anything stupid, all right?”
“No. I won’t. Nothing stupid. I…” She wanted to tell him, but how could she? What could she say? That she’d missed him?
“Eight o’clock. Room one-twenty-one. It’s a suite.”
Helene fumbled with a pen and a piece of paper, even though she knew she’d never forget that room number if she lived to be a hundred. “All right. Room one-twenty-one at eight. All right. But wait,” she said. “Wait.”
“Yes?”
Her fingers were holding the phone so tight her knuckles were white.
“Tell me what you’re going to do to me,” she said. “Please. I want to hear it.” She felt herself color and her feeling of humiliation mixed with a sudden surge of almost unbearable nervous excitement.
Now she heard him laugh, an easy, relieved laugh. It humiliated her terribly, but she bore it, eyes closed, gripping the phone. He’d thought she was going to make trouble, and now he was relieved.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?” He lowered his voice a notch and said, “I’m going to fuck you, Helene. I’m going to strip your clothes off you and make you get down on your knees and suck my cock. Then I’m going to tie your wrists behind your back and throw you down on the bed and eat your pussy ‘til you come like a little whore. I’m going to eat you until you beg me to fuck you, ‘til all you can think about is getting my big hard cock inside you, and then I’m going to teach you what a slut you are. We’re going to find out together. Won’t that be fun?”
* * * * *
She took off work early, begging out with a headache and missing the usual Wednesday productivity meeting. She went shopping for new underwear and stockings, and then she bought some new shoes as well. She bought three new sticks of lipstick. She went home and showered and shaved herself smooth. She dressed, then changed her outfit, changed her underwear. She tried to eat but the food wouldn’t go down. She poured a glass of wine and then decided she didn’t dare. She was already dizzy.
The man was a blackmailer and a rapist. And yet—the things he’d made her feel. And he’d kissed her forehead before he’d left too. Surely that meant something.
* * * * *
In her agitation, Helene bumped a car in the parking lot as she pulled into a space. Thank God the alarm didn’t go off, and she gave it only a cursory look as she jumped out, looking for the door one-twenty-one.
She didn’t wear what he’d told her to wear, not really. Instead of wearing office clothes, she wore a charcoal gray, pinstripe suit that was several years old and a size too small to wear to work. It made her ass look great, which was why she couldn’t wear it to the office anymore. She wore a tight, white blouse with pleats in the bodice, also too snug for work, and beneath she had on the new, white panties and matching shelf-bra she’d bought that afternoon. She’d given it a lot of thought and decided that he was a white-underwear kind of man, that black was just too blatant for him. Or maybe she wanted him to think that she was a white-underwear kind of girl? Perhaps she wanted to come off as being more virginal and pure, as if she could convince both of them that she really was being forced into this. The lewdness of the white shelf-bra was just what she needed to give the lie to that fiction. She wanted her clothes to give the message that she herself wouldn’t do anything, but that there was no limit to what she would let him do to her.