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From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
Subject: {Kellis} "Late Curiosity" ( MF nc) [1/2]
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Late Curiosity
    a Novelette of Dishonorable Passion
    by Kellis
    
    

<06:22>
    He waited for her in the dark, feeling a mixture of excitement,
impatience and dread, glancing often at the glowing numerals of his wrist
watch.  He fancied that he waited as a tiger waits for a careless doe to
approach a water hole, less the wrist watch, of course, and less the
tiger's blood lust, but with a similar appetite and relish.  Or does a
tiger enjoy its kill?  House cats obviously do;  why not a tiger with its
larger brain?
    Much could go awry for the tiger, too.  A vagary of the wind could
warn the doe, she could be diverted by a buck or she might simply spring
away faster than the hunter could match.  But no breeze wafted this dark
corridor, and if Lucy Grainger were divertible she had shown no evidence
of it in two weeks.  As to springing away, human prey had its own dangers.
If the woman's reflexes were quick enough, she might well escape him.
Worse, if she had studied the martial arts, the hunter might himself
become prey.
    The tiger takes its chances;  otherwise it goes hungry.  He would take
his chances, too, for a different hunger.  In any case his decision was
made.  He would withdraw now only if she failed to show.
    Above him he heard a thud, followed by a muffled whine.  The elevator
had started upward.  He confirmed it with an ear pressed against the cool
metal door, then fell back into the alcove where, by the evidence of screw
holes in the floor, a water cooler had once stood.  He waited again, now
with accelerating heartbeat, one eye peering around the alcove corner.  It
this were not Lucy Grainger, the darkness would conceal him and he would
depart as planned to retry another day.  But for two weeks he had verified
that she was always first upon this floor in the morning, the trusted
secretary who opened her employer's offices and doubtlessly started the
coffee.  And today she was again right on time.
    The growing rumble suddenly ceased.  With a loud sigh the elevator
door slid open, spilling yellow light into the corridor.  A woman, dressed
in a dark blue suit with knee-length skirt and patent high heels, stepped
out and paused, fumbling in a raised purse.  Because of her head bent
behind her shoulder, he was a long moment verifying her identify.  At last
she straightened up and turned toward him, the light full on her face
through the door beginning to close, holding a key ring in the right hand,
purse in the other.  Lace at the throat and blue flowers on a veiled hat
were characteristic.  Indeed it was Lucy.  Now he was committed.  The
realization brought a touch of relief.  He took a deep breath.
    She started toward him as the elevator door closed behind her,
plunging the corridor into its previous darkness.  The frosted glass in
the door of the office that was her destination glowed dimly ahead of her,
lit from behind by the first day light on the office windows.  She marched
directly for it, high heels tapping confidently on the smooth tile despite
the gloom, her right hand already extending the key as she drew abreast of
his alcove.
    He held himself in rigid stillness until the precise moment.  As he
had rehearsed, he took one long step out beside her, one hand sweeping
down to clamp the open handcuff on her left wrist above the purse strap,
the other arm flying around her to seize the hand that held the key.  She
stiffened with an intake of breath but in less than a second he had jerked
the right arm behind her and snapped the second handcuff upon its wrist.
    "What -- what --" she stammered as he snapped the prepared ball and
tape loose from his belt.
    She emitted a piercing scream powered by a lung full of air.  It was
the blood-curdling female cry designed by ten thousand generations of
tiger confrontations to galvanize all males within earshot.  He had
expected it, had in fact counted upon it.  From behind her he popped the
soft rubber ball past her gaping lips and clutching a tape end in either
hand, pulled the duct tape tight, looping it over itself behind her upper
neck.  Though the sound cut off with a gurgle, it had been impressive
while it lasted.  Hopefully the concrete floors of the old high-rise and
their emptiness at this hour had rendered the scream fruitless.
    He took the second set of cuffs from under his coat and stooping,
snapped them around the nylon covered ankles, snatching one extended foot
close to its mate and thus tripping her up.  She fell upon her knees and
would have pitched forward onto her face if he hadn't caught her shoulder.
    The only light in the corridor was the wan glow of the frosted glass
above them.  He lowered her gently to the floor, but it seemed at that
moment she realized the desperation of her plight.  Moaning loudly through
her nose, she twisted sideways away from him and kicked out with her
cuffed feet, connecting with his shin.  He ignored the pain, stored the
length of wire in his teeth, and used both hands to capture the cuff
chains at wrists and ankles, working hurriedly by feel instead of sight.
With both chains held in one hand despite her violent heaving, he was able
at last to bind them with several turns of the wire, thus effectively hog
tying wrists and ankles together behind her back.
    He released her, for the moment ignoring her stentorian groans, and
turned away long enough to take the last special item from his coat
pocket, a single woman's hose, and pull it over his head.  With it secured
into his shirt collar, he raised the nasally screaming woman up upon her
knees before the glowing glass.  He thrust his disguised face before hers,
along with a short piece of tape, and declared menacingly, "If you don't
shut up that noise, I'll tape your nose, too!"
    She ignored him, eyes rolling wildly, and redoubled the strength of
the sound.  He shook her and shouted the same words into her ear, but he
actually had to clamp the tape across her nose to silence her.  He left it
there long enough to say, "I don't want to hurt you, much less kill you.
I'll take this off so you can breathe, but it'll go right back if you
aren't quiet."
    He freed her nose.  The nostrils flared and she took several breaths
but ceased to moan.  Large eyes stared at him in horror.
    "Good."  Lifting from her armpits, he raised her body with
considerable difficulty until she lay over his right shoulder, bent at the
waist, head hanging down his back, secured by his right arm over her
buttocks, hand clutching her well-padded hip bone.
    "Whew!" he exclaimed when she was in place.  He stooped to return the
key ring to fallen purse.  While rising he stuffed the purse into the
hollow between her hip and his neck.  Amidst a rattling of chains she
began to drum her high heels against his arm.
    "You'll hurt yourself," he admonished.  In truth she was bruising him.
He took the shoes off her feet and stuffed them together into his side
pocket.  Thus encumbered he marched away toward the elevator.  So far the
whole encounter had taken less than a minute.
    He pressed the Down button and as expected the elevator door reopened
for him.  Inside he touched B for Basement.  At this hour no one else in
the building would want to go down, or so he hoped, other users needing
only to ascend to their offices.  Thus, he reasoned, the elevator should
proceed past all the up-requesters, if any.
    Behind him the woman moaned something with the sound of syllables, not
a loud sound.  He took it as an interrogation and replied, "You have only
to keep silent another minute or two, Mrs. Grainger.  Then I'll answer all
your questions."
    The woman was heavier that the hundred pound sandbags he had carried
for practice, but not enough to affect his confidence.  He shifted his
shoulder slightly and endured the interminable wait.  At least, he told
himself, the worst danger is past.  She had proven no more formidable than
one would expect of a fortyish matron.
    At last the elevator grounded with the "B" lamp lit on the panel.  The
door sighed open, again spilling light into a dull green hallway.  He
paused to listen but heard nothing.  He stepped over the threshold and
turned into the corridor.  The door slid shut, taking most of the light
but not all.  Behind him a lone bulb, probably a fifteen-watter, dispelled
the gloom.  He felt the woman twisting her head.
    "We're in the basement, Mrs. Grainger.  Not too much further now."
    He reached a metal door set flush in the wall and bent forward as he
turned away, giving the woman a view of it.  A faded sheet of paper had
been taped across it.  Someone had once scrawled on it with a felt tipped
marker:  "KEEP CLOSED."  Straining back, he pulled the door open and
stepped through into a large room.  It contained a fenced enclosure behind
which a huge gray box hummed loudly.  A metal sign wired to the fence
proclaimed, "DANGER / High Voltage."
    The metal door closed behind them with a solid thunk.  He said
conversationally, his voice pitched above the hum, "Have you ever been
down here, Mrs. Grainger?  That's the transformer which powers this whole
building.  Pretty inefficient to make so much noise, wouldn't you say?  I
expect it's the reason for the sign on the door."
    Many large crates were stacked to the ceiling on the opposite side of
the room.  He marched past them, stepped up onto a platform and stopped
before a bulging circular door mounted in the wall, hinged on one side, a
heavy metal handle on the other.  The handle screeched when he turned it,
though not the hinges when he pulled the door open from the wall,
disclosing a circular black hole nearly waist high, half again wider than
a man's shoulders.
    He threw one leg over the sill into the blackness, feeling around for
the box he had earlier set within.  Assured of his footing, he twisted
sideways and backward, guiding her head into the hole first -- a motion
that precipitated strong nasal moaning -- followed by the rest of her
body, then his own.  Carefully he stepped down from the box to the floor.
    At last he could lay her on the unseen padded canvas.  Rising up from
her, he commented, "What a relief!  Soon for you, too, Mrs. Grainger."
    He found the bulb and tightened it in its socket, flooding the area
with light.  The woman lay quietly on her side, arms and legs behind her,
eyes intent upon his hands.  He reached into his inside pocket and pulled
out a folded paper, then knelt and opened it sideways where she could read
its content, handwritten in green ink.
    "Hopefully this looks familiar," he said.


Mr. Bookman,
    I just now received a call from Aunt Agatha -- actually from the
hospital.  They say her condition is even more critical than before and I
shouldn't waste a moment.  I'm sorry that you won't have better notice.
I'll call you as soon as I can.
    
Lucy Grainger


    Below the signature appeared today's date.  He watched her eyes widen
as she scanned it.  He smiled.  "It <is> familiar, isn't it!  Well, it
should be;  I worked on it long enough.  Now excuse me while I go put this
on Bookman's desk.  I'll make you comfortable soon as I return."
    He passed from the box through the hole into the room beyond, closing
the door behind him with a clang.  She saw the inside handle rotate as he
clamped it shut.
    

<06:43>
    He pulled open the circular door, stepped through onto the box, then
reached back and pulled the door closed behind him, rotating the handle to
clamp it.  The woman had turned over and lay in a different position on
the canvas.
    He shook his head.  "I hope you haven't bruised your wrists or ankles
on those handcuffs.  Come, let's free your tongue.  No woman can be
comfortable in a gag, can she?"
    He opened a briefcase lying in the corner and took out a set of
surgical shears, proceeding to snip the tape on her cheeks and pull it
free of her head, taking the ball from her mouth.
    "Let me tell you one thing before you scream," he said, squatting
above her.  "Notice where you are.  You've probably never seen the inside
of one of these before.  This is an old building that was originally
heated with steam radiators.  You and I are presently situated <inside>
the furnace that generated all that steam.  You should understand that the
walls are made of firebrick, very resistant to the passage of heat <and>,
just incidentally, the passage of sound.  In addition, there's that noisy
transformer outside hidden behind a steel door.  Now go ahead and scream.
Get it out of your system."
    She licked her lips and said distinctly.  "If it's a waste of time I'd
as soon not hurt my throat."
    "Very reasonable!"
    He stood up and removed his coat, draping it over a coat hanger
suspended from one of the many pipes that criss-crossed the space over
their heads.  He returned to her immediately, grasping her shoulders and
spinning her back to her original position on her left side, knees toward
the door.
    "Wh-what are you doing?" she asked tremulously.
    "I'm about to make you more comfortable."
    "Are you?  Why is it I can't believe that?"
    He had laid the canvas pad over the thick bed of ancient ash after
carefully contouring the cinders to be higher away from the door.  Now he
pulled her body nearly to the top of that mound.  She looked fearfully
back over her shoulder as he raised up a bright metallic object attached
by chain to an eyebolt in the wall.
    "I'm glad you're watching, Mrs. Grainger.  Do you see this?  It's a
felt-lined manacle.  It will hold your wrists securely without bruising
you even if you fight it.  And it simply closes until it fits snugly.  It
would fit anyone's wrist, even mine, if our positions were reversed.
Would that they were, eh, Mrs. Grainger?"  He shook his head.  "I can give
you many things, but unfortunately that's not one of them."
    He forced the handcuff higher on her right wrist and snapped the
manacle in its place.  He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the
displaced handcuff, immediately drawing her left arm beneath and beyond
her torso so forcefully that she flopped over onto her back, unable to
resist his treatment of the arm.  Instantly he snapped a second manacle
over that wrist, leaving her on her back, arms spread to either side above
her as he removed the second handcuff.  When he released her, she pulled
tightly on both hands but was able to move them only slightly.
    "Damn you!" she asserted, straightening her legs, then raising knees
and heels, glaring at him with determination, heedless of exposed
undergarments.
    Again he shook his head.  "Now, Mrs. Grainger, we can do this the hard
way or the easy way.  I repeat, I don't want to hurt you."
    "If you expect me to cooperate," she declared fiercely, "then you're a
bigger fool than I thought already."
    "No.  In fact I'm not a fool at all."
    He walked around her until he stood behind her head, from which he
point he dived upon her, grasping her about the thighs and forcing her
legs straight with his weight.  She wriggled and twisted, trying to use
her restrained arms for leverage, but his weight and agility were too
much.  In the end he rose off her body, leaving her gasping for breath,
ankles manacled to opposite walls in the manner of her hands.  He also was
breathing heavily.
    He grinned at her.  "No, Lucy, I didn't count on your cooperation.
And now it won't matter."
    Her eyes widened at that.
    When his breathing was easier, he went to the cooler beside the brief
case and took out a soda bottle.  Twisting the cap, he took a long
draught, then knelt beside her.
    "Fighting leaves the mouth dry.  May I offer you a drink?  As you see,
it contains no poison."
    "You want my mouth <wet>, do you?" she retorted contemptuously.
    "Yes, as a matter of fact," he agreed.
    "Huh!  All right, I'll take your drink.  And I hope you try to put
something else in there!"
    "Now, now."  He extended the bottle to her lips.  She took several
swallows.
    When she indicated satisfaction, he stood over her contemplatively.
"I thought a long time, hoping to find a way to spare your clothing, but I
failed."
    "My clothing!  Then this <is> just another shameful rape, isn't it?"
    He shook his head.  "No.  It is <not> 'just another shameful rape.'"
    "What else could it be?"
    Instead of answering he reached to his hanging coat and took the
surgical shears out of a pocket.  "What's that for?" she demanded.
    "Your clothing."  He knelt beside her and raised the hem of her skirt,
now ridden up half her thigh.  "I regret having to do this, Mrs. Grainger,
but for my purposes you must be quite nude.  It won't be bad as it seems,
however."
    As he spoke he began to cut through the cloth of her skirt.  "Have you
noticed that garment bag hanging beyond my coat?  In it you'll find a
lady's summer dress, slip, bra and panty hose, all in your size,
approximately, as well as I could describe you to the salesgirl.  I've
gone through them and removed all the identifying tags.  They don't match
this chic suit, but they'll suffice for you to get home -- or to the
police station, whichever you prefer."
    "This suit is quite valuable!" the woman exclaimed, eyeing the
progress of his shears.  "Why do you need to destroy it?  It can hardly
stop you from raping me."
    "I told you this isn't just a rape."
    "Then what is it?  What can <I> be worth to you?  I have hardly enough
to live on and pay my rent."
    "Ah, you think it might be money?"  By now he was operating on the
sleeves of her suit coat.  "No, no, Mrs. Grainger.  You have something of
great value to me, but it's not your money.  In fact, you'll see that I
have no interest in your purse at all.  Hmm.  That reminds me."
    He drew the key ring from his britches, twisted around and returned it
to her purse.  Turning back, he pulled the ravaged coat from beneath her
body and threw it aside upon the remains of the skirt.  His shears began
to attack the hem of her black slip.  They went quickly through the thin
material.
    "Why <me>?" she demanded.  "Why pick on me?"
    The shears fell silent.  "I wondered if you'd ask me that."  He rose
away from her, went to the briefcase and returned with a piece of paper
that he held above her face at the proper reading distance.  "This is
why."
    Her eyes scanned the green handwriting.
    

Mr. Bookman,
    I just received a call from my Aunt Agatha.  She is deathly ill and I
shouldn't waste a moment getting to her.  I'm sorry that you won't have
better notice.  I'll call you as soon as I can.
    
Lucy Grainger
    

    It was dated some three months earlier.  "Where did you get that?" the
woman demanded.
    He shook his head.  "I'm sorry.  I can't tell you."
    "The spilled trash," she mused.
    "Eh?"
    "Bookman spilled a trash can out his office window.  You found it on
the street, didn't you?  But why did you think ..."
    "All right, I'll tell you that much.  I happened to come into this
building one day behind the postman.  I retrieved a letter that fell out
of his bag.  Guess whose name and office address were on it?"
    "Not mine!"
    "Yes, they were.  That was too much.  I believe in fate.  It's my
approximation to religion.  Finding this note one day and seeing your
address the next were too much.  At that time I had never laid eyes on
you, but I knew that fate meant for me to have you.  The rest was just a
matter of planning."
    "What a cute story!" she said.  "I don't believe a word of it."
    "Not even the planning?  Wire in these, eh?  Don't worry.  I
anticipated that, too."
    Again at the briefcase he took out a pair of diagonal pliers.  One
snip parted the wire joining the halves of her brassiere.  The shears made
quick work of the straps.
    "I have to believe the planning, all right," she admitted, squirming.
"That tickles!"
    He was working the shears over her abdomen, down the front of the
panty hose.  "Sorry," he muttered, lifting the shears away from her skin.
"This is already instructive," he added.  "I had no idea that cutting a
woman's clothes off would be so stimulating."
    "Stimulating for you, maybe," she admitted, eyes on his britches.
    "But not for you.  That's all right.  Your stimulation is not required
yet."
    "Frankly, sir, this is making me --  Dammit, what can I call you?
What's your name?"
    He grinned.  "You may call me Tiger."
    "Tiger?  You're some poor excuse for a tiger!"
    "No?  Who is nearing extinction on today's Earth -- man or tiger?
    "<Skunk> would be better typing!  I was about to tell you --"
    "Skunk!  You must have noticed that I have no odor."  He cut around
her ankles near the manacles to free the hose from her feet.  "And as a
tiger I do intend to eat you, in a manner of speaking.  What were you
about to tell me?"
    "That what you are stimulating is anger!  You have absolutely <ruined>
my clothing!  The only thing you've missed is my hat, and that'll be
ruined, too, after it's been rubbed on this dirty canvas."
    He faced her.  "There you're wrong!  This canvas is new.  I installed
it here just yesterday.  If it gets dirty you'll be the reason."
    "Ah, ha!  There we have it.  A dirty woman will make the canvas dirty.
You hate women, don't you!"
    "Hate women?"  He chuckled.  "That's ridiculous, Lucy.  You've been
reading too much psych-hype."
    "Too much what?"
    "Psychological hyperbole.  I know what they say.  Rapists hate women,
probably because their mothers behaved unchastely and shamed them as boys.
They act out their hatred and contempt by soiling other women as their
mothers were soiled.  But I assure you that my mother was a fine woman
who, so far as I know, never said 'no' to my father nor 'yes' to anyone
else.  Far from hating women, I envy them.  They have such a tremendous
capacity for pleasure."
    "Do you believe that menstrual cramps are pleasant?"
    "No.  I agree that nothing about menstruation is pleasant -- except
the day or two before the flow starts."  Having detached the last remnant
of hose, he stood between her unwillingly spread legs, staring down at the
flesh before him.  "I'm pleased to see that you are between bouts, Lucy:
no tell-tale dangling string.  Care to tell me when your next is due?"
    Her eyes narrowed.  "It's a month late."
    He chuckled.  "Wish I could believe you.  We could be even more
carefree."
    "Carefree!" she repeated incredulously.  "Don't you dare make me
pregnant!"
    His chuckle became a laugh.  "What mustn't I dare?"  Suddenly he
sobered, leaned over and stroked her smooth belly.  She sucked it in, away
from his touch, but he continued to stroke her.  "No mother's marks here
yet.  Oh, I know it doesn't mean anything.  I understand that cervical
inspection is the only thing that can tell the tale.  Spell that T-A-I-L.
But if you become pregnant, you could at least enjoy that uniquely female
experience."
    Her lip curled.  "That's what I'd expect a man to say."
    "Lucy, I didn't realize ...  You are a remarkably attractive woman!
What's your age."
    "Guess."
    He gestured toward her purse.  "I can check your driver's license."
    "49," she snapped.
    He grinned.  "No, you aren't.  I'm not inexperienced of women.  I even
have a wife!  I'd guess you're about 40, maybe as young as 38."
    "You have a wife?  That's a lie, isn't it."
    "Truth.  I have a wife."
    "Then what in the devil are you doing here?"
    "I agree, it's about time to explain all that.  But first ..."  He
reached into the corner behind the cooler and took out a pillow, encased
as if for a bed.  He raised her with a hand in the small of her back and
slipped the pillow between her and the canvas pad.
    "Thank you," she said with deliberate irony as he arose.
    "I want you to be comfortable," he declaimed piously, hand to his
necktie.  With it removed he began to undo the buttons on his white shirt,
already clinging in perspiration.  He commented, "At least you won't be
cold here, even naked."
    "Is the air good in here?" she asked.  "Or will I be alive long enough
to notice it?"
    "Lucy, you pain me.  I don't really expect anything we do here to
shorten your life by one second.  You <know> that I intend you to leave
here alive and in good health."
    "How do I know that?  You have <cut> the clothes off my back!  What do
you cut off me next?"
    "No more cutting.  As to how you know, I point to that garment bag
yonder.  And to my disguise.  If I didn't wear it, you'd be right to
worry."
    "Maybe."  Her voice trembled a little.  "Maybe it ... only means that
you're keeping your options open."
    He shook his head as he stepped out of his britches.  "I can only say
that if you expect to die here, you're due to be sadly disappointed."
    "You'll just let me walk away, is that right?"
    "Essentially that's right.  I'll leave the door open and the key
within your reach."
    "When?  Next week?"
    "Oh, no.  Before sunset this very day.  Tonight I'll be in another
city.  Neither you nor the cops will ever find me."
    "That's what reveals you as a fool, Tiger."
    "Come again?"
    "Believing that you can get away with this, whether you kill me or
not.  Tell me one thing will you, one thing that I'll admit I find
fascinating about you."
    "What is it?"
    "Do you realize that what you're doing makes no sense?  As my father
used to say, the game is not worth the ticket.  What in the <world> can
you hope to get from me that is worth the years of jail you'll get in
return?"
    "It all depends on the ticket.  I believe I've already paid in full
for this one -- quite an investment it was, too, as you should be starting
to appreciate."
    "You said you have a wife.  My god!  <Sex> is not worth this risk to
you!  Especially sex with another women who's probably just an older
version of your wife.  A few hours here -- minutes, really -- versus years
in the slammer.  What <could> you be thinking?"
    He produced two additional coat hangers and proceeded to hang britches
and shirt separately.  "You keep making the same mistake.  This is not
really about <sex>.  I've had plenty of that -- though not enough.  One
never gets enough."
    "Tiger, that's ridiculous.  Of course this is about sex!  Otherwise
why are we naked."
    He paused to contemplate her.  Slowly he nodded.  "Well, yes.  What I
mean is that it's not <only> about sex."
    "What else?"
    He grinned, straightening the crease in his britches where they passed
over the hanger.  "I don't expect you to understand this.  But you're
lying there for the sake of <curiosity> as much as anything else."
    

<07:35>
    He went again to the cooler and extracted a drink bottle.  After a
hearty pull, he stood before her in full nudity aside from wristwatch and
the disguising hosiery, the thigh of which was rolled about his neck while
the foot and half the leg floating whimsically behind him.  He peered
through the beige haze and extended the bottle toward her.  "Will you have
another swig?"
    "Yes, please."
    He knelt and raised her head.  She drank thirstily.  They shared the
remainder.  When she had drained the last, she commented, "This is hardly
hygienic, but you don't give a damn about that, do you, Tiger?"
    "Who says not?  This is not exactly your casual one nighter, Mrs.
Grainger.  My doctor assures me that I am disease-free.  'Healthy as a
horse,' he says.  And you are obviously the same.  'As a mare,' at any
rate, far too pink and clean to be otherwise than in the best of health.
In fact you are exceptionally clean, Mrs. Grainger, smelling only of soap
and deodorant despite our recent exertion."
    "Is that all you smell?"
    "Plus a discrete touch of perfume that I think I recognize.  'Inner
Spice,' isn't it?"
    She nodded, eyebrows rising appreciatively.
    "A suggestive name, that, but misleading.  It bears no resemblance at
all to a woman's inner spice.  Smells more like honeysuckle to me."
    "That's a southern plant."
    "I believe so.  Where do you put it?  Behind your ears?"
    He leaned forward to sniff her.  She turned her face away.  He
transferred his nose to her armpit.  "Not here.  This is only deodorant."
    He got up and went again to the brief case, emerging with a plastic
case of moistened towellettes.  Kneeling beside her, he scrubbed both
exposed armpits vigorously.  She shuddered, shoulders writhing, but
instead of protesting the stimulation she asked, "Do you object to
deodorant?"
    "Yes, I do.  I have never understood why women want to mask their
natural odors.  A man can hardly find them other than irresistible.  Of
course, it's to please other women, isn't it?"
    She declared, "It's for herself!"
    He grunted.  "That's most bizarre of all -- that women object to their
<own> odors!"
    He bent low and licked the nearest armpit, tongue spread to maximum
width.  "Oh, god!" she cried.  "Don't do that!  I can't <stand> it!"
    "Surely it doesn't hurt!" he declared, desisting.
    "You know how it feels," she accused.  "You mean to torture me, don't
you!"
    "Not especially."  He raised up and made a face at her.  "Bah!  I can
taste only the crap they put in those towellettes.  Wish I could afford to
keep you here two or three days."
    She stared at him, her lips clamped shut.  He chuckled.  "Don't worry.
I can't.  At least, not just for armpits, though I suspect it would be
interesting to compare the taste of yours in its natural state to mine.
But it would take a couple weeks for your hair to grow.  I couldn't even
feel bristles."
    "I have very little hair there."
    "Makes it easier, eh?"
    "Easier?"
    "To shave."
    He stepped over her knee and knelt between her legs, leaning forward
to stroke her sides, hips, belly, inner and outer thighs, working the
flesh vigorously.  A thumb explored her navel.
    "What are you doing?" she wondered aggrievedly.
    "Getting to know you, Mrs. Grainger."
    From either side his hands kneaded her firmly from armpits to hips,
rippling over her well-padded rib cage.  He stroked the muscles of her
upper arms, the sides of her face, the cords of her neck, massaging even
the hollows above her shoulder bones.
    "Enjoying yourself?" she inquired, gritting her teeth.
    He smiled at her.  "Ah, Lucy, you have no idea!"
    "God, you are smug!"
    "Smug?  I do feel a measure of satisfaction."  He clasped a hipbone in
either palm.  "All this lovely female flesh ...  It's all mine, Lucy.
<Mine>!"
    He chuckled at her evident consternation.  "Only for a while.  I lay
no permanent claim.  But while it's mine, I intend to use it well."
    "That's the horror of it.  You might do <anything>!"
    "Nothing destructive.  As I suggested, I mean only to satisfy
curiosity."
    He hitched himself forward to straddle her hips.  For the first time
his hands closed upon her breasts, squeezing them vigorously, working the
nipples between thumbs and forefingers.
    "What do you mean by 'curiosity?'" she asked, shoulders twitching
randomly.
    "You are beginning to find out."
    "Do you mean that your wife won't let you hurt her like this?"
    "Hurt her?"  His hands fell still.
    "Yes, <hurt>!  I can feel on my belly how much you enjoy hurting me.
You're just a rotten <sadist>, aren't you, Tiger?  Oh, god, I'll get out
of this black and blue!"
    "'Black and blue!'" he repeated incredulously, "--implying that I've
bruised you?  Surely not!"  His hands returned to her.  "Do you actually
claim that this is painful?"
    She raised her head briefly to regard herself.  "Would they be so red
if it weren't?"
    "There are several reasons for skin to redden."  He squeezed her and
opened his hand, squeezed and opened again, studying the effect.  He
commented thoughtfully, "I've viewed several porno flicks where men
treated breasts roughly:  separating them, forcing them together as I am
doing now, even ... lifting them by the nipples."  She grimaced as he
demonstrated the last.  "The women seemed to tolerate it well enough,
sometimes smiling with at least the simulation of pleasure.  Of course
they were actresses, but the forces on their breasts were real enough.  I
wondered if they were ignoring pain for the sake of big bucks."
    "Big what?"
    "I mean a large fee.  Don't you dig my slang, Lucy?"
    "What is this, Tiger?  Are you acting out some porno fantasy?"
    He nodded.  "In a sense.  I have certainly dreamed about it.  That was
fantasy and definitely pornographic.  Now it is no longer fantasy.  Tell
me:  does this still hurt?  Are your breasts growing numb?  Or did it ever
really hurt?"
    "It still hurts.  You know it does.  Otherwise you'd've done it to
your wife."
    "My conjugal relations are as dignified and invariant as church
ritual.  There are many things I cannot do to my wife, though physical
pain is not the reason.  That's your advantage, Lucy.  We can do anything
and probably will.  We'll not be together long enough to create a ritual."
    She observed dryly, "Somehow I don't find that reassuring."
    "You should.  Twenty years from now you'll hardly remember this
adventure."
    "I am more concerned with the next twenty hours!"
    "I can understand that.  You haven't learned to trust me.  But I
always keep my word, Lucy, as you'll find out...  Where were we?  Oh,
yes."
    He rocked back on his heels.  "So I must conclude that the porno stars
were faking, is that right?"
    She stared at him.  "Let me pull on <your> nipples.  Then you'll
know!"
    He nodded.  "I saw you wince when I pulled them, but that was the only
time.  The twisting and squeezing weren't so bad, huh?"
    He eyes glittered angrily.  "I told you not to expect cooperation."
    "And you think a truthful answer is cooperation?"
    "Isn't it?  You might consider this:  in the movies they were probably
squeezing silicon jelly."
    Rising off her, he admitted, "You have a point.  I've wondered if
that's how all those tit lawsuits started -- because somebody squeezed out
the silicon!"
    "Well, there's nothing fake about me," she declared.  "And it hurts."
    "Truth, Lucy?"
    "True enough."
    "Good."  He went to the briefcase and returned to lay a roll of paper
towels beside her body.
    He paused.  "Would you like more to drink before we proceed?"
    "No, thank you.  I may have already drunk too much."
    "Too much?  Is your bladder full, Lucy?"
    "Frankly, yes.  Quite full.  Didn't you think of that, Tiger?"
    "Oh, but I did!  You must have noticed the slope I made in the
cinders."
    "Cinders?"
    "Under the canvas is a lot of ash and cinders, god knows how much.
Haven't you heard it crunch when you move?"
    "What move!"
    "Well, it does," he insisted.  "I tried it.  The canvas cover makes it
a comfortable bed.  But you should notice I piled it deeper at that end.
Your head's a foot higher than your butt."
    "So what?"
    "So when you piss it'll run away from you."
    "It <what>?"
    He chuckled.  "You understand me, Lucy."  Suddenly he knelt low
between her legs.  She felt his breath stir the pubic hair, then his
fingers separating the labia.  He explained, voice somewhat muffled, "To
my sorrow and your embarrassment, I have lived this long without ever once
persuading a woman to show me how she <pees>!  Now I am about to find out
at last.  I confess it's very exciting!"
    She raised her head but beheld only the tan feminine stocking atop
his.  She noted, "You won't see much through that hose."
    She heard a grin in his voice.  "Don't worry, I've pushed it up.
Relieve yourself, my dear."
    The affectionate words angered her.  The touch of malice was
persuasive.  She rotated her hips to direct the stream high as she could,
hoping thus to wet his face.  She released her water but the expected
explosive withdrawal did not occur.  His fingers closed, trembling, on her
hips.
    When her flow subsided, his hand fumbled beside her and found the roll
of towels.  He turned away from her as he rose.  She heard the paper rip
and saw from behind that he was wiping his face and chest.  The darkening
of the towels revealed that a goodly quantity of liquid was being
absorbed.  She smelled a slight odor of urine.
    Obviously she had succeeded in wetting his face.  But he had endured
it!  Suddenly she had a suspicion.  "You drank it!" she accused.
    He turned around and grinned at her despite closed lips.  The rolled
stocking edge covered his nose, leaving the mouth exposed.
    "You <drank> it!" she repeated incredulously.  "Are you crazy?"
    He stepped over her leg and stooped beside her, face descending
rapidly.  His lips touched hers and opened, releasing a cascade of liquid,
some of which reached her tongue before she could react.  Its nature was
unmistakable.  She spat it back into his face as he rose away from her.
    "But, Lucy, it's your own nectar!" he protested tauntingly.
    He tore off more towels, stooped again to wipe her face and neck.
Then folding the paper carefully, he patted the moisture from her pubic
area and raising her hip, wiped the hollow around her rectum.  As he
worked he explained, "Not crazy at all, Lucy.  The word is <curious>!  And
now I know at least two new facts, important to me, that I didn't know
five minutes ago.  Furthermore <you> know something new, too!"
    "If you mean ..."
    "Can't you say it, Lucy?  I mean that now you know the taste of your
own piss after it's been in a man's mouth.  How would you ever have
learned that if I hadn't come along?  Oh, and let me correct a false
impression.  I didn't actually <drink> it, though I wouldn't mind if I
had.  Your piss is nearly as sweet as the rest of you.  One could develop
a taste for it."
    Her mouth twisted.  "You are a disgusting beast!"
    "Thank you.  I <do> try!"  His voice lost it's bantering tone.
"Excuse me, Lucy.  That's not true.  I am not trying to disgust you,
despite appearances.  In a way this is a scientific study."
    "Scientific?"  She laughed derisively.
    He had taken another drink bottle from the cooler.  Twisting its cap
off, he held up her head and put it to her lips.  She spat out the first
swallow, then gulped it thirstily.
    "Why do you doubt it?  Even Kinsey had a few statistics on urine
drinkers."
    She turned her face from the bottle long enough to say, "I don't
remember that."
    "Well, honestly, I don't either.  I seem to remember reading that he
did.  Maybe what I read was that he <didn't>."  She heard a grin in his
voice.  "We are getting into the area of the unmentionables."
    "God!  I'm afraid to ask what you plan to do next."
    He finished the bottle.  "Then don't.  I have a program of six steps.
You'll be pleased to know that we've already done the first three."
    "Really!"
    "Oh, yes.  And the next three won't hurt you any more than these three
did -- less, actually.  That is ... I don't <think> the last one will hurt
you.  But it's a <real> unmentionable.  I've never seen so much as a hint
about it in the literature or anywhere else, not even in dirty jokes.  You
did know, didn't you, Lucy, that sexually the most educational medium in
the world is the so-called dirty joke?"
    "Don't be silly.  You can't trust what you hear in jokes.  Any fool
knows that.  A pretty baby, indeed!"
    "What are you talking about, Lucy?"
    "What you did reminded me of a joke my cousin told me when I was a
very little girl."
    "An unreliable joke?  Tell me."
    "That would be cooperating."
    "With a 'disgusting beast.'  I know.  But you might win your
argument."
    "Well, if it will give me a minute more before you kill me --"
    "It's the step after next that may be hazardous, but even it won't
kill you.  Tell me what kind of dirty joke a cousin tells a nice little
girl."
    "Don't you have children?"
    "None.  Was it a male or female cousin?"
    "Female.  All right.  A pregnant woman tells her obstetrician she'll
do anything for a pretty baby.  He says that to guarantee it she must not
urinate until the birth.  She comes back many times, complaining of the
terrible pressure, but he reminds her each time of the desire for a pretty
baby.  On the last visit the baby puts out his head and demands, 'For
god's sake, Doc, let her pee.  I've been swimming around in here for
days.'"
    "Hmm.  How did you take it?"
    "I laughed when my cousin told it, but for years thoughts of pregnancy
would make me sick."
    "Interesting.  I maintain that you've lost your argument."
    "What?  But that's ridic--"
    "There are lessons and lessons.  You're old enough to've heard that
joke before the pill was popular.  In those days fearing pregnancy was
important.  And who knows?  If a woman could just hold her water long
enough ..."
    

<08:12>
    He fetched several items from the briefcase and laid them on the
canvas beside her.  Among them she saw a camera, a collapsed tripod, a
small flashlight, a large tube of lubricating jelly and a complex plastic
contraption, shaped somewhat like a human foot and ankle, that after a
moment's study was only too recognizable.  He stepped over her arm,
stooped and slipped the elastic of a party mask over her hat and head,
settling the oval mask carefully about her eyes and verifying that it did
not clamp her nostrils.
    "Can you see all right, Lucy?"
    "What's this for?  Don't tell me you have a confederate!"
    "In a manner of speaking.  He's myself -- tonight, tomorrow, next
week, next year.  And who knows?  I'll probably show these pictures to
others.  It's fairly certain they'll appear on the Internet.  Your fine
body will inspire many teenage erections, Lucy, and older ones, too.  But
I mean to protect your identity."
    "Damn you!"  She gritted her teeth audibly.
    "What's your objection?" he wondered in surprise.  "No one can prove
it's you -- nor even suspect.  I guarantee you <I'll> never breathe your
name!"
    "The birthmark, you fool!"
    He nodded.  "Under your right breast.  I didn't know about it but I
planned for it anyway.  Look at this."  He held up a small pink bottle.
"Flesh colored nail polish.  Imagine my surprise to find that there <was>
such a thing!  I'll cover your birthmark if you wish.  But I'd rather not.
It may be your only imperfection.  It'll make you seem more real.  And
consider this:  what if you want later to prove one of these pictures is
you?  To a jury, maybe?"
    She stared at him.  "I'm allergic to that kind of nail polish."
    "That settles it.  We'll leave it off."
    He screwed the camera onto the tripod, extended the latter's legs and
set the combination to one side, kneeling to align her image in the view
finder.  She watched with interest.
    "What kind of camera is that?"
    "Digital.  It uses no film, nothing that has to be processed.  It
stores its pictures in computer memory.  I'll load them into my home
computer and look at you whenever I need inspiration."
    "Is this light bright enough?"
    "Oh, yes.  The camera is very sensitive.  And for close-ups I have
that flashlight."
    "Close-ups?"
    "I told you I was curious."  He moved the camera to a spot between her
feet.
    "Are you taking pictures?  I don't hear a shutter."
    "You won't, either.  I just gently press this button, which causes the
camera to scan whatever image it has into its memory."
    "What will you tell your wife when she finds these pictures in your
desk drawer?"
    "What desk?  These pictures will probably never be printed.  They'll
be viewed only on computer screens."
    "Who'll see them on the Internet?"
    "I gather that the porno newsgroups are downloaded mostly by
high-school and college students.  But retired gentlemen are into them,
too -- and police departments looking for child porn."
    "What do the police departments make of naked women chained to the
floor?"
    "If she's obviously above the age of consent they think she's faking."
    "How do you know that?"
    "Because the porno groups are full of bondage pictures.  Some men --
women, too -- get a kick out of them."
    "Like you, Tiger?"
    "I'm curious about your femaleness, Lucy, not your helplessness.
Anyone can be made helpless.  You're chained up for only one reason:  you
wouldn't stay here otherwise."
    "Well, you're right about that!"
    He had moved the camera from spot to spot all around her, pausing to
capture the images.  Now he shortened the tripod's legs and set it low
between her knees.  He took up the tube of jelly and the plastic
contraption.
    "Do you know what this is, Lucy?"
    "Of course."
    "Then you know that it won't hurt you."
    "How do I know that?"
    "As fastidious as you are, I'd bet you get examined with one every
year or so."
    "Tiger, do you know how to use one?"
    "I think so.  You slip it in closed, then squeeze the handles to open
it."
    "Oh, god!  My first GYN was a man.  He was rough, I think, because it
embarrassed him to do it.  And he hurt me!"
    "Your 'first' GYN?"
    "Now I have a woman.  She's very gentle.  She almost makes it feel ..."
    "Go on."
    "No."
    He grinned.  "Well, Lucy, I'm not a bit embarrassed.  You'll see that
I'm also very gentle.  I want to <see> you, not hurt you.  For your
information, I put this thing into me first.  I <know> how to be easy."
    "You did <what>?  Where?"
    He snorted.  "Unlike a woman, a man has no choice in such an
experiment."
    He squeezed a palm full of clear jelly and smeared it liberally on
both of the speculum's mandibles.  He knelt and presented it to her nether
lips.
    "Tell me if this hurts."
    "It's ... cold."
    "The first one I bought was stainless steel.  Talk about <cold>!"
    "My doctor ... stores hers in a heated table."
    "Good for her."
    After a moment she flinched.
    "Reached bottom?" he asked.  "You can't be so shallow, Lucy.  I wonder
...  Ah, yes.  It had reached the cervix, hadn't it?  Now it's passed
under.  Do you suffer the misfortune of a painful cervix?"
    "What do <you> know about it?"
    "I had one girlfriend who couldn't tolerate deep penetration.  Others
went wild.  I gather it's always sensitive but painful in only a few.
Carefully now ..."
    Slowly he squeezed the handles together.  Her fists clenched, he saw,
but she made no protest.  He set the latch to hold them closed and bent
his head, bringing the flashlight close.  He peered for a long time,
occasionally shifting the speculum.
    She asked, "What do you see besides wet, red meat?"
    "You've looked in here, too, have you, Lucy?"
    "With a mirror."
    "Wet, red meat, of course.  <How> wet surprises me!  It puddles in the
crevices.  How can you stand up without wetting your pants?"
    "Sometimes you do."
    "I'm reflecting that the entire human race slides down this tube, and
half of it spends the rest of its life plotting to get back up it."
    "That's almost poetic, Tiger.  But you over-generalize."
    "You mean Cesareans?"
    "And homos."
    "Perhaps, though I gather the homosexual women try as hard to get up
it as do normal men.  For that matter, I doubt you'd find many fags who
wouldn't slip it to you if they found you in this condition."
    "How flattering!"
    "Not at all.  It's the nature of the beast.  By the same token, few
normal men would take advantage of you.  Most of them would free you and
clothe you and help you punish your captor."
    "Do you class yourself with the fags, then?"
    "Oh, no.  I have no interest in men sexually ... or for any other use,
actually."
    "Are you sure, Tiger?"
    "Sure enough to suit me."
    He brought the camera up close and tried it in several positions
relative to the flashlight.
    "Will it focus this close?" she asked.
    "Yes, within a couple of inches.  Do you know something of
photography, Lucy?"
    "I've experimented a little.  I photograph my flowers."
    "You, too, eh?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "We both like to photograph sex organs."
    "Sex --  Hmph!"
    "You never realized what flowers are, Lucy?"
    "Everyone knows what they are.  But they're so beautiful!"
    "So is this."
    "That's ridiculous, Tiger, even allowing for a man's bias."
    "Well, maybe not, distended like this one.  But staring straight into
one that's pulled open just a little reminds me of a blood red orchid.  Or
a pink one in a younger woman."
    "You're obsessed, Tiger."
    "Of course.  My defense is that nature wired me so...  How does it
feel?"
    "Thank you for letting it down before pulling it out."
    "You're welcome.  I told you:  I know what I'm doing."
    "Do you?  What are you putting in me now?"
    "Nothing.  Light.  I'm making you pout enough for the camera to see
the natural size."
    "You'll have to wait a bit for that."
    "Yes, I see what you mean.  But this is even better for the camera."
    After a moment he moved camera and flashlight to one side.  He slid
over her body.  She observed, almost sneering, "So you finally get around
to it, do you?"
    "Partially."
    "What ... uh ... what do you mean?"
    He was slow to answer.  At last he explained, "I don't believe ...
anyone has found a better instrument to explore a vagina ... than a
penis."
    But almost immediately he backed away from her.  Her head snapped up
to stare at him.  "You <can't> have come yet!"
    "Right."  He applied more jelly to the speculum and bent over her
again.
    She cried, "You don't mean to put it there!"
    "Wrong guess, Lucy.  Relax your sphincter.  If you don't, it may hurt
you.  I know from experience."
    Deftly he worked the instrument.  "Actually it's easier here.  The
whole thing is in you, right up to the handle.  The only other difference,
I suspect, is that it takes practice to open it as far.  I've seen
pictures of baseball bats up women's rectums.  I'm only opening this about
an inch.  We've all shat bigger than that.  Now let's see ..."
    His inspection of the second avenue was relatively brief both before
and after removing the speculum.  She gasped when she saw him apply the
jelly to himself.
    "You wouldn't!"
    "Wouldn't what?"
    "Rape me there!"
    "It's only rape if you don't give permission."
    "Huh!  No hope of that!"
    "Are you sure you don't want a bit of compression just now?"
    "Whether I want it or not has nothing to do with it.  I wouldn't put
it past you to be taping all this.  So for the record, let me assure you
that you <do not have> permission for <anything> you do, will do or have
done to me!"
    He observed admiringly, "My dear, that pretty well covers it."
    "And I'm not your <dear>, either!"
    "Ah, but you are, Lucy.  At this moment you are more dear to me than
anyone else on Earth."  His voice took a pedantic tone.  "It's curious
that nature constructed male and female so that the male does not require
the female's permission.  I submit that the only time a man <ever> gets a
woman's prior permission is in the transaction with a whore.  Did anyone
ever ask you for it, Lucy?  Even so much as 'let's fuck?'"
    She shook her head.  "Tiger, I keep coming back to my original
question.  What can you get from this that's worth the risk?  A prostitute
would let you satisfy your curiosity, at least of what I've seen so far."
    "A prostitute!" he repeated disgustedly.  "You speak of risk.
Nowadays a man who goes to whores takes his life in his hands."
    "AIDS?"
    "Right.  Who'd dare taste a whore's piss?  And whores are not typical
women.  One who'd let me try my final step would likely be so ... callous
as to be useless for it.  I need the casual encounter that a whore offers,
but with a reasonably chaste woman.  Look on the bright side, Lucy.  You
may well learn something, too."
    "This 'final step.'  Is that what you're about to do?"
    "Oh, no."  He grinned.  "This is only the fifth."
    

<09:10>
    He took a length of paper towels and wiped the perspiration off his
face and chest, then her belly.  "Sorry about that, Lucy."
    She had turned her face to the side, away from him.  Now she turned
back to regard him, eyes glittering.  "You certainly should apologize!"
    He grinned.  "I do, for perspiring on you.  Or was some of it yours?"
    "Perspiration was the least of it!"
    "Now, Lucy."  He held up the distended condom.  "Didn't you notice?"
    "No, I didn't."  Her eyebrows rose.  "So you <do> fear AIDS from me!"
    "Not at all.  You have a sweetly voluptuous body, Lucy.  AIDS
sufferers are always skin and bones.  I <know> how clean you are!  No,
it's not fear of AIDS.  It's fear of DNA."
    "Huh?"
    "I'll leave nothing here to identify me.  Not even seminal fluid."
    "I see.  That's why you stopped there at the last."
    He paused, eyes distant.  "No.  Rolling on a condom occurred to me
afterwards."
    "What do you mean?"
    "After I stopped."
    "Let's not mince words.  Did you squirt into me?"
    "No.  I stopped before the climax.  All right.  I'll tell you, though
you'll reach the wrong conclusion.  I meant to do with you something else
I've always wanted to do to my wife.  I meant to crawl up and let you have
it in the face."
    "The face!"
    "The mouth, though I knew you'd keep it clamped shut, and in the eyes.
They say it burns the eyes."
    She stared at him.  "You <do> hate your wife!"
    He nodded.  "What I expected you to say.  By the time I realized it, I
was about to finish on the canvas.  So I put on the condom and resumed."
    "If you wanted to do that to your wife, you <must> hate her!"
    "I don't think so.  Not hate, exactly.  Revenge."
    She considered that.  "What did she do to you, Tiger?"
    "The one time she ... relieved me orally ... she spat it out."
    "Did she!"
    "Yes."
    "I see.  The ultimate rejection, is that it?"
    "I suppose.  Well, anyway, I did stop."  He added as an afterthought,
"Stopping is another thing a wife won't permit."
    "Huh!  Who'd trust a man to stop?"
    He nodded thoughtfully.  "Ordinarily that's right."
    He repositioned the pillow under the small of her back, then fetched
another cold drink and presented it to her mouth without asking.  She
drank freely and licked her lips as he emptied the bottle.
    He noticed the gesture.  "Want more?"
    She cocked an eyebrow at him.  "What I want is to get out of here.
You've got what you wanted.  What's keeping us?"
    "So far I've got it," he agreed, throwing the bottle aside, kneeling
beside her and sitting back on his heels.  "Ah, I see!  Is it your
experience, Lucy, that when the man comes, he rolls over and goes to
sleep?"
    "More or less.  They do seem to lose interest."
    "Whether you do or not, eh?"  His hand stroked her chest.  "I never
lose interest, Lucy.  Just like this nipple...  Tell me this:  when I was
putting it in, you arched your back to make it tougher for me, but when I
slid the pillow under your hips, you turned yourself up and made it even
easier.  Why did you do that?"
    She sniffed.  "Because it hurt less."
    "<Hurt> less!  How could that hurt, compared to the speculum?"
    "Well, it did.  At first."
    "I'll quote your favorite phrase:  'that's ridiculous!'"
    "I ... think it was the angle.  Your thing is not as straight as the
speculum.  Anyway, when I raised up, it felt better.  Easier, I mean."
    "You'd never admit that you found any part of it enjoyable, would
you?"
    She turned her face away toward the wall again.
    "Did you ever let a man do that to you, Lucy?"  When she didn't
answer, he added, "How about a girl with a hairbrush handle?  How about
yourself with your vibrator?"
    "I don't have a vibrator," she muttered.
    "Then I can do you a favor.  There's one in my briefcase that I'll
leave for you.  It's not much use to a man, but I recommend it to you on
the strength of what I've read.  One woman wrote that she kept hers under
the pillow, that though its batteries might run out at least it was always
<stiff>!  Women are luckier than men in that, too.  They can find many
substitutes for a dick."
    He stretched out his legs beside her, propping his shoulder up on an
elbow arched over her extended arm.  His fingers traced the line of her
nose and lips.
    She turned her head to him.  "I was right, wasn't I, Tiger?  You're
doing to me all the things you're ashamed to do to your wife."
    "That's too sweeping, Lucy.  And it's not shame, exactly.  I prefer to
call it <prudence>.  My wife and I are comfortable with each other, even
in sexual matters so long as it's done her way.  I expect to live with her
the rest of my life, long after this goad wears out."  He thrust against
her hip to indicate which goad he meant.  "It's best not to rock her
complacent boat."
    "I pity the poor woman -- not knowing she has such an unprincipled
snake for a husband."
    "Ah, Lucy!  Ignorance is bliss, they say.  What are you doing?  Does
your back itch?"
    "I can scratch my back!"
    "Where, then?"  He rubbed torso and thighs without waiting for an
answer.  "Your skin is like velvet, Lucy.  I'm glad you've taken such good
care of it."
    "I certainly didn't do it to please you!"
    "Of course not, but it does please me nevertheless.  I hope the one
you meant it for appreciates it, too."
    The palm and heel of his hand stroked the whole width of her vulva.
He soon felt its affect upon her clitoris.
    "I grant you that what I'm doing is immoral. This is your body and I
have trespassed upon it.  But don't presume that I'm totally unprincipled.
I mean to satisfy my curiosity about certain female characteristics and I
will do that, whether you approve or not, but I won't hurt you.  I would
never deliberately cause pain to another."
    "Oh, no?  What about your 'hazardous' final step?"
    "That won't hurt, exactly.  I've experienced part of it myself and
even though it gets unbearable, <hurt> is not the right word for it."
    "What will you do?"
    "I just gave you a pretty good clue."
    "Tell me."
    "No, not in advance.  I don't want to distort your reaction."
    She took a deep breath.  "Well, get it over with."
    "Not yet.  We have plenty of time."  He consulted his wrist watch.
"In fact we're ahead of my schedule.  The final step can get noisy.  It's
safer to wait until everyone in the building is busy."
    "I thought you said this place was sound proof."
    "I believe it is.  I exploded a firecracker on a long fuse in here
and couldn't hear it on the first floor."  He shrugged.  "I won't try to
stop you from screaming."
    "You expect me to scream during the final step?  Why, if it doesn't
hurt?"
    "You'll see."
    He continued to stroke her, evoking twitches in response.  Ignoring
his hand, she asked, "What do you mean, 'curiosity about females?'  You
could've done that last thing to a man as well."
    "I suppose.  But I don't care how it works with a man."
    His hand worked slowly between her legs.  Obviously trying to ignore
it, she declared, "You're a liar, Tiger."
    "Am I!  On what subject."
    "A lot of them, I bet, but one in particular:  it's not curiosity that
makes you do this to me."
    "Isn't it?"
    "No.  Curiosity isn't strong enough to make you take these risks.
Hate is."
    "There you go again!  I tell you, Lucy, I don't hate women, at least
not for being women.  I <love> their sweet tails!"
    "Yes.  Their <tails>.  You love them as sex objects."
    "Of course.  Aside from that they're the same as men.  Aside from that
they merit no particular consideration.  A man regards a woman first and
foremost as the object of his lust.  It's what makes him pursue her.  It
may be true that a woman considers personality first.  I wouldn't know and
I don't care.  I'm telling you how it is for a man."
    She shook her head.  "I know that rapists hate women.  Tom Bundy
admitted it."
    He snorted.  "<Tom Bundy> hated women!  But he is far from typical.  I
tell you, Lucy, that almost any man will rape a woman if he thinks his
fellows won't object.  It's his nature.  The Russian army didn't hate
German women, but it raped every nubile female in Berlin when the city
fell.  It's true that in this country rapists tend to kill their victims,
mainly I think to eliminate the witness, but that's getting rare as the
punishment for rape gets lighter."
    She said pensively, "Another emotion strong enough is anger."
    "Anger?"
    "That's it, isn't it, Tiger?  What have women done to make you so
angry that you have to humiliate one of them?"  When he failed to answer,
she added, "Did your mother let you watch?"
    He grinned.  "You really studied Mr. Bundy, didn't you?"
    His hand paused on her pubes, but only for a moment.  "I can't
remember lusting for my mother.  But you may have something there, Lucy.
I may harbor a bit of anger towards women.  The more I think on it, the
more certain I get."
    "What was it that made you angry?"
    "Their contrariness."
    "Their what?"
    He raised up on an elbow and regarded her thoughtfully.  "A woman's
body is everything a man most desires.  It's what he wants most, even
before water to drink and food to eat.  The sex drive can be stronger even
than self-preservation.  To lack a woman can be pure torture, especially
for a young man.  But women have damned little sympathy for that.  They
are largely indifferent to a man's feelings.  They find it altogether too
easy to say, 'No,' or attach absurd conditions to their 'yes.'
    "I think you're right, Lucy.  I did feel a touch of anger.  But no
more.  I have here a lovely sex object who can refuse me no proposal,
however whimsical."
    She insisted, "I am more than a sex object, Tiger."
    "You're mistaken, my dear.  Here and now that is what you are, and
only that.  Furthermore, you are <my> sex object, reserved exclusively for
my pleasure.  I've dreamed of this for weeks, of having this fine female
equipment just where I want it, and now I've got it!"
    "Just my luck to attract a rapist!"
    "It's not a total loss.  You're learning, too.  Don't consider
yourself so unlucky.  Really it's fate more than luck.  But that's another
curious thing about women.  I can understand feeling threatened and angry
at being assaulted, at having yourself <used> against your wishes.  To
some degree that can also happen to a man -- if he's shot by a thief, for
example.  Nothing is more invasive than a bullet!
    "That's the other curious thing.  What I can't understand is how women
can feel as if they're cheapened by rape, as if their <value> is gone!
When you come out of this furnace, you'll be the same woman who went in.
Yet my reading tells me it's not unusual for a rape victim to lose her
self esteem to such a degree that she becomes withdrawn from her friends
and even in the extreme feels so worthless that she commits suicide.  How
can something done to you by another, something you never invited or
permitted, make you less of a person?"
    Her eyes glittered.  "Don't count on it affecting <me> that way!"
    He shrugged.  "I didn't count on it.  But can you explain it?"
    "I think so.  It's not so hard to understand."
    "Isn't it?"
    "I'll give you a clue.  Girls are always taught dependency."
    "Dependency."
    She grinned at him.  "It's so simple it's hard."
    "I don't ..."
    "They're taught to depend on someone else for what they need,
protection, even affection.  When you do in fact depend on other people,
their good opinion is very important.  If they don't like you they won't
give what you need, certainly not affection."
    "I see that.  But --"
    "And standards are high for girls.  To maintain that good opinion --
what used to be called her reputation -- she must be perfect:  perfectly
clean, perfectly mannered, perfectly chaste.  The rape victim feels that
her chastity, even her cleanliness, is gone for good.  Many would give
anything to keep the fact of it a secret.  But most are their own worst
critics.  They can't keep it secret from themselves."
    He observed thoughtfully, "But they don't <have> to be so dependent ..."
    "That's right, Tiger.  I think society has recognized it, to a degree,
which may be why rape is no longer a capital crime."
    "It's capital enough if one man catches another in the act."
    "That's a good point.  Why aren't you worried that someone will come
to that storeroom?"
    "I am, a little.  You <can> hear a firecracker out there, though you'd
think the sound came from elsewhere in the building.  I don't know about a
woman's scream.  The interesting thing, though, is that you can tell if
someone opens that steel door.  The transformer hum changes.  It sounds
raspier.  Probably different echoes.  I keep listening for it.  But don't
get your hopes up.  I've been down here a lot for the last few days and
I've never seen another soul."
    She shrugged as best she could.  "What hopes?  By now I know you'll do
<anything> to me!"
    He raised up enough to lock eyes with her.  "Then let me tell you what
I <won't> do!  I won't break a bone.  I won't break your skin.  I won't
even bruise you.  I invite you to inspect your breasts.  The redness has
faded and there's no sign of bruising despite the rough handling.  I won't
<hurt> you, Lucy!  At least I don't think I will."
    "Will you quit saying that?"
    He grinned at her as he got to his feet.  "Would you like another
drink?"
    "Not now."  She twisted her body, stretching within the confines of
her manacles.
    "Well, I need a couple of swallows.  Then we'll start the last step."
    


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