The desire Anton called from her was so strong that tears started to slide down her cheeks. But they weren’t tears of the fear or shame from before. She felt her body arching off the table, her ass thrusting obscenely toward him. She pressed her mound harder into his hand, trying to get his fingers to make even the most momentary brush with that sensitive flesh that would send her over the edge into completion.
“Be a good girl, Vivian. You may only have what I allow you to have. You can’t just take. Beg if you want it. Beg like a little slut, and I’ll show you just how kind I can be.”
Her face flamed at his words, but perhaps more at her willingness to obey them. And because the order turned her on. “Anton, please.”
His free hand stroked her back as if he were petting a kitten. “Oh, you can do much better than that. Beg like a slut that wants it or I’ll have to end our session here. I’ve got a busy roster today, and I’m already behind.”
Desperation and fear drove her. “Oh, God, no. Don’t stop. More. Please Anton, please let me come.”
“Will you be a good slut for me if I let you have a release?”
She whimpered and nodded.
“I want to hear it.”
“Yes, I’ll be a good slut. Please. I’ll do anything.”
He chuckled. “You have no idea yet how true those words are.”
She felt a cold, ribbed piece of glass sliding frantically inside her pussy, and then his fingers were finally stroking the center of her pleasure.
The orgasm went on for ages, coming fast and hard. Even when she thought she was finished and wanted to beg him to stop, one hand continued to thrust the dildo inside her while the other kept rubbing her clit in feverish circles, until she had a second orgasm riding on the back of the first.
She screamed out her release, the tears still flowing down her cheeks until finally he stopped and let her collapse on the massage table, her pussy dripping onto the soft vinyl.
5
Two and a half weeks of sessions with Anton passed before Michael noticed the deductions from their account. Vivian had made Chicken Kiev with buttered baby carrots and asparagus. She tried to play the role of the dutiful wife because her visits to Dome were feeling more and more like an affair, and less like the coerced sexual abuse it was.
Because she now looked forward to the visits.
Anton hadn’t started doing anything too weird to her. He never got off. It was all about her pleasure. What he got out of it, she couldn’t ascertain, but she didn’t get the frightened butterflies in her stomach on Tuesday or Thursday mornings anymore. Massage days were a day she looked forward to, a day her body was held in an erotic limbo until Anton’s elegant and precise hands could be on her again.
She’d almost started to see him as a lover. Almost. But he’d told her not to get attached. She wasn’t the only woman he did this with, and some day she would move on. Did that mean he would get bored and release her from the blackmail? She should be happy at that prospect, but she felt nothing.
Michael had been civil with her, kind even, but he hadn’t tried to touch her again. Her mind screamed with
the possibilities. Did he suspect? Did he think she was cheating? Had Anton sent the pictures or the video? Surely if it had happened, her husband would have confronted her, and she’d be out on the street by now.
It was Wednesday and Michael wasn’t even pretending to have a nice meal with her. Instead, he stared at the laptop screen, the click-clack of the keys piercing through the silence every few seconds as he shoveled forkfuls of food into his mouth without bothering to look at what he was eating.
“Vivian, what’s this?”
She had no idea what he’d found, but the tone of his voice made her feel as if she were in a free fall. She put a bite of carrots in her mouth and chewed, trying to maintain her composure.
“What’s what?”
He spun the laptop around so she could see the screen. He’d been looking at their joint bank account. He rarely paid attention to that account since most of his money went through a separate, much larger account she didn’t have access to.
Her expression was perfectly blank as she looked at the screen, as if by pretending ignorance, he would go back to his Chicken Kiev and forget all about the matter.
“Twice a week withdrawals. What on earth are you spending that kind of money on? Jesus, Vivi, that’s four hundred and fifty a week.”
A drop in the bucket.
“We’ve got the money.”
“That’s not the point. What are you spending it on?”
There was no answer to give but the truth. The amount was too exact. Why hadn’t she been smarter about it? Had she thought he’d never notice?
Had she wanted to get caught so this madness would end? She could have used the check card at the ATM and taken out more varied amounts. Then she could have said she’d been shopping. Though that probably would have annoyed him, too.
She looked at her plate. “I’ve been seeing a massage therapist.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth she wished she could take them back. Or rephrase them. It sounded like she was admitting to an affair. She chanced a glance up.
His eyes were cold, narrowed on her. He seemed ready to go off on his standard diatribe about money. You’d think they were starving, or even upper middle class.
“Why didn’t you clear it with me, first?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Dr. Smith sent me there. He thought massages might loosen me up.” She didn’t think her face could get any redder.
“You stopped seeing that therapist. You said he made you uncomfortable.”
“I know.” Her gaze was on her plate again, unable to bear the intensity in his eyes. Eyes that might see far too much of her.
“I’m freezing your access,” he said, slamming the laptop shut.
All she could think was, This is it. I’m out on the street. Anton will tell him everything. All at once, her attempt at self-sabotage seemed suicidal. She wanted to drop to her knees and beg him not to, but instead she fell into the pattern that felt like normalcy between them.
Anger.
She leaped up from the table. “Fuck you, Michael. You stingy son of a bitch. Have I displeased you once in the past several weeks? Has your breakfast or dinner been late? Has your house been dirty? Have your shirts been wrinkled? You can’t even accuse me of being frigid because you haven’t made a move toward me.”
Why am I bringing that up? Shut up, Vivian. Shut the FUCK up. If he fucks me, he’ll know something’s different.
She took her plate from the table and slammed it against the dining room wall, narrowly missing the curio cabinet. As the plate shattered, she looked at Michael in time to see his eyes turn to slits. He unfolded himself from the chair.
Vivian backed away and then bolted down the hallway, Michael on her heels in that slow, predatory walk like the villain in a horror film. So sure he’ll reach his prey. The hall ended with a door that led to a half-basement. She’d get out that way and disappear for a few hours to let him cool off.
The door was locked. She twisted the knob frantically as if she could make it open with added exertion.
She turned then, her back pressed flat against the door, Michael only a few feet from her. He caged her with his hands and large body. She felt her hips arch toward his, as if this were foreplay instead of potential danger.