Deep Inside (14 page)

“You won't be eating any more Viagra babies,” she says.

She empties the gun into him.

 

Naomi and
I drive along a remote highway.

We have been on the run for three months. We sold the limo a thousand miles out of town and got a cheap nondescript car.

The headlines in the papers read: “Philanthropist Murdered in Cold Blood by Viagra Babies He Tried to Help.”

As Naomi says, we can't turn ourselves in. Who will believe us? We're dangerous sex criminals.

Naomi strokes my thigh and I turn off the road. It's wilderness here—mountains, thick forests. We park the car and hike up to a clearing.

We stand before each other. We each hold a knife. In a moment we will both be bleeding and licking each other's blood.

And we will howl so both Heaven and Hell can hear us having sex.

Rebecca didn't
hear him enter her apartment. It was two
A.M.
and she was asleep.

He'd silently picked the lock on her apartment door. He must have been in her place for at least a half-hour while she slept.

She'd awakened only when he stroked her hair. She'd opened her eyes to see his masked face hovering over her. His gloved hand covered her mouth. With his other hand he held up a knife. It glinted in the urban glow from her window. He held it to her throat with his right hand.

“Don't scream and I won't have to hurt you,” he said. His voice was cold and businesslike, like that of a CEO, not a street thug. His black leather jacket and pants looked expensive. But she instinctively knew he was capable of infinite cruelty. His bearing was commanding, his eyes like an animal on the hunt.

He took his hand off her mouth. “I mean it,” he said. “Don't even think of yelling.”

He paused for a moment. Then, with one swift motion, he ripped off her bedsheets with his left hand. She shuddered, naked before his criminal gaze.

She closed her eyes, trying to quiet her anxious breath so she wouldn't cut herself on his knife. She felt him run a gloved finger between her breasts, then down to her pubic thatch.

He removed his hand before reaching her pussy. He stood up. She opened her eyes and gasped at how strong he was. He must be six-two, with broad shoulders and big hands.

His glittering, ruthless eyes appraised her. He put his left hand in his jacket pocket, then brought out the jewelry he'd taken from her drawers: her pearl necklace, the diamond earrings, the sapphire ring. Rebecca had bought herself these exquisite and very expensive pieces of jewelry, one for each time she'd had a bestselling book. And now he was holding it as though it was his bounty.

“Do you have any more?” he demanded.

Rebecca shook her head no.

“That's a lie,” he snarled. “And I punish people who don't tell the truth.”

She saw the dangerous fury in his eyes. She knew his massive arms were capable of rapid damage. But she could also see how much he desired her. His breath was hard, his eyes hungry for her body, his cock stirring in his black pants. She stared right at his crotch, then up at his eyes. She let him know just where she was looking.

“You think I want you, don't you?” he said. He pulled his mask up just enough so that his mouth was exposed. She saw the firm, square jaw, the full lips, the stubble of his black beard. “But I'm not going to touch you. That's something you'll do to yourself. You're going to masturbate in front of me and put on a real show. If I like what I see, I'll leave with only these jewels. And if I don't, then you'll be at my mercy. You think you can imagine the cruelty I'm capable of. But you have no idea of what lengths I will go to in order to get what I want.”

Rebecca felt the blade against her throat. She tried not to breathe too hard. She bit her lip as she carefully lifted her right hand and moved it down along her stomach. His gleaming black eyes followed her hand as her thighs parted, and her fingers slid into her pussy.

“You're wet, aren't you?” He laughed.

She said yes with her eyes. She didn't move her head for fear of the knife cutting her.

“Taste yourself,” he insisted.

She brought her hand up to her mouth and sucked on her fingers. She let him know how much she liked the taste. She didn't reveal how he was igniting her body. She controlled her pulsing thighs.

“Put both your hands back down there and show me how you do it,” he demanded.

She put her left hand on her clit, holding apart her vaginal lips. She slowed moving her right hand from her mouth. She defiantly touched his hand that held the knife. She paused there, then ran her fingers over her breasts, lingering there, closing and opening her eyes, but never moaning.

She slid her hand down to her stomach, lingering at the top of her cunt. She didn't let him know how much his presence was adding to her body's excitement. Instead, she haughtily let him see how she liked to please herself. The truth was, she longed to have him touch her, to feel his cruel lips on her body. And she imagined how it would feel as her right hand caressed her thighs, then she slid two fingers into her hole, then up to her clit.

“You like doing this to yourself, don't you?” he said. “I can see your cunt responding to your touch.”

His gruff voice made her pussy quiver. She slowed her touch, savoring the first wave of pulsing bliss. She could feel his knife, yet she knew that she was in charge of this dangerous rapture and it filled her with delicious power.

“Now I command you to speak,” he said. “Admit you want my cock in your pussy now.”

“No,” Rebecca said. “I don't want you.”

“You do,” he said.

“I can masturbate better than anyone else.” She laughed. “I know just how to bring myself up to a crest of pleasure, then taper off. Watch this.”

She raised her hand, then roughly spanked her pussy, then lightly caressed it. Then ran her fingers over her thighs.

“Even if you kill me now, you're the one who will suffer. You'll never know the kind of ecstasy I'm about to give myself,” she said.

“Goddamn you,” he said. “I'm going to show you how wrong you are.”

He unzipped his pants with his free hand. He was groaning with fierce urgency.

“You better hurry up,” she said, mocking him. “Because I'm about to come.”

She bit her lip when she saw his cock. It was cruelly enormous, something that should belong to a wild beast, not a man. He left his shirt on, and hurriedly climbed on top of her. He dropped the knife, pinning her shoulders down with his strong arms.

But he didn't have to forcibly part her legs. Her hands left her pussy and grabbed him from behind. God, his ass was barbarously hard.

His first thrust shook her to the core. She panted, dazed, obliterated. Then she grabbed hold of his ass, and pulled him into her, again and again. She drew his lips to hers, felt his tongue fill her mouth the way his cock filled her cunt.

“I'm coming,” she told him.

He watched her as she did, thrusting into her in just the right way so that her body undulated in ecstasy.

 

The phone
by her bed was ringing. Rebecca gasped for breath as she picked it up.

“Good evening, Ms. Stillman,” the crisp and efficient voice said. “This is the hotel concierge. Do you want me to arrange your limo now?”

Rebecca glanced around the room. It wasn't her apartment. It was the luxurious hotel suite she'd checked into just three hours ago. The room was decorated in a tasteful upscale Midwestern style: there were thick beige and rose patterned curtains on the windows.

“Right,” Rebecca said, trying to pull herself together.

“Is everything okay, Ms. Stillman?” the concierge asked. “Is there anything we can do to make your stay here better?”

“I'm fine,” Rebecca said. She looked down and saw that her hand was shaking.

“Good, then it's all arranged,” the concierge said, adding, “Oh, and Ms. Stillman?” Her tone was no longer official. “I'm a big fan of yours! I brought my copy of your book,
Please Yourself: How to Masturbate Better!,
to work with me. I was hoping you'd autograph it.”

“I'd be delighted,” Rebecca said, trying to sound warm and peppy, yet professional. It was the way she knew her fans wanted her to be. “I'll do it on my way out tonight.”

The concierge squealed, then whispered, “I just have to tell you how much you've improved my sex life. I never used to be able to masturbate. I was ashamed. But it's like you say: ‘If you don't please yourself, how can you please others?' And now I'm so good at it I can sneak off from my desk and get myself off in just three minutes! I've become very good at fantasizing sexy scenarios that really get me off, thanks to you!”

“That's great,” Rebecca said in a sweet voice, but she was only half listening. She was used to people confiding in her about the deepest truths of their sex lives.

“Yes,” the concierge gushed. “Not only have you helped me realize my own sexuality, your books empowered me to go out and get involved with the best man anyone could ever want.”

“I'm so happy for you,” Rebecca said. Bored with the concierge's tale, she glanced around her hotel room.

Like the curtains, the carpet was also thick and beige. The furniture in the room looked antique: a polished mahogany chest where the TV and minibar were hidden, a chest of drawers with brass handles, an old-fashioned writing desk. It was a five-star hotel, and one of their best suites. The bedside clock showed that it was five
P.M
. She had only an hour before she had to leave for the lecture hall.

“Our relationship is fantastic!” The concierge was prattling on. “And so is our sex! You're right. Fantasy
is
important. If you can imagine the kind of sex you want while masturbating, then you're on the road to having great real sex!”

“Thank you,” Rebecca said.

“Thank
you
! Well, I better confirm the limo arrangements for you,” the concierge said. “You won't forget to sign your book for me?”

“Of course not,” Rebecca promised, and hung up the phone.

Her jealousy over the concierge's love life gave way to feelings of loneliness. She groped around on the bedside table for her own cell phone and hit the speed-dial.

She sat up in the king-sized bed. She saw herself in the mirror. She didn't resemble the perky and energetic woman in her book-jacket photo. Instead, she looked tired, worn out, older than her twenty-eight years.

Her call was picked up.

“Hello, Rebecca.” It was the gentle, yet authoritative voice of her therapist.

“I need to talk to you, Andrew,” she said. “I'm here. And I'm scared.”

“I told you it wasn't a good idea,” Andrew said.

“You don't understand. I
have
to do this. I'm going to get up on that stage and tell everyone in my hometown about masturbation.”

“You don't need to do this to prove anything to your family. You have fans. They love you. And they buy your books.”

Rebecca got up and went over to the windows. She drew aside the curtains. The view was of the famous St. Louis arch.

“I thought about him again,” she said, staring out at the hazy gray of the city.

“Your fantasy lover?” Andrew asked.

She sighed furiously at Andrew's stubbornness. She walked over to the mahogany dresser and yanked the door of the minibar. She pulled out a bag of peanuts. She ripped them open.

“He's not imaginary, Andrew. It really happened. And I can't stop thinking about him.”

Andrew's voice grew concerned. “We need to talk, Becca. I don't have much time now, but I can spare a few moments before my next appointment. What do you mean you're thinking about him?”

“I was nervous about being here. Then I started to remember about how he made me feel—”

“Rebecca, we both know it never happened. Your apartment wasn't broken into. Your intruder lover doesn't exist. This sexy burglar is merely someone you've imagined.”

“You don't believe me, do you?” Her voice started to rise.

“The police could find no sign of anyone breaking into your apartment,” Andrew reminded her. “Your front door had not been tampered with. And search as they might, they could find no fingerprints in your apartment other than your own.”

There was silence between them. It had been so humiliating, the way the police had looked at her, not to mention the way they'd lectured her. “Ms. Stillman,” they'd said at the station, “there are sex criminals in this city. We don't treat reports of sex crimes lightly. But there's no evidence of anyone breaking into your apartment. In fact, your apartment doesn't seem to have had
any
visitors in it for a long, long time.”

Rebecca winced as she recalled the incident. She could hear Andrew clearing his throat.

“You're experiencing a lot of stress,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “You're under pressure to produce a best-seller. And that's what's triggering these episodes. They're also deeply rooted in your past.”

“Andrew, I know the difference between a masturbatory fantasy and what really happened. Good God, I'm a sex expert! I
should
know. So listen. He's not just some guy I dreamed up! He actually broke into my apartment. He was armed, he was too big to stop. And he made me finger myself in front of him.”

“Rebecca, it
is
just a fantasy.” Andrew sighed. “Remember that.”

“No!”

“Just a fantasy,” he insisted.

“Becca,” he continued, “your expertise at masturbation is something to be justly proud of and celebrated for. But we both know how much you want a real relationship, an actual lover, someone who exists outside your fantasies.”

Rebecca heard the bitterness in his voice. She could sense how attracted Andrew was to her. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. And she knew it would only take a little encouragement from her for Andrew to violate his professional ethics.

“I have no trouble coming,” she said.

“But wouldn't it be nice to let someone else give you an orgasm?” Andrew asked. His voice was strained, even though he was trying desperately to sound calm and detached.

“Sure,” she said. “That's what we've been working on.”

“And I don't feel this is the right way for you to heal. Nonetheless, since you've insisted on going there, I hope you remember the breathing exercises I gave you,” he said.

After she hung up, Rebecca walked over to the bathroom to take a shower. As she passed the full-length mirror, she stopped. She thought about another encounter she recently had. She hadn't told Andrew about this one. He would just say it wasn't real, so why bother?