Jane Doe(63)

“Close your eyes,” I whisper before I move to stand in front of him. He opens his eyes before I give him permission and he groans loudly at the sight of me.

“Oh my God. You’re so damn hot.”

“You like it?”

“Hell yeah. Let me see the back.” When I turn, I glance over my shoulder to see him tugging his phone from his jeans.

“What are you doing?” I scream as I shield myself.

“Taking a picture.”

“No way!”

“Come on. I’m your boyfriend.”

“No. No pictures!”

“You’ve never taken dirty pics before?”

“Never.”

“Not even with your stepdad?”

“Steven! Oh my God! I can’t believe you asked that!” What a shitty way to take a hard swipe at my confidence.

“I just thought those guys were really into pictures.”

“I never . . . no. Absolutely not.”

He puts the phone down. “Come here, babe.”

I drop onto the couch beside him and pout.

“Listen. This is something special. I’m not going to show these to anyone. They’re just for me. I think about you all the damn time and I want to be able to see the girl I love.”

I shake my head.

“Okay. Then I’ll delete them before we get back to town. Come on. Do this for me. It’s such a turn-on.” When I hesitate, he nuzzles my neck. “Don’t you like making your man happy?”

“You know I do.”

“I want to be the first,” he murmurs. “The first guy you pose for.”

I wonder if this is exactly what he said to Meg. It’s a double betrayal—to talk a woman into this vulnerable intimacy, then use it as proof that she’s beneath contempt. But I can’t think about Meg now. I can’t let my rage bubble up. I must be absolutely harmless tonight.

“You’d have to use my phone,” I whisper. “Not yours.”

“Okay. But maybe you’ll send me some?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, baby. Have another drink. Loosen up a little.”

I don’t mind taking photos, but I can’t leave him with any evidence on his phone. Even if I make him delete them, who knows what the police will be able to recover? I swallow another gulp of champagne and move his phone to the other couch before getting mine.

He pokes around on it for a minute. “You don’t take any photos? Not even selfies? I thought all girls loved selfies.”

I stand in front of him, pretending to be self-conscious. “I don’t have much memory. I have to transfer all my pictures to my computer to save space.”

“I see. All right, baby. Smile for me.”

I begin posing, giggling at his instructions. “Maybe you shouldn’t get my face in the photos.”

“I’ll do my best. Turn around. Lift it up. Yeah. Now lean over a little. Hell yeah.” I hear his zipper and he’s breathing harder. “Touch yourself.”

“Steven!”

“Come on. Move for me. Yeah, that’s my good girl.”

“Are you taking video?”

“Maybe.”

“Steven!”

“Turn around and take it off.” His voice is a little harder now.

I do as instructed, stumbling as if I’m drunk. “Nice,” he grunts. “Real nice. You’re good at this. My own personal little slut. Now touch them.”

I cup my breasts and moan. I like showing off and I don’t have to pretend to be turned on. I’ll watch the video myself later.

He masturbates for a while, issuing instructions to me that I obey. It doesn’t take long for him to order me to my knees. “Make me happy, baby.”

“Don’t record it,” I say.

“I won’t.” But of course he will. I pretend to trust him anyway.

“I love you,” I say, looking up at him with big eyes.

“I love you too,” he mumbles. “I love you so much, babe.” He moves my head where he wants it. “So much.”

He thinks he’s in control here, his hand pushing me down, his penis shoving into my throat. He thinks he’s dominating me. But he’s the vulnerable one, sliding his favorite part between my open jaws. My knees hurt on the dirty wood floor, but I fantasize about sinking my teeth deep into his shaft, ripping it off right at the root, and the time just flies by.

Afterward, I get him another beer and snuggle close. He doesn’t return any favors. Big surprise.

But it doesn’t matter. I’ll take my satisfaction in knowing he’s lost any sense of wariness now. A job well done.





CHAPTER 41

“You ever thought about getting a boob job?” he asks, the words slurring together. It’s only seven, but I think he’s had a whole twelve-pack at this point.

I push back and frown at him as if I’m offended. “What?”

“They’re kind of small.”

“They are not!”

“I mean, they’re great and everything. Real pretty. But they could be bigger with your body type.”

“I can’t believe you’d say that!” I cover my bare breasts with my arm and reach for a blanket slung over the back of the couch like he’s made me feel ashamed of my body. The fabric smells of dust and mildew. “Do you really like those big fake breasts?”