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He ran the blade of the scissors over my cheek and down to my chin. “As far as you are concerned,” he tipped back my head. “I’m God. Are we clear?”

  “Y—yes,” I stuttered through gritted teeth.

  “Good.” Reynolds retracted the pointed tip and slid the cold metal over my shoulder making me shiver. “Now what do you say we get you a little more naked?”

  I gasped audibly as he cut the shoulder strap of my bra.

  “After Jeremy Rich double crossed you, you ran instead of going to the police,” Reynolds accused, severing the other strap.

  “I—I didn’t think about it, I just…did it.”

  Snip went the other strap.

  “Really?” You don’t strike me as the impulsive kind.”

  I bit my lip as Reynolds traced a sharp line down my cleavage between my breasts. One more cut, and the cups were separated.

  “Don’t,” I begged, as he continued over my belly to the waistband of my panties. “Don’t do this.”

  “Do what?” he ran the blade over my trembling inner thighs, having torn away my stockings to reveal goose pimpled, sweaty flesh. “Take advantage of the fact that you have a cunt in order to get what I want out of you? But isn’t that what you do yourself all the time? How else does a slut like you make in business—not to mention winning yourself a partner with the kind of pull Rich had?”

  “I am not,” I breathed, summoning what will I had left, “a slut.”

  Reynolds amused himself for the moment cutting and shredding away the remainder of my stockings, till I was thoroughly peeled and reduced panties. “You’re not? A slut, I mean?”

  “No,” I insisted, my eyes glued to his hands as he lifted the dainty waistband of my underwear, positioning it between guillotined blades.

  Reynolds squeezed his fingers, severing the band neatly. “Does this turn you on, Raven?”

  I gushed at once, a sweet, fragrant flow issuing forth as he bared me, making cross-wise cuts, up and down. Enough to turn my panties into a mockery, yet retaining the illusion of nether coverage.

  “No,” I cried, throwing back my head as the smooth, shiny metal grazed my clit, re-enforcing just how thoroughly I was at the mercy of Agent Reynolds. “I mean, yes.”

  “Listen carefully, Raven.” Reynolds made me look at him. I could feel the cool air, venting through my air-conditioned underwear. “We’re going to play a little game of truth or dare, NBI style. You tell me the truth, and I’ll make you feel good.”

  I gave in to a moan as he pushed his finger up inside me, replacing the scissors. “How about that? Does that feel good?”

  “Reynolds, n-no,” I squirmed, and then, “Oh, yes, yes, please I need to come. On your hand, please…”

  “On the other hand,” he pulled his finger away leaving me hanging. “There will be punishment. Every time you lie.”

  I blinked my eyes open just in time to see the clamp.

  “No!” I screamed, but it was already on me, attached, squeezing, hurting, torturing. Reynolds’ hand over my mouth stifled the worst of it. The entire ordeal couldn’t have gone more than ten seconds, though it felt like a lifetime.

  “Shall we begin?” he removed the device calmly.

  I looked at him with new awe—and fear; he had the clamp in his hand and he was grinning. He’d made it abundantly clear to me; he wasn’t bluffing, he would hurt me, really make me suffer if he didn’t like my answers. But he was also the keeper of pleasure…the source of what my body most needed.

  “Let’s start from the beginning. Tell me about your relationship with Rich. The partnership—or should I say prostitution.”

  Images, memories swirled through my mind. It all seemed so confused now. We’d met at a corporate party, where I was working, fresh out of business school. He was a consultant, wound tighter than a coke addict’s wristwatch. One look at him told me he was going places. I’d made sure he noticed me, in my off the shoulder red dress. Three drinks later and we’d been swapping bodily fluids.

  “It was at a party in 2000,” I told Reynolds, desperate to redeem myself in his eyes. “We’d just met, but there was this…chemistry. Mostly though, it was about business.”

  Reynolds helped himself to my gaping crotch. “Really? Must have been some chemistry, what with you blowing him in the parking garage an hour after you met him. Oh, I’m sorry. You said it was mostly business. I’m a little curious, though—tell me, what kind of business is it exactly involves a guy jerking off on your ass with you bent over the hood of a Mercedes S class sedan?”

  I thrashed my head, determined not to come on his hand. “Why don’t you just tell me, then, if you know so damned much?”

  Reynolds backed off and for a moment I was afraid he was going to punish me. “I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry!”

  He smiled indulgently, leading me to breathe a corresponding sigh of relief.

  “No harm done, sweetheart,” he wiped his hand on my breasts. “But let’s try and be a bit more forthcoming with our answers in the future, shall we?”

  I nodded eagerly, more than a little alarmed at how quickly he was winning my obedience. I shouldn’t care what he thought, but I did. It wasn’t only fear of pain; for some reason I wanted—needed—to please him.

  “In the ensuing weeks, as you formulated your business plans with Rich, you let him continue to use you, isn’t that true? In the same way a man would use any cheap whore?

  “We were friends,” I blurted, then adding, judiciously, “yes, we were…intimate.”

  The clamp was poised at my nipple. “That’s not the question I asked.”

  My heart pounding with fear, I tried desperately to remember his exact words. “I let him use me, yes…like a whore.”

  Reynolds stroked my engorged nipples, coaxing sensations from me I could not afford. “Tell me some of the ways Rich used you. Sexually.”

  The words spilled from my mouth, halting at first, and then increasing to a gush as he stripped away my defenses, owning my darkest secrets, my greatest shames. “He…he liked my ass. And my mouth, too. He would come on me, on my back and buttocks. My face and hair, too. He liked it in public as much as possible. In one of our offices…his preferably, because of the glass wall that faced the common area. He would call me on the intercom to tell me we had some things to go over, and I would know what that meant.”

  “Go on,” Reynolds began to tease my clit, forcing the words out of me.

  “I—I remember walking down the hall in one of those tight skirt suits he loved so well, carrying a stack of papers or a file as I went to him. All those eyes on me, employees of ours who dared not say a word, though their minds were thinking it. She’s a slut. The boss is a slut. Behind my back, accusing, lustful eyes would burn. I was constantly fending off male advances on account of what they all knew I did for my partner. It would be almost a relief to close Rich’s door behind me so I could face the man so that I could gauge his mood, the exact nuance of the particular game we were to play that day. If the market was doing well, I’d open my top quickly, pull up my skirt and lie over the desk. If prices were down and he drew the blinds, I’d strip naked for a longer going over. Sometimes the drawer would already be open, with the toys inside.”

  “Did Rich ever use you here?”

  My cunt. Agent Reynolds meant my cunt, which at the moment he was massaging to jelly. “Puh-please,” I stammered. “Let me…”

  My plea for release dissolved into a scream as the clamp bit down unexpectedly on my defenseless nipple. This time he left it, warning me to keep my voice down. The question was repeated, and this time I answered directly, fighting off the waves of pain, long enough to muster some semblance of speech.

  “No,” I hissed, my body writhing against the tape bonds, “N-never.”

  Reynolds was standing upright, looking distant, thereby adding to my terror that the pain would never end. “You said he liked to ejaculate in your face and hair. Did he ever make you swallow his sperm?”

  “S—sometim
es,” I spit through gritted teeth, my world spinning behind my tightly shut eyes. “But he preferred to see it on me…before meetings he’d do that, and he thought it was funny when I’d have to clean myself up for company. Other times he would have me give him my panties right there in the office, so he could jerk off into them. Then I’d wear them, the rest of the day, his jism all over me.”

  Reynolds laughed dryly. “Some friendship.”

  He was mocking my earlier words, using them against me. But I didn’t care. I wanted to die, or else to be fucked so hard that the world would disappear, the barrier of pleasure and pain shattered forever.

  “You’re not only a submissive,” Reynolds remarked, clamping my other breast. “You’re a masochist as well.”

  “Mercy,” I begged, as the fresh nipple was initiated. The word came out in syllables, four or five at least.

  The agent was unmoved. “Any S and M between you? Pony play? Water sports?” he continued, as though he were reading off a grocery list.

  “Once…we were drunk,” I sing-songed, my mind moving to some unknown plane of reality. “I knelt to suck him and he…pissed on me.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “He…he left me there, on the floor…my hair, dress, ruined…I rolled myself into a ball, barefoot, saturated in his piss…my cheek in a puddle of it.”

  Reynolds was leaning over me, his face an inch from mine. “And?”

  I could hear him, but I couldn’t see him. I was lost, caught in some kind of netherworld between fantasy and death. “I came…over and over…I came.”

  His hand grabbed at my sweat soaked hair, bowing my neck. “There’s more. You were thinking something just then—what was it?”

  I shuddered that the man could see through me like this. Was I so transparent in my pain? In my ecstasy?

  The orgasm cut through me as I moved to speak. My throat dry as any desert, my mouth a gaping hole, craving to be filled. “I imagined I was Jeremy’s slave,” I moaned. “That he had left me like that; that he had a right to piss on me because he was my master and I was his…his property.”

  I must have blacked out because the next thing I remembered Reynolds was reviving me with a cold, wet washcloth. Water was dripping down over my breasts, and as I looked down at them, the clamps were gone.

  “Suck on this,” he lifted my chin, thrusting the cloth to my parched lips. “You lost a lot of moisture.”

  I opened for him, looking with grateful eyes as he fed me the saturated cloth. I was his prisoner, and any nourishment I got at all was up to him. Downing the liquid greedily, I tried to put together what the hell had just happened. It had been the biggest, most phenomenal orgasm of my life, bar none. And yet I hadn’t been penetrated, barely even touched. Was this the secret to my sex? I wondered dismally testing the ever-present bonds on my wrists and ankles: strip me, duct tape me to a chair and brow beat me about past lovers?

  And the clamps. Let’s not forget the ever-popular aphrodisiac of having high-tension metal pincers placed on the tips of one’s breasts for long periods of time.

  “More?”

  I shook my head no, at which point Reynolds wrung the cloth out over the top of my head. Something about the water, the way I couldn’t resist it made me tingle all over. I caught what I could on my tongue, but it was all over me, tiny rivulets running over my shoulders, sluicing down my belly, soaking the shreds of my panties and oozing into the folds of my splayed, well-worked sex hole.

  As he began to wipe me clean, I couldn’t help responding, moving for him, issuing little mewling sounds that left no doubt I was ready for more. My display was all the more humiliating because Reynolds’ actions were clearly designed not as foreplay but as a clinical exercise, a necessary step gleaned from whatever torture manual he worked from.

  Leaving the spent cloth between my legs, Reynolds returned to his infernal black bag. This time he came up with nothing more insidious than a tape recorder.

  “Disappointed?” he asked in amusement, noting the expression on my face.

  I blushed hotly, the double-edged sword of shame having been restored to my now fully conscious self. “Only that you’re still here,” I shot back, falling back on my old familiar defense mechanism of verbal banter.

  Reynolds didn’t have to say a word. Pulling the washcloth from my freshly fragrant pussy, he had only to hold it to my nose to make my real desires apparent.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I held up my head with as much haughtiness as I could muster. “It’s not for you.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, replacing the come soaked rag in my vagina, this time stuffing it as far as it would go. “In your case, I imagine any cock would do.”

  Several choice colorful words moved readily onto the tip of my tongue, but I managed to keep them to myself. Agent Reynolds seemed to enjoy my outbursts and he’d given me some leeway, but I couldn’t allow myself to forget for even a second that I was his prisoner, naked and at his mercy. He’d punished me already, and hard. That he would do so again if it served his interests, I was quite certain.

  “I’ll be recording this portion of the interview,” he said, placing the recorder business-like on the edge of the bed. “I’ll remind you that anything you say can and will be used against you.”

  I didn’t bother to ask if I was under arrest or if I had the right to a lawyer. Men who bind women to chairs and force orgasms from their pain-wracked bodies probably didn’t put much credence in little things like constitutional rights. It was too bad, really, because Agent Reynolds was so damned handsome, even with his hawkish eyes and too-rugged cheekbones. He had a body under those clothes, too, that was for sure, and there was no denying he knew his way round a girl’s anatomy.

  I squirmed uncomfortably against the dual sensation of the tape at my waist and the invading washcloth in my pussy. Was I actually developing a crush on my abductor? It was thoughts like these that really did make me wonder if I wasn’t a slut, just like Reynolds and everyone else said. I mean, what other kind of woman would fantasize about her captor, imagining what it would be like naked in his arms, surrendering to him, on some lonely beach, or even on this very bed, if push came to shove.

  “Raven, are you paying attention?”

  My cheeks heated another few degrees. If he could read my mind now, as he’d seemed to be able to do so far, I hadn’t a ghost of a chance. It was one thing to be an honest-to-goodness captive; there was no shame in that. But if a man got an inkling you were enjoying it all, then you might be in for a whole new level of agony.

  I shuddered as I recalled the fantasy I’d had with Jeremy and which I’d inadvertently shared with Reynolds—the thing about being his slave, his lowly piss slave whom he could soil at will. That and much more. Could Reynolds use that against me? Worse still, would I use it against myself?

  No, I decided, fantasy is fantasy. A fleeting thing, of no import. Hardly a life choice or something real that might hold up in the light of day.

  “Yes,” I said boldly, determined to play the game to the end. “I’m ready.”

  The next series of questions were more mundane and technical, not at all juicy. Clearly Reynolds knew his work well, however, because I found myself unable to hold back anything. Every detail was wrung from me, even what might prove in unfriendly hands to be an incrimination of myself. It was probably just fear of him, but much as I hated to admit it, there was a bond between us now, too, and I don’t think I could lie to the man even if I tried.

  Somehow he’d managed to lay me open as I never had been before. The techniques employed were brutal to be sure, but I’d responded positively and in the end, I hadn’t really been harmed at all, just taken for a little ride—by the one man who might yet prove my knight in shining armor.

  “Yes,” I replied now, back straight, chest thrust out as I answered his latest query, confirming data regarding the numerous wire transfers from foreign bank accounts that unbeknownst to me were Galentano laundering piles dutifully maintaine
d by my partner, “the money came to us daily, via the Cayman Islands.”

  “Which,” Reynolds noted, his hand relaxed on his lean, powerful thigh, “is where, to your knowledge, Mr. Rich absconded following the original indictments against him.”

  “It is,” I agreed, idly watching his dangling foot over the edge of the desk. The other was planted firmly on the carpet and for a split second I saw myself going to him, on my hands and knees to kiss them. What would it taste like? I wondered. A man’s shoe leather on your tongue and lips as you try to please him, naked or nearly naked, your hair falling about his ankle as you humble yourself, begging in the only way you are allowed to for his attentions—rough yet ultimately unequaled on your tingling, captive flesh.

  With only your mouth to serve you, you try to make your case, to show him with your submission that you will be a good lay, the best slave-fuck he’ll ever have. Down to your belly you’d go, breasts, belly and cunt to the floor, abasing yourself as much as nature will allow. Still, he says nothing. On and on it goes, till you despair of ever winning his approval, but then, even as the tears begin to spill from your eyes, you hear the words you’ve longed for, as long as you can remember—your whole life in fact, though you’d never admit as much even to yourself.

  “On your back, slave; prepare to be used.”

  I shook my head, fanning out my damp hair. Damn. Where had that come from? Surely not from any of the bogus romance novels I’d been reading.

  “According to intelligence reports, Rich left the Caymans a month ago for parts unknown,” Reynolds was saying. “We intend to smoke him out, and at the same time we set up the Galentanos. And you’ll be the bait.”

  This last little bit of news nearly passed me by. I’d had my head in the clouds, allowing my libido to do my thinking. “What did you say?”

  Reynolds folded his arms. “I said you’ll be the bait to catch the big fish,” he repeated patiently, looking eminently satisfied with himself.

  “But I don’t have anything they’d want,” I blurted stupidly. “I’m not worth a plugged nickel.”

  Reynolds’ dimples flashed as he gave me a sideways smile, just subtle enough to avoid being classified as a leer. “Oh, I think you may have one or two assets left.”