‘Monica feels good in her little figure-hugging black suit. As she walks she feels her silky red bush rubbing against her silk knickers, feels her skirt tight against her thighs and buttocks. She feels the nakedness of her body under her clothes and her nipples stiffen.
‘She’s thinking about the weekend just past, remembering the feel of Gerald’s body against hers. He’s a terribly nice man who makes love as if he’s done an A level in it. Unsatisfied but not wanting to seem ungracious, she’s always faked orgasms and he’s convinced that he’s wonderful in bed.’ NEXT
‘I know the type,’ says Klein. ‘He probably considers himself an expert on wine, too.’ The next picture showed Monica from behind in all her shapeliness and tightness and clip-clopping shiny black heels. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘So sweet!’
‘It’s so quiet, thinks Monica. The tube station seems far away. She looks back over her shoulder and sees no one. Were there footsteps behind her? She stops to listen, hears only the distant traffic on the Strand and the rain pattering on her umbrella. She finds herself recalling newspaper stories of women dragged into cars and taken away to be raped. She sees her thighs being forced apart; she makes an O with her lips, imagines the taste of semen on her tongue and the sweat of brutal men on filthy mattresses in evil-smelling rooms.’ NEXT
‘O God,’ said Klein, ‘it’s going to happen.’ He clicked again and got a close-up of Monica’s face under the street lamps, her mouth open, her eyes closed:
‘Monica finds strange pictures in her mind, strange stirrings in her body, feels a wetness between her legs. I want to get home, she thinks as a van draws up beside her. As she turns, a powerful hand is clamped over her mouth and she’s pulled inside.’ NEXT
‘I knew that was going to happen,’ said Klein as he clicked. The new photograph was a close-up of Monica face-down on a mattress in the van, her skirt pulled up to expose her little black silk knickers and suspender belt, the whiteness of her thighs above her black stockings. Klein read:
‘Her captor’s hand on the back of her neck forces Monica’s face down against the musty mattress. “Don’t scream,” he says as the van pulls away. “If you scream I’ll hurt you.”
‘“I won’t scream. Please don’t hurt me.” She trembles as he pulls up her skirt and she feels his hands on her.
‘“You’ve got a sweet ass,” he says. “I’ve had my eye on it for a while. Have you ever been ass-fucked?”
‘“No.”
‘“I’m going to have your asshole cherry then. That’s nice, I like that. But first we have to get acquainted. Turn over and give me a kiss.”
‘Monica was expecting rape but not kissing. She doesn’t know how to prepare herself for this.’ NEXT
In this picture Monica was kissing a black man.
‘Monica closes her eyes and turns her face towards his. “Open your mouth and suck my tongue,” he says. She obeys. His breath is clean; he tastes as good as Gerald. This is like a dream, she thinks. How will it end? His hand is inside her blouse, inside her bra, playing with her nipples. His touch is rough but she feels her body responding to him. She reaches between his legs, feels him huge and hard, feels herself wet and ready, thinks of what he’s going to do and is afraid.’ NEXT
In this picture the man, naked from the waist down, was kneeling astride Monica who was naked from the waist up. His thighs were pressing her breasts, his penis was in her mouth.
‘“I think you want it,” he says, “but I’m not ready yet. I need you to lick my balls and suck me ready.” Monica obeys, wanting the spurt of his semen in her mouth but he withdraws and turns her over.’ NEXT
In the next picture Monica was face-down again with her torn knickers around her left thigh. Her legs were apart and her own hands were spreading her buttocks to expose her anus.
‘Monica feels the man’s hands on her naked bottom, on her thighs and between her legs. “Spread your cheeks,” he tells her, “and open your asshole for me.”
‘Monica obeys. “Please be gentle,” she says. ‘I’ll do whatever you say.’
‘“I know you will, baby. I know you want it.” He puts his hands over her hands, spreading her cheeks further apart, then his face is between them and she feels wet kisses on her anus and his hot tongue squirming in her. Gerald has never done that. Her captor changes position and she cries out, feeling herself almost torn apart as he thrusts into her.’ NEXT
The picture showed the man mounting Monica whose face was turned towards him, mouth open, eyes closed as he impaled her. His penis was as thick as her wrist.
‘Monica’s whole body seems to be on fire; she reaches behind her and clasps his buttocks, holding him close to lessen the pain. But now the flame of arousal has burnt out the pain and she feels an urgency in her that’s new. With her right hand she reaches down between the wet lips of her vulva to stroke her clitoris as she meets each thrust of his with a backward thrust against him. As he rides her he smacks her bottom, enjoying the bouncy ripeness of her flesh while he urges her on, mastering her.’ NEXT
The picture showed Monica and her partner in action. Monica’s face was ecstatic.
‘“You like this, don’t you, bitch? Tell me how you like it with me deep in your sweet white ass, lemme hear you say it.”
‘“I like it with you deep in my sweet white ass.”
‘“Say more!”
‘“I like it when you mount me like an animal, I like it when you ride me hard, I like you to be my hard master.” Monica hears the words coming out of her mouth as this stranger sodomises her and she knows she’s really saying them, knows it isn’t a dream, thinks she might be going mad.
‘“Oh yes, I know you like it. You’re going to come with me when you feel my hot spunk shooting into you, yes? Going to do that for your hard master?”
‘“Yes, yes!” With her free hand she pulls his bottom hard against her. “Give it to me, give me your hot spunk and make me come with you.” She feels the spurt of his semen inside her and she screams and faints as her own orgasm sweeps over her in a giant wave. She regains consciousness with her master still inside her. She sees his right hand near her face and presses it to her lips and tongue. “Thank you,” she whispers.’ NEXT
NEXT was a message: DO YOU WANT TO TALK WITH ANGELICA ABOUT ‘MONICA’S MONDAY NIGHT’? YES/NO
Klein clicked on YES.
HI, said the screen. WHAT’S YOUR NAME?
Klein paused for a moment, then typed RUGGIERO.
WOW. THAT’S A HEROIC-SOUNDING NAME. ARE YOU A HERO?
NOT SO FAR.
YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT THE FUTURE MIGHT BRING YOU, RUGGIERO.
He imagined her standing close to him, lightly touching his arm, her sweet body smelling good. I’LL KEEP THAT IN MIND, he typed. HAVE YOU READ *ORLANDO FURIOSO*?
I WANT TO TALK ABOUT ‘MONICA’S MONDAY NIGHT. DID YOU LIKE THE STORY?
YES.
DID THE PICTURES EXCITE YOU?
THIS CONVERSATION — IS IT ON PUBLIC VIEW?
NO, IT’S JUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME ALTHOUGH IT’S NOT SECURE. NOTHING IS.
HOW DID YOU PICK ME?
BASED ON NUMBER OF HITS AND TIME SPENT AT WEBSITE.
HAVE YOU DONE THIS WITH OTHERS?
NO, YOU’RE MY FIRST.
WHY ARE YOU GATHERING THIS INFORMATION? ARE YOU DOING A DISSERTATION, WRITING A BOOK, CONDUCTING A SURVEY?
THERE ARE THINGS I WANT TO KNOW. I’M NOT READY TO SAY MORE THAN THAT JUST NOW. CAN WE CONTINUE?