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hard, and yelled, and he apologized. Then I tried to leave, and he asked me to go swimming with him.”
    “The old swimming trick.”
    I gave Andrew a look. “What old swimming trick?”
    “The swimming trick. You can’t stay angry in water. It’s soothing. It worked, didn’t it? You forgave him. You saw him again.”
    “I saw him again,” I admitted. “That same night, I let him take me back down to the room, and you know what he did?”
    He got a wistful look. “He made it up to you with gentle, apologetic lovemaking?”
    “No. He gagged me again, same as the first time, and fucked me just as hard. Somewhere along the line he also spanked the shit out of me.”
And I liked it. I wanted more. That’s the worst part, I still want more...
    Andrew whimpered. “I’m horny now. I’m sorry, babes, but that’s so hot. I want that. I want to be someone’s plaything. I’m a masochist, and a sub. You might not have enjoyed it, but I think I would.”
    “Why don’t you try it then?” I said bitterly. “I’m not going to be able to talk you out of it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you eventually get hurt.”
    “Love always hurts.” He shrugged. I could already feel him drawing away from me, and it was so sad, but so expected.
    “No,” I said. “Love always lies.”

Price
     
    Let me explain about the day I raped Chere. I never really meant to do it.
    Okay, yes, I raped her. In hindsight I realize it was a very bad, very wrong thing to do. It was reprehensible. It’s also reprehensible that the frantic terror of that rape is still my go-to fantasy when I’m rubbing one out.
    I guess the best thing I can say in my defense is that it was not premeditated. When I busted out with the Texan accent—that was the moment I decided to deceive her. Up until that point, I had only meant to mock her for her uncertainty. I mean, she’d known right away who I was. But then she lost her nerve, and I saw a chance, and I took it.
    At the beginning, still, I thought things would fall apart. I thought she wouldn’t believe, that she would confront me and say, “I know it’s you.” When she didn’t, when she started to fight me so violently, it was too exciting to stop. She thought it was life and death. I could see it in her eyes, hear it in her panting breaths, feel it in the spasms of her body.
    I have to live with the knowledge that I caused those terrified spasms. I have to live with the fact that I choked her out, pretending to kill her, and then gagged her while she was out so she’d wake up in even more fear. She was so small, so easy to overpower, and I had a psyche full of force and rape fantasies, the fairy tales of my childhood gone screwy and off the map. I knew I was way off the map but I couldn’t stop, because I knew I’d never have such an authentic chance again. Such an authentic chance to rape someone.
    But I raped her. I did. I told myself everything would be fine afterward, when she realized it was me all along, but that wasn’t what happened. I hadn’t realized how badly I’d fucked her up until the thing was done and she was cowering on the floor. She shook and cried and shrieked and shrank away from me. The shaking was the worst part. I worried she was in shock, and maybe she was. I’d always prided myself on my ability to take things to a certain edge, take them as far as they could go without really harming my partner, and I knew, for the first time, that I’d crossed that line. Not just crossed it, but blown way past it.
    Of course, I pretended I hadn’t, which was probably the worst thing I did that day besides rape her. I pretended that it was merely a scene gone wrong, and everything would be okay now that it was over. I pretended that maybe we just needed to do a little more negotiating going forward. What else could I do? I didn’t want to stop fucking her, and I knew she’d never agree to see me again after what had transpired.
    I took her swimming, just to get her