In the meantime, there were bills to pay and things she wanted. A brief affair with a married plastic surgeon got her the new boobs; another with the married owner of a BMW car dealership in New Jersey the new 320i; and yet another with a married real estate developer entitled her to a small but tasteful flat in the East Village in exchange for the occasional dalliance when his wife was out of town. She knew the score with those men and wanted nothing more from them than she got; they were simply her means to an end.
She was in her last semester at NYU and had decided to go on and get her master’s—mostly because she didn’t know what else to do, and a horny married banker was willing to pay tuition—when she took a class in Russian poetry from newly arrived Alexis Michalik. He was maybe just a shade or two less handsome but his maturity made him more distinguished than Dmitri, with that same killer accent, and he was certainly more intelligent.
Ryder began hanging around after class and volunteering to help him with such things as making copies of poetry for the rest of the class and fetching him coffee, then lunch. Then she asked if she could work as a sort of unofficial intern, assisting him with his efforts to translate his work into English. She’d continued her Russian language studies—she figured that somewhere, somehow they would come in handy.
After graduation, with Michalik’s help, she entered the master’s program in Russian literature with an emphasis on poetry. She’d also convinced herself that she was in love with him and that they were meant to be together. She figured he probably made six figures, maybe more, because he was a popular speaker at poetry events around the country, and she could imagine herself the good wife, playing hostess for all the intellectuals who would visit their home, and helping promote his career.
There were only two problems: he was married, and he wasn’t in love with her. While it was obvious that Alexis enjoyed her company and even a little harmless flirting, he made no attempt to take it any further. She’d all but spread-eagled herself on his desk, but he treated her like a schoolgirl with a crush, telling her, “You need to find a young man and not waste all that energy and beauty on what cannot be.”
At home, Ryder fumed over the rejection. But her history had taught her to have a Plan B ready. So if she couldn’t have him as her husband willingly, she would blackmail him into becoming her husband unwillingly, though he would of course learn to love her. Plan C was simply to blackmail him into letting her get away without having to write her “stupid” master’s thesis and then getting her into the doctoral program. She was pretty sure that once she had her doctorate and, with his help, got onto the faculty at NYU, he’d realize that she really was the best life partner for him.
When her plans had been laid, she’d called him and asked to see him in his office that evening. “I’d like to talk to you about my thesis when there’re not so many interruptions like there are during the day,” she said. She then pretended there was a problem with her telephone and couldn’t hear his response. “Would you call me back, please?”
A few seconds later, her telephone rang. “Thanks,” she said. “I don’t know what the problem was. Anyway, could you spare your poor, dedicated, infatuated student a few minutes this evening?” She detected a sigh—he was way behind on the translation—but he was also too dedicated a teacher to turn her down. “Sure, come on over, Sarah.”
She loved the way he said Sarah. It sounded so exotic. She then called Ted Vanders. “Okay, Ted. Tonight’s the night. I’ll be over about twelve.” She couldn’t help but compare Michalik’s unenthusiastic response to Ted’s, who’d been without her favors for nearly three weeks and sounded like he’d wet his pants when she called.
Ryder dressed quickly. She’d already spent some time thinking about what to wear and had chosen a baby-pink thong but decided against a bra. These puppies don’t give an inch when I walk, she thought, as she pulled an almost see-through silk shirt over her surgically enhanced chest. It only came down to just above her belly, which she thought was one of her best (natural) assets, especially when emphasized by a pair of skintight, low-rider jeans that only just covered…my naughty parts, she thought, and giggled.
Flouncing her hair into what she called her “just fucked look,” she then checked her mascara and applied a shade of lipstick to match her thong. She stepped back with a skeptical look. Hmmm, maybe it’s time for a little collagen in the lips. She pouted, then used the tip of her tongue to trace her upper lip seductively. Nah, you’ve still got it, baby.
Satisfied with the look, she opened the medicine cabinet, took out a pill bottle, and glanced at the label to make sure it was the correct one. Hello, roofies. She opened the bottle and took out three, then closed it and put it in her purse. As she was closing the purse, she saw the steel glint of the surgical scissors in the bottom. She thought about removing them but let them remain where they were. A girl can’t be too careful these days, she thought with a smile.
It’s a use-me, use-you world, she thought as she closed her purse to go to Michalik’s office that night. She put the three pills on a plate and smashed them with a spoon until they were powder; she wondered if three was too many, then figured she’d lost some in the crushing and poured it into a small piece of folded paper. She then walked out to the kitchen, took a small cooler from the refrigerator, and left her apartment.
When she arrived at Michalik’s office, she waltzed in, plopped the cooler on his desk, and took out two bottles of beer and two glasses.
“Not me,” he said, waving them off. “Beer will put me to sleep.”
“Come on, professor, all work and no play will make Alexis Michalik a dull boy,” she teased. “Besides, I’d just like to have a beer with my favorite professor, relax, and talk him into approving my master’s thesis.”
“You have to turn in a thesis to have it approved,” he said, shaking his finger at her. “And no work and even a little play for Alexis Michalik, and he will lose his book contract.” He laughed as he spoke, and she was happy to see that his eyes kept straying to the twin points that protruded from her shirt. She poked her bare tummy toward him, knowing the effect that usually had on men whose eyes measured the distance between the top of her jeans and her belly button, then did the math.
Ryder cajoled and flirted until he relented. She opened one of the beers and was opening the second when her hand slipped and knocked the beer over just enough to splash some on his papers before righting it. He jumped up and ran to the bathroom to get a paper towel to wipe it up.
When his back was turned, Ryder quickly dumped the contents of the folded piece of paper in one of the glasses and then poured a beer in on top. He returned and mopped up the spill, then accepted the glass she handed to him.
“Mazdorovya,”she said raising her glass.
“Mazdorovya,”he replied, taking a sip. “You are a bad influence, Sarah Ryder.”
They sat back down and for the next ten minutes talked about her master’s thesis, or lack thereof. She couldn’t have cared less about the conversation; she didn’t plan on writing a thesis. She was just watching and waiting for the drugs to kick in.
“Whoa,” he said suddenly, placing his hand on his desk as if to steady himself. “That’s some beer to get a Russian drunk on just one.”
“You’re just tired, darling,” she said, rising from her seat and walking around the desk until she was standing in front of him with her hips inches from his face.
Michalik fastened his eyes on her crotch, then shook his head and smiled weakly. “Yes. I am tired. I…” He suddenly stopped talking as she knelt in front of him and started fumbling at his belt. He tried pushing her away, “Sarah, please, you must not.” But she just laughed and kept at it until she had his pants unzipped and his manhood in her hands.
“Sarah, you are very beautiful and any man would want you, but I must insist.” His protestations stopped when she took him in her mouth. Under her expertise, it didn’t take long. “Oh, God,” he groaned in both pleasure and remorse.
<
br /> Ryder spit in her hand, then wiped it on her shirt.
“I am so…so sorry,” he said. “I am ashamed.”
“Don’t be silly, Alexis,” she said. “I love you. You needed the relief, and it was my pleasure to…to please you. I’d like to do more if you’d let me.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he said. “I am sorry for my wife….”
Ryder froze. She’d just given him the best blow job of his life, then offered her perfect body, and he was feeling guilty about his wife? Bastard. You need to stick with the plan. Plan A isn’t going to work; obviously the clown’s in love with his wife. So it’s on to Plan B, and if necessary, Plan C. She figured that where she’d gone wrong in the past was a lack of options.
Alexis’s head flopped forward and he began snoring. She left him there with his pants to his knees and picked up his nearly empty beer glass. She made sure to leave her fingerprints clearly on the glass and gently placed her lips at several places around the rim, leaving little pink smudges. Satisfied, she placed the glass on the bookcase, slightly behind a trophy he’d been awarded at some international poetry event, where it wouldn’t be noticed…at least not right away.
With regret for the loss of perfection, Ryder looked in the bathroom mirror and mussed up her hair, then wiped the back of a hand across her lips, leaving a pink smear on her right cheek. She ripped the top button from her shirt and adjusted it as if she’d been in a struggle. She sighed, regarding the mess she’d created, but she wanted to look the part if she ran into the janitor, another student, or a professor. Pausing at the door to the office, she worked up a few tears and sniffles…just in case.
Ryder was a little disappointed that she didn’t see anybody on her way out of the building. But, she reminded herself, it doesn’t matter, because I have an alternate plan. She stepped out into the night and, seeing no one, practically skipped to the bottom of the stairs and even allowed herself a pirouette and a giggle at the bottom, before composing herself in case she ran into anybody.
Ryder drove immediately to Vanders’s apartment, where she rushed past him when he opened the door and ordered him to “undress and get in bed, you little idiot. I’m about to make you a very happy little worm.” He’d almost squeaked with excitement and ran into his bedroom and promptly fell flat on his face while trying to remove his pants and socks at the same time.
In the meantime, Ryder walked to the bathroom where she took the pill bottle out of her purse, removed another roofie, and swallowed it. Gonna need that puppy in the ol’ bloodstream tomorrow, she thought. And it might be the only way I can stomach having sex with Ted.
Waiting for the drug to kick in, she placed the bottle back in Vanders’s medicine cabinet. Can’t have the cops finding that in my place. She didn’t know if they’d search, but her plan was foolproof as long as she stayed true to the details.
Reluctantly, Ryder walked into Vanders’s bedroom, only to be grossed out at the sight of him lying on the silk sheets he bought “for us.” He was stretched out in what he must have thought was a seductive pose. He patted the place next to him, but she ignored him.
Instead, she took a piece of clothesline out of a bag she’d left in the closet, placed a loop around her wrist, and then violently sawed it back and forth to give herself a rope burn. “Christ, that hurts,” she said, mostly to herself.
“Want me to kiss it and make it better, my love?” Vanders said, making kissing expressions.
“Shut the fuck up, you idiot,” she snarled and placed a loop of rope over her other wrist and sawed it back and forth, although not quite as enthusiastically. She also avoided swearing so she wouldn’t have to hear Vanders’s sympathy.
When she was done, she undressed, placing each piece of clothing she’d been wearing in a plastic bag, taking extra care with the moist spot on her blouse. Then she got down on her elbows and knees.
“I want you to fuck me as hard as you can,” she told Vanders, who could hardly believe what he had just heard and hopped off the bed. This was the stuff other guys wrote letters to Penthouse magazine about. But when he attempted foreplay, she angrily shoved his hand away. “You idiot, I told you I need this to look like I was raped,” she said. “Are you wearing a condom?”
“Yes.”
“Then tear me a new one…both holes, you faggot, and if you stop before I tell you, I’ll rip your dick off and shove it up your ass.”
Vanders did as he was told, but fortunately the roofie kicked in full speed about then, and she hardly felt him hammering away. Just a faraway burning that reminded her of her childhood, accompanied by the sound of Vanders grunting and trying to talk dirty. The more things change, she thought idly, the more things stay the same.
Seven hours later, the morning arrived with her brain throbbing against the interior of her skull. It was sort of how her feet felt after a night of wearing that five-hundred-dollar pair of Manolo sling-backs she bought a half-size too small out of conceit.
She was in Vanders’s bed but didn’t know how she got there and was suspicious of a dream she’d had of him “doing it” again that morning while she was still out of it. He was still sleeping next to her but woke with a start when she sat up. He smiled and attempted to stroke her arm. She hissed and clawed at his face, drawing blood, which made him cry out. “What did you do that for?” he complained.
“Unauthorized fucking,” she replied. “Did you use a condom every time you had sex with me?”
“I think so,” he said, playing dumb. She raised her hand to claw his eyes out. “Yes! Yes!” he shrieked. “Jeez, no sense of humor.”
Ryder got out of bed and looked at her wrists, happy to see the ugly red marks looked worse than they had the night before. No pain, no gain. She shrugged.
Vanders rubbed at his wounded cheek and sniffled on the bed, hoping she’d come back and make up for hurting him. But she didn’t even look his way as she strode over to the closet and dressed in the outfit she’d picked out for that day and left there. She’d chosen a knee-length beige skirt and a high-necked white blouse, both of which showed off her figure but in a modest way.
Part of her still hoped that Michalik would come to his senses—Plan B—and this whole thing could be handled much more easily and pleasantly. They’d begin their affair, he’d leave his wife, she’d get her doctorate, they’d get married, maybe even have babies. So long as we have enough money to have a nanny, she thought. And there’ll be no nursing on these tits. It was all she could do to look troubled as she walked through the building, past students and professors, and the protesting secretary outside of Michalik’s office.
The fantasy lasted until she walked in and shut the door behind her. She’d hoped that he’d look up from his papers, his eyes teary with love. Instead, he looked up from where he’d been holding his head in his hands, bleary- not teary-eyed…and angry. “What did you put in my beer?” he demanded.
“What do you mean?” Ryder replied. She saw that he was wearing the same clothes and hadn’t shaved. Good, she thought, he’ll have a hard time explaining that to the little woman. Her eyes had already drifted over to the bookcase and she saw that the lipstick-smudged beer glass was still in place. “You know very well that I came to you last night for help on my thesis and you raped me.” She raised her voice a little at the end and hoped the secretary at least caught the word rape.
“I did no such thing,” he said. “You, you…put something in my drink and then did that …like a cheap whore.”
“Oh, please, Alexis, it was you who put what’s commonly called a roofie in my drink and then had your way with me,” she said. “I am still sore, you animal you. At least, that’s what I’ll be telling the administration and, I dare say, the cops before the day is over, unless you do what I say.”
“You are a liar,” he said and started to rise from his seat but the pain in his head forced him back down. “I did none of these things.”
“Maybe you don’t remember,” she said and shrugged. “But
believe me, dear Alexis, I can prove that you did.” She pulled up the sleeve of her shirt and showed him the rope burn. “See how you tied me up, Alexis, so I could not resist you.”
He stared at her wrist dumbfounded. “Proves nothing,” he scowled, but a worried look occupied his face.
“Ah, yes, wondering how your wife is going to react to all of this?” she said. “I guess she’s used to you not coming home at night. Or is she? And how is she regarding young women claiming you raped them on nights when you didn’t make it home? Hmmm?”
With a supreme effort, Alexis rose out of his chair. “You lie! I will tell the truth and you will be exposed!”
“Fine,” Ryder said. “We’ll both tell our sides of the story, but believe me, I’ll win. However, there is a way out of this for both of us.”
“Out of this? How? Is it money you want?”
What she wanted at the moment was to laugh. Such a look of hope had briefly crossed his face. He thinks he might buy his way out of this. It was clear Plan B wasn’t an option; the idiot really did love his wife. So on to Plan C. “No, not money. But you’ll, of course, give me exceedingly high marks on my thesis paper that I gave you last night,” she said.
“Paper? You didn’t give me a paper.”
“Alexis, listen, don’t be dense if you can possibly help it,” she said. “You will give me high marks for my thesis. Then you will sponsor me before the doctoral committee which, with you putting in a good word, will make my appointment a done deal.”
Michalik looked at her so long and hard without saying anything that she wondered if the drugs were still affecting him. But then he shook his head. “I will not,” he said, “give in to your blackmail. I could never live with myself.”
The anger went out of Michalik’s eyes, and he hung his head. “Please, I ask you not to do this thing. My wife does not deserve this pain, but I cannot do as you say, my honor will not allow it.”
“Fuck the honor, Alexis,” Ryder sneered. “You’re going to lose poor little Helena, and your baby, if I remember correctly, and lose your job. Hell, after they let you out of prison in a dozen years or so, they’ll probably kick your pathetic poetic ass back to Moscow.”
Fury (The Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi Series Book 17) Page 24
