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ck the
handcuffs. I groaned. Arms aren't that much better when you're
laying on your back. And I expected to be laying on my back a
lot that weekend; he seemed to have one thing in mind. In that I
was both right and wrong -- he varied positions a lot, but about
only time my hands weren't bound behind me was when he tied me
under that stupid car. And his body still didn't feel like
Roger's.
We lay there for a while like that, though he got up briefly to
put on some more music. It was the radio this time, which pro-
vided less evidence. We snuggled together; he read, and I
thought. Was this Roger? Should I stop the charade, one way or
another, and find out? I was certain my captor would honor a
request to release me; I was less certain that he'd do it in a
way that would let me learn his identity. Did I care? Should I
care? Physically, I had no complaints; the sex was wonderful,
and everything was according to my rules. And whoever that was
next to me, Roger had obviously planned this, and presumably was
deriving pleasure from it. Did it matter that it was indirect?
If you make lo
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