Page 66 of Mr. Romantic (Mister 2)

“You want to hurt me?”

“No,” I say, more sharply than I should. “I want to play out this scene with you. It doesn’t define me, Ivy. Or our relationship. It’s just a fantasy.”

“Why would I agree to this? Why on earth would I ever agree to this?”

“Because it turns you on.” I reach between her legs and finger her pussy. “You’re wet just thinking about it. Don’t lie, Ivy. You can say no and still admit it turns you on.”

“Can I say no?”

“Of course.” I’m still playing with her, my fingertip doing a little swirl against her clit that makes her close her eyes for a second. “It’s OK to like it. It’s playing. It’s sexual fun, that’s all. I don’t do this every day. No one I’ve ever talked to does this every day. It’s an understanding. It’s set up ahead of time so everyone knows the rules.”

“What are the rules?” she asks. “What exactly are you asking me to participate in?”

“Fantasy…” I hesitate. Unable to make myself say it out loud.

“Fantasy what?”

“Rape.”

She goes stiff and silent.

“Fantasy being the important word here, Ivy. You’re going to agree to it. So it’s not rape. You’re going to agree ahead of time. We’re going to have rules, and boundaries, and limits. And when this happens, we’re going to do it exactly how I’ve planned it. That’s why I need to know what you want me to do in between the pages. Fill in the blanks, so to speak.”

She shakes her head. “You’re sick.”

“And yet you’re still turned on.” I play with her a little more. “Get up and walk out if you’re not interested. But I’m not done with the story yet.”

She remains silent. Just staring at the drawing as I continue to stimulate her.

“Should I continue? And don’t just nod, Ivy. Say something. Make a decision.”

“Fine,” she whispers. “I want to see how it ends.”

“Oh.” I laugh. “We’re not at the end yet.” The next picture is me on top of her. My cock halfway inside her pussy. My silk tie in her mouth, tears streaming down her face. Hands tied together in front of her, just the way they are now.

“I’m crying again?”

“You’re coming all over my cock, Ivy. Those are not crying tears. You’re begging me to keep going.”

She takes the picture and throws it aside. “What’s this?”

“This is after.” She’s sleeping, a half smile on her face with her unbound hands tucked between her legs. I’m behind her, spooning her, but propped up on one elbow so I can tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “We’re happy,” I say. “We planned it all perfectly and it was fantastic. The best sex we’ve ever had. And in the next moment I kiss your head and lie down, pulling you close so I can fall asleep with you.”

Silence. I want her to say something. Anything. But she stays silent, just looking at the final drawing.

Finally, just as I’m about to go crazy waiting, she says, “Where did you learn to draw like this?”

“Self-taught. I might’ve missed my calling. But there’s no money in art, so I own clubs.”

“How many girls have you done this with?”

“Ten, maybe. Fifteen?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Ivy,” I say sternly. “Do you really want to play a game like this with an amateur? I haven’t done it in years. A long time. Because I can’t trust people. But I want to trust you.”

“Why?” She laughs. “Do you know that the whole time I’ve been sitting here I’ve been thinking how to escape? I’ve pictured you killing me, throwing my body over the side of a boat, never to be heard of again. I’ve made an escape plan. I’ve had whole conversations in my head of what I will tell my father when this gets out. I’ve—”