"Amelia."

My name on his lips has always sounded like something profoundly dirty. A rich gravel vibration that makes my knees melt. Women often talk about how their legs turn to jelly in the presence of certain types of men. I always believed either they said this to prop up the egos of said men, or they were being melodramatic. It didn't once occur to me they could be telling the truth.

"Amelia."

His tone is more insistent now. I roll my eyes. He knows I went to the store first. I imagine him in the next room, the smooth leather of his favorite chair cushioning him, smoking a cigar like he thinks he owns the fucking universe. In some ways its true. He owns my universe. At least parts of it.

How did I get here? I don't mean: which route did I drive? I took main street and a left on Maple Leaf Circle. No, I mean, how did I get 'here.' I exhibit the most profound weakness by letting him play with me as he does.

I could walk out the door and never come back, but I'm addicted to the way he touches me and the horrible words he whispers in my ear, declarations that would make a prostitute blush. And yet I savor them each time. Each time I return words of my own, letting them roll over my tongue, tasting them, then setting them free, just to see his smile of approval. Or amusement. It doesn't matter which.

I unload the groceries, pretending I don't hear him. This is a game I often play. The game is called, 'Can you resist him?' I don't think he knows we're playing. So far I've lost each round. Maybe this time will be different.

He's only a man, there's no reason I can't resist him. He isn't a god or magician. Hell he doesn't even have a high powered job. I'm not completely sure what he does but its something to do with the electric company...I think. Now that's going to bug me. It's not like I'm still at the stage where I can ask a question like that. It's been six months. It would be the equivalent of asking his name. At least I know that one. Eric.

He calls. I come, in both senses of that word. I sometimes bring something for dinner. If I ignore him long enough in the kitchen, he'll slip up behind me, his hands skimming over my ass, his mouth at my throat, whispering in that voice like sandpaper how bad I've been and what my punishment will be. I teeter on a knife edge with unbalanced like a fourteen year old about to receive her first kiss.

I chop the vegetables before tossing them into a pot and mixing the soup base. Eric doesn't seem to mind that I make myself at home in his kitchen, though in all this time he hasn't asked me to move in. I left a toothbrush once. He considerately reminded me on my next visit.

With any other man, I would have assumed he hadn't taken the hint, that I should be more obvious. But Eric took it and volleyed it back to me with an arched eyebrow. Then he shook his head. "Oh Amelia...my dear, you couldn't handle it."

"Amelia, come here...now."

By this time the soup is boiling, hissing at me for having the nerve to ignore the man in the other room. I turn it down to simmer and put the lid on. I can feel myself boiling. First anger. At him, at myself. Then wetness between my thighs. Then more anger at him...and myself.

Eric has chosen not to pursue me, a point which I'm very indignant about. I cross the tiled floor until it flows into plush carpeting and leads me to the study he's lounging in. I'm about to start in on him when I notice two men sitting on the vermilion leather couch opposite him.

I'm embarrassed these two strangers have witnessed him ordering me to his side like a puppy. I start to leave the room but he grabs my wrist and pulls me back to whisper in my ear. Eric wants me to take off my bra and panties. I back toward the door, planning to retreat to the bedroom to obey his request in private. Not obeying hasn't crossed my mind. I'm so lost.

He shakes his head, his eyes calculating, and I know the gears in his brain are shifting to a very wrong place. I glance over to the men on the couch and see similar expressions on their faces. They're dressed sharply in business suits, both of them smelling of cigars. Eric's brand. They've been here awhile smoking Maduros and drinking Scotch. Eric prefers his cigars punch cut, not clipped, bands off, with wood matches. I've had welts on my ass from missing one of these crucial points.

I blush as I remember the afternoon he gave me a thirty minute lecture on the subtle differences between Hondurans and Dominicans while he fingered me. I feel like a Geisha.

For a moment all of the air rushes from the room and I have the strong instinct to run. Some people have a "life flashing before their eyes" moment before death. In this moment, my life doesn't flash before my eyes. What flashes before my eyes is a safer life. A white picket fence, a dog, 2.5 children, a doting if not boring and vanilla husband. Somewhere I can hide forever.

Eric gives me a moment to process, to have my "lady or the tiger" moment, despite the fact that I already know which door is which. Yet I still feel the compulsion to taunt the tiger. He allows a self satisfied smile to curl his lips and he pats his lap. He knows I won't run, that I can't, no matter how strong the drive is.

I feel like a prisoner convicted to die, taking that last walk. It might as well be true, even though I know I'm about to experience something I'll masturbate to for weeks at least. The throbbing between my legs intensifies. Eric, with whatever bizarre powers of perception he has, knows the effect this scenario is having on me. He chuckles. It's the most condescending sound I've ever heard, and also somehow the most erotic.

I maneuver and contort, doing the same routine I did to remove my bra other times when I had an unwanted audience, like eighth grade gym class. I unclasp it, and slip it off through the armholes of my shirt and then pull it out as if I've performed some feat of magic instead of a lame attempt at modesty. The panties are easier to take off without clothing acrobatics. I allow the two white scraps of fabric to drift to the floor.

Inexplicably the act of trying to maintain my modesty and even succeeding is more humiliating and exposing than if I'd just peeled the layers of fabric off with confidence. I've just lost round one and they all know it.

I sit on the offered lap. Eric pulls me back against his chest and whispers, "Relax." His warm breath puffs out over my ear, as he blows smoke on me. My hair will smell like him for the rest of the night. A shiver slides down my spine.

I melt against him as if calming down is an order that can be obeyed. The room feels distorted, not quite real. It's fuzzy around the edges like a sitcom dream sequence. I bury my face in his neck silently begging him not to put me through what he has planned. He allows it for now. A small mercy inserted into this chain of events.

The grandfather clock ticks about ten times louder than it normally does. The pads of Eric's fingers trail lightly up and down the side of my throat and my breath catches, then deepens. Finally he says, very low, so softly I almost can't hear him over that maddening clock: "That's enough hiding now. I promised they could watch. It's cheating them if they can't see your face."

I whimper. I can't stop myself from looking at the men on the couch. Their eyes are glazed with a feral, barely contained hunger.

Eric unbuttons my top with slow precision, dragging out my torment, driving me to the point where I'll beg and won't know for certain whether I want him to stop or continue. My top gapes open; my breasts hang free. In one smooth motion he jerks my skirt up and spreads my legs for our guests.

My head falls back on his shoulder as I moan and start to grind against his hand. His skin is rough,unlike other men I've been with. It's always given me a feeling of something untamed and excites me more than men with soft hands who work in accounting offices. I can feel his erection pressed against my ass as I move. His other hand trails over my collarbone and up the side of my throat, pausing to squeeze just enough...

My eyes are closed. I've forgotten my audience as I squirm in his arms. Eric tells me what a good girl I am and how much I've pleased him. I feel an inordinate amount of pleasure at this announcement. Then he stops touching me.

I cry out in protest at the loss of contact, then I feel a warm tongue. My eyes shoot open to see one of the strangers on his knees in front of me. The room feels like it's moving and I can't quite remember why I'm not supposed to be doing this.

I begin to struggle, but Eric grips my arms. "Don't make me regret my earlier compliments." His voice is so seductive.

"Please...I can't..."

He gives me a warning bite in the hollow where my shoulder meets my throat, just enough that it hurts, and I go slack once again. It doesn't take much for me to capitulate to his whims. A token protest, then I can be the victim without guilt, without responsibility. Secretly stealing back my right to fuck who I want, how I want, without the accompanying derisive "slut" label I would get if this act were seen as voluntary.

"You're very turned on right now. So I think you can." I imagine he's the devil, repackaging debauchery so it looks innocent as a Sunday picnic. I can practically smell the watermelon and feel the sun warming my face.

I've already forgotten what it was I couldn't do. His fingers stroke soothingly through my hair as he recites a litany of endearments and I begin to let go and allow myself to feel the pleasure.

The shift is noticeable and the man on the ground smirks up at me, gripping my thighs harder as he continues his ministrations. I notice the other man standing beside the chair, his erection outlining his pants, though he makes no move to join in the festivities. Voyeur.

Eric trails his tongue over the skin where he bit me. Its a gesture of reassurance, that I'm his. He won't let anyone harm me or do anything I won't ultimately enjoy. His tongue slides up over my throat. The combination of the stranger's tongue on my clit and Eric's on my throat is sending me into sensory overload. I cry out as I come, my body convulsing from the power of my release.

The man in front of me stands and offers me a hand. I look back at Eric, uncertain. It was one thing for him to go down on me, but I don't want to fuck anyone else. Something passes between us and Eric nods at me. I take the stranger's hand and he turns me back around to face Eric who unbuttons his pants and frees his cock. It occurs to me this has been orchestrated down to the detail and I relax again.

I mount Eric, riding him as he grips my hips, helping me to raise and lower myself at the speed and forcefulness he needs to get off. Hands stroke over my back and breasts, then after a few moments there are only two instead of four as each of the men begin to stroke themselves in tempo to my fucking.

Eric orgasms with a groan followed in quick succession by the other two men as I feel the warmth hit my back. I fall forward against Eric's chest, panting. He strokes my hair. One hand cups my chin, raising my face to his and he kisses me gently on the mouth. I can taste the Maduro on his tongue.

"Move in with me." His voice is filled with something that sounds like love, but I refuse to give it that label. I can feel the panic rising. Isn't this what I wanted? Eric's week old condemnation mocks me. "Oh Amelia...my dear, you couldn't handle it." He's right. I can't. I don't know what the hell was wrong with me. A fog that has hovered over my brain for the past six months starts to clear and I see a narrow window of escape. This can't go on.

A tiny voice that sounds very much like my common sense whispers, 'He'll unmake you.' I scramble off him, gripping the arm of the chair to steady myself. Our guests have moved discreetly back to the couch. I grab my top and tug my skirt back down to a respectable length.

I chance a look back at Eric. He's regarding me with the most smug look I've seen on him. His brow is arched in the challenge that always calls me back to prove I'm not some ridiculous prude. But this time I back toward the door and he doesn't stop me.

I forget the soup simmering on the stove and drive home, a steady throbbing still present as my body protests leaving him. I turn the radio up louder to some sassy bubble gum pop girl band and roll the windows down letting the cold air blow on my face. When I get home, my hand trembles as I put the key in the door. I don't feel safe until I'm behind it, and the deadbolts are turned, not just one, but two...and the recently added chain.

He'll call again. This little resistance is nothing to him.

I check all the locks on the windows even though I'm on the third floor. I get into bed without removing my clothes, just my shoes, and huddle under the covers. My knees are pulled up to my chest, tears flow down my still flushed cheeks. I lick my lips and taste watermelon lip gloss and smoke.