“Why did you lie to me, Roger? Why?” Her tears began to pool on his muscular chest, mixing with the fear-inspired perspiration already there. “I loved you so much… and you hurt me. You hurt me so bad that I cried… just like you are now.” Her last words were barely audible in the heavy silence of the moonlit room, but the man’s brown eyes flared open, his fear expanding with her every whisper.

Then Kilandra’s sadness turned to anger, as she suddenly sat up, staring down at the man maliciously.

She sneered viciously. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out!” Her angry voice echoed off the walls, and her nails dug into his chest until lines of blood were dripping down onto the white satin sheets. “I love you, Kilandra… you’re the only one for me, Kilandra… I’ll never love another, Kilandra,” she crooned, mocking his words hysterically. “You’re a fucking liar!” Madness dominated her suddenly large eyes.

Snatching a razor-sharp surgical scalpel from the nightstand next to the bed, her arm went up high into the air as she growled in anger, her face a twisted expression of hate.

But the scalpel did not fall…

The following silence tortured the man unmercifully; his tears rolled freely from the corners of his eyes, his chest heaved, his Adam's apple worked up and down repeatedly, trying to swallow the thick fear.

Kilandra’s voluptuous form straddled his torso. Her slim waistline and flat belly glisten in the moonlight. How long had he fantasized about this moment? How many times had he run his tongue across those beautifully erect nipples in his mind? How many lonely nights had he gone to bed with nothing but lotion and dreams of her?

The scalpel now rested against his breast.

She began laughing softly, her smile a demonic vision from the very depths of hell. Her laughter slowly grew until it drove him mad. His eyelids fluttered as he tried to break free of the drug's effects. Fear forced the strength back into his limbs, and he jerked his arms forward to throw the crazy woman off of him, but the chains held fast. His nostrils flared as he struggled in vain against the metal shackles around his wrists and ankles. His vision cleared, and he suddenly stopped writhing and struggling.

He heard Kilandra’s maniacal laughter suddenly end, and a low growl of desire replaced it. He felt her body shift on top of him, felt her slender fingers grasp his manhood and slide its crown teasingly between her creamy, wet vaginal lips. His mind twisted in turmoil, lust and satisfaction clashing heavily with fear and anxiety. He gritted his teeth, emitting a low growl of his own, and every muscle in his body tensed as he felt heaven slide down onto his lengthy erection. Tears were forced from his brown eyes by the intense pleasure of her tight, moist vagina; he could feel it pulsating around his manhood, squeezing, milking, sucking…

Her hips ground slowly back and forth, keeping him deep inside of her as she concentrated on smashing her clitoris against his pelvis. Roger’s nostrils flared above the gray duct tape securing his mouth, and he stared at the woman, daring to hope that this was all some sick fetish of hers and that he would live through it. He tried to focus on the unbelievable softness of her sex, the tightness, the snugness. His eyes rolled back into his head as he felt her lift up slightly, the warm, wet friction combined with her squeezing walls sending him into a fit of convulsions. In and out, he felt her slowly working her vagina on his member, with her fists upon his chest. He felt the throes of an orgasm rock his body, and he knew that he was about to climax. Back down she slid, forcing him into the deepest regions of her love. He waited, praying she would continue with the movements, but she did not. An eerie silence enraptured the room, and all he could hear was his own ragged breathing. He opened his eyes.

She sat there, her countenance devoid of any emotion at all, cold and dead. The chains rattled as his fear turned to sexual frustration. He wanted to grab her by the hips and fuck her into submission, but all he could manage was a weak upward thrusting movement. Her perfectly shaped breasts heaved from the struggling beneath her. Her eyes were glazed over, as if she were staring into another world, yet her lips moved, and so did her hand—the hand holding the scalpel.

“Don’t worry, Roger… I won’t kill you yet.”