By the time she was done, he was already semi-erect. She wrapped the base with an elastic band. “Sort of a roach motel,” she said. “The blood gets in and it can’t get out, so you stay firm.”

“Is it safe?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “It’s an old Indian trick. And now you can do something for me, and after that everything will be entirely one hundred percent for you.” And she sat on his face and he did what he was supposed to do, and he was pretty good at it, too. He didn’t have to be, she was so excited right now that great technique on his part was by no means required, but this made it even better.

“Now that was just wonderful,” she said. She went to her bag, got out the duct tape, and cut off an eight-inch length. “And I wanted to do that first,” she went on, “because that’s our last chance for that particular activity.”

And she slapped the tape over his mouth.

Oh, the look in his eyes! Worth the price of admission right there. He wasn’t quite sure whether this was going to make it even more exciting for him, or whether it was maybe something he ought to worry about.

But why worry? What good would that do? What good would anything do?

“See, isn’t this neat? You’re harder than ever. And you’re going to stay that way.”

She mounted him, sat facing his feet in the reliable Reverse Cowgirl, felt him swelling impossibly larger inside her. “Mmmm, nice,” she said. “Oh, yes. Very nice.”

She rode him for a long time. Her climaxes came one after the other, and all they did was pitch her excitement higher. After a few of them she changed position so that she could watch his face while she rode him, and that was a treat, because the wide-eyed desperation was something to see. At last she fell forward, her breasts crushed against his chest. A smooth chest would have been nice, but a hairy chest was nice, too. Everything was nice when you could do whatever you wanted, and when you knew just how it was going to end.