"Stop!"

The shamelessly aroused girl collapsed in the chair, her face twisted by the near orgasm that was writhing, smoky and aching, through every nerve in her young body. She lay, panting, her eyes closed.

After a moment she took a deep shuddering breath and opened her eyes to see the pictures were off the screen. Web was leaning against the desk again, his arms folded over his chest. He was tall and gray, in his middle forties and habitually wore all gray, like a trademark. Gray suit, shirt, tie. Even, sometimes, gray patent leather shoes. He was looking at her with a faint, ironic, grin on his thin lips. Nichole simply stared at him as she sprawled obscenely, her beautiful wetly firm breasts heaving, the vibrating mechanical penis buzzing forgotten in her hand.

"You know, Nichole, I'm getting bored with you."

The words were spoken so quietly, almost casually, yet they struck terror in her heart. She looked at him showing her fear. What would he do with her? What would she do if he threw her out? Where would she go? Tears, real tears, welled like glistening slivers in her eyes. "Why?" she asked, shaking her head. "I try. I try to please you."

Web became preoccupied with a mote or speck on the cuff of his expensive coat; he carefully picked it off with thumb and forefinger and let it drop into an ashtray on the desk. "I know. I know. You'll do anything I ask, won't you?"

"Anything," Nichole said the word carefully, feeling the lewd thrill that such an admittance gave her. She would, literally, do anything he wanted.

"That's the trouble," he went on, going behind the desk and sitting down, joining the tips of his fingers together in front of him like a cathedral. "That's the trouble. I know you'll do anything I want. There's no challenge left and I'm bored." His forehead became wrinkled. "I'm bored, Nichole."