Fury kac-17 Read online

  Sarah Ryder stretched like a cat and then rose quickly from the bed and stood in front of the full-length mirror, turning this way and that. By and large, she was pleased with the response from men she got to the breast augmentation surgery she'd had a year earlier, changing her from a 34C to a 36DD. However, of late she'd been wondering if more was better and she should revisit her plastic surgeon and pump up the volume, so to speak. The bigger the bait, the richer the tiger, she thought.

  "What do you think, Ted," she said, turning sideways. "Should I get bigger tits?

  "I think they're perfect just the way they are, my love," Vanders said with a pout. "That's why I wanted to touch them…at least until you almost broke my finger."

  Ryder rolled her eyes. "Fuck, why would I ask you," she sneered. "You'd think an old water balloon was a turn-on. And if I'd wanted to break your finger, I would have. Now quit with the fucking 'my love' shit, it makes me want to throw up."

  Having just screwed Ted Vanders didn't mean she liked Ted Vanders. In fact, she pretty much detested Ted Vanders-from his skinny, sunken white chest and muscleless arms to his crooked teeth and myopic eyes. However, it was his imperfection that made him perfect for her plan. After all, who would believe that a hottie like Sarah Lynn Ryder, who had a body and face that real men fought over, would have anything to do with a faggy little English major like Ted?

  Ted, on the other hand, was hopelessly in love with her. He actually thought that she was attracted to his stupid poetry and romanticism. My love, blech. Oh yes, she'd giggled like a virginal schoolgirl when she picked him out at the student union on the NYU campus, but she'd nearly regretted it the first time she let him have sex with her. He was so excited that it hardly lasted thirty seconds and that was if you included his amateurish attempts at foreplay. It was all she could do to keep from gagging when she told him it was all right and that "a few minutes of perfection is better than hours with another man."

  After that he was hooked, and she treated him pretty much like dirt. He would do anything to have sex with her, which she kept to a minimum both because it sickened her and because she wanted him desperate. As she figured, he became so enraptured that he'd even agreed to go along with her plan to exact revenge on her professor of Russian poetry, Alexis Michalik. Of course, she'd framed it in a way-the man had used her and cast her aside-to appeal to both his jealousy and romantic nature…the bull (albeit a skinny, nearsighted bull) who sees another bull in the paddock with the heifer in heat.

  Twenty-five-year-old Sarah Ryder had known for more than half her life that men found her attractive-especially when, as her spinster aunt back home in Iowa said, she'd "blossomed early." The first such man was a friend of her parents who'd come over with his wife every Friday night for a friendly game of canasta and insisted on tucking "little Sarah" into bed. He'd gone from fondling her "naughty places" to more painful exercises, all the time warning her not to tell her parents or she'd be punished. Two years later, after she figured out that he was the one who should be worried, she told him that she didn't mind the sex, but if he didn't do what she wanted him to do-including giving her a rather large allowance-she'd not only tell her parents, she'd tell the cops.

  Sex was a means to an end. She soon learned that she didn't even have to have sex to use it as a weapon. When she was fifteen, her parents divorced, and her mother remarried a year later. Her stepfather was a good man who would never have touched her, but when he tried to lay down the law on her curfew, she called the police and said he'd raped her. She was smart enough to know that the police wouldn't just take her word for it, so she'd had sex with one of the neighborhood boys before calling the police.

  Based on her report and the initial examination at the hospital, her stepfather was arrested, a fact that was reported in the hometown newspaper. However, she'd been naive and hadn't thought to make the boy wear a condom, so when the DNA tests came back negative for her stepfather six weeks later, she'd been confronted and she confessed. The Department of Social Services had sent her to a counselor, who'd lectured her about the harmful aspects of lying, pointing out that her stepfather's reputation in the town had been badly damaged.

  Ryder had been so contrite, promising with many tears that she'd learned her lesson, that the counselor considered her a triumph of modern talk-therapy and recommended that she be allowed to go back to her family. However, her stepfather, who'd received dozens of pieces of hate mail and had even been accosted on the street, moved out and shortly thereafter left town.

  "Good riddance," she told her mom when the divorce papers arrived a month later. "Even if he didn't, he wanted to and would have sooner or later." Her mother had just looked at her funny, then fled into her bedroom, where she sobbed all day. Sarah had rolled her eyes then, too. Ryder had moved to New York hoping to become a Broadway star. When leading roles, or any roles for that matter, weren't immediately forthcoming, she enrolled at NYU as a theater major, while hostessing at a Steak Sizzler on Times Square.

  Life got better when she started dating a member of the New York Rangers hockey club. Dmitri Federov was stunningly good-looking, rich, and had a great accent. He was also generous-putting her up in a small flat in the Village and even buying her a five-carat diamond ring for Christmas. He didn't exactly call it an engagement ring or ask her to marry him, but she took it as a fait accompli. She thought they made the perfect couple and even took Russian lessons throughout that year so that she'd be able to converse with his family someday.

  After a year of seeing him when he felt like it, she suggested that they get married. But he just laughed and said, "But what would I tell my wife in Moscow?"

  Ryder reacted first by threatening to tell his wife and/or the police. However, he'd pointed to a small camera hidden in a corner of the ceiling of his bedroom where they were talking-a camera he admitted he'd used to film their lovemaking. "It's still on." He smiled. "Now, shall I take that to the police and tell them you are trying to blackmail me?"

  "Ha ha, just teasing," she'd said. "I don't want to get married."

  "Get out," he replied. "I don't want to ever see you again. And by the way, your breasts are too small."

  With her face burning, Ryder stormed off to the bathroom-"to get my things"-where she promptly swallowed a bottle of Ambien sleeping pills. She figured she'd either almost die and make him see how much she loved him and then he'd take her back, or cause him enough embarrassment in the press to flee the country. Maybe he'll even lose his work visa, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

  However, Federov soon discovered her and called an ambulance. His agent then paid off the right people to keep it out of the newspapers and have Ryder committed to Bellevue for observation "as a danger to herself and others." By the time she got out, Dmitri's lawyers had obtained a restraining order preventing her from calling, writing, or coming within one hundred yards of their client. She also discovered that he must have removed the diamond ring from her finger while waiting for the ambulance and cleaned out and closed the bank account he'd set up for her "expenses."

  Ryder had returned to her classes at NYU much poorer but also wiser. She was determined that the next time some guy fucked with her, he'd pay one way or the other. She was still trying to figure out her best option-turn her charms on one of the rich old men who hung out in TriBeCa looking for trophy wives ("But with my luck, they'd live to be a hundred and be as horny as a goat," she complained to one of her few friends), or try for a rich young man "except they're all married, gay, or allergic to commitment."

  In the meantime, there were bills to pay and things she wanted. A brief affair with a married plastic surgeon got her the new boobs; another with the married owner of a BMW car dealership in New Jersey the new 320i; and yet another with a married real estate developer entitled her to a small but tasteful flat in the East Village in exchange for the occasional dalliance when his wife was out of town. She knew the score with those men and wanted nothing more from them than she got; they were simply
her means to an end.

  She was in her last semester at NYU and had decided to go on and get her master's-mostly because she didn't know what else to do, and a horny married banker was willing to pay tuition-when she took a class in Russian poetry from newly arrived Alexis Michalik. He was maybe just a shade or two less handsome but his maturity made him more distinguished than Dmitri, with that same killer accent, and he was certainly more intelligent.

  Ryder began hanging around after class and volunteering to help him with such things as making copies of poetry for the rest of the class and fetching him coffee, then lunch. Then she asked if she could work as a sort of unofficial intern, assisting him with his efforts to translate his work into English. She'd continued her Russian language studies-she figured that somewhere, somehow they would come in handy.

  After graduation, with Michalik's help, she entered the master's program in Russian literature with an emphasis on poetry. She'd also convinced herself that she was in love with him and that they were meant to be together. She figured he probably made six figures, maybe more, because he was a popular speaker at poetry events around the country, and she could imagine herself the good wife, playing hostess for all the intellectuals who would visit their home, and helping promote his career.

  There were only two problems: he was married, and he wasn't in love with her. While it was obvious that Alexis enjoyed her company and even a little harmless flirting, he made no attempt to take it any further. She'd all but spread-eagled herself on his desk, but he treated her like a schoolgirl with a crush, telling her, "You need to find a young man and not waste all that energy and beauty on what cannot be."

  At home, Ryder fumed over the rejection. But her history had taught her to have a Plan B ready. So if she couldn't have him as her husband willingly, she would blackmail him into becoming her husband unwillingly, though he would of course learn to love her. Plan C was simply to blackmail him into letting her get away without having to write her "stupid" master's thesis and then getting her into the doctoral program. She was pretty sure that once she had her doctorate and, with his help, got onto the faculty at NYU, he'd realize that she really was the best life partner for him.

  When her plans had been laid, she'd called him and asked to see him in his office that evening. "I'd like to talk to you about my thesis when there're not so many interruptions like there are during the day," she said. She then pretended there was a problem with her telephone and couldn't hear his response. "Would you call me back, please?"

  A few seconds later, her telephone rang. "Thanks," she said. "I don't know what the problem was. Anyway, could you spare your poor, dedicated, infatuated student a few minutes this evening?" She detected a sigh-he was way behind on the translation-but he was also too dedicated a teacher to turn her down. "Sure, come on over, Sarah."

  She loved the way he said Sarah. It sounded so exotic. She then called Ted Vanders. "Okay, Ted. Tonight's the night. I'll be over about twelve." She couldn't help but compare Michalik's unenthusiastic response to Ted's, who'd been without her favors for nearly three weeks and sounded like he'd wet his pants when she called.

  Ryder dressed quickly. She'd already spent some time thinking about what to wear and had chosen a baby-pink thong but decided against a bra. These puppies don't give an inch when I walk, she thought, as she pulled an almost see-through silk shirt over her surgically enhanced chest. It only came down to just above her belly, which she thought was one of her best (natural) assets, especially when emphasized by a pair of skintight, low-rider jeans that only just covered…my naughty parts, she thought, and giggled.

  Flouncing her hair into what she called her "just fucked look," she then checked her mascara and applied a shade of lipstick to match her thong. She stepped back with a skeptical look. Hmmm, maybe it's time for a little collagen in the lips. She pouted, then used the tip of her tongue to trace her upper lip seductively. Nah, you've still got it, baby.

  Satisfied with the look, she opened the medicine cabinet, took out a pill bottle, and glanced at the label to make sure it was the correct one. Hello, roofies. She opened the bottle and took out three, then closed it and put it in her purse. As she was closing the purse, she saw the steel glint of the surgical scissors in the bottom. She thought about removing them but let them remain where they were. A girl can't be too careful these days, she thought with a smile.

  It's a use-me, use-you world, she thought as she closed her purse to go to Michalik's office that night. She put the three pills on a plate and smashed them with a spoon until they were powder; she wondered if three was too many, then figured she'd lost some in the crushing and poured it into a small piece of folded paper. She then walked out to the kitchen, took a small cooler from the refrigerator, and left her apartment.

  When she arrived at Michalik's office, she waltzed in, plopped the cooler on his desk, and took out two bottles of beer and two glasses.

  "Not me," he said, waving them off. "Beer will put me to sleep."

  "Come on, professor, all work and no play will make Alexis Michalik a dull boy," she teased. "Besides, I'd just like to have a beer with my favorite professor, relax, and talk him into approving my master's thesis."

  "You have to turn in a thesis to have it approved," he said, shaking his finger at her. "And no work and even a little play for Alexis Michalik, and he will lose his book contract." He laughed as he spoke, and she was happy to see that his eyes kept straying to the twin points that protruded from her shirt. She poked her bare tummy toward him, knowing the effect that usually had on men whose eyes measured the distance between the top of her jeans and her belly button, then did the math.

  Ryder cajoled and flirted until he relented. She opened one of the beers and was opening the second when her hand slipped and knocked the beer over just enough to splash some on his papers before righting it. He jumped up and ran to the bathroom to get a paper towel to wipe it up.

  When his back was turned, Ryder quickly dumped the contents of the folded piece of paper in one of the glasses and then poured a beer in on top. He returned and mopped up the spill, then accepted the glass she handed to him.

  "Mazdorovya," she said raising her glass.

  "Mazdorovya," he replied, taking a sip. "You are a bad influence, Sarah Ryder."

  They sat back down and for the next ten minutes talked about her master's thesis, or lack thereof. She couldn't have cared less about the conversation; she didn't plan on writing a thesis. She was just watching and waiting for the drugs to kick in.

  "Whoa," he said suddenly, placing his hand on his desk as if to steady himself. "That's some beer to get a Russian drunk on just one."

  "You're just tired, darling," she said, rising from her seat and walking around the desk until she was standing in front of him with her hips inches from his face.

  Michalik fastened his eyes on her crotch, then shook his head and smiled weakly. "Yes. I am tired. I…" He suddenly stopped talking as she knelt in front of him and started fumbling at his belt. He tried pushing her away, "Sarah, please, you must not." But she just laughed and kept at it until she had his pants unzipped and his manhood in her hands.

  "Sarah, you are very beautiful and any man would want you, but I must insist." His protestations stopped when she took him in her mouth. Under her expertise, it didn't take long. "Oh, God," he groaned in both pleasure and remorse.

  Ryder spit in her hand, then wiped it on her shirt.

  "I am so…so sorry," he said. "I am ashamed."

  "Don't be silly, Alexis," she said. "I love you. You needed the relief, and it was my pleasure to…to please you. I'd like to do more if you'd let me."

  "No, you don't understand," he said. "I am sorry for my wife…"

  Ryder froze. She'd just given him the best blow job of his life, then offered her perfect body, and he was feeling guilty about his wife? Bastard. You need to stick with the plan. Plan A isn't going to work; obviously the clown's in love with his wife. So it's on to Plan B, and if necessary, Plan C. She
figured that where she'd gone wrong in the past was a lack of options.

  Alexis's head flopped forward and he began snoring. She left him there with his pants to his knees and picked up his nearly empty beer glass. She made sure to leave her fingerprints clearly on the glass and gently placed her lips at several places around the rim, leaving little pink smudges. Satisfied, she placed the glass on the bookcase, slightly behind a trophy he'd been awarded at some international poetry event, where it wouldn't be noticed…at least not right away.

  With regret for the loss of perfection, Ryder looked in the bathroom mirror and mussed up her hair, then wiped the back of a hand across her lips, leaving a pink smear on her right cheek. She ripped the top button from her shirt and adjusted it as if she'd been in a struggle. She sighed, regarding the mess she'd created, but she wanted to look the part if she ran into the janitor, another student, or a professor. Pausing at the door to the office, she worked up a few tears and sniffles…just in case.

  Ryder was a little disappointed that she didn't see anybody on her way out of the building. But, she reminded herself, it doesn't matter, because I have an alternate plan. She stepped out into the night and, seeing no one, practically skipped to the bottom of the stairs and even allowed herself a pirouette and a giggle at the bottom, before composing herself in case she ran into anybody.

  Ryder drove immediately to Vanders's apartment, where she rushed past him when he opened the door and ordered him to "undress and get in bed, you little idiot. I'm about to make you a very happy little worm." He'd almost squeaked with excitement and ran into his bedroom and promptly fell flat on his face while trying to remove his pants and socks at the same time.

  In the meantime, Ryder walked to the bathroom where she took the pill bottle out of her purse, removed another roofie, and swallowed it. Gonna need that puppy in the ol' bloodstream tomorrow, she thought. And it might be the only way I can stomach having sex with Ted.