"The more experience and insight I obtain into human nature, the more convinced do I become that the greater portion of a man is purely animal."
- Henry Morton Stanley
"Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac."
- Henry Kissinger
* * *
Marina sighed as she entered her apartment and tossed her bag on the couch. She looked at her watch, dangling loose on her slender wrist. Another "two-hour" photoshoot that had somehow stretched into five hours. The pay, naturally, had not stretched along with it. The sun had set and it was almost completely dark already. She kicked off her shoes, splashed some cold water on her face, put a frozen dinner into the microwave, and sank down onto the couch next to her bag. She put her head in her hands and asked herself the same question she had asked a hundred times before. What was she doing here?
Marina was nineteen years old and had grown up in a small town in northern California. All throughout middle school and high school, she had heard the praise about how she was smart, how she was athletic, how she was attractive, how she was guaranteed to be successful in life. Her parents had pushed her in their controlling, live-vicariously-through-your-kid way, informing her that Dad had graduated from Berkeley, Mom had graduated from Berkeley, and dammit, she was going to graduate from Berkeley too.
But Marina was also stubborn. The harder her parents pushed, the harder she pushed back. She had done some modeling in high school after classes and on the weekends. Made pretty good money doing it, too. She had taken the bus to San Francisco until she had earned enough to buy a used car. Eventually, she had made enough to trade in her used car for a brand-new one. Nothing fancy, just a Toyota Corolla, but there she was, with a brand-new car that she had purchased with help from no one else, before she had graduated from high school. How many of her classmates could say that?
So when she had realized that her parents had the next four years, and perhaps more, of her life all planned out for her, it was time to take action. She had defiantly stuck her (small) chest out and informed them that she wasn't going to Berkeley, she wasn't going to any college, but instead was going to L.A. to have a career as a model. She was different from all those other girls who ended up either running home to daddy or having to resort to making a living on her back or on her knees and calling a different man daddy. Right? After all, she already had a proven track record of success. So, ignoring her mother's wailing and her father's gnashing of teeth, as soon as she had finished high school, she had loaded up her Corolla with her belongings and headed south to L.A.
Now, she was one year older, one year wiser, and about thirty years more cynical. Her tiny studio apartment cost $925 per month. (Electricity not included). She had left all her friends behind, but she'd made new friends here. Sort of. If you could call shallow drug addicts and lazy moochers friends. And of course there was no shortage of guys hitting on her, so there was plenty of empty, meaningless sex available if that was her thing. Which it wasn't, but she did it anyway. She had sexual needs, and no other kind appeared to be available.
The microwave beeped. She took out her cardboard-flavored chicken breast with mashed potatoes and peas and sat back on the couch to eat, digging the day's mail out of her bag at the same time. The electric bill. Had it been a month already? She sighed even before she opened it, knowing that her liberal use of the air conditioner during last month's several heat waves would mean some unattractive numbers.
"Nothing I can't handle," said Marina out loud. She looked at the bill, then reached over for the binder where she kept the records of all her income and expenses and crunched some numbers in her head. She would have a positive cash flow - just barely - this month. At least things were better than when she had first arrived. She had been losing money month after month, dipping deeper and deeper into her savings, until she had discovered that topless modeling paid a lot more than modeling with the twins covered up. Her small, firm, perfectly round 32B's with sharp, pointy pink nipples were always a hit.
She stood up, took off her pants, and looked at her reflection in the mirror, wearing only white panties and a white T-shirt. With her elegant and high-cheekboned face, full and pouty lips, pale skin, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and deep blue eyes, her face was at least in demand in the world of modeling. Her body, too. She had always been naturally slim, and she could maintain her model-thin, 5'6", 103-pound figure, with her 23-inch waist and 33-inch hips, through careful eating and frequent exercise. Her slender thighs had a little bit of visible muscle tone, and her stomach was firm and flat. The outline of her perky little braless tits and erect nipples was visible underneath her top. She didn't even have to pop any pills or puke up her meals like some of the other girls did. She finished her peas, making sure to eat exactly three-fourths of the chicken breast and only half of the mashed potatoes, and tossed the remnants in the trash.
She reached for the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels. "What am I doing here?" she said again, this time out loud. This wasn't the life she had imagined. As much as she hated to admit it, she probably would be happier right now if she was in a dorm room at Berkeley, partying with real friends. Her life here was work and emptiness. Even when she went to parties, she didn't have fun. But she wasn't going back. She could just see her parents, triumphant and self-righteous smirks on their faces, saying, over and over again, "We told you so."
She found the channel with the Dodger game and half-watched, half continued thinking about her situation. She would get her big break that would propel her out of this rut sometime. She had to. Sure, she was too short to be a runway model, but there were lots of other kinds...
Sometime during the sixth inning, she fell asleep on the couch.
Marina was awakened by a scraping sound. Sitting up, she heard voices. The game was over and the sports talking heads were yammering on and on. She clicked the TV off, tilted her head, and listened again.
The scraping came once more. It seemed to be coming from above. She looked upward, towards the skylight, and was horrified to see a large, black-clad figure dropping down from the opening. The intruder, showing impressive agility for his size, executed a double salto in midair to soften his fall and landed perfectly on his booted feet.
Her heart pounding, adrenaline flowing through her, panic flowing through her brain, Marina managed to focus on a single thought: Her gun! The .45 pistol, a gift from her uncle, was in the drawer next to her bed. Racing across the room, she dove onto the bed and reached into the drawer.
The uninvited guest was already moving. He threw his powerful body into a cartwheel followed by a series of fast back handsprings directly at her. By the time she had taken out the weapon, chambered a round, and removed the safety, he was on her. A large hand grabbed her right arm and twisted it painfully. The gun fell to the floor.
Marina tried attacking with her knee, intending to drive it into his groin. He was far too quick for her, however, and swiftly turned away. Her knee bounced harmlessly into the side of his thigh.
"Feisty, huh?" he whispered in a rough voice. "I like that. I like the knee strike myself." With that, he rammed his knee into her midsection. She doubled over in pain, gasping. He kicked her in the head with his big black boot and she crumpled to the floor.
Semi-conscious, Marina was vaguely aware of the intruder picking up the gun, removing the magazine, ejecting the round in the chamber, and throwing them away. He stood over her as the rest of her senses slowly returned. She began opening her mouth.
"No," he whispered in the same rough voice. "No screaming. Nothing that will wake the neighbors." He raised his leg. "It'd be a damn shame if a delicate little throat like yours got stomped on. Now do we have an understanding?"
Marina nodded, trembling with anger and fear.
"Get up, strip, and lie on the bed," he ordered.
She stood up slowly, still in pain. She removed her white T-shirt, exposing the 32B's that stood proudly on her chest. Her nipples were erect. She hesitated as she reached for her panties. "Please, can't we..." she began.
He was on her again in a flash, slamming her against the wall. A muscular forearm pressed against her throat, cutting off her air. "I thought we had an understanding. Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. You have a choice. Do exactly as I say, without question and without hesitation, and live through this. Or don't. Now will there be any more misunderstandings?" He continued choking her until she felt like she was going to pass out, then suddenly released the pressure slightly, allowing her to breathe and talk, though she still couldn't move.
"No more misunderstandings," she said in a small voice.
