Elena, that most rapacious of women, decided to make herself available to any man who desired her.
She became a streetwalker. Oh, that fortunate street down whose spine she sauntered in stiletto heels! Oh, those happy
dogs who, smelling her from counties away, came running with nostrils flared and tongues lolling! And, oh, oh, oh, the
Men flocked to her, whispered crude suggestions in her ear, shared with her the most disgusting fantasies
It was almost too easy.
"Talk dirty to me," she said, back in her room, as she hung up her shawl. "Tell me exactly what you
want to do." And the poor fool would obey, not knowing that a tape recorder was running. Not knowing that the
recording would be sent to his wife.
"Take off my shoe," she commanded, imperiously extending one perfect leg. "Do it slowly. Lick the
sole. Rub it all over your naked body." Again, the chump would do so, blissfully ignorant of the hidden cameras,
and of the fact that the photographs would be sent to his mother.
"You're under arrest," she declared, after handcuffing the idiot's hands behind his back. Thinking it all
a game, he'd be still grinning when the police burst into the room.
It rarely took more than ten minutes, start to finish, and oftentimes it took less. Her personal best, four and a
half minutes from first hard-on to abject tears, was a minister who had preached against her personally from the pulpit
the Sunday before. There was, Elena had to admit to herself, a special satisfaction in that.
"Be sure to tell your friends you had a good time," she always told her mark as he was being led away
by the cops. "If you don't, they'll all think there's something wrong with you."