"Before we talk, let's take off all of our clothes."

"Oh- of course! I'm sorry, I didn't even consider but... that's right. It's far more comfortable... and it's not like we need clothes between us." She's already lifting her shirt over her head, letting her heavy breasts slop out with all their weight. You get to appreciate her, now as you strip out of your own clothes, with a patience and time not allowed in your previous, minute encounters. Her flesh, pale and succulent, has neither errant hair nor blemish to mar its sun-kissed ivory glow, down to those pale pink nipples with generous areolas. She wiggles out of jeans and panties in unison, winking at you briefly with her trimmed bush of orange, again the only interruption on smooth, well-maintained skin. Even her legs are cleanly shaven, despite what must have been the anticipation of no lovers to judge her - none that she cared about, now - or beach days for which to prep. Her body is curvaceous and soft - obviously less athletic or acrobatic than your new wife - and she lets her hands rest against those curvy, near-chubby hips without a care.

Despite her ease with you, her eyes never leave your erect cock except to squint away more tears. Her body is shaking visibly now, and it can't be the warm temperature of the basement. Your original intention was to fully interrogate her under the present influence, learn everything that could be useful, and finally secure her mind and personality, enough to protect yourself. Seeing her like this, however, plants far less cautious seeds in your mind.

She wavers, as if on the verge of collapse. "Why are you shaking like that, Penelope?" Her face twists as she tries to find a response that makes sense. Seeing no proper ending to it, you try to (verbally) grope for the answer. "Are you afraid of being seen naked?"

"Not by you, no."

"Are you afraid of men?"

"Oh yes, terrified - except of you, of course. You're-"

"Why are you afraid of men, Penelope?"

"I was **** many times," she sobs, still smiling.

Your ex-wife's caution with your new wife was ever justified, and you knew that... and Hell, you are one of those rapists, now... yet this still surprises you, given her father's apparent caution. "Tell me about your rapes."

"Well, when I was twelve I was **** by two neighbors - men - in our apartment stairwell. I was **** again by a whole class of boys when I was fourteen, and I got pregnant and needed an abortion. Men, penises, pregnancy, even strap-ons that look anatomically correct... it's all so scary to me that I want to throw up just remembering it." Her smile never leaves, because answering your question can only be good, even as she falls to her knees from fright. You soak in her violent trembling and quickening breaths, each shiver and inhalation a mark her abject fear of your manhood, of memories normally sealed away. She can't process being afraid of you, that all-but-divine certainty in her life, but her body, and some working portion of her psyche, knows too well what you intend.

"Is that why..." No, rephrase that. "... Rather, do you ever worry it influences your sexuality?"

"Oh no," she declares with a smile, closing her eyes to finally shut out the source of her fear, "I mean I was never into boys... I guess after middle school I couldn't be less interested. My parents use all that to excuse me being a lesbian... I hate them for it, though of course I could never tell them."

You almost wish you could feel bad about growing harder as she tells you these ugly, life-shaping things. It's time to go back to your more utilitarian questions. "Did your parents do anything to help you report whenever you have sex, or get ****?"

"They did, at first... they told me to report every time something happened to, or someone stared at or commented on, any sexual part of my body, no matter if it was a dream, or claimed to be something else entirely..." You inhale deeply as, with all the swiftness of a just universe, you fear you've already sprung a trap. She's already naked before you, and she is cognizant of the fact. If you can't find a foolproof way to defuse this bomb, you're a dead-. "... but they quickly got tired of hearing about how all the boys kept looking at me, and told me I only need to report when it risks pregnancy again."

Her father... no, no, she said parents, didn't she? Her parents were not merely absentminded, as you judged of her father. They didn't truly care, or perhaps their patience was so thin as to become easily frustrated... but really! Once you allow yourself an exhale, you're left contemplating Isabella: how many caveats and safeguards warded her, probably to confess all to her mother and no one else? Surely dozens, or at least as many as Isabella could safely remember... all of which went into the cold earth with that cold manipulator. Penelope had truly suffered, meanwhile, and her parents couldn't be bothered!