No... not like this.

You know you could finish this here and now... and the temptation to do so is massive, but her words...

"I'm s-sorrrry-y-y!" You realize you're not the one she's apologizing to as she assaults her clit in plain view. With this, it finally clicks: despite your orgasms, despite your complete disrespect, even hatred for the evil hypocrite Ophelia ended up marrying... you still don't want to make her yours right here, where he made her his. It frames what you do to women, now, in a light too negative to bear... and you're torn between this sudden self-loathing, from bearing even a striking resemblance to her husband, and your need to "save" her. Even if you were cheating with unnatural chemicals, you want now more than ever to convince her that she's better off with you... or at least better off without Daniel Cross.

To that end, you let yourself slide from the couch to your knees to be right next to her, and bend down so she can hear you while your slide your fingers up from her clitoris and all along her slit. You repeat this motion until she comes again, soaking your fingers in her excess.

"I live downstairs, in Apartment 596," you whisper. She looks to you, crying from pleasure and panting for breath. "Your life here..." You hesitate, pausing long enough for her to catch her breath. With a squeeze, you grab her fingers and pull her away from her furious masturbation. "Ophelia. You don't know it, but it's wrong what he's done to you. This is a crime, a sin, or... or whatever else you'd call it. This is wrong." Her shallow breathing slows and deepens, and she swallows hard as she absorbs your words as readily as she absorbed your seed. "I can free you, but not here. Remember: 596, and I'll be there tonight and every night, until you decide to be free."

She looks at you, bewildered... and eventually sits up, holding her own hands as if to keep them from attacking her now-dripping crotch. "I'm not... free?" She holds her hands to her heart, and looks down. She is naked and perspiring, she reeks of sex... but for a moment, you see naught but a pious woman, trapped in a revelation, a redefinition of her entire life. "I'm not free..."

The mood perishes, and despite the state of you two, a merry Adam and Eve standing bare and without shame, you find your arousal withering as you help her up. Her eyes drift to your softening manhood, and you chuckle. "I, uh... I guess you saved my life, Mrs..." You can't finish it. She notices it, and doesn't pretend to return your mirth. Humorlessly, you add, "596."

Suddenly aware of her nudity, she rapidly begins to dress, not even bothering to bathe despite the stink of sex and sweat on her. You give the room full of crosses another glance, cuss quietly under your breath, and put on your own clothes to depart. You're at the front door when she vanishes into her bedroom, and you spare not a single glance more as you leave, closing her apartment door behind her.

You exhale, slow. Standing alone in the apartment building hallway, you're left wondering: did you do enough? You're leaving without a ****, and a hope that she comes to you... but if she doesn't, you might've only made things worse for her. You realize she may still believe in your made-up disease, but you don't want to risk ruining her chances by admitting that lie, just yet. You turn towards the stairwell and begin walking, your ever step more guilty than the last. You played her, perhaps not as terribly as her foster father did but for your personal gratification all the same.

A door opens and closes behind you, but you continue looking forward as you walk towards the staircase, past the elevator in the center of the building. You start to think about your slaves... your victims, as they would be, and wonder if you can keep this up. Would you cure them all of your influence, once you have the ability? Or become something... terrible? Something worse than even the fiendish Mr. Cross-

A tug on your shoulder. A gasp as you turn around, bewildered at the sudden interruption of your thoughts... and a baby, cradled against a massive boob. A hemp bag full of diapers in an iron grip. A portable baby rocker hooked in a woman's arm. A voluptuous ginger, charmed by you, and still panting heavily after her brief run after you. "Take me... with... take..."

You hold her shoulders, trying to calm her down, but she has none of that as she looks up with defiant eyes. "Save me!" The elevator dings... and Mr. Cross, the massive, gorilla-like man, steps off. His footsteps echo on the cheap, tiled floor, and his angry gaze looks to his apartment door, properly closed, to his right. And to his left, near the staircase-

... nothing. He is alone, but he can't shake the sensation that he saw something... eye-catching... at his peripheral. He stomps, grumbling, towards his apartment while you keep your hand over Ophelia's mouth, both of you stuffed behind the small wall between the hall and the staircase. By the time Mr. Cross rushes back out of the apartment, furiously stomping down the stairs to try and find her, you've closed your apartment door.

You both pant audibly, exhausted from the sudden, **** dash down the stairwell, her doubly so for all she carries so dearly. You both look around your apartment, her for the wonder of all the equipment spread out on the coffee table and couches, and you for the sudden fear of...

No one. No one was here, thank God.