Ring doorbell

You ring the bell, and hear a distant chime. You wait a while, listening to the cicadas hiss and the leaves rustle in the breeze.

After a few minutes, you hear footsteps, then the door opens, and a man's figure is silhouetted in the doorway.

“You must be Janet,” the man says. “Come in.” He opens the door wide and lets you into the house, then shuts and locks it behind you.

You turn to look at him. He's tall, maybe six feet or so, with a lean, rugged face, cold blue eyes, thin lips, and a square jaw. A tweed jacket hangs on his broad shoulders. You smile a little; he looks like nothing so much as a cross between the Marlboro Man and the ideal Professor every school girl is supposed to have a crush on.

He sees your expression and smiles. “You have a sense of humor to go with that cute little ass. Good. There's a reason I look like this, you know. Many of our girls have lingering homophobia that gets in the way of their adjustment. I'm a real man partly because you need the contrast, to realize that you're not a man now, so whatever aversions you have towards sex with men are entirely inappropriate. You're welcome to laugh if you like. But at the end of the evening, after you've ironed my shirts and slacks, and cleaned my bathroom, and shined my shoes, after I've fucked you silly and sent you back to your dorm room crying and cunt sore, I'll be the one with the dick between my legs. You'll just have my sperm inside you.”

He grins down at you, relishing the look on your face. “That's better. A little respect. You're the weaker sex now, remember. Now the situation feels a little more unequal, right? Let's make it even more so.”

He manhandles you out of your clothing, takes all your belongings and puts them into a cabinet, which he locks.

He towers over you now, and you feel exquisitely naked in front of him. “Nothing like being naked to make you feel helpless, right?” he says, laughing gently. “Come along now, I've got some ironing for you.”

He leads you by the hand through the living room and kitchen into a small laundry room at the back of the house.

“Iron all the shirts and slacks,” he says, “I'll come back and check on you when you're done.”

The room you stand in is Mr. Markley's laundry room. There's a hamper with clothes that need ironing, an ironing board, and a rack for ironed clothes. A narrow doorway leads north, and there's a window facing south.