What choice does she have?

She pushed the thought away, disgusted with herself. "Fine. One performance." She narrowed her eyes. "And you expect me to believe that you'll destroy the photos afterwards?"

Ralph's smile broadened. "I never said that. But if you do a good enough job...." He shrugged. "Maybe I'll decide that's enough. If not, I'll ask for another favor or two. I don't want to push my luck, now, do I?" His smirk galled her as he pulled out a business card and slid it across the table. "My number. I'll text you the details for Saturday night."

Susan took the card reluctantly. "And the photos?"

"Will remain securely in my possession and be sent to no one else." Ralph stood, gathering the incriminating pictures. "Insurance, you understand."

The temptation to just hit him and take them swelled, but she kept it down. Who knew what kind of precautions he had in place? "Not like I have much of a choice."

Ralph shook his head. "Of course you do. If you want to back out, just say the word, and I'll make sure that copies of these are delivered to the Bugle, the Sun, and the Times, first thing tomorrow morning." He raised an eyebrow at her. "It's your choice. Really."

The way he said it sent a surge of something strange and noxiously heated through her, similar but more intense than the feeling of crawling on her knees in latex after a performance, picking up dollar bills, and she said nothing. After a moment, he grinned, stood, and strolled out.

As he walked away, Susan remained seated, her drink warming before her, untouched. A storm of emotions raged inside her – fear, anger, humiliation. But beneath it all, that same dark whisper of excitement persisted, a sick thrill at the idea of being **** to perform, of having her secret life exposed and exploited.