A Case of Self Defense

Their hands each went to the other's pants, getting in the way, and she felt his hands move away and to her breasts, cupping and squeezing them while she zipped his pants down and reached in to grasp his hard cock.

Without warning, his hands went to her ass and squeezed her cheeks, lifting her off his lap while his mouth zeroed in on her breasts. Standing, he sucked her nipple in, grating his teeth over the tightening nubbin before switching to her other breast and repeating the process.

Jennifer groaned her approval from deep in her chest while arching her back and thrusting her nipples further into his greedy mouth. Ben was the best, she thought. She'd been apprehensive about marriage, worried that their sex lives would wind down into the monotonous routine of twice a week missionary fucks. But that had never happened. Rather, Ben was always hungry for her, and he was constantly inventing new ways to drive her to greater heights. Making love with Ben was never slow and tender, though he could be patient and certainly lavished her body with more than enough attention. No, making love with Ben was all about need and desire and hunger, all about trusting each other to satisfy their mutual needs. She suspected some of his time on the computer was spent surfing internet porn, but she didn't care so long as he continued to surprise and amaze her. Ben had long ago broken all of her inhibitions about the ways two people could please each other, and she never wanted to give this up.

Ben lowered her, and Jennifer's feet touched the floor. She stood there as his mouth trailed lower while his hands undid her pants and pulled them down, leaving her standing in only a pair of lacy white thong panties. He started kissing her mound through the panties, simultaneously lifting her left leg. In response, Jennifer put her left foot on the bed over Ben's shoulder and leaned into him, supporting herself with her hands on his broad shoulders.

"Please, baby," she pleaded, wanting him to quit teasing and just ravish her.

In response, she felt the thong pushed aside as a finger pushed into her to the hilt. She gasped at the invasion, then rolled her hips into his face as he took her clit into his mouth, his tongue circling the throbbing nerve ends insistently.

"Oh God," she groaned after a minute of the attack as she felt a second finger join the first and begin sawing in and out, stretching her lips open. "Keep going."

He did, and her first orgasm jolted through her body seconds later, her bucking hips doing nothing to remove his mouth from her soaking pussy.

The orgasm over, her legs sagged with the relief, and she felt his lips leaving her and his hands again picking her up by the ass. He turned her and laid her back on the bed.

"What's next," she grinned, her eyes still half closed in post orgasmic bliss.

Ben only flashed a wolfish smile in response, pushing his pants down his slim hips and exposing his smooth, throbbing erection.

"My turn," he said, pushing her back on the bed before leaning in and again attacking her with his lips, tongue, and fingers. She was still sensitive, but his touch was lighter this time, and he spent time away from her clit, concentrating instead on her soaking, swollen labia. Jennifer watched him for a minute before she saw his body swiveling on the bed, his cock getting nearer her mouth.

When he was above her, she reached up and squeezed his tight ass with one hand while grasping the base of his cock with the other. Her tongue licked around the ridge of his head, teasing him. She felt him lightly flicker her clit with his own tongue, then move away as her hips jutted off the bed. They teased each other like this until Jennifer was sure her sensitivity had vanished, then, without warning, she sucked the head of his cock into her mouth and started pumping him while her other hand sought his clenched rosebud.

In response, Ben's hands each grabbed an ass cheek as he started tracing his tongue the length of her opening, concentrating feathery flicks of her clit before resuming the tortuous journey back down and up. As she sucked him in deeper with each bob of her head, Jennifer felt a finger circling her juices over her rosebud before, satisfied she was ready, pressing into her.

Jennifer's sucking increasing at the invasion. Her hand went still at the base and, with her other hand, she pulled him deeper and deeper into her mouth and throat while pressing against Ben's clenched anus. Somewhere in the distance of her building pleasure, she heard Ben gasp–felt the rush of hot breath against her pussy–when she broke through the knot of his anus and pushed in. In response, his finger pushed further into Jennifer and his attention remained centered on her clit.

Groaning around the cock now rising and falling into her throat, Jennifer felt the rapid expulsions of hot breath increase and knew Ben was getting close. She started moving her finger in and out of his ass, circling as she did so. The throbbing increased in his cock, and she saw his sac tighten. She was nearing her own orgasm and strove to join what she knew was only seconds away. When she felt the second finger push into her ass and his tongue circle her clit with blinding speed, she exploded in a bucking frenzy. Holding him deep in her mouth, she felt him explode into her throat and fill her mouth with his salty sweet release. She tried to swallow quickly, but the sensations racking her body overrode all commands from her brain, and somewhere in the back of her mind she felt his cum flowing around his cock and down her chin and cheeks.

Pulling himself from her mouth, Ben said, "Round one over."

She smiled. God, she really had to cut back on her schedule.

CHAPTER TEN

More than an hour, and another orgasm for Ben and countless for Jennifer later, they lay in bed together. Ben was stroking his right hand over Jennifer's sweaty breasts and stomach, enjoying the look of contentment on her face.

"I was surprised at the end there," he murmured.

"Excuse the pun," Jennifer giggled, her eyes closed.

"I was just worried it was too soon," he continued. "I don't want to hurt you, you know?"

She opened her eyes and rolled to her side, facing him and stroking his cheek with her left hand. "I'm never worried about you hurting me," she said, leaning in and brushing her lips lightly over hers. "And you were very gentle–the way you always are when we do that–so I wasn't worried this time either, okay?" He nodded, leaning forward to kiss her.

"Besides," Jennifer said, pushing his shoulder over toward the bed and rolling with him until she was straddling his hips, "I was really in the mood for that tonight."

He watched her face draw near to his and felt her hips rock gently against him. He lifted his head to kiss her while lazily stroking her back and haunches.

Breaking the kiss, Jennifer placed an arm on each side of his head and looked into his eyes.

"How's the work for Jensen going?" she said, worry on her face.

He hesitated before answering, his mind on the hybrid attack that was, a mere fifty feet away, trying to get into the system. Still, he had to keep her out of this; she couldn't know anything or she may inadvertently tip someone off.

He smiled. "Haven't really started yet," he replied.

"Please get going on it, baby," she said, leaning down and pecking his lips. "This could be really good for you–for us. And I want Mr. Jensen to love you as much as I do."

"And how much is that?" he whispered, feeling himself, against all odds, begin to harden against her grinding pelvis.

"Let me show you," she said, slinking down his body and taking him back into her mouth, getting him ready for their first round three in several years.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The next morning, after breakfast with Jennifer and the girls, Ben went to his office as Jennifer went to her car for another day at the grindstone. Turning on his media library before starting, he smiled when he heard Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Bank start the mournful opening of "Thunder Road." A good sign, he thought, starting the day with one of his all-time favorites.

Sitting at the main terminal, he sipped his coffee while shaking the mouse with is left hand to bring the screen from screensaver mode. He looked at the flashing display on the screen. That goddamned simpleton, Ben thought. He used his name with the addition of 123 as his password. The program probably cracked this an hour after starting.

Ben started typing notes on another computer, the notes that would be the basis of his ultimate report. These people definitely needed a primer on password security in addition to their internal security measures.

Next, Ben started navigating the system, seeing how far he could get. He started with interoffice memoranda and communications, all of which he easily hacked into. He scanned the e-mails back and forth, clicking back and forth.

Feeling mischievous, he decided to send Jennifer an e-mail from Broussard. "Hey Baby, Guess Who?" he typed.

Little more than a minute later, he saw a response. "I told you not to e-mail me. J."

This raised Ben's hackles. Was this bastard harassing her? He decided to take some time and investigate, but first he needed to cover his tracks; he didn't want anyone to suspect he was in yet, including Jennifer. "Sorry. Wrong addressee. A."

Jennifer didn't respond, so Ben went back to Broussard's e-mails and started delving into the history. Eight months back, Ben saw a series of e-mails that raised question marks in his mind. Investigating further, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he searched through the system, he concentrated on finding the clues. Three hours later, he had uncovered the whole trail and was astounded at the clever simplicity of the scheme. He downloaded copies of the strings of code into his external hard drive, along with the few e-mails obliquely referencing the deception.

Still not satisfied he had the whole picture, Ben next returned to the trail of e-mails back and forth that had originally tipped him off. The e-mails ended abruptly, but Ben was well aware that the massive theft was still an ongoing enterprise. Maybe he's running it from a different account, Ben guessed, and scoured the e-mails for other addresses to search through.

An hour later, Ben was logged into Broussard's home e-mail account. The moron had used the same password at home as at work, which left Ben breathless. How could someone so diabolically clever and, to date, untouched be so incredibly careless? Didn't he realize how easy it was to get at this shit?

Through Broussard's home e-mail account, Ben hacked into Broussard's home computer and started searching. He hit the goldmine on the file marked Banking. In that file were thousands of transactions over the past eight months transferring, to date, nearly six million dollars into offshore accounts. In another folder, Ben found the passwords for all of the offshore accounts, which made Ben laugh out loud. Is there no limit to this fucking idiot's ignorance about computer security? Given who he was working with–Ben had by now identified Jeff Richards as one of the two remaining co-conspirators–you'd think someone would have clued him in.

Ben heard a knock on his door.

"Come in," he called, turning the screens off from the prying eyes outside the door.

Theresa breezed in with a small plate holding a sandwich and an apple. "I thought you'd be hungry, Mr. Bradford," she said, placing the plate on the desk in front of him. "You haven't eaten since breakfast."

He looked at the clock. It was four ten, more than nine hours since he'd had a piece of toast with strawberry jam. Bouncing from the caffeine high running through is veins along with the excitement of what he'd uncovered, Ben hadn't realized how late it was or how hungry he'd become.

"Thanks, Theresa," he said, reaching for the sandwich as his stomach growled in anticipation.

"Mrs. Bradford phoned," Theresa continued. "She's running late tonight and probably won't be home until after the girls's bedtime."

With a mouth full of food, Ben only nodded. Finally swallowing, he said, "Okay. I'll be down in a little while and we'll get them fed."

Theresa nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

Finishing the sandwich, Ben took a munch from the apple while turning the computer screens back on. Searching through the file folders for anything that caught his fancy, Ben double clicked on videos. Let's see what kind of shit he's got here.

The folder had individual folders broken down under the first names of various women with a number after each name. Karen 1, Julie 13, Becky 3, Susan 2, and so on. Ben scanned the list and clicked on Becky 3.

A video started playing, the camera stationary on Broussard and a pretty, mid-twenties blonde seated on a couch. They were talking, and Ben turned up the volume.

Becky: I don't want to do this again.

Broussard: You don't really have much choice now, do you?

Becky, a tear running down her face: Please, Mr. Broussard, I–

Broussard: Call me Alain. It's easier–and more enjoyable for both of us–that way.

Becky: But it's not enjoyable, Alain. No matter what I call you. I'm . . . this is . . . my husband–

Broussard, unbuckling his pants while leaning over to kiss the woman: He'll never know as long as you play along.

Ben watched in disgust as Broussard yanked the blonde's short hair, pulling her face to his now exposed cock. Scrolling through the video, he saw enough to know it got no better.

Going back to the list, Ben clicked on other videos. Some of the women were more than willing, but most were being forced. There was little indication what Broussard held over their heads to force them into these degrading situations, but it was something that caused most of them to give up all resistance by the third or fourth video. Only a few, Susan, Julie, and Patricia, were in more than ten videos, and all three of them were more than willing to shag Broussard in any deviant manner he wished. The others all ended after six or seven videos, by which time all inhibitions had been forcibly shed. Broussard must've simply gotten bored once he'd made them run the gamut, Ben surmised.

Ben recognized a few of the women from the various bank parties he'd attended with Jennifer. He knew Susan was the woman he'd met at the last party, the woman in charge of the auditing department. He couldn't remember her last name, and the videos didn't give it up. Still, she'd be a perfect third co-conspirator, and Ben made a note to hack into her systems and see what he could find.

Scrolling back to the videos from more than eight months ago, he looked at the list of names. Though he didn't want to watch any more of these videos, something could be there to give him an idea about the identity of the third co-conspirator Richards and Broussard repeatedly referred to in their e-mails. He knew the third party was a female–they always referred to her in the feminine–but there was no clue about her identity.

About to give up, Ben scrolled over a named file from nearly eleven months before. His eyes got wide and he froze, afraid to click on the file. Jennifer 5. He stared at the screen for what seemed like forever but was, in reality, little more than a minute. Then, focusing on the screen, he held his breath and clicked on the file.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rebecca Lyons pulled into the underground garage of her condo complex. Shutting off the car, she opened the door and checked her hair and make up in the rear view mirror. Brushing her hair back with her fingers, she took a deep breath, grabbed her briefcase, and got out of the car. She looked around the well lit garage, seeing no one, before striding to the elevator. She listened for footsteps and her eyes kept sweeping over the parking facility while she waited for the doors to open.

Once the doors opened, she scurried into the elevator, hit Close Doors, then pressed 12. Her body remained taut waiting for the doors to close, and she was only able to breathe normally again when the doors finally closed and the elevator began its ascent.

Nine years later, she thought for the millionth time, and I'm still nervous. Then a tight smile played over her lips. Good, she thought, because if she'd been this cautious in the first place it would never have happened.

When the doors opened on the top floor, Rebecca walked from the elevator, turned the corner, and collided with someone.

"Sorry," she said, instinctively pulling her briefcase tight to her body.

"Rebecca," the man said, and she almost fainted. After eight years, she still recognized the soft lilt he had every time he spoke her name.

"Ben?" She looked at him. Sure enough, Benjamin Bradford in the flesh. Same trim figure, same short cut hair parted on the side, same deep brown eyes, same faded jeans, worn tennis shoes, and t-shirt apparel sense. If not for a few streaks of gray, which she realized seemed premature for a man in his early thirties, and the look on his face, he hadn't changed a bit in eight years.

"Rebecca," he said, "I need your help."

Her face tightened. "How did you get in here?" she demanded. "This building's secure."

He cleared his throat, the look on his face getting more desperate. "I know someone who lives here. An old client. They got me in."

"What do you want?"

"Help," he repeated. "I need your help."

She studied his face. She'd never seen him look like this. All those years they'd dated, four of the best years of her life followed by one of the worst, she'd never seen him . . . afraid. She realized that that's what he looked now. Afraid. And lost. This made her angry.

"Sure, you need my help," she said, brushing against him as she walked toward her door. "Where were you when I needed your help? Huh? Can you answer me that? And now you want my help?"

She heard him following as she unlocked her door.

"That's not fair, Rebecca," he pleaded. "You know that's not the way it happened. I was there for you. I tried my best, you know I did."

She slumped against the door. He was right, he had gone well beyond the call of duty. And he'd have continued if she hadn't forced his hand and broken it off herself. That night had broken her, and after eight months of Ben trying to patiently get her better she knew she wasn't going to get better. Therapy, love, none of it was going to get that night of terror out of her mind for as long as she lived. So she'd done the hardest thing she'd ever had to do, harder even than enduring that night and the aftermath: She'd forced the only man she'd ever loved to leave her.

"Come in," she whispered, opening the door and going into her condo. She flipped on the lights and walked toward her bedroom. "Have a seat and relax while I get out of this monkey suit."

Five minutes later, Rebecca walked back into the living room, feeling far more comfortable in a sweatshirt and a pair of loose fitting jeans. She walked past Ben, who was sitting on the couch, and into the kitchen. "You want something to eat or drink?" she called. Hearing no answer, she grabbed a can of Diet Pepsi, popped it open, and walked back into the living room.

Ben was hunched on the couch now, his head between his hands.

"Ben," she said, curling into the chair opposite him, "what's wrong?"

"I need your help."

"Why me?"

He coughed, a phlegmy rattle rife with angst. "You'll understand once you know what's going on. What he's doing to them." He looked up from his hands and at her, the anger now flashing from his eyes and the twist of his mouth.

"Who? Who's doing what to whom?"

His face went back to his hands before he answered. "I want to hire you. Only after you've agreed can I tell you." His voice was broken and he sounded on the verge of tears.