Fifty Minutes

He watched intently. Joyce lying naked on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, pretending we weren't there. You can hear my voice off camera.

"What's your name?"

Joyce kept silent.

"I asked you your name."

"J-Joyce," she said quietly.

"Have you been enjoying yourself this morning, Joyce?'

"Please. Just go. Please."

"I asked you a question. Are you enjoying yourself?"

"No," Joyce whispered. "I'm not."

"Oh, what a shame. But we can't leave just yet, Joyce. My brother really likes you, don't you, Bro."

"Fuck, yeah," Duane could be heard saying in the background.

"So do us a favor, Joyce. Get on your hands and knees for us one last time. Can you do that, Joyce?"

"Please leave. People will be here soon."

"Now, Joyce. Play fair. You promised to obey us. Don't make this difficult. Think of your other clients. Get on your hands and knees."

The camera shoots up Joyce's body, lingering on her pussy and melon-sized breasts. Her long blonde hair in disarray. She stared at the ceiling for what seems an eternity. Finally, reluctantly, Joyce rolled over and assumed the position.

"That's it. Good job. Now ask my brother to please fuck you."

"I can't say that," Joyce said. "Just do it. Get it over with."

"That's no fun, Joyce. My brother wants you to ask for it. Don't you, brother?"

"Abso-fucking-loutely. What's it going to be, honey? Do you want my cock? Or does my brother need to get out his knife again?"

Joyce understood the choice. "Please fuck me," she said, barely above a whisper.

I zoomed the camera in on her breasts hanging down. "Didn't hear you," I said. "What do you want?"

Joyce was louder this time. "Please. Fuck. Me."

Duane dropped to his knees and rammed his cock inside her as hard as he could. Joyce bit her lip, determined to show no reaction, no pleasure. Duane began a steady thrust back and forth.

"Oh my fucking god," he cried.

The camera captured it all. Eyes closed, Joyce faced straight ahead.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Joyce?" I asked.

She refused to answer.

"We're so glad you agreed to meet with us today. You've really helped bring my brother and me closer. Isn't that right, Brother?"

"Fuck, yeah...This...This...woman...is...amazing."

Duane moved faster slamming into Joyce as hard as he could. Joyce began grunting, trying to force Duane to come faster.

"But, word of friendly advice, Joyce? You might want to screen your clients a little better, you know? One never knows who is going to walk through that door."

For the first and only time, Joyce looked directly at me. Her mouth opened, as if to speak, but Duane exploded inside of her at that exact moment. Instead, Joyce fell forward, collapsing on the rug, breathing heavy. In his excitement, Duane gave her a firm slap on the ass and fell backwards, completely drained.

The camera moved back and forth between Joyce and Duane. She looked directly into the camera.

"No more. You have to go."

My laughter can be heard in response. "But, Joyce. We still have 15 minutes in our session. And it's not fair. Duane got three times. I only got two."

"Please. No more."

"Joyce. You have to be fair. I get you one more time. Let's make it special, shall we? There's one spot left on that gorgeous body of yours that I'm dying to explore."

Joyce knew immediately what I meant. Her eyes widened and she struggled to her knees. "No, no!" she said firmly. "You can't do that!"

Duane leaned over and shoved her back down on the floor with both hands. "Shut up, bitch," he demanded. "You do whatever my brother wants."

The unmistakable look of fear on Joyce Cody is the last image as the video ends.

Duane handed the phone back. "Staci can never see that," he said.

"You dumb fuck. Nobody can see that. What happened this morning remains between us. You tell no one."

"I promise. Don't worry about me. I don't want to go to jail."

I knew I could trust Duane. Joyce Cody? Hard to predict. We had threatened her with the photos. We knew her home address. There was no way to identify us short of a DNA match.

And we had kept our word, leaving exactly at 9:50 after allowing Joyce to clean up and dress in time for her next appointment. I remembered the stats I had initially shared with Duane—nearly two thirds of rapes go unreported. The odds were pretty good that Joyce would stay quiet and chalked all this up to professional carelessness.

The clock on the dashboard said 11:07. I pulled five $20 bills out of my shirt pocket, money, my money, that I had retrieved from Joyce's desk as we were leaving.

"C'mon," I said to my brother. "I'm thirsty. And Joyce is buying."