Naturally, I was running late. With my wife's (hopefully) final encounter with her blackmailers scheduled for that night, I'd tried to get to the studio as early as possible. But of course, my boss, bad traffic and a driving rain all conspired to set me back.

The rigors of implementing my big plan during the preceding week didn't help. The first step had been to plant a seed in my wife's mind. I wanted to give her a good threat to use against her tormentors, without creating any suspicions that I knew what was going on.

"Hun? Listen to this," I'd said earlier that week, rustling the newspaper as though reading from it. "That actress...what's her name...the one whose husband is divorcing her because of all the pictures he found with her and all those other men...well, she found a way to explain it! She said she'd been drugged and then they took advantage of her, repeatedly. She said all you have to do is look at her eyes in the pictures to see how dead they look. Of course, now it's her word against their's. And surprise! She doesn't want to prosecute them and drag her name through the mud. She just wants them to leave her alone. I don't know if the husband's going for it, but it sure makes a pretty good excuse."

I figured that would be enough of a clue. When she's not under the pressure of a deadline, Melissa's a pretty quick thinker.

As I pulled into the office parking lot, the last employees were straggling out the door. The building would be pretty empty tonight; thunderstorms and heavier rains were expected later in the evening, making a late-night trek to one's car even more miserable. I slipped inside and took up a post in the men's room just outside the studio's reception area. I planned on stealing inside as soon as Melissa took off for her dinner break in the cafeteria.

As I waited, I reviewed the phone call I'd received just an hour ago, reporting on the success of Part 2 of the Big Plan. You see, once I'd found out for sure that the three weasels were going to back out of their deal with my wife, I called in a big debt with the owner of an area private detective agency. It was no problem for his guys to break into and search Smoothy's, Shy Guy's and Punk's houses, in search of the other set of negatives. They'd found the negatives at Punk's house, none too creatively stashed under his mattress. They'd also found a couple of photos at Smoothy and Shy Guy's houses, which they would also turn over to me. The detectives all knew and respected Melissa; I had no doubt they would keep quiet about what they found, if they even looked at all. Now there was no more hard evidence that Melissa had ever fucked around with someone else. And once she got the pictures and negatives they owed her tonight, no more blackmail material.

That was the good news. The bad news was the information the detective agency gave me about "Terry," the new director that the guys manipulated Melissa into accepting. This was something I couldn't help Melissa with. She'd have to find out on her own, and deal with it on her own.

Waiting in the mens' room, I glanced at my watch. Time was growing short, and Melissa still hadn't taken her break. If she didn't leave soon, I would miss the final fuck-a-thon. Now that I knew for sure that this would be the last night, I didn't feel quite as guilty letting my wife be punished for her indiscretions. And I still wanted to watch over things, to make sure they didn't go too far.

Finally Melissa left to grab something to eat, and I darted inside, immediately going to my outpost in the Producer's room. She'd powered up all the equipment in the control room, and the floor camera was already in place pointing at the mattress and desk. This time everything was set up on a carpeted platform, and there were even a few plastic potted plants nearby. Fortunately, the control room door was propped open, and I knew from last week's session that it would probably stay that way.

No sooner did I get settled than Melissa came back, munching on a sandwich and bustling about the studio. I could see nervousness in her energetic fussing; evidently last week's events left her somewhat shaken.

Finally, at five minutes to the hour, Smoothy, Shy Guy and Punk trooped in, followed by a petite, yet buxom blonde. No more than five-foot-two, this little dish wore a short, tight black skirt that prominently displayed her tiny legs and rounded butt. Her scoop-neck sweater was nicely filled out by substantial cleavage, in turn framed by long, glistening blonde hair. With an upturned nose and high cheekbones, her face was just barely marred by a somewhat crooked smile. Her eyes, I thought, would normally be a sparkling blue, but today were cloudy and glassy. As soon as she giggled at the sight of Melissa's face, I knew she was probably pretty high.

"Liss, I'd like you to meet Terry, my girlfriend," Smoothy said, suavely handling the introductions. "She'll be our guest director for this evening. Terry, this is Melissa, the one I've told you so much about.

"And I've told her everything," Smoothy added, in an aside to Melissa.

"Heeeeyyy! This wasn't part of the deal," Melissa protested, sidling away from the other woman. "I mean, you can't want me to do you in front of your girlfriend!"

"Since we haven't actually started, I'll overlook the fact that you didn't call us Master. And to answer your question, you not only have to do me in front of my girlfriend, you have to do whatever my girlfriend says! Or no pictures. No negatives. No nothing! Got that?"

Faced with that ultimatum, Melissa backed down, nodding her assent. With that, Terry reached into Smoothy's backpack and drew out a white cloth. "Here, put this on," she ordered with a predatory smile, throwing the cloth at Melissa. Head hanging, Melissa went behind a studio curtain to change, while the guys readied the studio for the shoot.