"Chris!" With that exuberant syllable I drop the packages just inside the front door and start to rush toward my adorable boyfriend who isn't supposed to be here until tomorrow, but something in his face freeze-frames me like Roadrunner over its ersatz Latin caption.

He's sprawled on the couch, having made himself at home. "Your roommate let me in." An open bottle of Sam Adams is on the coffee table, and he's never had anything stronger than Nantucket Nectars. Worse, the tv is dark when it should be beaming tonight's Red Sox broadcast. Something is very wrong indeed.

"Don't worry, she's gone for the evening. It's just you and me. Care to dance, babe?"

Uh oh. 'Babe' and not his usual 'Baby J.' Not a good sign.

He cranks the stereo, which blares the opening guitar riff from 'Everything You Did.'

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that I'm in some deep shit. But when in deep anything, keep your mouth shut, so I say not a word and let him spin me in an exaggerated twirl before he pulls me assertively into his arms.

"What's the matter, babe? You feel pretty tense. Maybe you should lie down for a bit."

"I don't think--"

"I don't think you understood me," he says evenly, steering us through the bedroom door. "Maybe you should get on the bed, where you belong."

I sit on the edge of the mattress, spine rigid. Maybe I'm being paranoid. Maybe he just wants to try his hand at role play. Where in Bunker Hill did he get this idea?

"What are you being so prim about?" He sits next to me and reaches for my top blouse button, slowly working it undone as he smacks a kiss on the side of my flushed face. "Usually you're out of your panties and all over me by now. So be a good girl, take everything off?"

His uncharacteristic attitude is throwing me for a loop, and I might as well be doffing clothes in a doctor's waiting room. With trembling hands, I strip quickly and clinically as his indifferent expression drains all hope of making him more horny than snarky.

"That's much more appropriate for a little vixen like you," he drawls. "Now come on, get comfy..." He eases me backward and into the middle of the bed, kissing my neck until I relax and lift my hands to caress his back.

So it is role play. He scared the dickens out of me. Wonder what came over him?

"Remember what you always wanted to try?" He pulls my wrist toward the headboard before I can react, wrapping and knotting it deftly with a clothesline, then fastens the other.

To my disappointment, he gets up and walks to the desk.

"Where are you going?" It's the chirp of a paranoid mynah. My arms yank at the cords to no avail. Damn. He means business.

Only then do I notice my opened laptop, which he swivels toward me. With a thud in my chest I recognize the familiar red bar - and my Lush profile page.

Somehow he had hacked into it! But why? And how? And what would he do, now that he saw my virtual sex wish list, such as it was, flashing before his eyes?

He would pull a stunt like this right after I uploaded that blow job picture with the ropes and vibrators. Oh crap, I hope he hasn't found the one of--

"So this is what you're up to while I'm away? Care to talk to me about it?" He parks himself in the chair and folds his arms expectantly as a drill sergeant.

Please, please don't throw up, no matter how topsy-turvy your guilt ridden tummy feels. You can't get to the bathroom, for one thing.

"Is there anything to say?" I choke. "It's obvious you've drawn your own conclusions. I read and write some stuff--"

"Yeah, such intellectual and artistic stuff, I can tell. How does it feel to be trussed to the bed? That seems to be a recurring topic of yours. And asking total strangers about whether they would be tied up during sex or not."

Shit. He's been into my forum questions, too. I freeze, thinking it might be safer just to let him vent.

"Quite the subject matters that have piqued your interest." He proceeds to rattle off my favorites list with a raucous bark that would be right at home in the Fenway Park bleachers.

I had forgotten how crude those story titles sounded. My face burns even redder than the Lush bar, but at least the urge to barf is fading.

He scrolls, then stops, his eyes widening. "You did what at the beach? How long ago?" He sounds more amused than annoyed. I can only hope he finds the rest of it equally amusing.

"It was before we started going out, Chris. I forgot all about it. Besides, I gave you a hand job in the same place and you didn't mind one bit."

"I'm surprised you didn't write about that too." He swipes at the touchpad. "Oh, you did! How interesting. And the Celtics' game! Now everyone on four continents knows what we do in and out of your bedroom?"

"That was too good not to share," I blurt. "I mean, how often do the Celts win in post season, anyway? Only a few people even read it."

He's not listening. "All guys for friends, too, I see?"

"They're all good writers." Which is true.

"They all write dirty stories, you mean," he glowers.

"I hardly talked to most of them!" Which is also true.

"Operative word 'hardly'?" he snarls.

Horrible word choice, of course. "Barely?" I bite my tongue, but it's too late.

"Even more appropriate. You must have naked role played with someone to come up with a scene about four guys wanking over you during your lunch break? And you just happen to have how many friends? One...two...three...four!"

"There were only three at the time." Take my word for it; logic flies out the window when your wrists are on the verge of rope burn. "It was a one-off fantasy, a total fluke, and it wasn't even my idea."

"Whose idea was it, then?" He chants the one liner. "Let's find the object of that dedication, shall we?" He navigates for some moments without success.

I hold my breath, wishing fervently for an EMP attack. Or a lightning strike. Neither comes to my rescue, and the clicks and taps of his muckraking mission drag on in a foreboding Morse code.

"So let's talk about what else you did while you were at work, and with whom? And here's yet another story on the topic. Must have been some hot and heavy connection. Who was it? Hah, here's the thread..."

I gnaw at my lip and brace for the worst. Vic Feldman's Rhodes solo from 'Black Cow' trills accusingly from the living room.

"Well, well, and the same user's name shows up like a rash in your mailbox. Here he is asking for your picture...and asking for your picture...and again asking for your picture."

"You'll also find he didn't get anywhere with it," I huff with a righteous air.

"Check this smoking gun of a message out." He reads it and I flinch. "Either not much of an IQ or a lousy typist, but it appears we just found your literary inspiration, Ms. Nooner," he sneers.

I forge ahead with a preemptive strike. "Okay, so now you know I'm a perv and a degenerate and that I can stretch eleven words into at least eighteen hundred. I plead guilty on all counts."

"Not so fast, my little NSFW defendant. You sent a lot of sexy pictures to your guy friends. Naked ones, too." His eyes devour frame after frame of bare boobs and beach bronzed backsides. "At a thousand words each, you've compiled an X-rated Harvard Law Library by now."

"You don't understand. That's just a polite gesture here, like a handshake. It doesn't mean anything."

"I don't remember ever getting a 36D handshake in my life." He points randomly. "Did you take the booty train with this jerk?"

He can pick out anyone he likes; I'm clean. My tummy clenches again. Now that what's-his-face is off the map...

"Nope." I reply confidently, staring at the ceiling. Curious as to what constitutes 'jerk' by his standard, I raise my head, squint at the screen, then let it fall again. Quite perceptive of you, Chris. Not only did the icon's owner lust after fuck-me-daddy fifty-pointers with big tits and bigger kink, but at least two of his multiple profiles had been vaporized like cockroaches by admin's virtual Raid.

The finger makes diagonal shifts. "What about him? And him? And him?"

"A perfect gentleman. Him, too. Never talked to that one."

He jumps straight to his next line of attack. "No pictures from the rash in your mailbox, I see, but the poetic words make up for it." The questions become a series of staccato shouts. "Like how he wants to watch you play with yourself? Like how he's dying to rip your clothes off and fuck you?"

I yawn at this old, dead news. "That wasn't about me. His alpha was busy."

"What do you mean, 'alpha'?" The screen scrolls again. "And what's this about a college professor and a masturbation assignment?"

"I didn't do it!" I shout in frustration, kicking at the mattress. "I knew this guy who sent the same set of dirty instructions to all his friends and it pissed me off and I sassed him in schoolgirl character and two stories came out of it." I need to shut up, and fast. Thank heaven I broke the website link. It was where our few but scorching chats were archived.

But that self-delusion dissolves even more rapidly than the Celts' post-season ambitions. "I found your other blog too, cutie. Now let's have a look at those chats, shall we? Or would you rather come clean first? You played nooky hooky with the workplace wanker, didn't you?"

Of all the times for the music to segue to 'You Sure Love To Ball,' but segue it does.

My throat constricts with the urge to cry, and it hurts to talk. "It happened once...while we were still split up...then I stopped...then I couldn't stop..." The tears trickle annoyingly over my cheeks and I know I'm a mess. "He was moody and rude and it made me appreciate you more, Chris. Really, it did..."

He's still poring over the threads of incriminating evidence. "You let him call you what?" he snaps in disbelief. "That's not like you. Or is it?"

I shake my head like a moose in black fly season. "I didn't enjoy that part of it, not in the least." And don't get any ideas, either, Mister.

A chasm of fear equivalent to the Big Dig engulfs my chest. If we ever get that close again, that is.

"You never told me 'you make me so fucking horny'!"

"But you do," I hiccup miserably. "Haven't I shown you often enough?"

"Tell me now? Not to humor me, but because you mean it?"

"How can I say it now, when it's obvious you're mad and it's scaring me to death? You want mad? How about that time Tricia in your office down-bloused you right in front of me and I was sure you'd get the full moons the minute I left the room. Did you?"

"Give me more credit than that, babe. Work is work and besides, you have nicer tits. Is it over with you and the name caller?"

"Yes," I answer in a small, defeated whimper. "If you let me loose I'll even delete every word. And now that you know the depths of my depravity, can you forgive me?"

He lets me wait on tenterhooks for his pending grace, or punishment.

"I'll delete them for you," he offers, clicking through until hundreds of paragraphs, scores of photos and all friends disappear into the ether. "Not this one, though. I want another look at your beach story." His posture speaks of riveted interest as he reads, some parts noticeably more than others.

The chair creaks; he stands up. It floods me with relief to watch him unbuckle and unzip himself before he climbs atop me. My body, still bound to the bed, yields eagerly beneath his mostly clothed one as his lips caress the vulnerable, uptilted breasts.

Yes, that's it. Come home, baby. I love you so much. Please don't ever give up on me, no matter how much of a perv I am or have been. You mean more to me than any wildness I might have found elsewhere.

"What were you thinking about, when you were getting off under that towel?" he murmurs suggestively into my ear. Before I can tell him I wasn't thinking of anything, he covers my mouth with conciliatory kisses.

I stiffen, afraid he might be setting me up again. He pulls back a little and our eyes meet hungrily.

"I forgive you, Baby J." Nothing has ever sounded so beautiful as those healing words. What a sexy voice he has. What were you thinking, girl? "Just don't keep any more secrets from me, okay?"

Exhaling with profound gratitude, I close my eyes and prepare to enjoy him fully, even as I'm doubting I can ever live up to this conditional request.

His warm hands grip the backs of my knees, spreading and raising them to allow himself entry, and his rigid, engorged tip shows me how much he liked the writing as it gives my tender inner lips a virile, slippery nudge. Usually this part is a bit of a struggle, but for some reason he slides right in and groans his approval, which spikes and pegs my libido meter all the way into the red zone.

In response, I give my hips an airborne tilt and tighten my sleeve over him in secret, ravenous waves, longing to suck him off in every way possible.

"Put it in my mouth," I breathe under the late-day rasp of his jawline.

"It's perfect where it is," he pants through fevered kisses.

The headboard clacks with each tug of the clothesline as our bodies grind and thrash into higher altitudes of rapture. "Untie me, Chris...so I can finish, please?" He's in deep and it feels blissful and I'm about to explode...if I could only reach that pulsing pearl...

"Not yet," he whispers, "I've got you this time." His fingers stir at my pleasure points with such finesse it multiplies my yearning to an almost unbearable level.

"You...make me...so fucking horny," I gasp helplessly, straining at the ropes, toes tautly pointed at the lower bed corners.

The touch roughens and I tremble on the edge of release. He's mouthing my lips with abandon and his impossibly thick cock is pounding exquisite paths in its quest for satisfaction.

His transformed voice suddenly growls into my skin, freezing every little hair on the back of my neck into a miniature bed of nails.

"Cum for me, you dirty little whore," it commands with a cruel edge.

My eyes fly open and all the wind is knocked out of me. Where is Chris?!

"Looking for your boyfriend? He's getting the fuck of his life from Dirtydiva18," mocks the stranger, maintaining obscene thrusts to the guttural rhythm of 'Haitian Divorce' and taking crude possession of my tits in a greedy pair of paws. "He opened a profile of his own and the Lush ladies are keeping him quite busy. You know how imaginative they are. He'll realize what a frigid bitch you've been by comparison."

The Lush ladies? I would never see him again! The hurt slashes a jagged trail across my windpipe. I can't speak.

"While I have your undivided attention, the word is out you're getting friends in trouble with some questionable wall art. That's what you get for trying to cover your writer's block with pictures, my little fuck toy."

The wave of nausea returns tenfold. "I didn't--"

"Pleading ignorance? You know that won't wash." He drives in hard, grunts, and grins in triumph. "There's more. All stories you submit in the future will be queued to run below the latest from BigKnockers, SubDeb69, and WildWanker simultaneously." His noxious chuckle devolves into a slurred, "Now do as I tell you and make my cock cum, you filthy, horny slut."

"You sadistic son of a--" I scream, enraged. But I can't hear a word of it. How can that be? I'm shouting...

It's at this point where I always jolt to consciousness, tangled in the sheets and in a cold sweat, eyes darting around the room until they settle on the benignly closed laptop or, if I'm not alone, on the innocent, quilt covered form of my sleeping boyfriend.

One of these days I swear I'll delete this damn profile. Not today, though.