Chapter 1: The Question

Rachel was my best friend. We'd been neighbors since birth, and though she was absolutely gorgeous, practically my idea of perfection, she had always been like a sister to me. We went to school together, hung out together, talked about everything. We just never got romantic.

Rachel knew about all the girls that I had gone out with, and I knew about her boyfriends. She knew that I'd had sex with a couple, and petted with even more. I knew that she had never let a guy get to second base. I had asked her about it. Was she saving herself for marriage? Did she not like the particular guys she was dating? Was she a lesbian? She would just laugh and tell me I was silly, and that she had her reasons. It was one of the few things we never discussed.

It was the beginning of summer. We had just finished our junior year of high school and we were hanging out together in Rachel's bedroom, listening to music and talking. Her mother was gone for the weekend, but she trusted Rachel home alone.

There was a lull in our conversation, and when I looked over at Rachel she was staring at me contemplatively.

"What?" I asked.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

"Huh?" I exclaimed in surprise.

"A simple question," she said. "Do you love me? We've been friends forever. Do you love me?"

I thought about it for a second and then said, "Of course! I'd do anything for you!"

She pounced on this, saying, "Really? You would really do anything for me?"

"You know I would!" I said.

She paused for a long moment, and then said, "OK, I have a favor to ask."

"Sure, what do you want?" I asked.

"It is a very, very big favor," she said with a warning tone in her voice.

"Okaaaay," I said, wondering where this was leading.

"First, I need to explain something to you that I haven't explained before," she told me. "You know that I don't fool around with my dates. It makes it hard for me to get dates, but that's my rule. And you always wondered why, right? Well, I'll tell you why.

"A lot of my friends think that it is because I don't trust the boys, but that's not it. It's that I don't trust myself." She paused for a moment, and then said, "Oh god, I practiced this in my head, and I still can't get it out."

Rachel sighed and said, "The reason that I don't let the boys touch me is because I am a pervert."

"A pervert?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I am a sexual deviant," she said. "I get excited by certain things that would make other people disgusted. And I know that if I let myself go even a little bit, there would be no turning back."

"You are still confusing me, Raich," I said. "What things get you off, and how would there be no turning back?"

Rachel sighed again, and was quiet for a long time. Finally she reached over into her bedside table and pulled some things out, which she put into my hand. I examined them, and they looked like a smaller version of the ends of battery charging cables; I think they are called alligator clips.

"What are these?" I asked.

"Those are clips," she said in a quiet voice. "I use them on my nipples, and sometimes my clit, when I masturbate in bed."

I looked at them more closely, surprised. I closed one on the skin of my finger and it hurt like hell. I looked up at her, and she seemed on the verge of crying.

"Do you know those dreams that people have, where they are in class and they realize that they are naked?" she asked.

I nodded my head.

"To me, those are wet dreams," she said. Tears began falling from her eyes. "Most girls think of movie or rock stars when they jill-off. I think of Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Except instead of him saving me from the Nazis, he is using his bull-whip on me!"

Rachel was crying all out now, so I reached over and pulled her into my arms. "Raich, it's OK. Everyone has fantasies," I said. "If I told you half my fantasies you'd think I was a degenerate too! It doesn't make you a bad person! I still love you, and I don't think badly of you!"

Rachel continued to sob into my chest for a few more minutes. Finally, she wiped her eyes on my shirt and looked up at me. She reached over and got some tissues, blew her nose and cleaned up her face.

"I knew you'd feel that way," she said with a little smile.

"Then why were you so worried about telling me?" I asked. "Why were you crying?"

"Because I've never told anyone this," she said. "Besides, I'm not done."

"What else do you want to tell me?" I asked.

"Jeff, it's not just that I have these fantasies," she said. "You saw the clips; I can't get off unless I hurt myself. Actually, that's not entirely true. I can't get off unless I am in pain, or I feel completely humiliated."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Remember last year when I was in volleyball and my shirt got caught and my boob popped out?" she asked.

I hadn't been there, but the story certainly spread around the school. I nodded.

"When I realized what had happened I screamed, covered myself up and ran to the bathroom," she explained. "And when I got there I jumped into a stall and masturbated until I came, which took about 3 seconds. I replayed that night in my head while I masturbated for weeks. My only regret was that I ran away so soon. It would have been better had more people seen me.

"Even that faded after a while, and I had to go back to the clips and to other things that I use to give me pain. Jeff, I'm not normal. I need something more. And that is where the favor comes in."

Now I was starting to get a little nervous, but I nodded for her to continue anyway.

"Next year we are going off to college," she said. "In high school, I can keep the boys away. But the feelings are getting stronger. When I get to college, someone is going to figure me out, and in all likelihood, going to take advantage of it. And if I don't do something before then, I won't care. I'll give in to anything that someone asks for, just to get the pleasure. I don't want that to happen."

She paused again for a long time, not looking at me. Finally I asked, "So what can I do for you?"

"Jeff, I need to know what it's like with someone that loves me. Someone that cares for me. Someone that will do what I need, but still think about me. Jeff, from now until we graduate next June, I want you to own me."

I sat back, shocked. "Own you?" I asked.