Learning to Trust Part 3: The Offer

***

Who am I?

"Marisa Taylor, age 28, reporter and journalist." I was staring at myself in the mirror again, confused about my identity for the first time in many years. I apparently was having a
genuine
late-twenties crisis.

As a reporter, what do I care about?

"Truth, accuracy. Bringing the real story to the surface. Spreading accurate information—regardless of whether it hurts or helps a reputation." Yes, I was talking to myself.

How do I get accurate information?

"I adhere to a code of ethics in journalism so that I can remain detached from my sources and provide an unbiased report."
Unbiased
. That was the key here. Something was obviously not right about my relationship with Roland.

At this point, I was beginning to
feel
something toward
him. His humbling admission of a fact that could sink his reputation forever
played a major part in this. Prior to that, he was a power-hungry, rich, handsome man that could make great coffee, a man that both
frightened
and intrigued me. The whole
going in the dungeon
thing had certainly terrified me yesterday—still, it had turned out
all right
. And even weirder was the fact that I'd be going there again today. My principles had been so deeply embedded in me, and aside from one isolated incident, they'd been upheld for years.
Aside from the
incident
.

Ah, so the
incident
.

I had been doing stories for a small news station for a while—my first real reporting job, actually—that were just miniscule little happenings around town. Somebody signed a contract with somebody else. A new park had been planned. There would be a parade this upcoming week. You know, just tiny little stories that honestly meant roughly nothing the week after they happened. However, when I found out that a local mechanic was being
investigated regarding
the
accidental
death of an entire family, I simply couldn't resist the opportunity to uncover the real story.

The owner, who actually had been the one to carry out the faulty repair, was blaming a defective part from the manufacturer, some piece of the braking system that had collapsed when it obviously shouldn't have
, sending the car tumbling down the side of a steep hill—and leaving no survivors
. His business was being
accused of negligence, despite the great reputation that it had maintained for over 40 years.
It was the sort of business that everyone went to because they knew
and
trusted the family. Small towns were like that, and it was something I often missed in the larger cities that I called home.

I got to know the guy; Marc was a down-to-earth, friendly dad that supported his family with his hard work. His father had run it before him, passing it on about 10 years ago. Marc had a reputation for being both quick and cheap, while still being thorough. In fact, this was the first time that he'd ever been blamed for any sort of serious mistake. For me, it was the perfect way to prove that I could handle serious material, vowing that I'd just report the truth, and nothing but it.

I met with Marc a few times that week, getting to know his family and his business. His kids were delightful, and so were his customers. He was surrounded by people that loved him
, and everyone hoped that it was just a fluke, a defect in manufacturing that wouldn't tarnish his reputation forever
. When the official news came in that he was no longer
being suspected of negligence
—some independent company had done some sort of autopsy on the car and determined it was just a faulty part—Marc had confided i
n me that he
had
screwed up
, specifically
forgetting
a
crucial
step while repairing their car.
He told me that it kept him up at night, the images of the mangled car haunting his dreams. I don't even think that he i
ntended to tell me all of that—
he just broke down and let it out, unable to hold it inside anymore. It was a tremendous secret, something that he'd probably never fully
recover from
.

So I took off, armed with the crucial detail I needed, the truth—and did nothing with it. That's right, I bailed out. I went back to my boss and lied. Our story
ended up
just
being
a rehash of the official investigation results. My boss was pissed at me for using up so much time, but he got over it.

See, I just couldn't do it. I met him and I met his family. I met the people that cared about him. Most import
antly, I could see that he had become a
hollow shell of a man
after the accident
—but not one that needed to lose his business to understand the consequences of his actions. I couldn't punish his family like that, I just couldn't. I had broken a sacred rule in journalism, but I felt I had
made the right choice.
I vowed to never allow myself to sink into a situation like t
hat ever again. Shortly after
, I got a job in a bigger city and left the small-town c
ulture, hoping that I would be forever free from such drama.

Well
I had been—u
ntil now.

Based on what Roland told me yesterday, I had a sneaking suspicion that things were only going to get worse from here. That's right, as our relationship progressed to more serious things, so would his admissions. I wasn't
sure
that it would be the case, but I was fairly certain. And I was generally quite good with reading people, even if I was a little infatuated with them.

So what the hell was I going to do?
Roland had planned for
this,
there was no doubt
in my mind. He was too precise to
improvise all the time.

He was a powerful man, and so were his companies. Roland
had trusted me
with information that would be absolutely devastating if it leaked out to the public. Although I'd never run a business myself, I'd been a key-player in releasing that sort of
controversial
information and had sat there, watching much smaller empires crumble. As I said, I was on a quest for truth, a quest to release factual knowledge to the people that needed it most. I needed to stay unbiased and focused and—

Oh god, he'd made me feel so incredible.

The way Roland had touched me made me sweat when I thought about it after the fact. He took me, fucking and
possessing me
like no man ever had. Hell, if I ever met a man like him again, I'd suspect that hell had frozen over. My wrists were gently marked up from the restraints, marks that I had touched again and again after returning home las
t night, reliving the experience through that
discolored
flesh. They were trophy scars, scars of success, scars of self-exploration. Despite him restraining me and everything else, it had finally occurred to me that the whole
safe word
thing kind of put me in control, even if Roland was doing all of the work. I hadn't even thought to eject because I'd been so overwhelmed by intrigue that I just couldn't say no.

After I had returned home yesterday, I had pleasured myself again in the shower, angling the
showerhead
against my clit while I pressed my hands against the shower walls, pretending to be restrained. I let the water spray against me, imagining his cock and his forcefulness overtaking me. The steam in the bathroom really felt like
he did
, covering the walls, mirrors, and me with warm moisture, both inside and out. I came so hard as I thought about what he had done to me, how he had forced me to trust him. Letting go paid off in so many ways. He hadn't hurt me, and while he had certainly provided some discomfort, I was finally able to
see the larger picture
. My formerly vanilla-only mind was learning about the hidden
—and normally forbidden—
treasures of the world.

Today, I was far less nervous and confused than I had been the previous day. His admission of guilt made me feel like I actually held some cards, even if he still held the rest of the deck. Roland made me feel alive, and although I definitely wanted more, I at least had a better understanding of everything. He left me
begging
the first time; this time he had just left me
wanting
. I guess a
craving
was yet an even better way to put it.

The thing was, I didn't have an answer to all of my questions. I came here as a reporter, and that wasn't changing. However, that didn't mean thing as far as how I was going to proceed from here. Would I go home with the story of a lifetime and change my life forever, the independent, fi
erce, young female reporter that
toppled a multi-billion-dollar empire? The woman that got answers when no one else could? Or would I bail out and lie like I did in the past to save those people involved? Neither option seemed that appealing to me, frankly.

My morning routine seemed especially bland. Not much could top the excitement I had experienced the previous day, something that made the daily motions even more mundane than they normally were.
I played with my hair, styling it in every possible way I could until I settled with straightening it, a look that made me feel both sexy and powerful. I felt like being a little defiant; I wore a dressy, low-cut dark-green blouse and short skirt combo, you know, the typical
sexy secretary
type outfit—one that probably would have gotten me thrown out of most offices. I admired the tops of my ample breasts, my creamy skin flowing out from the top. As much as I beat myself up about my body, I never complained about my breasts.
And w
hether I was too dressed up or not, I looked and felt hot, impressed by my spur-of-the-moment clothing choices.
I suspected that Roland would be satisfied with my choices, even though it
clearly
wasn't
casual attire
.

When I pulled up to the house, I found Roland outside in a lawn chair, legs spread out, reading a newspaper.
The drive had been pleasant; the sunlight and sparse clouds of the bright-blue sky had helped me stay relaxed
, reminding me of days on the beach growing up
.
He saw me pull up, returning his eyes to his newspaper until I got out of the car. If I hadn't been fixated on him the whole time, I probably would have assumed he was so lost in thought that he didn't hear me pull up
. I was so ready to go, so ready for—