“All you gotta do if you want me to stop”—Miller rubs my ass, groping me till he finds a spot he seems to like and tapping it until my heart beats in time with the rhythm he’s drumming into me—“is tell me where my money is. Got it?” It takes me much longer to piece it together than I care to admit, but at last, what he’s doing registers. He's giving me a safeword. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”
