The second time her boss raped her, she had a plan. She was going to try to come, to rub her clit up against him, ignore him like he was ignoring her. She had been hired to help with the children, do light cleaning. She’d just folded and stacked dozens of fluffy towels. His wife was working late again. The kids were asleep. Her attic room didn’t have a lock. Her orgasm loomed far away—a balloon, a kite yanked from her fist. Despite her plucky take on the situation, her body refused to yield. You could say he was a metal scoop and she was the hard ice cream straight from the freezer. You could say he was a jar opener and she was a cluster of vacuum-packed pickles. Or you could say it hurt like hell. He sighed, “Sweet girl.” She stabbed him with her nail file then said, “I quit.” He grunted and came first.