EXTRACT FOR
Seven Days In Cell Block 7
(Lizbeth Dusseau)

Book One



Chapter One



Olivia Bennington looked up from her legal brief to see that the world around her had dimmed its lights for the night. Aside from her fifth floor office where the light above her desk still hummed, the prosecutor's offices were dark. She vaguely remembered dismissing her secretary Sasha with a wave of her hand. Maybe she looked up and offered the perky brunette a faint smile, but it wouldn't be one either would remember. After the conviction of Sonny Sanchez, she'd have to take Sasha and her team to dinner, something fancy, one of those trendy bistros by the park, perhaps. But not until after the conviction. 

	Unfortunately, Sanchez was not going down without a fight??"not that Olivia expected the prosecution of the mob boss to go easy. He was a thug, but a smart thug for a change, who'd done a creditable job of dotting I's and crossing T's and looking pretty smug about it in court. Beneath Olivia's cool exterior, where few had ever ventured, was a woman smoldering with enough righteous indignation to slap the grin off the man's handsome face. Wouldn't the media just love to record a scene like that! The charismatic Sonny faces off with the beautiful redheaded prosecutor??"perfect fodder for scandals sheets and Internet blogs. With a lack of other hard news to occupy their hours, Sonny Sanchez' trial had been at the center of the news cycle for three weeks, and would likely dominate the headlines for at least the next month. 

	"Oh my!" she sat back and sighed. She pushed away from her desk and meandered through the darkened office to the coffee pot in the lunch room where she poured herself what was left, a thick soup of blackish sludge, the remains of some designer brew Angelica had made much earlier in the day. It would have to do. She wasn't about to put quarters in the big machine in the hallway, and she certainly didn't need a fresh pot.

	Returning to her desk, she set down the mug then headed for the bathroom, returning a few minutes later for what she expected would be another two hours working on her plans for the following day. Her shoulders ached and her eyes hurt, but she had work to get done. Picking up her coffee mug, she took a couple wincing sips, then stared out the window to the street below. 

	Perhaps it was the aching shoulders and the tired eyes that eclipsed the foreign noises and the unfamiliar footsteps, the heavy breathing of the man stalking her from behind. Or maybe the intruder was just that good, able to flawlessly execute his approach until one hand was grabbing her by the throat, the other subduing her around the waist. By that time, her mind was sinking into a vague oblivion that weakened her limbs and made it nearly impossible to fight back. She tried. Oh, how she tried! But she simply couldn't move, and she could barely utter a sound. Not that there would have been anyone to hear her cries of alarm. 

	Though her assailant's grip on her throat slackened, through her bleary eyes she saw a glint of steel and her body screamed in protest, though it was impossible to move. Her head grew heavier by the second and she could barely think.

	Drugged! She had to have been drugged! 

	A new wave of panic clutched at her gut, but any attempts to will her body into action proved futile.

	In the window glass before her she watched the tip of the knife blade slip between the buttons of her pink blouse. With a quick flick of the wrist the first button went flying, pinging off the glass and dropping to the floor. The second button suffered the same fate. A gloved hand reached inside her bra and pulled her breasts free of the confining lace, and for several seconds she suffered the brutal mauling until her flesh was blotched with red. 

	Her mind whirled with thoughts but nothing stuck except the terror. She tried to scream, but not a sound rose from her silenced throat. Surely when his hand began tugging at her skirt she'd find the focus to scream. But there was not a sound but some vague grunting noises that seemed to be coming from someone other than herself. 

	When his roving fingers found her pubic mound and shoved their way inside her pussy, she jerked back reflexively. Or so she thought. Too numbed by the drug to scream or throw him off she succumbed to the mauling as if she were giving her consent. Strangely, she wasn't too numb to feel the sensations of arousal arising from her crotch. 

	No no no! Damn you no! she silently cried as she stared at the absurd scene playing out in the glass before her. Her image was little more than a shifting haze, while her assailant remained a dark and indescript shadow. Perhaps she winced or groaned or gave some sign of distress, but she found nothing in her reflection to suggest that she did. Indeed, she looked oddly serene given the intimate nature of the man's attack. And when the assailant turned his attention from her pussy to her ass, she responded to the insidious violation of her nether hole with the same remote gaze. 

	Suddenly, the man eased off and some of the pressure lifted, but she could feel herself falling into a great and dangerous abyss. 

	"Compliments of the boss," was the last thing to record in her thoughts before her eyes closed and she passed out.