Chapter 3

Olga and Brett freed Lynette from the bonds at her wrists. They held her up and, not ungently, lowered her to the hardwood floor. Sitting on one of the chairs I watched them, my mind wandering to the Pieta statue in the Vatican. Brett left the room while Olga massaged Lynette's wrists to restore circulation and sensation in her hands.

"Help her," I told Jane.

They laid her down on the floor, on her belly. Her back and thighs, shredded by the cat, looked like hamburger in stark contrast to her, white and untouched, voluptuous white ass. Jane lightly touched her upper back with the tip of her finger; even that lightest touch elicited a moan of pain from the prostrate girl. Brett returned pushing a small cot on wheels. It resembled a stretcher, of the kind you might find in a public clinic, in one of our inner cities. Its surface was lightly padded and it had, as its only modification, at the head and foot, leather wrist and ankle restraints. Between Brett, Olga and Jane, they lifted the inert and barely conscious girl on to the cot. Brett pulled out a white bottle from the cabinet that was under the cot and poured some of the liquid on Lynette's lacerated back.

The effect was instantaneous. With a bloodcurdling scream, Lynette jumped off the bed, her eyes wide open, and ran around the stage. She caught sight of me, and began to run in my direction. I, my instructions forgotten, opened my arms and also ran towards her. Before I could even get close, Brett threw his arm across her chest stopping her and, on the other side; Olga too, extended her arm forming a symbolic fence across her path. Panting for breath, she stopped in the center of the stage. Her face a tortured mask of pain, she turned her eyes away from me and returned to the cot.

On her own, she laid down on it, and held on to the straps. With loud whimpers she endured while Brett and Olga disinfected her back and thighs with alcohol. Jane fanned her back to help evaporate the alcohol and thus shorten the burning. It appears that this pain was not directly part of the show; instead it was a necessary and unavoidable precaution. After it was over, Jane returned to my side and Olga helped Lynette outside, presumably to the bathroom.

With the two women out of the way, Brett poured himself a drink and brought me one too. The fiery taste of the malt braced me and at the same time restored my sense of time. It was close to midnight. I presumed that Lynette would be strapped, face down to the cot, and left there to sleep, if she could. I was wrong.

Olga led a much restored Lynette back on to the stage and had her stand at the foot of the cot. She bent over the cot extending her hands to the straps; Olga fastened the leather straps to her wrists. It appeared that there would be at least one more act on tonight's drama. Brett fastened her ankles to the bottom legs of the cot, just above the wheels. Whatever was going to happen, I thought, she was not going to enjoy it.