The room had a Japanese emptiness. There was no desk, just a square of low seats around a beautiful, deep red rug. Against one wall stood a lacquered oriental armoire. A lonely bamboo bush reached almost to the ceiling.

A petite woman stood waiting for her before the square of seats. She wore a kimono-like dress. It confirmed the oriental blood behind her intensely black eyes.

"Please be seated, Brigitte", the woman said in American English. Then she took a seat herself, right next to Brigitte. She asked her if she would like tea.

From a pretty little pot she poured the steaming brew into a wide rimmed cup. She presented it with graceful gestures. It felt like an ancient ritual. The flowery fragrance was very subtle. Brigitte thanked her for the cup. They sat in silence for a minute.

"Brigitte", the woman went on at last. "I shall be quite open with you. The position we offer is not just a hostess's or a waitress's job. We have been looking for girls who would be both beautiful and talented enough to meet our expectations."

Brigitte just held the steaming cup. What she heard was at once vague and intriguing. Talented for what? What talents could she possibly have to please this woman?

"But I am not artistic at all", she said. The crude edge of her voice irritated her in this refined atmosphere.

The woman laughed a tiny, tinny laugh. Oh, but she wasn't looking for an artist, she said. There were so many artists already, she was flooded with artists. No, what she was looking for was art itself.

Brigitte guessed at what the woman might be aiming at. "I have no experience in modelling either", she said.

The tinny laugh sounded again.

"But, darling. You won't be the model. You will be the piece of art itself. Now please drink your tea and I shall explain myself."

The tea seemed to have cooled down enough to risk a sip. It tasted deliciously.

"Cathérine is a good and long-time friend of mine. She told me about your talents, Brigitte. She told me you love to be controlled and find great pleasure in pleasing others. She said you were amazingly skilled in the art of submission."

There may be an audio equivalent for the tightening of vision one experiences when looking through a keyhole. This was what

Brigitte felt while the woman talked. The voice lost its structure and gained a woolly edge. It seemed as if all the sounds around the voice got wrapped up in a humming buzz. It droned and droned on until it lost itself in silence.

At the same time her eyes sank into the black, intense holes in the woman's face. The world around it darkened.

Then it vanished.

She floated, or did she?

All was dark around her. Her body had no weight. She could not move. Not only her arms or legs could not move, it seemed as if her whole body had been poured into a cast of immobility. Every finger, every tiny muscle was locked in space. Her head felt as if it were gripped in a vice. Her legs were stretched almost impossibly wide, it seemed, but were they? She could not see, there was no sound. And her lack of motion was absolute.

She was too drowsy to even ask herself what had happened. She felt hot. The first pangs of claustrophobia seeped into her darkened world.

She screamed, or did she? The sound did not reach her stuffed ears. And it might not even have left her throat. Her mouth was blocked. It just rang inside her skull.

The drowsiness cleared. She wanted to run, had to run, needed to run. She had to get out! White panic flashed through her deep black universe. Oh God, where was she? What had they done to her? What had she let them do?