Chapter 1

Your beauty has been bartered, little masochist slut - a night, perhaps more - a trade with your Tutor, something new and juicy for him to make whimper and beg.

Dinner and dancing, that's the plan, that's what you've been told, you dress for it – hair and makeup, clothes and shoes. A cab to the restaurant and you're standing by the door, told to wait there for me – don't go in alone, I wouldn't like it – and people walking by see you there, uncertain. Some of them want to fuck you, some of them want to rob you, some of them don't notice you at all but it's a public place, out in front of a restaurant, what's the worst that can happen?

What indeed?

While you're looking left, I approach from the right and the first you know of me is a sharp point in the small of your back, right over a kidney, my breath – reeking of pot and bourbon – across your face, my voice in your ear.

"Ready for our little date?" I whisper.

You want to run, you want to scream, but you know it's all part of some game, some happy little play scene, so you don't say anything – you come along to my car and the zip ties I put on your ankles and wrists are tight, painfully so, but still you don't cry out, you just let me shove you in the passenger's seat like a good little victim and I start the engine and we're roaring away before it occurs to you that I might not be who you think I am – inside that is – that maybe you're destined for a ditch somewhere, your throat cut ear to ear, a final smile for the world as you leave it. But that idea scares you as well it should so it's all still a game, it's all still consensual, no matter how much you pretend it isn't and you're really the one in control here after all, aren't you?

Aren't you?

It's a cozy little house, deep in the middle of nowhere, nothing but trees for as far as you can see – just a large room with a mattress and sheets on the floor, laptop on a table, a single bookshelf filled to the brim, not enough light to read most of the titles, but the few you do see make your breathing a bit calmer – "The Story of O", "Justine", "The Hell-bound Heart", "The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty". A tiny kitchen, a bath with a large, deep, claw foot bathtub – it's there that I lead you, throw some towels over the rim of the tub – full of water, almost to the top – and bend you over the rim, your belly – knotted in fear – resting on the towels, you catch yourself with your hands on the opposite side. You want to ask questions, your mouth opens, sounds starts to squeak out but then you fall silent, a combination of my whispered 'Hush' and the sharp 'click' of a switchblade opening rob you of your voice.