The moon overhead was a sliver of light that seemed to be hiding from an unknown past.  It was a turtle tucked away safely in its shell, with only a small piece of its face visible; peering out into the world.  The light of the crescent moon was dim and as clouds raced by overhead, the moon would all but disappear; leaving only a faint glow shining behind the parade of ghostly clouds.  

    The world was dark and quiet.  The workday past and as midnight gave way to the early morning hours only the occasional sounds of chirping insects and the distant cry of a mountain wolf could be heard.  An owl hooted, calling out into the dark as if to announce its presence and say, "don't forget about me."

    Collette lay in bed listening to the sounds of the night as the world slowly turned towards its inevitable end.  She had seen things that could make grown men cry in desolation.  Life was ugly and hard and the atrocities that men created in the name of God or Country was enough to turn her stomach.  She lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling and thinking of days past and the happiness she had once known.  To live a normal life again, she thought with an exasperated breath that sounded out of place in the dark, nearly moonless night.

    She exhaled again and shut her eyes.  Sleep would not come; something felt... wrong.  She couldn't put her hands on it, just an uneasy feeling, a weird sense of deja-vu before the memory of the past had even coalesced into her conscious thoughts.  A general feeling of unease swept over her body and she shook involuntarily, a silent protest to the situation she found herself in.  

    She sat up in bed, more alert now than tired.  Her eyes scanned the dark room, looking for anything out of place.  The cry of the owl had disappeared, no longer wanting the attention it had sought just moments before, and the insects had stopped their chirping.  The sounds of the night ceased; Collette was not alone.  She threw the satin sheets aside and slowly, her body tense, she opened her nightstand drawer.  She felt in the dark for the pistol she kept there and nearly cursed aloud when she found that it was missing.  

    She was naked and her body was tense.  She could feel her pulse racing in her throat, her body preparing for a fight.  A thin patina of sweat broke out as her mind raced and her instincts pushed forward.  She climbed out of bed and slowly inched her way soundlessly across the bedroom, the beige carpet the covered the floor silenced her footfalls.  She stood behind the bedroom door and listened, straining to hear anything from the rooms beyond.

    Only silence greeted her.

    Still, something was wrong.  Something was out of place; an intangible sense that she was not alone; that somebody or something was watching her, stalking her.  The sounds of the insects did not return.  Their silence speaking volumes.  Only something out of place would silence their nocturnal cry.  Their silence was an alarm.

    Where is my gun? she asked herself.  She knew where it should be and its disappearance disturbed her.  She never misplaced her weapons; she couldn't in her line of work.  Its absence screamed to her that it had been taken.  But taken by whom? her mind taunted her.  Taken by whom?

    She exhaled slowly and shivered involuntarily as the chill of the room washed over her naked form.  She felt hunted and the hair on her neck stood at rapt attention like an errant soldier standing for chastisement.  The silence spooked her.  She knew the superhuman effort it took to maintain absolute silence and that bothered her.  Whoever it was ( and it was a who, wasn't it?) maintained their hidden and quiet form well.  

    She listened at the door and with a sweaty palm she reached out and slowly spun the knob.  She opened the door and peered into the hallway.  Nothing was there; no stranger with her gun demanding her surrender.  The hallway was empty and stealthily she stepped into the hallway.  The carpet muffled her footfalls and she was thankful for that.  She would need to play the silence game as well as her hunter.

    Damn, she thought, feeling more naked than she was, I wish I had a weapon.  She was well versed in unarmed combat, but the years had taught her that an armed assailant always has the advantage over an unarmed one.  It was simply a matter of range.  She was at a major disadvantage and she did not like feeling inferior in anything she did; it went against everything that she was.

    She took another tentative step into the hallway when an idea formed in her mind.  Cautiously she crept down the hall and at the archway that would lead into the living room she paused and swung open the white plastic cover to her alarm system.  The panel was lit as normal, indicting that her home had not been breached, but she knew better.  She was not alone in her home.  Whoever had broken in knew what they were doing and had easily bypassed the alarm system.  She reached up, surprised at how bright the number pad lit her arm in the dark hallway.  She felt like a target with the light illuminating her hand and quickly tapped the blue button with a police shield emblazoned in white paint.  

    She shut the panel, sealing off the light that the alarm panel gave off.  She stepped away from the archway and pressed her body flat against the hallway wall.  The wall was cold on her naked skin.  She shivered again and rubbed her upper arms with her hands.  She tilted her head to listen, wondering where her unseen assailant was hiding.  

    Off in the distance a siren rang out.

    Above her a scraping noise.  Her head popped upwards until she was staring at the ceiling.  Could it be that her unseen assailant was hiding in the attic?  She listened and again a faint sound reached her ears.  The sound that reached her was faint, almost inaudible, but it was there.  It sounded like a chair sliding across the floor, a grating that ended abruptly.

    The entry into the attic was located in the garage and the door leading into it was locked; she habitually made sure the house was secure before she went to bed.  Paranoia, she knew, could keep you alive.  Her mind was racing, who was in her home?  Why were they there?  The answers were locked in the mind of the assailant hiding upstairs, and she would have those answers.

    The siren grew louder.

    She listened and could barely discern the out of place sounds coming from above.  She smiled coldly as she realized what her assailant did not; that she knew where he was hiding and she knew he was trapped with only one exit from his self-imposed prison.  She turned and stealthily returned to her bedroom.  She grabbed a kimono and wrapped it about her shoulders, the red silk garment draped sensuously over her soft form and the feeling was exquisite.

    The siren ceased its incessant wail and through the windows flashes of red and blue lights lit the walls.  She waited until a loud rapping rang through her home and with a quick breath she made her way to the front door.  She unlocked the and opened the door.  The night air with thick and the air was heavy with the smell of jasmine.  The insects had returned to their vigil, singing their contentment with the world.   

    Collette rubbed her eyes and said sleepily, "can I help you, officer?"  

    She sounded half-asleep and the cops eyes widen in disbelief. "There was a panic alarm sent from this address," the cop announced.  His voice sounded relaxed, the disheveled hair and the sleepy look of the women making him feel that the call was unwarranted.  

    Still sounding sleepy, "I'm sorry, officer," Collette said, stepping towards him to stand barefoot on the cool cement step.  "I guess there is a problem with the alarm system."

    "If it's okay with you, I would like to just walk around your property. Just to be on the safe side."

    Rubbing her eyes Collette said, "by all means."

    Collette looked out the window, following the cop with her eyes.  His uniform was sharply ironed and his dark hair was cut short.  Collette watched him as he walked around the house, shining a large black flashlight ahead of him.  He looked around Collette's property, checking behind bushes and in the dark corners of her yard.  He was smiling as he returned to Collette's porch, satisfied that it was simply a false alarm.  

    "Ma'am," he reported, as Collette stepped onto the porch to greet him again, "everything appears okay here."

    "Thank you, officer," Collette smiled, her eyes wide, "I'm sorry that you had to come out here this morning."

    He smiled at her, "I'm happy it was nothing." He nodded at her.  "Have a great night, ma'am."

    "You too, officer," Collette said.  "Thanks again."

    He turned from her and Collette returned to her house.  She shut the door and smiling hefted the cops revolver in her hand.  She verified that the gun was loaded.  She locked the door and walked quietly into the garage to wait for her assailant to emerge from his hiding spot in the attic.

    Collette waited patiently with the gun within easy reach.  Her assailant was overhead and waiting to emerge.  He was good, Collette reasoned, his silence an indication to his skill.  Still, sitting quietly herself, she waited.  Her body was motionless, her breathing coming in faint, shallow breaths.  She watched and waited, an animal hunting prey, silently engrossed in the activities of the hunt.

    Above her a noise.

    Her eyes were wide and in the dark garage she watched as the small hatch that led into the attic opened.  It swung down with a faint squeak that sounded loud in the quiet room.  Her assailant paused, listening for an indication that his progress had been heard.   

    Collette watched as a tall man wearing black slacks and a dark shirt descended the collapsing stairwell.  He wore leather gloves and in his right hand a pistol was held, leading him from the attic and into the garage.  He was quiet and sure-stepped as he spun towards the closed door that led into the kitchen and the house beyond.  He took a step, paused and listened.  He was being cautious; another indication of his skill.  Never rush into anything.

    He took a second step and once again paused to listen for any noises beyond. 

    Collette pointed the gun at the man's head.  "If you move I will kill you," she said pulling back the hammer of the cop's stolen revolver.

    The man froze.  The gun in his hand did not drop, his hand did not leave the trigger.  Collette could see that his body was tense, a snake coiled to strike.  Seeing his body poised for an attack Collette said, her voice cool and even, "drop the gun."

    Her tone convinced him.  It was a measured voice that spoke, the sound of someone who would not hesitate to kill him.  "I'll move slowly," he said.

    Collette could hear his supplication.  She knew that he was not going to try anything.  Still, being cautious, she kept the gun pointed on his head until he gingerly set the gun on the ground and kicked it away.  "Very good," Collette said.  "Now, walk slowly into the house."

     The man stepped through the door and Collette followed him.  "Turn left," she said, "into the living room."

    The man obeyed.  Collette followed him, and with the gun pointed at him she commanded him to face her.  The man spun around.  His had a round face with large eyes that looked slightly out of place on his small head, almost like a caricature.  His shoulders were broad and strong.  He had dark black hair and a well trimmed moustache that highlighted his mouth.  

    Collette kept the gun pointed at his chest as she said, "strip."

    She could see his eyes rise, "what?"

    "You heard me."  Her voice was cold.  Her face wore a scowl, the displeasure of a stranger coming into her home and stealing her gun.  He was there to kill her, she knew that, and the fact made her angry.  She wanted answers.  What was he sent here and more importantly, who sent him?   She would have her answers.  And, with luck, she will enjoy getting those answers from him.   

    The man paused. His eyes darted around the dark room, looking for an avenue of escape.  Her command to strip had surprised him, and he was not one to startle easily.  He knew what she was thinking; that somebody, when naked, was less likely to run through a suburban neighborhood.  She figured, he reasoned, that it was just a plan to guarantee he would remain inside her home.  

    Collette looked at him, watching, waiting for him to obey her.  "You heard me," she repeated through thin lips.

    Looking at her with cold eyes he slowly pulled his shirt over his head.  He tossed it aside casually, as if he was undressing from a long day at work and not at the command of a woman with a gun trained to his head.  He stepped out of his shoes and pushed them aside with his foot.  He unfastened his pants and kicked them off of his feet.  He reached into the waistband of his white boxer shorts, dropped them to the floor, and then stepped to the side.  He stood before Collette wearing only a pair of black socks.  

     His body was fit and his chest was covered in a thick mass of hair.  His arms were huge, a mass of muscle, and Collette realized that he could easily overpower her.  Holding the gun with practiced ease, she knew she would not allow that to happen.  "Very good," Collette said.  Her voice was harsh and even and in the dark the man could hear the concealed threat in her tone.  "Now, pick up the shirt and tear it into strips." 

    The man looked at Collette, realization crossing through his mind.  He knew she was serious, the gun and her tone relaying her thoughts.  He bent down and picked up his discarded shirt.  He began to rip the dark shirt into strips.  He ripped the shirt until nothing remained but long strips.  

    Collette watched him obey.  The light streaming in through the large picture window provided ample light to keep an eye on him.  She could read the tension in his naked body; his muscles flexing as he ripped the shirt into strips.  His body was taut and Collette could read his intentions in his muscles; given the chance he would attack.  

    "Now," Collette said, "tie your wrists together with the strips."

    He was smart enough not to ask how.  He tied one strip tautly around his left wrist.  A second strip was knotted around his right.  He picked up a third strip and laced it under the loop that ensnared his left hand and then with his fingers he fed it under the second loop.  He flexed his fingers and was able to tie the third strip to itself, binding his hands together.  He was unable to tighten it considerably, but his efforts did hinder his activities enough for Collette to risk stepping closer to him.

    She didn't say a word.  He could read her as easily as she could read him and he knew she would not hesitate to kill him.  He offered his wrists up to her and Collette accepted his compliance.  She grabbed a tattered strip and bound his wrists together with it more tautly than he had been able to do himself.  She kept the pistol pointed at him as she commanded him to sit on the floor facing her.  Her voice was tense, sounding like a coiled snake threatening to strike, fevered and hostile.

    He obeyed, the gun Collette wielded providing all the motivation he needed. 

    "Good," Collette said.  She dropped to one knee and set the gun next to her side.  She grabbed another fragment of the intruder's shirt and kept her eyes locked on his.  She tied his ankles together tight enough to force the naked man to wince and throw his head back in pain.  Satisfied with his ankles, Collette used another two strips of the man's shirt to bind his knees together.  Once again he winced in pain.  Collette grabbed two more pieces of the torn shirt and lacing it through the town fragments of the shirt between his hands she tugged and bound his hands to his ankles.  

    "Now," Collette said as she picked up the gun and climbed to her feet, "who sent you?"

    The man said nothing.  He just sat there with a blank look on his face.  

     Collette raised her eyebrows, "good.  I would have hated for this to be easy.  I am glad you are going to let me work the answers I want out of you.  Let's start a little easier, what is your name?"

    Silence greeted her.

    Collette back-handed him, striking his face with her hard knuckles.  His face jolted to the left and a thin trickle of blood eased from the corner of his mouth.  "What is your name?"

    Silence.

     She smacked his face again with the back of her hand.  He was unable to protect himself with his hands bound tightly to his feet.  His cheek turned red at the assault on his face and his mouth coiled into a snarl.  "What is your name?"

    He said nothing.

    "I love this part," Collette said, sounding happy.  She slapped his face again and again his head was thrown violently under the force of the blow.  His mouth was split and the thin line of blood grew into three thin rivulets.  "Are you sure you don't want to tell my your name?"

    He opened his mouth and said, "Mark."  His voice was a deep baritone and there was a slight Spanish accent in his tone.

    "That wasn't too bad, now was it, Mark?"  

    He said nothing.  

    Collette smiled at him, "I will enjoy this game, Mark," she said, emphasizing the hard-won name.  I have all the time in the world."  She glowered above him, smiling a smile that screamed "victory."  A soft chuckle escaped her lips, "now," she began, "who sent you.  Before you decided not to answer, know this.  I will have the answers to my questions; it is up to you how difficult you make this.  Do you believe me?  You do believe me don't you?"  She was toying with him, taunting him with her words.

    Mark said nothing.  He looked at her, his eyes barely concealing the unease that was running through his mind.  He was uncertain exactly what she was capable of.  His face hurt and he could taste the bitter coppery flavor of blood in his mouth.. His could feel the thin trail of his blood on his chin and the tone of her voice chilled him.  His employer knew what she could do, what her abilities were.  

    He was frightened.

    "No," Collette said, "won't tell me."  Her face lit up with a smile, "goody," and she clapped her hands together.  "Don't go away," she taunted his bound form as she left the living room.  

    Collette darted into the kitchen, grabbed a wooden spoon from a black carousel that housed knives and tongs and other kitchen utensils.  She returned to the living room to find Mark lying on his side, straining against the bonds that held him.  Collette chuckled at his efforts and said, "now, where would my fun be if you escaped."  She had expected him to try and escape. She knew she would have been disappointed if he hadn't tried.  

    Sadly, for him, he didn't succeed.

    "Now," Collette said brandishing the spoon like a crop, "who sent you?"

    Stoically he said nothing.

    Collette slapped his thigh with the spoon.  The smack was loud in the quiet room and Mark jerked violently against his bonds.  Collette sat next to him, holding the spoon loosely and waited for his thrashing to end.  "Now," Collette said, a smile on her face, "who sent you?"

    Still Mark remained silent.

    She slapped his thigh with the spoon again.  He sucked in a wet breath of air and jerked impotently against his bonds.  He strained against the cloth that held him immobile.  Collette could see the muscles in his arms and chest flex as he strained, struggling to break free.  Collette raised the spoon and snapped it against his knee.  The sound that echoed in the room was like a gunshot, sharp and resounding.  

    Mark bucked and fell to his side.  His hands stretched to his knee and he rubbed it with limber fingers, "dammit!" he said.

    "Who sent you?" It was a sing-song voice. She was toying with him, using a light tone to hide her anger.  She was fuming that he was in her home and even more angry that he was not answering her questions.  She knew she would have the answers, though life had taught her that sometimes not knowing is better.  Sometimes.  "It will be much easier on you, Mark, if you just tell me.  Surely you know you will tell me in time."

    Mark looked up from his prone position, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly parted in pain.  His fingers traced over his knee, trying to ease the pain caused by Collette's assaults on his naked body.  He could read how serious she was and he really couldn't blame her.  He would be angry too if somebody broke into his home and threatened him. 

    But what could he do? He knew that she was correct in her assessment; she could torture the information out of him.  There was no man or woman alive that could not be broken given enough time.  He knew her background and knew that she could kill him with both ease and impunity.  Wouldn't it be easier to just tell her what she wanted to know and forgo the pain that would come if he did not?  

    If he told her, though, he thought, his head dropping, who would save his life?  As easily as she could kill him, his employer would kill him.  That was the difference and that was why he would endure the torture that she foisted upon him.  She could kill him but his employer would.  Could versus would, there was no competition.  And because of that he would suffer.

    Collette looked at him, wondering what he was thinking. She could read his face, could tell that his mind was spinning in contemplation.  He was pondering his choices, she reasoned, trying to decide which was better; to confess to her or to remain silent.  She frowned when he raised his head to look into her eyes and softly shook his head.  I'm sorry, his eyes read, but I cannot speak of what you ask.  The results would be worse than the torture.  

    Collette read it and she understood.

    Collette sighed in resignation.  "Very well, have it your way."  She picked up the wooden spoon and started slapping him with it.  Each time the spoon hit, it echoed loudly, sounding deafening in the quiet night.  Outside the insects were singing and the wind softly tussled the leaves of the trees that lined the street.  It was a picture-perfect morning and only the sharp retort of the spoon striking flesh and the pained exhalations of the bound man announced anything differently.  

    Collette slapped the bound man and he struggled under the raining blows.  He strained against the strips of fabric that bound him as tightly as the strongest rope.  His strength was fading as the blows continued to fall.  Each time the spoon struck his naked flesh he jerked and moaned and as the blows continued he found himself growing weaker.  

    Finally, Mark lay still, and to him the room went dark.

    Collette struck him again and he remained motionless.  He was gone; locked away in a dark and quiet room deep inside the prison of his mind where the pain could not reach him and the voices of agony that ravished his thoughts could not be heard. He was shut away inside of himself, oblivious to his surroundings, safely tucked into a fetal ball of unconscious bliss.  

    Collette stood up and padded into the kitchen, the red silk of her kimono looking angry in the subdued light of the darkened room.  Outside street lights cast their halos of light to the ground, illuminating the night and peeking into Collette's home.  The blinds were parted slightly and Collette could see the quiet beyond and the thought of her activities going unseen calmed her racing heart somewhat. It was better, she knew, if she didn't have to answer any more questions from her nosy neighbors.   

    There were far to many to answer anyway.

    Collette grabbed a knife from the butcher block and returned to the living room.  Mark was still locked within his unconsciousness.  Collette cut the cloth binding his body with the knife.  She pulled him down the hall and opened a door into what could only be described as a dungeon.  She pulled Mark's limp form into the room and shut the door behind her.

    The room was huge.  On the wall with the door that led into the hallway a large wooden cross was bolted to the wall.  Large D-rings were positioned at the tips of the cross.  Collette pulled Mark to the cross.  On the wall opposite the door ships and crops and paddles and straps and coils of rope was hanging neatly.  Collette walked over and grabbed a pair of thick leather cuffs and two heavy locks.  

    She returned to Marks side and affixed the cuffs to his wrists.  She lifted his body and as he leaned limply against her, she locked his wrists to his D-rings of the cross as well as locking the cuffs onto his wrists.  He was now bound more securely than the ripped tatters of clothing could have possibly held him and Collette breathed a sigh or relief.  She was now confident that no matter what transpired, he would not get free.  

    Collette crossed the large room and sat on a wooden and black leather throne that dominated the wall immediately to the left of the cross that Mark was shackled to. She sat heavily and shook her head.  She understood that Mark would be stoic, that he would not easily reveal that which she needed to know.  Who sent him?  There were countless answers to that simple question and she needed to narrow it down.  

     There were rulers of countries and leaders of the criminal underworld, and any of them would want her dead.  She had destroyed more men in the years since she had taken on the roll of... of what?  Spy? Would that be an accurate description of the crux of her work?  No, probably not.  Secret Agent perhaps? She did more than spy on individuals and countries, she had been involved in coups and espionage, murder and sabotage.  She was much more than a spy.  

    And somebody wanted her dead.

    And she would know who, no matter how quiet Mark wanted to be.  She would have the answers to his questions.  She had the time and the means to extract the answers from him in any way that she deemed necessary.  It was not a matter of if he would break, it was simply what would break him.  Every man had a weakness and she would find his.  

    She sat on the throne and watched Mark.  He hung limply in his bonds, the shackles digging into his wrists with his arms spread wide.  She pondered again who sent him and why.  Was it revenge? Or perhaps a preemptive strike for actions that she may perform.  Could it be that her execution was hired in an effort to prevent her from doing something in the weeks and months to follow?  

    Anything was possible.

    Mark stirred.

    Collette stood up and crossed the room.  She stood proudly in front of him and gently slapped his cheek, "wake up, Mark.  Come on.  Wake up."

    Marks head shifted under her soft blows.  He moaned softly and finally his head bolted erect, "what? Where?" He looked around the room and the color in his cheeks drained away.  The sight of the dungeon he was now trapped in, bound upright to the wall with thick leather cuffs, scared him.  It was not that he was safer now than before, it was how prepared she was and that fact terrified him.  He knew what she was capable of, and now, standing helpless in her dungeon, he knew she would not be easy on him.

    He prayed for strength that would not come.

    Collette just watched him.  She watched him shift in his bonds, looking for any possibility of escape.  She watched him as his eyes surveyed the dungeon he now found himself in.  His eyes drifted from the door to the throne to the wall of rope and paddles and dildos and clamps.  His eyes peered at a huge table that dominated the center of the room.  The table, he realized, was a rack. At one end was a small crank the would pull the arms of a victim tied to it towards the wheel and the other was attached to another wheel that when spun would spread a bound persons limbs.

    His eyes continued to peruse the room. He stared at the hooks hanging from the ceiling and another crank against the wall next to the door that would raise or lower a bar from the ceiling and would allow for the suspension of a bound individual.  He took it all in and as he did, his face drained of color.

    "Do you like my dungeon, Mark?" Collette taunted him.

    As before, in the living room, he remained silent.

    Standing in front of him, she looked into his eyes.  "It suits me well, Mark.  This is how I earn a living, and I make a very good living.  I am good at using everything in here.  I don't want to have to prove that to you.  Now, who sent you?"

    Her words scared him.  The way she had emphasized good implied that, if she was telling the truth...

    (and you have no reason to doubt her, do you Mark, old boy?)

    ...then she would be good at hurting him.  If others paid her for pain and they paid her well by the look of her dungeon, then she could probably succeed in forcing the truth from him.  He knew then, by the impotence of his hands and the look in her eyes and the smile on her face, that he would reveal what he needed to keep hidden.  

    He would reveal his employer.

    Collette looked at the terror in his eyes. His eyes kept darting around the room. It was as if he was trying to focus on everything and seeing nothing at the same time.  He swallowed, panted briefly, and swallowed again.  His hands flexed, opening and closing rapidly like a bird flapping its wings trying to fly and finding it held immobile to the ground.   That impotence was what flashed across Mark's face and it made Collette wet.

    He opened his mouth to speak but no sound emerged.

    "Are you trying to say something, Mark?" Collette asked, her eyebrows arching inquisitively.

    Mark found his voice stolen from him.  His mouth was an arid field of cotton and he smacked his lips, trying to force the moisture that seemed as distant as the safety of his home so many miles away.  His mouth was open and he knew he looked silly, the words she had spoken burning in his mind.  Please, his mind screamed at him, tell her! Tell her before it's too late!

    "Last chance."

    So simple her words yet they spoke volumes.  His jaw twitched and his mouth opened and closed in a caricature of speech.  He tried to speak and only a faint whimper escaped his mouth.  His words were nowhere to be found, his voice an empty plea of silence. The situation he found himself in and the power that the lovely women wearing the blood-red kimono exuded caused his mind to cartwheel over itself in impotent rage.  He pulled against the bonds as his fury mounted.  He was no longer angry with the woman who stood before him, he was angry with himself.  Angry that he knew that his voice was absent and that when it returned he would reveal his employer, and angry with how easy it was for her to acquire that knowledge.

    "Have it your way."  She smiled sweetly and turned away from him.

    He watched her as she crossed the room and surveyed the wall of implements that was opposite his bound form.  She reached forward and pulled a small leather device with thin chains attached to it.  She spun around and returned to his bound form.  She looked into his dark eyes and repeated her question, "who sent you?"

    His eyes darted from her hand to her dark brown eyes and back.  He wondered what she was holding and knew he did not want to find out.  Once again he opened his mouth to speak and this time his voice was his own, "I'll talk."  His voice was weak and soft and he thought he sounded like a frightened child.

    Collette smiled.

    Outside a siren could be heard in the distance, a warbling wail that splinted the night.  It was faint but noticeable and it sounded as if it was growing louder.  Ignoring the siren Collette asked again, "who sent you, Mark?"

    "Kilandra Mentere hired me."

    The siren grew louder.    

    "Why?"

    Now that he had decided to speak he did not hesitate to answer, "I don't know," he replied truthfully.  "In my line of work you learn not to ask any questions.  I received a call from Christine Balester, an assistant of hers.  She requested I meet with Kilandra and I accepted.  You take the work when you can get it as the jobs are few and far between.  The meeting was set and at the appointed time I met Kilandra.

    "We met in a seedy strip club located at the outskirts of Chicago.  She came herself, which surprised me, and offered me the job.  She paid handsomely and to be honest I thought it would be an easy job, based on how she described it anyway.  She said she wanted me to break into a suburban house and kill the single woman who lived there.  Again, I didn't ask any questions, I just accepted the task and was pleased to receive half the pay up front." His words flew rapidly from his mouth, as if the words was burning him and he longed to get rid of them.

    Outside, the siren stopped.  

    Mark continued his confession, "she gave me a number to call when the job was done so that we could finalize my payment.  I was to call it when you were dead."

    "What's the number?"

    The doorbell rang, its sound echoing in the quiet house.

    "Shit," Collette muttered.  Her face scowled in displeasure.  Thinking quickly she crossed the room and grabbed a cock gag. She returned to Mark's side and said, her voice hinting at her ire, "open up.  Don't make this difficult."

    Mark heard the implied threat and opened his mouth to accept the plastic intruder.  He winced behind the gag as Collette buckled the leather straps tightly behind his head.  

    "Don't go away," Collette said.  The scowl on her face changed back to a sly grin at her own joke.  She left the room and turned left.  She walked down the hall and emerged into the living room.  She crossed over to the door and peered out the peephole.  In the fish-eye view she saw the same policeman that had answered her panic alarm earlier that evening.  She opened the door and feigned surprise, "officer?"

    "Sorry to disturb you again, ma'am," he said. His voice was apologetic, "but I seem to have misplaced my gun.  Would you mind if I surveyed your yard?"  He seemed deeply concerned with his lost weapon and Collette immediately felt sorry for him.  She wondered what the consequences would be for him if his gun did not turn up and knew that she would return his gun to him.  "Not at all, officer," she replied, shaking her head.  "I'll turn on what lights I can.  I hope they help."

    With a nod of his head he said, "thank you."

    Collette shut the door and walked through the dark living room to the kitchen.  She flipped the switch that snapped on the light that illuminated a small portion of her yard.  She looked out the window above the silver sink and watched as the young policeman with the dark hair and the piercing eyes as he surveyed the yard with a long, black flashlight.  The sphere of light provided by the flashlight barely lit the yard enough to do any good.

    He surveyed the yard and reluctantly admitted to himself that his gun would not be found so easily.  He returned to the front door and once again Collette replied to his knocking query, "any luck?" she queried.

    He shook his head, "no, ma'am."  His voice was a tautly coiled squeak of regret, his mind cart-wheeling at the thought of his missing gun.  Where could it be? His mind was replaying the evening and could not find any reason for his weapon to be missing and it disturbed him.  It was unlike him to lose anything, especially something as important as his gun.  "Would you mind," he paused as if reluctant to pose the question running through his head, "if I drop by in the morning and look while the sun is up?"

    "Of course not," Collette said. Her smiled reassured him.  

    Collette watched him as he returned to his squad car.  His head was hung low and Collette could tell he was lost in thought, trying to replay his evening to discover in his mind the possible location to his missing gun.  She waited until his car was just a fading blip or red light before she returned to her dungeon.  She ignored Mark.  She grabbed the gun that she had so easily stolen and left the dungeon.  

    She walked through the dark house and slipped into the garage.  She grabbed a clean rag and wiped her fingerprints from the weapon, hiding any evidence that she had ever had possession of it.  Sometimes, it helped to be paranoid.   She walked into her back yard and casually dropped the gun into the thick grass.  She smiled and returned to her house.  She locked the door and once again returned to the dungeon.  "Now," she asked, "where were we?"

    Mark's voice was still active, "the number," he said.  "You asked me for Kilandra's phone number."

    "Yes," Collette said as if she were really being reminded.  Truth was, she knew exactly where the conversation had ended.  Her mind was sharp, details never slipping past her.  It helped in her line of work to be able to recall facts on a moment's notice.  "What is the number?"

    Before he answered she knew what he was going to say.  He did not disappoint, "I do not have the number memorized," he said being truthful.  Now that he had begun admitting what he knew, he was not about to stop.  "I have it written down on a small piece of paper in my suitcase back at my hotel room.  My suitcase is in the closet next to the bathroom.  I am in room 317 at the Holiday Inn just off of the interstate about three miles from here."  He was speaking quickly, trying to rid himself of the hateful words that doomed him to torture or death.

    "Very good," Collette said. "Where is the key?"

    "In my wallet. It is one of those key cards."

    Collette left the room and walked to the living room.  She dug through his discarded pants and found his wallet.  Returning to her dungeon she opened the dark brown leather tri-fold and pulled the keycard from the first thin slot of his wallet.  "Thank you," Collette said.  "I am going to go fetch your luggage."  She crossed the room and grabbed a pair of clover nipple clamps.  Affixing them to his nipples and shivering slightly at his moan of pain, she said, "I'll be back shortly.  If your luggage is not where you said, then it will take me longer to return, won't it?"

    He hissed in pain and said quickly, "I understand. It's there! It's there."

    And she knew by the tone of his pleading voice that it was.  "I will return shortly."

    Mark was quiet. His mouth hung open and he looked at his chest.  He blew a burst of air from his lips, trying to ease the pain in his nipples by blowing cool air over both nipples.  The air did nothing to alleviate the pain and he hitched in silent pain.  

    Collette shuddered in rising pleasure as she watched Mark suffer.  Witnessing the pain in the men she bound and dominated had always made her pussy gush with excitement and her pulse race in anticipation of the pleasure to come.  "Don't go away," she said again, repeating her words from earlier.  "I'll be back with your suitcase."

    She turned and left the room.  She walked to her bedroom and dressed quickly, dropping her silken kimono onto the floor.  She donned some comfortably worn sneakers and grabbed her keys.  She entered the garage, started the car, and when the garage door was open she backed up and into the night.

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