What Lurks In The Heart Of Man by Lady Axelle

Part I

Nocoli pulls up to the nondescript building in our cities abandoned business district, the one that never quite recovered after the dot com bubble burst. He turns down Trentemoller and searches for my eyes in the rear view mirror. I remove the band from my wrist, gather my hair into a loose ponytail, lick my lower lip, and inhale deeply -- once, twice, a third time -- before I meet his gaze. My expression betrays the electric feeling running through me as I give him a blank nod and he exits the car, coming round to open my door. He holds out his hand and I step out into the cold crisp night, taking my case from his other hand.

All of my encounters follow the same script. I never know exactly how I’m found; my name is only whispered on the fringe of certain circles. The letters arrive in all states. Some are hand written on stationary as expensive as a good bottle of wine. Others come scribbled on binder paper, stuffed into envelopes with the address of the water company crossed out and replaced with my own. There is always the same aura of hesitation in the writings, the same sense of desperation, and they are always addressed, to “Miss”. I have the luxury of being selective. I can’t explain what sways my decisions, how I choose to facilitate one person over the other, but there is always a distinctive connection. I write my replies and warn against any deviation from my instructions. It has been long enough now, that the whispers sway any rebellious ideas.

I check the small remote in my back pocket and I enter through a side door, listening as my steps echo in the cavernous corridor. The lighting is dim, but I can see the clinical brightness ahead. I discover her exactly as I had expected, sitting on the north end of the table, nude, sans the blindfold. I can see she was truthful about her height and weight, something that I appreciate.  There have been times in the past where I had to leave on the account of untruthfulness. Appearance ceased being something I cared about long ago, but numbers have always mattered. Misinformed calculations can lead to dangerous situations. She knows not to speak, or to move, or to make any acknowledgment of my presence (per our letters).

I  place my case to the east and from it I remove my glass and a large bottle of water, setting them to my left at ten and eleven. I remove my trench-coat and place it over the back of the chair, taking a seat on the south end of the table. I examine her face more closely.  She has to be in her early forties. The laugh lines lead me to believe that, despite the isolation of her proclivities, she’s happy. The pillowy curve of her mocha cheek make me wonder how much I’d have to slap her in order to witness her blush. The stray bit of hair falling over her brow makes something inside me itch, but I refrain from reaching it over and pulling it from her scalp. Instead I reach over and languidly pour myself a glass of water, taking a small sip before removing the rest of the items from my case.

The ting of metal being placed on metal sets off a giddiness in me.  I can’t help but to softly hum. I arrange the smooth wood, the warm leather, the pleasure devices all in ascending order by height. I rise and place the case under the table as I go to setup the rigging. I eye the girl; she hasn't moved since I entered, though her breathing has quickened after hearing me lay out my tools. A grin spreads across my face as I unfurl some clear plastic sheeting; I watch as it billows before falling to the floor. I head back towards the table, standing behind her. I lean in. I see her shrink for the first time as she senses my proximity, an instinctual reaction when prey senses a predator. I look to the clock just over her shoulder and I smile. We are right on schedule. I remove her blindfold before returning to my seat across from her.

“Hello, Ramona. My name is Selene and I’m a torturer.”