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A playroom, if I remembered the correct term.

The lights were dim, the shadows heavy. Fully equipped too. Shackles on the wall. Iron cage. Racks of whips. Chains. Ropes. Benches. And Lydia St. Benedict, spread-eagle atop a black X, her waist, wrists, and ankles restrained on a St. Andrew’s Cross. Not that I had ever partaken, but I wasn’t ignorant to such things either. Named for the crux decussata, the diagonal cross upon which St. Andrew died, adapted by the erotic world as a device of pain and pleasure.

St. Benedict was naked, except for a black leather collar. A man stood before her, holding a leather riding crop. And not just any man. The same height, build, and face as Antoine, only a little younger.

His brother, Denton.

Who used the crop to tease her breasts. My first instinct was to rush in and stop the violation. But I realized that I was the intruder here. This was a private place and St. Benedict did not appear to be in jeopardy. Quite the contrary. She seemed to enjoy his titillations. What caused me concern was the tripod that stood off to one side that held a silver cellphone, its camera aimed at the scene.

Troubling.

But again, who was I to judge?

On a table I saw the Sabbat Box, a few of its bottles out, but still corked. That raised the most serious warning signs, considering their powerful effects. The doorway where I stood lay in the shadows, about ten meters away from the unfolding sexual antics. Neither of them noticed me. I continued to stare, both embarrassed by my momentary voyeurism and enthralled by the scene. I knew people who enjoyed this sort of thing. That enticing mixture of pain and pleasure, dominance and submission, give and take.

Lydia St. Benedict’s eyes stayed unfocused and downcast. Denton seemed a portrait of control. Emotionless and powerful. He stopped his taunting and turned. We saw each other at the same time. My first instinct was to drop back and pull the door closed, but I did not move.

“Come closer,” he said.

I stepped into the dungeon.

“This is not what it seems.”

He stepped toward me and had not asked my name, nor even seemed surprised that I was here. But why would he? If Antoine was right, this was the man who attacked us on the Philosopher’s Walk. So he would know my face.

He came close and stopped.

“I’m Denton Lussac.”

Perhaps diplomacy was the call of the day.

“Cassiopeia Vitt.”

His right hand whipped upward in a flash.

The metal end of the whip caught me on the right temple.

And the world dissolved to black.

* * *

So much for diplomacy.

My head ached.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. I tried to raise an arm to examine my scalp but couldn’t move either of my hands. Ties around my wrists held them back. My feet were likewise restrained. Then I realized something filled my mouth.

Denton stared at me. “Have you ever experienced a ball gag before?”

I slowly shook my head.

“Its purpose is most often humiliation. Your mouth is partially forced open and the rubber ball prevents you from effectively swallowing. Spit builds up beneath your tongue and eventually drools out the sides of your mouth. Since your hands are restrained, there’s nothing free to wipe your face with. Incredibly, this simple violation of hygiene can break a person down.”

His words came matter-of-factly, without a single measure of concern. Thankfully, I’d been in worse situations and, more than that, I refused to let this prick get to me.

“Pain is an offshoot of humiliation,” he said. “Depending on the size of the ball, the size of your mouth, and how hard the ties are fastened, the ball can force your jaw to open unnaturally wide. Which doesn’t sound like a big deal, but, with time, it can become excruciating. And not all that much time needs to pass either. Adding to the humiliation is that you don’t speak clearly when the ball is removed. It’s quite the toy.”

He slipped the ball from my mouth.

I swallowed hard. Though I was at his mercy, bound to one of the iron chairs, I wasn’t helpless. Instead, I was taking in everything around me. Preparing. Planning. Waiting.

Across the room Lydia St. Benedict lay naked in a cage, asleep it appeared. Such a strange sight to see a candidate for the presidency of France in such a helpless condition. Her image was one of a type-A personality. An alpha female. In total control. But then I realized it all made sense. Her apparent sexual tastes relied on trust, safety, and surrender, overlapped by an element of being in charge. Dominant and submissive. Unequal roles that led to arousal and satisfaction. A risk-aware consensual game, with the submissive being in name only, as the ultimate control rested with the one receiving the pain and pleasure. Not the other way around. Too bad most French voters wouldn’t grasp the truth of the situation. If they saw her now, it would most likely be political suicide.

And that thought made me angry on her behalf.

Denton stepped close to St. Benedict and whispered through the cage bars, “Lydia?”

She opened her eyes and looked around, seemingly confused. “I don’t feel well. What’s wrong with me? Denton? Please, tell me.”

He opened the cage.

“Why is my head all fuzzy?”

She sounded like a small child. Then I realized she was drugged. No question. Probably something from the Sabbat Box. I wondered which of the concoctions he’d used. And I recalled Jac’s warning that mixing the ingredients could be both dangerous and fatal. I stared across at the tripod and noticed that the silver cell phone was gone. The Sabbat Box remained on the table, a few more of its stoppered bottles out.

St. Benedict staggered as if in a trance. Her head drooped to one side. Denton’s caretaker mask was gone, replaced by cold, calculating eyes and a stiff frame. I pulled on my restraints, itching to place him in the cage she’d just vacated. He’d clearly violated the enormous trust she’d given him.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He glanced back at me. “Winning the election.”

He helped St. Benedict out of the dungeon and wrapped a blanket around her nakedness. She never turned around, never saw me, and had no idea I was even there.

My mind raced.

Denton Lussac was not working for St. Benedict. He was working for her opponent, President Yves Casimir. What better way to tip a close election than through a deep personal slander. Lydia St. Benedict’s sexual proclivities would be, at a minimum, horribly embarrassing. True, the French were liberal in their sexual attitudes. A lot was forgiven. Having an affair or a love child hardly raised an eyebrow. But would the electorate accept that the woman running to be one of the most powerful leaders in the EU was a submissive who allowed—even enjoyed—her partner to physically and mentally dominate her? Not the image any national leader wanted. And in a close election it could provide a few percentage points of swing, making all the difference.

The oak door closed.

Then it reopened.

Denton stepped across and re-inserted the ball gag into my mouth. “I almost forgot.”

He left.

Silence reigned.

I was trapped.

Chapter 13

A half hour passed before Denton returned.

Alone.

My head still ached. Drool oozed from the sides of my mouth and had for the past few minutes. I studied him. He and Antoine were similar in the face, the same dark hair, powerful features and piercing brown eyes. But from the bumps on his nose and a scar above his eyebrow, I guessed he’d been in his share of fights. Unlike Antoine, this man’s countenance exuded more of a sense of entitlement. I’d seen the look before. That I’m-smarter-than-you-are-and-always-will-be arrogance.

“There’s no one here, but the three of us. No houses nearby. Stone walls and earth all around you. I’m going to ungag you. But let’s not wake Lydia with any screaming.”

Like I would. Asshole. I don’t scream.

He released the ball gag from around my head, grabbed a towel from a rack and wiped my face of the spittle. I swallowed. I never realized how satisfying that simple act could be. My jaw was sore and I worked out the kinks.

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