Page 6 of Master Class

The door was locked. Jansing had the key in his pocket. He pulled the door open and stood for a long moment in the cramped dark space. It smelled of dust and mothballs. Against the wall opposite were several cardboard boxes. He pulled them aside to reveal another locked door that had been disguised into the form of the wall. The Congressman used a different key and drew the door open. He had to bend to get through the low opening. He clambered through to a dark space and reached up for a light. He was standing on a narrow landing, and before him descended a dozen steps. He went down slowly, quietly, guided by the glow from the naked bulb suspended by a piece of flex cord. At the bottom of the steps was a third door, requiring a third key. The Congressman’s hands were suddenly shaking with restrained anticipation. He could hear the ragged rasp of his own breath, and his cock was so hard, it was painful. He had dust on the knees of his pants. He brushed it away with the palm of his hand and went through the door into a small but comfortable living area, laid out like a miniature subterranean apartment.

Long ago this space had been a nuclear fallout shelter.

Now it was a prison.

There was a double bed, and a sink, with a tiny refrigerator under a counter that ran the length of one wall. Behind the door at the far end of the room was a small shower and toilet. The lights were on in the room.

On the bed, laying on her back beneath a tangle of sheets, was a young woman.

She was awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. She was naked beneath the covers; Jansing could see the press of her nipples and the shadowed indentation between her legs. The girl rolled her head towards the sound of him, her movements slow and drugged.

The Congressman stepped quietly over to the side of the bed as if any sudden move might startle the girl.

She had a pale, beautiful face framed by a long tangle of golden hair. Her skin was soft and lightly browned, tinted to the color of burnt honey. Jansing ran his fingers through her hair, soothing her like a fractious forest animal. He inhaled the scent of her like she was perfume. She smelled faintly sweaty, and he realized his own scent still lingered on her from when he had drugged and fucked her that morning. He growled deep in the back of his throat – an involuntary sound of his own maddened lust.

He undressed quickly for his need was urgent and could be restrained not a moment longer. He pulled the sheets down. The girl had a slim perfect figure, and he noted the bruises from his fingers down her flanks and across her hips had almost faded. It had taken almost a full week after she had fought him. Now she lay pliant and subdued.

He pushed her legs wide apart, and she did not resist. He ran his fingers between her legs, and the girl merely blinked. He knelt between her thighs and drew his tongue slowly over the lips of her pussy. She tasted musky and it inflamed him.

“What’s your name?” he asked her the question in a soft almost sing-song voice.

“An… Anna,” the girl’s voice broke dry in her throat.

“No,” Jansing shook his head and clamped his fingers roughly around her throat. The girl flailed limply with her hands and tried to turn her head away. The Congressman was too strong. The girl gasped and her eyes began to flutter. He was slowly strangling her.

“What’s your name?” he asked again, this time demanding the answer he wanted.

“Slut,” the girl on the bed croaked. “My name is Slut.”

Congressman Jansing smiled his triumph as he slowly stroked his cock, teasing himself with the temptation of her. “Good girl,” he said softly. “You’re such a very good girl.”

He couldn’t wait any longer.

The girl’s feeble grunts were like music to him as he used her.

Chapter 4:

The secret service agent drove around the block once, pointing to the house of Nicholas Edge that lurked behind a high stone wall and gate. Leafy trees fringed the property, so Clarissa only managed a glimpse before they had swept by.

“I’ll drop you off at the corner,” the driver spoke over his shoulder to her in the back seat.

“Okay.”

“You have enough money to take a cab back to where you live?”

“Yes.”

The man said nothing more. On the next pass by the house he slowed, then stopped at the intersection. Clarissa stepped out onto the sidewalk. As soon as she pushed the car door shut again, the car sped away, accelerating around the corner and disappearing into merging traffic.

She stood in the mid-morning sun for a moment, her heart racing and her hands trembling. She felt like she was about to meet for a crucial job interview that would change the course of her life. She straightened her clothes, tugging at the hem of the black leather skirt she wore. Like the black see-through top, the skirt felt uncomfortable. Certainly, they weren’t the kind of garments she would ever keep in her own wardrobe. She got the inkling that Anna Wilkinson – the man’s missing partner – had been some kind of a rebel.

The handbag she carried was black also. She slung it over her shoulder and walked back along the leafy street. The neighborhood was quiet and the houses on either side of the road stately and imposing. There were luxury cars parked in driveways, and many of the homes had high border fences for privacy.

Clarissa reached the iron gate that ran across the width of the driveway and she paused one final time. There were leaves in the gutter and birds singing in the trees. The scene was a picture of placid tranquil suburbia, yet she knew that the house beyond where she stood had seen tragedy and trauma in its recent past. What she saw from the outside was just a façade.

There was a metal plate fitted with a speaker and several buttons built into a brick gate post. Clarissa cleared her throat, combed her fingers through her hair – and then pressed her thumb on the top button. She heard a small electronic buzz and felt a vibration come up through the tip of her finger. After a moment there was a scratchy, impersonal voice through the speaker.

“Can I help you?” It was a man’s voice; gruff and formal.

“Yes. I’m here to see Nicholas Edge.”

“Hold on.”

The connection went silent.

Clarissa took a step back and looked through the posts of the high steel gate. At the end of a long gravel driveway she could see a white two story house. It reminded her of the majestic old southern homes she had seen in films about the civil war. Columns supported the front of the building, and the staircase leading to the front door was wide and grand, fringed on either side by pots of green plants and ferns.

There was a luxury car at the end of the driveway, baking in the sun with light glinting off the windows.

“Who are you?” the same man’s voice came back through the speaker.

The sound startled Clarissa. She leaned back close to the speaker and thumbed the intercom switch once more.

“My name is Clarissa Oldham,” she said in a thin reedy voice that was dry with nerves.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Wait.”

Hidden in the foliage of a tree behind the high stone wall was a private closed circuit security camera. It displayed a black and white picture of the girl through a bank of monitors in a downstairs room of the house.

Out by the street there was a loud electric buzz and Clarissa flinched, startled. Then the wide gate began to slowly roll back.

“Proceed to the front door,” the voice said.

Clarissa walked down the long driveway; the high heels of her shoes making each step a challenge on the loose shifting pebbles. She was intensely aware that there were eyes on her. She could feel them, and it made her cringe with self-conscious awkwardness. She kept her head high, trying to guess from which windows she was being observed. The front of the house became more imposing as she drew near. She could feel the beat of her heart and hear the rush of her own blood in her ears. Her steps turned tense with apprehension.

As she approached the car, the front door of the house finally opened and a man stood in the threshold, sha

ded by the gloom of the home’s interior so she could not see him clearly. The man took a few faltering steps, and then came limping down the stairs and into the bright light.

Clarissa knew instantly that the man was Nick Edge. His face was racked with some terrible anxiety, his eyes wide, his forehead a frown that knitted his eyebrows together. His mouth was open, but drawn tight. He was well built, Clarissa saw. He had powerful arms and a broad chest, each muscle standing defined against the tightly drawn cotton of his t-shirt.

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