Page 19 of Lethal Torture
I don’t miss the sly grin the men exchange when they think I’m not looking.
Mak has clearly given Roman and Dimitry the heads-up about the Viewing Gallery.
Which means they’ve probably warned Luke.
Not that it matters.
Being warned is one thing.
Surviving it is something entirely different.
Welcome to the dark side, Captain Macarthur.
The Viewing Galleryis one of several purpose-built rooms in the basement of the Quartier, all of which cater to different tastes.
This particular room has a twenty-by-twenty-foot glass box with only one piece of furniture inside it: a red leather reclining chair, with wide-set padded foot props.
Adjustable cameras on the chair are connected to large screens on either side and behind it. The floor beyond the glass is polished concrete. There’s no seating.
Two down-lights are the only illumination. One highlights the chair. The other spotlights a place outside the box that is just big enough for one man to stand in.
Inside the glass room, Rocco, his immaculate torso oiled and gleaming, is already waiting.
Rocco might be quite the most useless barman I’ve ever employed, but his tongue once reduced a notoriously tough American diplomat to such screaming ecstasy that the UK brokered its best trade deal in a decade. The deal is still known around Westminster as the Rocco Accord.
Best of all, Rocco understands the darkness.
He knows that he’s here to put on a show. He plays his part in these performances willingly, and for a damn good paycheck, but he also understands that it isonlya part. A show.
He knows that in our world, sex is always about power and control.
Tonight, it’s about giving the kind and wholesome Luke Macarthur a close-up look at the darkness, so he can choose to walk away now, while he still can.
“One guest,” I inform Rocco. “Make sure he can see everything.”
Rocco nods, adjusting the camera angles slightly for maximum effect.
The lighting is designed to show every detail of my performance, and in turn to expose every detail of the spectator’s reaction to it.
It isn’t the sexual reaction I’m watching for. That is predictable enough; I’ve never yet had a man watch this performance who didn’t become visibly turned on by it. Most end up with their dick in their hands, moaning, their eyes locked on my swollen pussy, projected in devastating detail onto the screens behind the chair.
It’s what happens when they actually look at my face that changes the game.
The moment when they see the dead girl in my eyes, staring unblinking back at them.
When they realize I’m not moaning, or gasping, or reacting in any way.
That’s when they start to understand the darkness they’re actually dealing with—and when I get to see what the man is really made of.
They all break, eventually.
In the end, they can’t get out of the room, and away from my dead eyes, fast enough.
Mak has watched me break men this way before. To be honest, given how well he knows me, I’m rather surprised he suggested Luke for the job at all.
Mak knows as well as I do that outsiders like Luke don’t survive people like us.
I strip off in the adjoining changeroom and reach for a burgundy silk robe that I slip on over my stockings, stilettos, and corset. I close my eyes, conjuring up the images from my past that I use to build the mask which, like my costume, carries me through these performances.
