The door creaks when she opens it. Sometimes she thought he let the doors rust on purpose, to give it a sinister touch. Part of the protocol, of his foreplay. She would never fully understand that man. His hands stuffed in the pockets of the white lab coat, the stethoscope hanging from his neck with that serious air, his black eyes did not shine behind the crystal of his glasses. Dark lust and condescension in that unintelligible expression, she wasn’t allowed to hesitate or back down.
He holds out his hand, the long, thin phalanges pointing toward the white leather-lined stretcher. Handcuffs on her wrists would be exciting, it wouldn’t be the first time he had requested it; In this white-tiled room that had seen all the consensual abuse, between the four underground walls, in this man’s basement, which perfectly mimicked his professional zone… Joelle couldn’t understand the importance of protocol. That was his way, his modus operandi… she wasn’t allowed to question either. Descending into the dungeons of his home was an unspoken agreement between the two of them, in which she became a guinea pig with no chance to protest; her screams wouldn’t be heard ten meters under the ground, lost and intertwined between the violins and the romantic opera voices that composed the ideal melodies for those lunatic ears. Habanera played with lukewarm intensity in the cold air, it doesn’t take long for Joelle to be sucked into that time and space of dreams.