For as long as she could remember, she had worked to tamp down her dark desires. She clearly remembered sitting on the couch with her old boyfriend, watching Dexter and being so turned on that she would have to change her panties. But now, this was finally it. She had bought this small farmhouse in Central Pennsylvania a few years ago to escape the desires she assumed were driven by the people she’d regularly meet while living in the city, but the isolation had only made them stronger – now she was preparing to feed the urge she’d been working so hard to hide.
She walked down the basement steps and flipped on the lights. When the electrician had told her that six high-hat lights for the room might be overkill, she doubted it, but now realized that for normal use, he was probably right. After her eyes adjusted, she looked at the white, sterile walls and remembered laughing with the contractor when he asked about the finish and she answered, “I don’t know, something easy to clean like they’d use at a slaughterhouse.” She then walked over to the two cells that she’d created with a view of the room and nothing else – the rooms she described to the men building them as “little suites for my pets,” were basically empty prison cells.