When I accidentally found Shane’s hidden torture chamber, a fifteen feet by fifteen foot room of raw cinder block lit by a sputtering fluorescent light, I froze in horror. A wide vinyl dentist’s like chair with thick leather wrist and ankle restraints took up the center of the room. A dental light was twisted and propped over the chair and a steel dental tray holding little stainless steel instruments of torture glittered beside it. Manacles hung bolted to a wall. Photos of scantily dressed women covered a cork board on the wall. On a rolling table sat a machine with meters and dials and electrode wire leads with pincers like jumper cables. Were the splatters at my feet blood or paint? It’s all so frightening. So why do I trust him and am so ready to indulge his fantasies? That’s the power my client has over women. As Shane and I walked down into the basement, to his secret room, I began to have second thoughts.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I said.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Come on.”
I timidly followed him down the stairs, ready to bolt at any moment like a cautious doe.