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She knew it was blood because her captor had taken great relish in telling her it was. There were stains on the mattress she was lying on too. Blood, sweat and semen. Her blood, her sweat, her captor’s semen. She scratched at the sores that had developed under the steel collar locked around her neck. Initially she’d tried to ignore the itching, but as time had passed there seemed less and less point in enduring it. She’d come to accept that she was never getting out of this place, so what did it matter if her scratching left scars? A chain ran from the collar to a pulley in the ceiling, then to a bolt in the wall. She had just enough slack to walk to the end of the mattress, where there was a bucket for pissing and shitting in. Not that she had much desire or strength left for walking. In the hours after she’d been abducted, almost all she’d thought about was escaping. But as hours had turned into what seemed like days and weeks – she’d quickly lost track of time – her thoughts had turned from escaping to dying.
    Sooner or later she was going to be killed. That much was obvious from the films she’d been forced to watch of other women being tortured. In them, her captor pushed grotesquely large dildos into the sexual orifices of his victims. He attached crocodile clips wired up to some electrical source outside the room to their nipples. He sliced off ragged flaps of their skin with surgical instruments. And the more they sobbed, screamed and pleaded for mercy, the more aroused he became. This is what’s going to happen to you, bitch. That was what he’d told her, and he’d been as good as his words.
    Melinda drew her legs up to her chest, hugging her arms around her knees. The movement sent blades of pain shooting from her bruised and torn genitals, through her stomach into her chest. A whimper rose up her throat. She forced it back down with a swallow. She was done whimpering. She was done sobbing, screaming and pleading. Her captor gorged on fear like a leech does blood. Well, she would give him no more of it. Not even if it provoked the twisted fuck into killing her. If this was the only life she had left, she was better off dead. She’d considered suicide. She was pretty sure she could rig some way to hang herself with the chain and collar. But she wasn’t desperate enough to attempt it. Not yet.
    Melinda’s heart lurched with sickening force at the sound of multiple bolts being drawn back. Her head jerked up as the metal door scraped open. Her captor entered the room. As usual, he was wearing a black leather gimp suit with peepholes for his eyes and nipples, and a zip at his mouth and groin. Only the zip at his mouth was currently open. Like a great red slug, his tongue emerged through it, running slowly back and forth. The skintight suit hugged the contours of his broad shoulders, thick arms, slightly paunchy belly, and spindly legs that seemed to be attached to the wrong torso. Almost femininely large brown nipples jutted through the peepholes. In another context, Melinda might have found the sight comical, even pathetic. But here in this airless dungeon it made her bladder spasm with fear.
    Melinda assumed her captor wore the mask because he got a kick out of it. She’d seen his face on the night she was abducted, so there wasn’t any point in concealing it – that is, unless he and the man who’d brought her here were two different people. The thought had crossed her mind, especially as her captor switched between several accents and voices. Sometimes his accent was broad Yorkshire, other times it was as posh as Prince Charles. Sometimes his voice was slow and almost gutturally deep, other times it was fast and almost childishly high-pitched. She would have become convinced that more than one man was involved in her abduction, if it hadn’t been for two things. Firstly, the tone of the voice didn’t always match up with the same accent. Secondly, the eyes behind the mask never changed.