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been finishing dinner when he heard the first muted sounds from inside the ornate box across the room.   His client had chosen it specifically for the woman, and it rested on two sawhorses.   When he had finished eating, he walked over to the casket and began a series of banging thuds on the lid.   He thumped one hand then the other, and waited for the scream.
    It never ceased to amaze him that all of the women had the same reaction to imagined shovelfuls of dirt hitting the top.   He knew that she had seen the damn backhoe, but they never seemed to remember.   Once more, his hands banged down, and he waited for her shriek before returning to the table to study the model that Strickland had chosen.   It was one of the more expensive mannequins, with moveable parts that would allow it to be fixed in many interesting positions.
    He let her wait in the darkness, panicked and completely helpless, for another fifteen minutes.   To her, it would seem like hours, and he was certain that the haughty bitch would be in shock.   Shock was okay.   They were more pliable and easier to prepare.
    The tall man stood over the casket, stroking the polished wood and occasionally letting his nails scrape the surface.   Finally, he reached for the latches, unhooked them, and slowly lifted the lid.   He looked down onto her terrified face.   Her makeup had streaked and she was blinking furiously to adjust her eyes.   When they widened in recognition, Tombstone smiled.   He felt his balls tighten, filling with her fear.
    For a large man, Tombstone spoke in a surprisingly quiet, measured, calm voice.   He stroked his fingers through the muddy mascara leaking down the sides of her eyes and into her hair while she quivered.   “You know this can be real, anytime Strickland gives me the word.   If you don’t do exactly as I order, you’ll find yourself resting beside your husband… though probably not so much ‘at peace’.”
    He watched the beautiful expanse of her breasts rising and falling rapidly with her panting breaths.   They were a little too large for his personal tastes, but they would certainly be easy to work with.   His thumb and forefinger pinched a nipple through her tight knit dress and silk bra.
    Claudine shrieked behind the gag.   Let me go.   Please, just let me go.   She felt his fingertips trailing lower.   He let his hand follow the path across her stomach and she flinched, shaking her head and crying when he touched her pussy.   The short hem of her skirt had hiked up, and through the thin material of her black thong panties, he stroked her groomed curls.
    Oh…oh, stop.   His fingers curled under the elastic, and Claudine shuddered and tried to force her thighs together.   With her ankles bound beneath her, the effort was minimal.   She was frustrated and angry, and she wondered if Donald was teaching her a lesson.   There was no possible way that this was real… that she had been effectively erased and given to this man.   When his smooth finger spread her folds, she closed her eyes, wailing and fighting the cuffs to shift her hips.
    “Lie still, slut,” the calm deep voice warned.
    Slut?   Did Donald tell him that she was a slut?   If he would just take out the gag, Claudine could explain.   She had money.   No matter what Donald had paid him, she could offer more.   She could get it back when he released her and she ran to the authorities.   Maybe she would wait.   Maybe she would see how much Donald would give her in return for her silence.
    The man’s finger stroked gently along her path, coaxing her to slicken.   Claudine moaned, humiliated that her body was so ready to respond to him.    An errant thought ran through her mind that she was surprised his fingers were not calloused and rough.   He’s only a laborer working in a damn graveyard, for god’s sakes.   She thought she remembered seeing leather gloves on him.   Claudine tried to think about many inane things,