A Case of Mistaken Identity
No‰l Burch (nburch@wanadoo.fr) 
An innocent man tortured by a mysterious martial artist


When Peter awoke, all was dark. At first he feared he might be blind. that 
"they" might have blinded him. But gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to 
the darkness, he could see the dim, shadowy outlines of the room and his panic 
subsided somewhat. Yet he remained deathly afraid. Who were these people? 
Why had they kidnapped him from that busy London street in broad daylight? 
What did they want of him? Or rather, what did they want of the person they 
thought he was? Because it was all a dreadful mistake! He had nothing to tell 
these people, nothing at all! But they were convinced of the contrary. And their 
determination to get whatever it was out of him was terrifying!

He tried to move and found he could not. He seemed to be strapped to some 
hard, pliant surface and there was a faint smell of rubber in his nostrils. He 
knew that he was naked, although the room was not cold. Confused, nightmare 
memories gradually returned: a hypodermic needle. a woman's insistent 
voice. "The truth. All we want is the truth." But he knew nothing, 
nothing. He had no idea what any of this was about. Why wouldn't they 
believe him? Why?

Suddenly, the lights went on without a sound. He was momentarily dazzled. He 
heard the door open and close, but could not see who entered. As sight 
returned, he saw, through squinting eyelids, a gray-clad figure advancing 
silently, gracefully across the absolutely bare, white-walled room.

It was a woman: tall, gaunt, ash-blonde, in her forties, he thought. Her face 
seemed vaguely, terrifyingly familiar. From his nightmare? She wore a soft, 
gray flannel jumpsuit that zipped up the front and was bound tightly about her 
ankles. She walked silently and supply on high-laced white canvas shoes with 
molded rubber soles of a kind he'd never seen before. Her hair was done up in 
a tight chignon. She wore no makeup whatsoever, and there was a tight smile 
on her thin, pale lips. A pair of milky white latex surgical gloves dangles from 
her right hand. She reached the foot of the narrow, flat table, covered with 
brown rubber sheeting, to which Peter was strapped by his ankles and wrists, 
and stood looking down at him.

"It seems you are immune to scopolamine, dear boy. A pity. We must resort to 
other methods, I'm afraid. She spoke punctiliously, with a cultivated voice and 
faintly foreign accent. Slowly, she began to draw the rubber gloves over her 
strong, tapering fingers. "These hands of mine are exquisitely skilled in the art 
of inflicting pain. In a few moments, you will be screaming uncontrollably. 
This room, of course is sound-proofed, no one will hear you. excepting 
myself. And I will confess to you that I quite enjoy this aspect of my work. 
and its effects. Your screams shan't bother me in the least. Quite the contrary. 
Eventually, of course, you will faint, but my hands also know how to revive 
you immediately. And the pain will go on and on and on. So why not make it 
easier for yourself? Why not spare yourself a very bad quarter of an hour? It 
will seem an eternity to you, but no one has ever resisted my persuasive powers 
for longer than that."

Peter believed every word she said. There was a tranquil assurance in her voice 
that left no room whatsoever for doubt. He was utterly terrified. He pleaded 
with her: "Please, please, I swear to you, I have no idea what you want of me! 
This is all some terrible mistake, I assure you!" The woman was methodically 
smoothing the paper-thin latex over her wrists, fitting it snugly into the spaces 
between her fingers. She smiled. "Of course. That is what you were instructed 
to say. I'm sure you've been well-trained. You'll soon change your tune, 
however, I can assure you of that, dear boy." 

She rubbed her gloved hands together to eliminate any remaining air-pockets: 
the latex crackled and sang. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around 
his right foot, he felt the cold rubber against his skin. Her thumb seemed to 
caress his ankle-bone. and then pressed. He screamed as fire shot up his leg. 
She released him almost immediately but the terrible pain still throbbed.

"That was just a sample.  I know all the pressure points." Much like a nurse 
moving efficiently about her patient's bed, she glided out of sight behind him. 
There was the dull snap of a switch and a characteristic whirring told him she 
had turned on a tape-recorder.  Now the woman reappeared in his field of 
vision and laid one hand gently on his cheek. He could feel the powdery 
smoothness of the talcumed rubber. "One more chance before I really begin" 
she said smilingly. No?" She peered down at his cheek cocking her head to one 
side, re-positioning her hand with surgical precision. Then the latex-clad thumb 
and forefinger clamped together in a vice-like pinch that tore from his throat a 
scream far more horrendous than the last. The pain was like some dentist chair 
nightmare, and yet she was only pinching his cheek! Through the veil of 
agony, terror gnawed at Peter's stomach. Who was this woman? What was she 
going to do to him? What terrifying knowledge did she possess?

At length the woman relaxed her devastating pincer grip and stood smiling 
down at him, her deadly hands folded now beneath her full, firm breasts. In a 
flash of wild irrelevancy, Peter observed that she wore no bra under the snug-
fitting jumpsuit and that her nipples were erect. "That was the trigeminal nerve, 
dear boy. Sensitive, isn't it? However, that was still only an appetizer. Are you 
going to tell us what we want to know?"

As the hideous pain subsided, Peter became aware that he was whimpering like 
a baby. "I don't even know what you want to know!" he screamed at the 
terrifying creature who seemed to tower above him, a taut smile playing about 
her high cheek-bones. Through a haze of sick fear, Peter could not help 
observing that there was a strange beauty about his tormentress, despite the 
slightly hooked nose, the thin eyebrows and the pale lips. She was what the 
French call une belle laide.

The surgical gloves creaked again and Peter winced in terrified anticipation. To 
his surprise, she began unbuckling the strap that held his right wrist to the 
table! Latex squeaked against steel and leather, and suddenly the constraining 
pressure was gone. The thought that she might be about to release him 
altogether flashed though his mind, but was banished immediately as the steel 
fingers in their rubber casing clamped about his wrist and a deft thumb probed 
the veins. Was she taking his pulse? he wondered crazily. Twisting his arm 
with a sharp, irresistible movement that denoted years of training, she gripped 
his elbow with the other hand, probing with educated fingers into the 
vulnerable recesses. As she applied sudden pressure with both gloved hands, 
paralyzing pain shot up and down his forearm, from pulse to "funny bone". He 
screamed and screamed and begged her to stop, but the pain continued as the 
implacable fingers seemed to burrow into his very nervous system like 
scalpels. His arm was paralyzed as if by liquid fire flowing through his veins. 
"These are acupuncture points," the woman said placidly. "It has taken me 
many years of study to get this right. I hope you appreciate my skills". She 
increased the pressure still more. Tears came to Peter's eyes and he moaned in 
agony. Saliva ran down his chin.

Now he became aware that she was rotating his helpless arm upwards and back 
behind his head. A new, fresh pain, different from the first seemed to overlay it 
as the shoulder ligaments were subjected to unendurable strain. He was sure 
they were about to snap. His screams redoubled. He felt nauseous, he felt 
dizzy. And at last he slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

It was short-lived, however.

The next thing he felt was a terrible headache. As his eyelids flew open, he 
became aware that his nemesis was pressing her rubber-clad thumbs against the 
middle of his eyebrows. It was the dull ache she was causing that had cut 
through the synapses in his brain, disrupting the state of peaceful oblivion into 
which he had escaped. She eased the pressure and as the pain subsided, he 
could smell a mixture of talcum powder and latex, hear the faint crackle and 
snap of the taut rubber over her knuckles. He was aware that both his arms 
were again strapped down.

"Ah, there you are my boy, you won't get off that easily, I'm afraid. This is 
something they teach on red-cross life-saving courses!" and she gave a sinister 
chuckle. "Bringing girls out of a faint and that sort of thing. Well, are you 
ready to talk? It gets much worse, I assure you."

Peter thought to himself that if only he had an idea what "they" were after, he 
would make something up. But no hints were forthcoming as to what kind of  
"information" to invent!

"Please stop, please. I can't stand any more. I don't know what you want, 
I've told you, I'm the wrong man, can't you understand, the wrong man!"

"Hmm," said the frightening female as she moved gracefully and silently on 
her rubber soles to a wall cabinet which opened with a faint click at the touch 
of one gloved hand. "The Wrong Man. Wasn't that a Hitchcock film? With. 
Jimmy Stewart?. No,  Henry Fonda. Are you a movie buff?" She smiled at 
him with ghastly sweetness as she took from the cabinet a jar of what looked 
like white petroleum jelly and carefully smeared some of it over the latex 
encasing the forefinger of her slender right hand. "As I remember," she went 
on, "the wife finally went mad. This time it's more likely to be the man 
himself."

Peter instinctively tensed again as with the same gliding step - she walked 
exactly like a dancer he had once dated - she turned back to where he lay 
helpless on the taut rubber sheeting, holding up the lubricated digit as if to 
show it to her "patient". 

"This one begins quite pleasantly, if you like that sort of thing. and I've 
notice that most men do, although they may not like to admit it." She smiled 
again. "But then it gets worse. much worse."

She approached the table slowly, visibly savoring his fear. Now she stood 
facing him at the foot of the table, gazing tauntingly into his eyes. Then, to his 
amazement, she put her gloved hand between his legs and gently ran the tip of 
that greased finger around the rim of his anus. In spite of his aching cheek and 
shoulder, in spite of his terror at what she might do to him next, the contact of 
the cool, lubricated rubber sent an involuntary shudder of pleasure up his spine. 
She smiled briefly as she recognized the response. Then she slipped her other 
cool, elastic hand beneath his coccyx and applied expert leverage. The greased 
latex finger slid effortlessly into his distended rectum. He could not help 
gasping with surprise as a thrill of purely reflexive pleasure coursed though his 
nervous system. 

"Do you like that?" she asked gently. It was a rhetorical question. As she 
moved the finger about - like a doctor feeling for hemorrhoids, he thought 
ridiculously - probing gently, dexterously, Peter could simply not help enjoying 
the "caress" which his tormentress clearly took pleasure in prolonging more 
than was necessary for her cruel purpose. "I see you do like it," she added with 
a grim smile. and with horror Peter realized that his penis was stiff. 

Then, without warning, the pain came, of an intensity he had never known 
before, much greater than her previous attacks, and somehow far more 
injurious to his psyche, as the woman suddenly crooked her finger and drove it 
upwards towards his scrotum. Even as he began to scream again, he heard her 
say in a cool matter-of-fact tone :"Very sensitive, the prostate gland, isn't it?" 
She seemed to be studying his reactions with a clinical gaze, yet at the same 
time obviously relishing his screams. At one point, he even thought he saw her 
press her gloved hand to her breast. "Of course, this only works on males," she 
added as an incongruous afterthought. Her victim shrieked and writhed 
pitifully in his bonds, his flesh squeaking against the rubber sheeting as he tried 
in vain to escape the thrust of that single, relentless finger. And the pain went on 
and on.

He vomited bile, and it ran down his chin. "This little trick can make you 
permanently impotent, dear boy. I'd hate a thing like that to happen, wouldn't 
you?" And she stressed the last word with a particularly vicious jab. He 
screamed without letup, tried to slip back into the pit of unconsciousness but 
the pain would not let go, oblivion would not come. Now, still maintaining her 
diabolical pressure, she cupped her other gloved hand around his scrotum, 
tightened her grip so that he could feel the taut latex against the tender skin and 
then with an expert twist gave his testicles such a ferocious wrench that at last 
he did slip over the verge of consciousness?.

When he came to again, he fond that his torturer was exerting firm but 
surprisingly painless pressure with the cool palms of those deadly rubber hands 
against the base of his rib cage. What now? his fevered mind wondered. Had 
she given up? Did she finally believe him? A wild ray of hope illuminated his 
confused thoughts.

"Back with us again, dear boy? My, we are stubborn, aren't we? I can keep this 
up indefinitely, you know. I quite enjoy it. In fact, it turns me on. You, on the 
other hand, are not enjoying it at all, are you? So why not make things easier 
for yourself and tell us what we want to know?"

As his mind cleared somewhat, an awareness came over the young man that the 
woman's last assault had deeply wounded his masculine pride: buggered by a 
woman! Nor had he forgotten the tell-tale, shameful hard-on.  His body had 
betrayed him! Righteous anger welled up in his breast: he had to "get back" at 
her. "If I weren't strapped to this table, you wouldn't be gloating like that, you 
witch!"

The trivial insult made no impression on the woman, but seemed to set her 
thinking. She hesitated for only a second, then began loosening the straps that 
held his ankles prisoner. "Yes," she said softly, "yes, I think that might just be 
a good idea! A little humiliation might succeed where sheer pain has thus far 
failed." She seemed to be talking to herself and Peter hardly heard the words, 
much less understood what they might mean. She was actually doing it, he 
thought to himself in amazement, she was actually setting him free!

Now Peter was a big man, over 16 stone, and he  was strong, and he held his 
own in quite a few pub-brawls in his time. Whereas his torturer could hardly 
weigh 9 stone, soaking wet! Of course, once he'd overpowered her, as he was 
certain he would, he had no idea how to get his clothes back or how to get out 
of this insane place. But first things first!

Having freed his wrists as well, the woman stepped lightly back from the 
"operating table". The rubber sheet crackled as Peter sat up and rubbed his 
throbbing shoulder. More pain stabbed through his groin, but he was oblivious 
to it. All his faculties were focused on just one objective: escape.

"Of course, I know what you are thinking, dear boy. You imagine that a 
strapping male like yourself can easily overpower little me and find some way 
of escaping from here. Well, go ahead, I'm sure they trained you well in hand-
to-hand combat." She stood facing him, arms dangling loose, knees flexed ever 
so slightly, the white canvas lace-up shoes in a dancer's "open" position, the 
rubber soles hugging the shiny white linoleum. A slender female figure in a 
gray flannel jumpsuit was all that stood between himself and the door out of 
this room, the room in which he had just been put through ungodly torture. And 
it was this female monster who had done it to him, who had taken advantage of 
his helplessness to work nasty little tricks on him that she had picked up God 
knows where! Well, he wasn't helpless any longer!

With a snarl of frustrated rage, he leapt from the table. He'd strangle her with 
his bare hands! There was a faintly superior smile on the woman's face as she 
stood her ground unwaveringly before his furious rush.

Peter had only the haziest notion of what happened next. One moment his big 
hands were reaching for her unprotected throat. and the next moment he felt 
the strength drain from his right arm as those latex-clad fingers of steel 
clamped cunningly into a certain spot on his biceps. At the same time, her 
wiry, supple torso performed a quick, effortless rotation that effectively 
removed her from her attacker's path, so that his momentum carried him 
harmlessly, helplessly forward into empty space. Already, he knew that she 
was in control of his body again: he felt the cold rubber fingers close about his 
wrist, digging painfully into vulnerable tendons ; his feet left the floor as if by 
magic and he felt himself toppling irresistibly over her firm, thrusting buttocks 
suddenly braced against his groin. He uttered a cry of dismay as he 
somersaulted through space and a shout of pain as the floor smashed into his 
back. For an instant, he lay there gazing up in shocked amazement at the ease 
with which she had brought about his downfall. 

"Tsk, tsk, you don't even know how to fall, what are they teaching their men 
these days?"

He made as if to roll away, scramble to his feet, have another go at her. She'd 
caught him unawares, he wasn't really on his guard. But he found that his 
hand was hopelessly imprisoned in those rubber fingers, twisted at an 
impossible angle in a scientific, paralyzing lock of some sort. To complete the 
defeat of her hapless adversary, she flexed her bony knee a fraction of an inch: 
he felt the moist warmth of the gray flannel against his extended elbow as she 
brought implacable pressure to bear. and he was as helpless as if he'd still 
been strapped to the table.

"Poor boy, I'm afraid this just isn't your lucky day. You see I'm awfully 
good at jiu-jitsu and that sort of thing. and I see you are ignorant of combat 
techniques. Big and strong as you are you haven't a prayer against me! With a 
jiu-jitsu expert, strength and weight don't count, it's all a matter of balance and 
leverage. Just see how utterly helpless you are now, and yet I'm hardly using 
my muscles at all!" She remained silent for a moment, letting the full effect of 
her words sink in, letting him feel to the hilt how completely she was in 
control.

"And now", she said, "back to work." With smooth, feline coordination, that 
was fearful and wonderful to see, she dropped to one knee and laid his captive 
arm on the floor, stretched out above his head, with his hand still clamped 
forward towards his wrist in a way that made him quite unable to resist her. 
She planted one canvas-shod foot near his head and he could smell the mixture 
of sweaty wool and rubber as it brushed his cheek. She placed her shin 
carefully in the center of his exposed biceps and exerted some pressure. The 
pain was quite bearable compared with what he had known a few minutes 
earlier, on the table. She smiled down at him with that wicked smile of hers 
and then did something quite unexpected: she began rubbing her knee back and 
forth rapidly, "massaging" the muscle of his arm between her hard shinbone 
and the floor. A shock cursed through his whole body, from head to foot! It 
was as if he was being electrocuted! She chuckled at his screams, at his futile 
efforts to escape her grasp, and continued this strange new torture for several 
minutes. 

When at last she stopped, he was whimpering like a baby, his body shivering 
and wracked with agony, his mind a jumble of horror. She bent down close and 
whispered in his hear : "You know, dear boy, I have an endless store of little 
tricks like that. Some of my patients never recover from them. Their minds, I 
mean. Now we wouldn't like that to happen to you, would we?" Her tone was 
gentle, caressing. She waited for him to speak. But what could he say? 
Abruptly she gripped the little finger of his captive hand between gloved thumb 
and forefinger and bent it in upon itself, towards the palm. He shrieked as the 
joints snapped. 

Now the woman's body tensed as if in anger. Panther-like, she sprang to her 
feet, and as she did she stiffened one latex-clad, emitted a sound like "ha!" and 
struck him a canny blow with the edge of it on the soft underside of his nose. 
It was as if a thousand needles had been driven into his brain. He pressed his 
hands to his face, moaning. Now he again felt the smooth rubber against his 
cheek as she gripped his earlobe in a vicious twisting grip and levered him 
irresistibly to his feet. With desperate rage he tried to strike out at his 
tormentress, but the blow to the nose had blurred his vision and his fists found 
only empty air. He heard her chortle maliciously as she spun away from him 
like a ballerina with one rubber-soled foot poised in the air. She whirled 
once, twice. His eyes tried to follow her movements but could not, as the 
crisp tip of a canvas shoe flashed beneath his hands, thrust out in awkward 
defense, and quite unexpectedly struck him under the armpit: he screamed at 
the jolt to his whole upper nervous system, and his heart actually skipped a 
beat. Without a pause, without even returning to the floor, the tip of the deadly, 
punishing foot struck him another hooking  blow to the right kidney. Though a 
red veil of agony, he thought : "She could kill me with her hands and feet, 
she's going to kill me!" He staggered with the pain and she kept him from 
falling with one gloved hand on his shoulder. Through bleary eyes, he saw the 
latex-encased fingers of the other hand form a tight cone which she drove into 
a carefully selected spot beneath his rib-cage. He doubled up gasping for 
breath, but no air would enter his paralyzed lungs. She cupped her latex palms 
and clapped them sharply over both ears, not quite hard enough to burst his 
ear-drums - he still had to hear her questions - but enough to cause a fresh 
explosion of ghastly pain to flash along the Eustachian tubes and into the 
tortured cortex. Finally, again steadying his swaying, stooped form with one 
hand on his shoulder, she made a fist of her other gloved hand, crooked her 
arm, raised her elbow and, taking careful aim, drove it viciously downwards, 
unerringly striking at a certain spot on his back, between the shoulder 
blades, just beside the spinal cord. Something seemed to crack. Fire wracked 
his body again and he dropped to the floor, his face coming to rest on one 
canvas shoe. He smelled the mixture of sweat and rubber again. and found 
himself utterly unable to move. He tried to speak, beg for mercy, but could not 
utter a sound. What was wrong with him? The woman's last, diabolical blow 
had left him utterly paralyzed!

Once more the terrifying creature spoke. She was standing just over him - she 
even caressed his cheek condescendingly with the edge of one rubber sole - yet 
her voice seemed to come from miles away. "That was a little demonstration of 
atemi-jitsu. I've been trained since childhood to read a man's anatomy like an 
open book. You have no idea how many sensitivce spots there are. And of 
course, for the moment I have avoided the fatal ones, such as here ... or 
here ... or here." The tip of her shoe delicately touched the top of his skull, his 
temple, the base of his spine." Now, if you are prepared to talk. I can restore 
your powers of speech and movement, if I so choose."

He grunted. What else could he do? He felt as though he were dying.

He sensed the gray-clad figure circling around him, bending over his feet. He 
felt the smooth coolness of the latex as she grasped his ankles, lifted them from 
the floor and flipped his naked body over on its back. She knelt beside him, sat 
him up, put her arms around him. He was dimly aware of her full breasts and 
erect nipples pressing against his bare back as those uncanny fingers began to 
massage his stomach and rib-cage. He could smell her odor: a mixture of some 
delicate deodorant and sweaty wool. Now the rubber-encased fingers were 
working up and down his spine, applying pressure here and there, massaging 
certain vital points.

"You're giving me quite a work-out, dear boy, but don't think I'm tired. I can 
begin again any time. Now, what have you got to say? The tape-recorder is still 
running you know, but so far it has only retained your screams. I'll enjoy 
listening to them later, but that's not what I'm paid for."

Suddenly he felt absurdly like a hero, like a martyr to some unknown cause. 
Unaccountably he felt that he really was the man "they" were after, some 
stoical secret agent fallen into enemy hands. After all, what was the use? They 
would never believe he was. who he was. Why should they? And this woman 
was clearly insane.

"I have nothing to say," he croaked, and the firm tone of his voice surprised 
him.

There was a pause. The woman raised his voice. Clearly, she was no longer 
speaking to him. "As you can see, he still won't talk. And he has taken quite a 
bit of punishment."

There was another silence. Then a voice, coming through some loudspeaker, no 
doubt, was heard. It was hard to tell whether it belonged to a man or a woman.

It spoke only two words: "Kill him."

The woman sighed and ran her cool gloved hand with surprising gentleness 
over Peter's burning cheek. "I'm not going to pretend I won't enjoy this, dear 
boy. But at the same time, I do feel a bit sorry for you. What does all this 
foolish bravery get you? Oh well, you still have a few seconds to change your 
mind."

Instinctively, he tried to rise, to escape the warm, comforting and yet 
potentially deadly contact of her full breasts against his back. But he knew in 
advance that it was hopeless: he was completely in the woman's power. And 
indeed, there came a sudden paralyzing pain across his shoulders as one of 
those latex talons dug under his collar-bone and again he was helpless from the 
pain.

He felt her slide backwards on her knees, inclining his unresisting upper body 
firmly against hers. Still controlling him with the paralyzing pincer grip, she 
settled the back of his head against her flat, muscular stomach. Next, she 
leaned forward and slipped one gloved hand between his legs, the smooth 
rubber that sheathed her palm pressing against his testicles, the finger tips 
compressing the sphincter muscle. 

She leaned further forward, pulling at his crotch, forcing her taut belly against 
the nape of his neck. He found himself again unable to move a muscle, his 
spine caught in a frightful vice. She whispered in his ear. "This is the end, dear 
boy. Another fraction of an inch and the cervical vertebrae will snap. Are 
you sure you have nothing to tell us?" She caressed his lips encouragingly with 
the latex fingers of her free hand. He smelled the mixture of rubber, sweat and 
talcum powder.

Peter's mind swirled, tears were running down his cheeks, he was acutely 
aware of the woman's body-odor, of her nipples thrusting through the soft-
material, pressing against his scalp as she leaned over him, of the firm rubber 
clad hand pressing against his genitals, the fingers hooked into his anus. With 
bitter, oddly detached irony he felt his penis stiffening again! He was aware of 
the firm stomach irresistibly forcing against his neck and the back of his skull, 
pinning his jaw to his chest in a hold from which there was no escape. He was 
aware of the overwhelming skill, the incredibly efficient deployment of 
strength displayed by this woman who was taking his life. and he simply let it 
happen : there was nothing else to do.

A sudden explosion erupted at the base of his skull, and then there was nothing.

..............................

The woman called Olga felt rather than heard the telltale crunch. She felt her 
patient's shoulders go limp beneath her breasts. Releasing her grip on his groin 
and clasping the now limp penis in her gloved hand, she drew off the last drops 
of sperm from the reflex ejaculation. She sat up, raised the hand to her lips and 
drank her victim's semen as she gazed musing down at the pain-contorted 
death mask that stared sightlessly back at her from her lap. She stroked the 
stubble of beard on his chin, while the other hand tugged at the zipper that 
closed the front of her jump-suit. For a few seconds, the latex-clad fingers 
kneaded the bared breasts and her eyes half-closed in ecstasy. Apparently 
oblivious now to the cadaver cradled between her knees. Her hips and buttocks 
began to weave with excitement, she began to moan softly as she slid her other 
hand between her thighs and started the deft manipulations that would bring 
her slowly, gradually to orgasm.

Five minutes later, thoroughly appeased, she zipped up her jumpsuit, pressed 
the button that would bring the disposal squad and went to leave the room, 
gliding gracefully, silently on her rubber soles, without so much as a glance at 
the corpse on the floor behind her.

The End