Chapter No. 34 The Third Woe

The big cigar-puffing man stared unmercifully at the little curly-haired man. His wide furrowed brow and sagging jowls cast a menacing shadow of gloom over the little man, but the little man tried not to show that he was intimidated. He had a reputation to maintain, a reputation for uncompromising work devoid of concern for ethics or morals.

"Dr. Stram, we are losing patience with you. You have not obtained one of the creatures, and time is running out."

Stram wiped his brow and nervously squirmed in his chair. "We're in the process of interrogating Dr. Margaret Hauptman. She and her husband were instrumental in capturing three of the creatures at the island of Fernandina. We will have their methodology shortly."

"I don't understand. You told me that these creatures have been known for decades. Why is it necessary for you to interrogate the Hauptman woman?"

"Because the Hauptman woman was there at the point of capture. She is the key to obtaining one of these creatures." Stram settled down, slouching in his chair and rubbing his brow with a sweaty hand. "But, you are correct. A biologist by the name of Phillipe Sorbourn saw them in 1957. He submitted a paper to several journals but none of them would publish it. Fools. How do you think we figured out where they were? We found Sorbourn's original notes. That's how."

"If you knew where they were, why haven't you been able to capture one of them?"

"No one would support our effort," Stram said. "They thought we were crazy."

"We are supporting your effort now, Doctor. But, we demand results. Our intelligence people report that the Russians have been unsuccessful in finding the creatures at Fernandina. They were forced to move away by the Americans. We are on the verge of an international confrontation and you are still procrastinating."

"We are doing the best we can," Stram shouted. He quickly settled down. "The Russians do not have the proper methodology to capture the creatures. We will have that methodology as soon as we have completed the interrogation."

The huge man blew circles of smoke in Stram's direction. "Your interrogations are nothing more than torture. Why don't you employ drugs instead of your antiquated methods?"

Stram shook his head in disgust. "We would if that idiot Meckler knew what he was doing. He can't even deliver a proper dose of anesthetic."

"You constantly complain about the members of your team, Doctor. You must make do with the resources that are at your disposal."

"Right now I'm not making do with anything. I should be back there where I can do the most good."

"You will, Doctor, but first we require a report and your plan of action."

Stram lowered his glazed eyes.

Bureaucrats! They're as useless as military types. Unfortunately, they are a necessary evil.

###

Alan Anderson paced his office like a tiger in a zoo cage. He stopped occasionally to look out of a large window behind his desk. Things were going quite nicely in the bright sun impinging on the white beach beyond the Institute.

He sighed.

Things were not going well inside the Institute, and he needed some inspiration, some encouragement, to dispel the gloom that hung over him like a storm cloud.

When his intercom buzzed, he stepped over to it and pressed a button. "Yes?"

"Everyone's here," his secretary said.

He tried to remain calm, but his voice had a hint of stress in it. "Send them in."

Janice swung the door open and Wang, Conners, Stevens, and Eric filed past her. They sat down on the four leather chairs that were positioned in front of Anderson's desk. Wang's craggy face revealed no emotion, Conners tired face reflected boredom, Stevens had his usual antagonist face on, and Eric stared at Anderson through concerned eyes set in a haggard face.

Anderson examined each of their faces before he spoke. "I called this meeting because we need to do something about the creatures' handling. With Margaret . . . missing, we need someone to step in and take her place." He stared at Conners with a solicitous expression.

"Don't look at me. I have no intention of getting in the same tank with those . . . I'm not a trainer."

Stevens gave her a look that laughed without actual laughter. "Don't worry. They would never come near you."

She glared at him with scolding eyes. He stared back at her with mocking eyes.

Anderson's face muscles tightened. "We must come up with a candidate soon or we'll lose them."

Eric's brow wrinkled. "You sound as if we'll never see Margaret again. She'll be able to continue her work when we rescue her."

Anderson wiped his brow with a wrinkled handkerchief. "That's true, but there's no way to know what condition she'll be in. She may not be able to continue."

"I hope so," Eric said, lowering his eyes.

"Why can't we use one of the Marineland trainers?" Stevens asked.

"They're not scientists," Anderson said. "We need a candidate with a degree in marine biology and experience with field work."

"I have an individual in mind," Wang said. "She's a top marine biologist at Woods Hole. I will contact her."

"Very well," Anderson said.

Conners raised her hand. "I hope we're going to tell her that her life may be in jeopardy."

"We will, Doctor," Wang, told her. "To do otherwise would be unethical."

"Thank goodness," Stevens said with a tinge of sarcasm.

Anderson's jaw stiffened and his eyes narrowed. "Are you questioning this Institution's ethics, Doctor?"

"You know me better than that, Alan. I question everything."

"And complain about everything," Conners added.

"Somebody has to."

"Not about everything."

Eric stood up with disgust beaming from his eyes. "How can you people be so glib when Margaret may be giving her life for those creatures?" He rushed to the door, but stopped to deliver one last shot of frustration. "I can't stand this anymore." He ran out of the room.

"Hauptman's becoming unhinged," said Stevens.

Anderson sighed. "Yes. We'll have to keep an eye on him."

"I don't blame him," Conners said. "We're being insensitive."

Stevens jumped up and flung his arms around. "We can't go around here like we're having a wake. His wife isn't dead yet--at least as far as we know. I see no reason to stop what we're doing."

Conners glared at him. "I didn't suggest that we hang crepe. I just meant that we should be more sensitive to Hauptman's situation."

Anderson stood up. "Dr. Conners is right. We need to be more understanding. Dr. Hauptman is not himself."

"Ok!" George huffed. "I'll be as sensitive as I can, but you may not be able to tell."

He stomped out without further comment.

"At least he's being honest," Conners said.

Anderson cracked a very brief smile. "That's the trouble with George: He's too honest."

Conners cracked a bigger smile, and it lasted a bit longer than Anderson's did.

###

Gloom hung over Margaret like a funeral shroud. The Darkness, the hard bench, the stinging pain in her ankles and wrists tugged at her resolve like octopus tentacles. But hope kept her from utter despair despite the fact that she feared that she would suffer unbearable pain or worse--she would never survive this experience.

Why are they doing this to me? I've told them the truth, but they won't believe me. This is ridiculous. They're completely insane. I have no doubt about that. Trouble is, that puts me in harm's way. I'll just have to use my wits. I've got nothing else to use.

When she heard the latch being raised, she jumped up and strategically arranged the blanket around her body.

"Good evening," Stram said, sounding artificially cheerful.

"Now what are you going to do to me?"

His smile faded. "Unfortunately, I've come to hand you over to my wife. I must make good on my promise."

"I don't like the prospects of that."

"My dear woman, you give me no choice. My methods have failed to extract the necessary information from you. My wife's methods are, shall we say, more extreme. I am certain you will be more than happy to give us all the information we desire after an evening with her."

"That won't be necessary. I'll tell you everything."

"I don't believe you. You lie like a rug. Only the crucible of unbearable pain will yield the truth."

"Isn't there some other way?" She pointed her finger up and widened her eyes. "I know! Why don't you use a truth serum? Sodium pentathol should work. I'm sure it will."

"Despite what you believe, sodium pentathol is unreliable."

Margaret hung her head down and sighed deeply.

Stram placed his hand under her chin and pulled her head up to look directly into her tired eyes. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hauptman. I'll keep my wife's unbridled exuberance from destroying you."

Margaret stared at him for several seconds through weary eyes. She had very little confidence in his ability to constrain his wife. As a matter of fact, she suspected that he enjoyed inflicting pain as much as his insane wife did.

She lowered her eyes. "Let's get it over with."

Stram motioned her out the door and led her down a dim corridor to a new room much smaller than the one she had regained consciousness in. This room was cluttered with all sorts of strange and menacing contraptions, many, she assumed, designed to inflict pain.
And who was in the middle of all of these instruments of pain: Marian Stram, wearing a white lab coat and a sardonic grin.

Shit. This is not going to be one of my better days.

Marian sprung up from a small chair and sprinted to her victim.

"Ah, Mrs. Hauptman. I hope that you're well rested. "I like my subjects to be alert. It adds to the fun."

"How can you derive pleasure from inflicting pain?"

Marian tilted her head and grinned. "There you go again, Mrs. Hauptman: making moral judgements."

Margaret glared at her for several seconds before she shook her head in disgust. "Forget it."

Marian turned a beaming face to her husband. "Let me vivisect her, Julie. I could make her suffer for hours."

Oh, my God! They're not that despicable. Please God, don't let them do that to me.

"No, no, my Pet. We cannot destroy her. We need her for the exchange."

Exchange? What exchange? Oh, shit. They're going to use me to obtain one of the creatures. I just knew they would stoop to something like that. Damn them to bloody hell!

"You take all the fun out it, Julie." She turned to look at a large cast-iron object sitting near the middle of the room. "How about the Iron Maiden? It's such a marvelous device. Remember how I made that Lieutenant Gorvovich scream his lungs out. It was such fun."

"Yes, but he only lasted a half hour. A woman wouldn't endure it longer than ten or fifteen minutes. Not a very satisfying evening, my Pet."

Marian pursed her lips into a pout. "Too bad. I enjoyed hearing him scream."

"It's no wonder he screamed so vociferously, my Pet. You were crushing his genitals."

His wife jumped up and down like a child anticipating a day of fun at an amusement park. "Oh, yes! It was such marvelous fun. I wish that I had a man here instead of--" She pointed at Margaret. "--Instead of her."

Oh, Lord. She's a perverted nut.

Seeming embarrassed and flustered by his wife's outburst, Stram aimed a twisted smile at her. "Why don't you use the Boot? I'm sure it will provide you with several hours or your . . . fun."

The Boot? What the hell's a goddamned Boot? I don't like the sound of that at all.

"Yes, Julie. You are always the thoughtful one."

"Well, now that that's settled." Stram turned to leave.

His wife's bony face twisted with confusion. "You're not going to stay and watch the fun?"

"No, my Pet. I'll observe it on the monitor." He said it as if he were disgusted. "I can turn down the sound."

That figures. The bastard won't have to listen to my screaming.

He looked at Margaret for a few seconds and then flashed a brief smile before he set his face into a stern expression. "I'll take the blanket. The only thing you need to be wearing is your birthday suit."

Margaret furrowed her brow and squinted her eyes. "Why? I don't understand why I have to be humiliated in such a demeaning way. It's indecent."

Stram raised his right eyebrow. "Perhaps, but it's more entertaining."

That brought a deep scowl to Margaret's face. "I'm tired of being in my birthday suit, as you put it. As a matter of fact, I'm down right sick of it."

Marian grinned at her. "Why, Mrs. Hauptman, you're not at one of your snooty social affairs. You don't need any of your fancy clothes from that decadent boutique . . . What's it called?"

"Georgio's."

"Yes. Georgio's. Why do you go to such a bourgeois establishment?"

"What can I say; it's my only vice."

"I would never go to such a place. It's much too depraved for me."

Margaret gave her a brief mocking smile. "It wouldn't do you any good. You don't have the figure for it."

That wasn't the thing to say.

Marian cocked her arm back to strike her mocker's face, but she suspended it in mid-air when she took notice of her husband's disapproving look.

"I would prefer that you don't damage her lovely face, my Pet. We may need her to appear in a recording. Obvious injury to her face may incite retaliation."

She reluctantly lowered her arm and blew out a breath. "No matter." She stared daggers at Margaret. "I'll make you pay for your flippancy. You can count on it."

I'm a dumb shit. I know it.

"The blanket, please," Stram said with an impatient tone.

I hate this with a passion.

"Why can't you give me some clothes? I would be much more cooperative if you did."

Stram forced a frown. "I could simply rip it from you, Mrs. Hauptman, but I would rather have you hand it over in a civilized manner." He moved closer. "This isn't a tea social. You're being interrogated by test. You don't need to be wearing anything for that."

She glowered at him for a minute before sighing. "Ok. Ok."

When she slowly unwrapped the blanket from her body and handed it to Stram, she instinctively folded an arm around her breasts and covered her pubic area with a hand. Stram examined her body but he exhibited no outwardly indications that he cared about what he saw. In fact, he seemed uninterested.

Margaret didn't know if his reaction to her nakedness was good or bad. Was she that uninteresting or was it the ugly bruises on her wrists and ankles.

She caught it right away: the brief flicker of his eyelids, that momentary curl of his lips, the slight flush in his checks. He liked what he was seeing. I'm sure of it.

He shook his head. "Too bad you have to spoil her beautiful birthday suit, my Pet."

Ah, hah! I just knew that fat ugly gnome gets his jollies out of watching naked women. Dirty bastard!

"I'm only going to mark it up a bit, Julie, not destroy it."

"Good, my Pet. See that you do so."

God, I hope so . . . Wait a second! I wonder what she meant by 'mark it up a bit?' I don't like the sound of that.

###

Eric leaned back in a plush leather chair and exhaled a long breath. No matter what he did, he couldn't relax. He could only imagine what his poor wife was going through and he didn't like what he saw in his mind's eye. In fact, he couldn't get her face out of his thoughts, and he desperately wanted to do so. Her imaginary face was always twisted with pain and he could hear her imaginary screams of agony. His goddammned imagination was driving him stark raving mad.

A knock blew the ugly images away. He stood up, rushed to the door, and quickly opened it.

"Oh . . . George. What brings you by?"

"I figured you could use some cheering up, Hauptman."

Eric stared at him for several seconds, before he gestured. "Come in, George."

"I'm sorry about the meeting in Anderson's office," Stevens said in a low voice. "I know you're not having a good time of it."

Eric plopped into the leather chair. "That's an understatement, George."

Stevens held out a bottle wrapped in a plain paper bag. "Maybe this will help a little."

Eric nodded enthusiastically.

Stevens unwrapped the bag from a fifth of Black Label Jack Daniels. "You have any glasses?"

Eric got up and plodded into the kitchen. He emerged holding two shot glasses.

After pouring two drinks, Stevens sat down on a chair opposite Eric's.

Eric took a sip from his glass. "I'm not very good company, George. I can't get Margaret out of my mind."

"I understand, Hauptman. No need to explain."

Eric lowered his eyes. "It's been one hell of a week. I hate this not knowing."

"She'll be ok. Margaret's a strong woman. If anyone can survive, she's the one."

"I hope you're right, George. God, I hope you're right."

"I know I am. She's tough."

Eric shook his head. "I don't know if she can endure what that bastard is capable of doing to her. He's probably torturing her. I can't stand the idea of her suffering. It makes me sick to my stomach."

"Maybe he's trying to obtain information about the creatures. I'm sure that Margaret's smart enough to give him what he wants. She's not a foolish woman."

Eric huffed. "You don't know Margaret like I do. She's stubborn. She'd suffer unspeakable pain just to deny Stram. She can be very obstinate."

Stevens shook his head in disgust. "I find it hard to believe that they would torture a woman. They can't be that evil."

Eric nearly exploded. "They were evil enough to try and kill us, George. They have no redeeming moral values. They're bastards."

Stevens stared blankly at him for a few seconds. "Your wife may have one advantage."

Eric eyes widened. "What . . . what advantage?"

"She's the key person on the mermaid project. Her knowledge and expertise with the creatures is more valuable than gold. They're not going to just throw that away."

"I hope you're right, George. I hope they're smart enough to realize it."

Stevens shook his head again. "What I don't understand is why Stram doesn't just ask us. We would have no problem with giving him everything we know about these creatures, what little there is of it."

"That's what makes this so stupid," Eric said, lowering his eyes. "The truth of the matter is that we don't know the truth."

"You're right about that, Hauptman."

Eric downed his drink and allowed Stevens to pour him another.

A few more and he could relax.

Finally.

###

As soon as her husband left, Marian motioned for her reluctant subject to follow her to a solid wooden chair near the back of the room. Straps were positioned at the top of the back, on the armrests and the left front leg. A strange metal contraption attached firmly with bolts to the platform on which the chair sat obscured the right leg. The contraption was constructed from narrow metal straps held together in a cage-like fashion with plastic knobs occupying several locations on its framework.

Marian swung the front half of the Boot to the side and gave her subject a cruel grin. "Have a seat, Mrs. Hauptman."

"I don't know if I want to sit in that."

Her tormentor gestured violently at the chair. "Sit your fat ass down."

"My ass isn't fat."

"It's fatter than mine."

Bite your tongue.

"That chair seat looks like it's made out of a metal plate with little holes in it." She turned a confused face to Marion. "It doesn't look very comfortable."

Marion's frustration showed on her face. "It's not supposed to be comfortable, you idiot. Sit down!"

"I don't want to," Margaret said, sounding like a stubborn child.

She made the mistake of turning her back to her tormentor, and she paid the price: a hard slap to her left buttock.

"Ouch! That hurt." She rubbed the point of impact.

"I'll give you another if you don't do as I say."

Marion stood with her hands propped on her hips. "Sit down, damn it!"

Margaret jutted her jaw out in defiance, a gesture that made her tormentor huff and then stomp over to a rack on the back wall.

Now what the hell's she doing?

She rushed back gripping a short razor strap in her right hand as if she meant to use it.

Oh, shit!

Margaret backed up while holding her hands on the intended target of that strap. "You're not going to hit me with that, are you?"

Marion stepped forward and shook the strap, causing her unwilling subject to back up and jump around like a child avoiding an irate parent hell bent on inflicting corporal punishment.

"If you don't sit your ass down here." She gestured to the chair. "I will hit it with this."

Circling around while maintaining a safe distance from her pursuing tormentor, Margaret shuffled her feet and held out her arm as if she were maneuvering on a basketball court. She suddenly caught sight of a camera mounted up near the ceiling and tried to hold her breasts to keep them from jiggling. She wasn't very successful. They bounced around wildly.

I'll just bet that fat little imp is getting his jollies but good. Damn him, anyway.

Her tormentor stopped and exhaled a breath of frustration before she screamed: "Get your ass over here."

"I will. I will. Don't blow a gasket" She shuffled closer but kept her backside turned away. "Just don't hit me with that strap."

Marion gestured at the chair. "I won't hit you if you do as I say."

"Ok. Ok."

Margaret had to turn her vulnerable backside to her tormentor in order to sit down in the chair, and it made her very cautious. She kept a weary eye on the strap and the hand that held it.

Marion's eyes widened. "Wait!"

Margaret held her hands on her buttocks. "You're not going whip me, are you?"

"No, Mrs. Hauptman. I want to look at your ass."

"You what?"

"What the hell's this?" Marion said, touching Margaret's left buttock."

"What?"

Marion smiled. "Why, Mrs. Hauptman. I don't believe it. You have a tattoo on your ass, a red squid. How appropriate. But, why in the hell would you have your ass tattooed?"

"Yeah, I know. It's stupid. It happened when I had a little too much to drink. My husband dared me to . . . well, he wasn't my husband at the time. I'll never forgive him for that."

"I'll have to say," Marion said, giggling, "It's in a well concealed location."

"Very funny."

"Sit your tattoo down so we can get started."

A comedian.

Margaret quickly sat down and scooted back in the chair, but she squirmed on its hard, unfriendly surface.

Marian gave her a satisfied grin and then squatted down and grabbed Margaret's right leg, but Margaret resisted any attempt to move it.

"Stop it. I have to put your leg in this."

"I don't want my leg in that . . . that damn thing."

Marion slapped Margaret's thigh with the strap.

"Ow! God damn it, that hurts." She rubbed the throbbing red welt, tying unsuccessfully to relieve the sting. "I told you I didn't like to be whipped."

"Put your goddamn leg in here." Marion gestured to the cage. "Or I'll whip the shit out of you."

Margaret reluctantly allowed her right leg to be inserted into the Boot, and Marion quickly swung the front section back into position, trapping it.

"You are the most obstinate and uncooperative subject I've ever had to deal with, Mrs. Hauptman."

And proud of it.

"I'm sorry. I just can't stand being whipped. My parents often whipped me when I was young." It was a blatant lie, but perhaps it would elicit pity.

"You deserved it, I'm sure."

Not.

Before doing anything with the Boot, Marion strapped Margaret's left ankle to the chair's leg, then stood up and secured her wrists with wide straps. She circled around the chair's back; looped a strap around her subject's neck, inserted the ends into slots on the chair back, and fastened them together with a large buckle.

"Hey! Not so tight. I can't breath."

"I don't believe you, Mrs. Hauptman. If you couldn't breath, you would be unable to complain."

"You don't have to make it so tight, damn it."

Marion tightened it more.

Margaret wheezed and hissed. "You're choking me, damn it."

"Too bad."

With her obstinate subject securely restrained, Marion knelt down and began making fine adjustments to the metal straps so that they fit snuggly around her subject's trapped leg, squeezing and probing its flesh to make sure there was no chance of movement. After twenty minutes--minutes that seemed to pass annoyingly slow--she finished securing the two halves of the cage by tightening bolts with a ratchet.

"I assume that it's too late to apologize for my . . . comment."

Marian only smirked, an expression that telegraphed her anticipated pleasure in repaying her victim for her satirical remark.

"Ah . . . I have to go to the little girls room."

"Too bad, Mrs. Hauptman. This isn't a comfort station. You'll just have to hold it."

Oh, well. I tried.

Decision time. Should I overreact and hope she'll ease off or should I try to resist reacting and take away all her fun. This is like an adventure game with one extremely crucial choice. Should I, or shouldn't I. That is the question.

"How's this thing work?"

"I'll show you." Marian squatted down near the contraption and began turning knobs.
Margaret felt pressure on her leg at various specific locations: the front of her tibia directly below the patella, half way down the tibia, right above the ankle, as well as on the front and both sides of the knee and ankle. She also felt pressure on top of her foot and on the first and third toes. The resulting pressure at each position was localized to a small area.

As her tormentor tightened down at each position like a mechanic torqueing down an engine head, she flashed a wet tongue in and out of her mouth and widened her eyes with excitement.

On the other hand, Margaret narrowed her eyes and tried to avoid biting her tongue. As pain escalated, muscles tensed in every part of her body and they quickly began to shudder and quiver from continuous contraction. She reflexively tried to rise out of the chair, but the restraining straps prevented her. The effort caused tendons in her neck to bulge and her abdominal muscles to pull tightly enough to reveal the full arch of her rib cage. Soon, her chest began to pulse in and out rapidly and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead.

She grunted and moaned. "Ow! That hurts!"

Marian thrust her narrow bony face with lips twisted into a mocking grin a few inches in front of Margaret's red-cheeked sweaty face with lips twisted into an agonizing grimace. "It's supposed to hurt. Isn't it marvelous?"

Margaret spoke through clenched teeth. "Why is the pain only localized to small points?"

Marion stood up and stepped back, her face relaxing to a studious demeanor. "Each knob applies force to a small area on the various leg and foot bones, namely the tibia, patella, the metatarsals, and the phalanges. The point of contact is a small curved metal plate positioned by micrometer screws that allow minute changes in the amount of pressure. Just think how slowly the level of pain can be incremented."

She bent over and turned three knobs to prove it.

Margaret puffed short breaths. "Argh! Damn! Could you back off a bit? Damn, that hurts. Damn! Damn!"

"Bitch, bitch, bitch. All you ever do is bitch." She turned the knob above Margaret's toe another turn.

Margaret screamed and struggled hard against her restraints, a reaction that caused her tormentor's maniacal eyes to glisten.

Her highly agitated subject turned narrow squinting eyes to her tormentor. "Please. It hurts. Please. It hurts like hell. Please. Ow! It hurts! Ow!" She began to huff again, blowing out air in short violent bursts. "Damn it hurts! Damn!"

"I told you that it's supposed to hurt. Didn't you believe me?"

"I believe you. I believe you. I believe you, damn it. Ow! Please. Please. Ow!" She considered screaming her lungs out, but decided a guttural moan would be more effective.

It wasn't.

So, she started whimpering and crying. "Please! Please! I can't take it. I'm too old for this. Please have mercy on me. Please!" She moaned again, punctuating it with sobbing.

Marion gave her a look of disbelief.

I think I have her.

"Ow! Please! It hurts so much. Please! I beg of you." She openly bawled, tears running down her face to emphasize her reaction to the pain. "Please!" she cried between sobs. "Please! It hurts! Please!"

It wasn't what her tormentor had expected. She looked down at the Boot for several seconds before she finally gave each knob a counterclock-wise turn.

"There. How's that?"

Margaret blew out a deep shuddering breath. "Much better. Thank you." Her face didn't exhibit any relaxation, however. She elected to sob occasionally.

"You may as well quit complaining. That was only a very small example of what you're going to feel."

"I understand that. I believe you. I realize that you can make me suffer horrible pain, and God knows I deserve to suffer. I haven't been very cooperative and I've said things that weren't very nice. I'm bad. I know it. But, I ask your forgiveness. Please, take pity on me. I'm not a young woman. My poor bones are not so strong. I can't stand pain like I used to. I'll tell you anything you want to know. Just back off on those screws. Please!"

Marion stared at her victim with a dumbfounded expression on her face. She expected defiance and resistance, but these were the pleas of a weakling, a woman humiliated and repentant.

"I don't really want to hurt you, Mrs. Hauptman. I just want information. That's all."

Margaret tried to sound as if she were humble and submissive. "I'll tell you anything you want to know. Anything!"

Marion appeared dejected, her face exhibiting confusion.

Margaret jumped at the opening. "I'd like to ask you a question, please."

"Yes," she said in a soft voice.

"Are those screw heads pointed?"

"No, Mrs. Hauptman. I told you that they're connected to round plates. They're not supposed to penetrate, only apply pressure."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you."

The fat little gnome sits there leaning on the desk with his puffy jaw propped in his stubby hand. The monitor he's staring bleary-eyed at gives him a clear full-color high-resolution view of the interrogation room, and if he wants a closer view, he can adjust the zoom factor and angle of the camera. It's almost as good as being there.

He isn't happy with his wife's interrogation of the Hauptman woman. It's obvious that she's being manipulated by a very wiley subject. It isn't her fault, though. She's much better at interrogating men; although, he doesn't appreciate the erotic pleasure she derives from it. She has an insatiable appetite for salacious stimulation, and it disturbs him deeply.

Unfortunately, he has no choice but to allow her to fulfill her unusual cravings. He just can't understand why she loves inflicting pain. It's unprofessional. Maybe it has something to do with the constant headaches she suffers. Perhaps, she's trying to lash out at others as if they were responsible for her pain.

Actually, he believes that he's responsible for her sadistic appetites. He had been foolish enough to sign a contract with a security agency to interrogate special government prisoners. And, the government doesn't really care what methods he employs. All they care about is the information he's able to extract.

Unfortunately, his wife really got into the art of interrogation, eventually enjoying it so much that he allowed her to take over the program. He has no stomach for interrogation, but she unabashedly loves it. She had spent many hours researching methods of persuasion, acquiring instruments of pain, and modifying them for her own purposes. She has interrogated hundreds of subjects over the years, but only a few of them have been females.

It was just as well. She prefers males. In fact, she abandons all professional decorum when she knows she's going to interrogate a male. She's so good at extracting information from male subjects the security community gave her a Distinguished Service Award for her very efficient work.

Despite her questionable expertise, he had no hope of obtaining accurate information about the creatures. It's obvious that the Hauptman woman is unreliable. She's willing to say anything to avoid suffering. Her only value will be as tender for an exchange.

The only good thing about all of this is the fact that the Hauptman woman is easy on the eyes. Despite her age, she has a nice body and he enjoys watching her. As a matter of fact, she's much nicer than younger women. He can't even imagine how a woman her age can have such large breasts not, as yet, subjugated to the ravages of gravity. They're very enjoyable to watch.

But, he hates the screaming. Females screech with a grating high-pitched loudness that pierces through his brain like a hot knife. At least here he can turn down the sound. He can still see that they were suffering by looking at their faces.

He actually enjoys watching the Hauptman woman suffer. She deserves it for her insolence. He especially loves how she begs for mercy and how she has been reduced to a whimpering fool. It's great fun seeing her arrogant face twist with pain. The stubborn bitch needs to suffer.

Actually, watching his wife torment the Hauptman woman is boring. He prefers using subtle methods, such as implied terror and humiliation to obtain information. He hates the idea of torture. It's uncivilized and barbarian. But he really doesn't care as long as his wife is fulfilling her unusual appetites. If it makes her happy, it makes him happy.

Oh, well. It could be worse. He could be watching his wife interrogate a male.

"Can I begin now, Mrs. Hauptman?" Marion said it in a mocking fashion but without much enthusiasm.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"I'm supposed to be asking the questions, not you."

"Please?"

Marion nodded, but her eyes exuded frustration.

"Have you ever used this . . . this device before?"

"Of course, Mrs. Hauptman. I've used all of these marvelous instruments before. Why?"

"Just curious about the last occupant of this damned chair."

A smile appeared on Marion's face, but it was more erotic in nature. Her eyes jerked around wildly and she did something that surprised Margaret: She licked her lips as if she were enjoying a delicious candy.

She looked at Margaret with eyes emblazoned with recalled excitement. "Oh, you would have definitely enjoyed my last subject, Mrs. Hauptman."

"How so?"

"He was a very handsome young man with a lean muscular body." She made a circle with her hand as if she were holding some imaginary object. "And he was well endowed in the male department." She rolled her eyes. "I just loved touching his marvelous skin. I had a fabulous time just looking at him."

Good God, she's as perverted as her husband is.

"Did you whip his butt, too?"

She laughed. "You would have had to have been here, Mrs. Hauptman. He had a nice tight ass. I enjoyed pinching and slapping it so much I hurt my hand."

"Why didn't you use your strap on him?"

"I didn't need to." She giggled. "He wasn't stubborn like you. In fact, he cooperated willingly."

"Maybe he liked it."

She giggled more violently. "I take that back. He didn't like it one bit when I squeezed his . . ."

"Spare me the details," Margaret said, in a disgusted tone. "I don't know how you can derive pleasure from hurting a man's privates."

Marion laughed more boisterously. "You're such a prude, Mrs. Hauptman."

"What can I say, I'm just a conservative at heart."

Marion stared blankly at her for a few seconds before her lips slowly pursed into a playful smile. "I'm disappointed with my husband. Why couldn't he have captured your husband instead of you? If I had your husband here, I would find it much easier and more enjoyable to make him talk."

Oh, God! Good thing he isn't here. He would never survive this. On second thought, maybe he could use a little testicle squeezing. He's been such a pain in the ass of late.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but my plumbing's on the inside."

"I wouldn't be so flippant if I were you. I can apply pressure to your internal plumbing quite easily."

Oh, no! I don't like the sound of that.

"You've made your point. Thank you."

She's a sadistic pervert. I'd better watch what I say.

After several moments of contemplation, her tormentor slouched her shoulders and sighed. "Well. I may as well get started."

She squatted down and gave several knobs a turn, but she elected to turn the screw over her victim's big toe several turns. "Ow! Please! Please don't . . . Please. My toe. It hurts so much. God, does it hurt!"

"You dumb bitch. I told you before it's supposed to hurt." She added another turn.

Margaret screwed her face with pain and screamed, screeched, yelled, cried, and bawled. She struggled to rise out of the chair, causing her muscles to quiver in a sea of bulging tendons.

And between screams: "Please don't hurt me. Please. Please have mercy on me. Please!"

Marion watched her screaming, protesting victim suffer for a few minutes before she backed off the knob over the big toe. "There. How's that?"

Margaret huffed and puffed several times, relaxing back into the seat. "Thank you. That's much better. Thank you."

Then she grimaced. "Could you please back off on the one on the left side of my knee. I beg you. Please."

She did so.

"That's much better. Thank you."

"Mrs. Hauptman, I haven't even begun and you're having a rough time. You are not making this as enjoyable as I thought it would be."

Too bad. I'm not having an enjoyable evening either. I'm getting a hands-on course in medieval torture devices from an insane woman. If I don't get out of here soon, I'll be the one going insane.

"Can I ask you another question?"

"I'm getting tired of your inane questions. If I didn't know better, I would think that you're trying to waste time."

"Please?"

"If you must."

"What are those little holes in the seat for?"

Marion's eyes brightened. "Ah, yes. I'm glad you reminded me."

I had to ask.

"It's such a marvelous device. You see, they're little spikes mounted in shafts and they can be slowly raised out of the holes."

Margaret began huffing. "Please don't do it. I beg you. Don't. Don't puncture my skin. Please don't."

Marion laughed. "You needn't concern yourself, Mrs. Hauptman. They're not sharp. They won't puncture your precious hide."

"Thank you," her subject said, relaxing and blowing out breaths in relief.

"However, they will make you much more uncomfortable."

Wonderful. Just what I needed.

Marion squatted down and began turning a handle under the seat. After a few minutes, Margaret felt as if someone was trying to jab several pencils into her buttocks. She tried to escape the very uncomfortable sensation by rising out of the seat, but she knew that she couldn't maintain the effort for very long.

"Ow! Please. It hurts!"

"Why, Mrs. Hauptman, you seem, shall we say, on edge."

"You'd be on edge if you had to sit in this damn chair butt naked."

"There you go again. Bitch, bitch, bitch."

"But, it's indecent."

"I don't know why you keep stating the obvious. You're not here for a social visit." She grinned. "At least not dressed as you are."

Margaret frowned. "Very funny."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hauptman."

God, how I hate this stupid little game of hers!