The Premature Burial

A thump, like something soft but heavy hitting wood woke her up. It was followed by another and another, in quick succession. Groggily, she considered turning over to get more comfortable; she was lying on her back, and usually she didn't sleep on her back.

The thumping kept coming; it seemed very close, but she was sure now that it was receding, and she dozed. She was irritated at being woken, and her position wasn't the most comfortable, but right now she just wanted to go back to sleep.

The thumps were getting quieter and more muffled now, ans she realised that her irritation was not helping her doze off again. Slowly, her head began to clear. She opened her eyes but no light entered them.

She lifted her head, trying to get her bearings. Her forehead bumped into something hard immediately after leaving the pillow. Her hands, which had been clasped together just below her breasts, flew upward to investigate, meeting a solid panel, mere inches above her body.

Frantically, she explored her surroundings with her hands. Above her was a solid ceiling, timber from the sound of it, and it didn't sound hollow beyond. Cloth enclosed her to the left and right, padding underneath her, but again what sounded like timber and solidity beyond.

Suddenly realisation took hold. She was in a coffin. And the thumps, now that she was able to process the sound properly, were those of dirt being shovelled on top of her. The sound was barely audible now, very soon there would be only silence.

The silence of the grave.

She panicked, desperately hitting the lid of the coffin with her hands, knees and feet. It was no use; there was insufficient room to get a good swing, and the sound of her fist-falls seemed to be deadened by the weight of the dirt above. Her desperate shouts seemed too to be swallowed up in the earth that had taken her.

Several times she stopped to listen for the sound of a spade on the coffin lid, and each time she was disappointed. Trying to hit the sides and lid of the coffin hard enough to be heard was wearing her out, and her knuckles felt raw. She was growing hoarse from shouting as well; her chest was heavy; her ribs sore.

She told herself to get a grip and stop panicking. She realised she would run out of air soon, and she needed to figure out what was going on. First she started to properly survey her surroundings. Feeling around, she learned little that she hadn't already established; it was definitely shaped and upholstered like a coffin, narrow at the feet and head, wider at the chest, and quite small; there was very little spare room.

Figures, she thought. No expense wasted.

She struggled to remember anything that had led up to finding herself here. The last thing she could recall was being at her boyfriend's house on Friday night, having a quiet glass of wine before dinner. At least the boy could cook.

Oh my God, she thought, did I drive home drunk? What happened to me?

She started to examine herself. Touching her head and face, nothing seemed to hurt. Her arms and legs, within the confines of the space she was in, all did what they were asked without protest. The only pain she could feel was that inflicted in the panic of the last few minutes. Surely, an accident capable of making her appear dead would have caused other injuries?

Surveying her body brought another surprise. She was laced tightly into her favourite leather corset, the one that went low over her hips and high over her shoulders, covering her breasts. Well, that explained her shortness of breath; in her panic she hadn't even noticed that her chest was so confined. Tight, high-waisted jeans that she had bought especially to go with a corset, covered her from her waist down, belted firmly around the thinnest part of her waist.

Her hands could not reach past her tightly clad thighs in the confined space, but she could feel that her ankles were held down, by what she figured must be her highest heeled boots. Tapping the heels against the sides of the coffin confirmed this suspicion.

Oh-kay, she thought. Surely her parents would not have dressed her like this for her own funeral? It would have been as the pretty, innocent thing they would like to imagine her as, not as the darker, kinkier character she actually was. Parents can be so self-deluding, she thought.

Slowly the pieces started to fall into place. She remembered how she had locked herself into small closet many years ago, and how even though the door was far from airtight the air had got stuffy within a few minutes. She had panicked, and broken the latch to get out. She was sure that closet was bigger than the space she currently occupied. And if this really was her funeral, the lid would have been on the coffin for hours or even days. Yet, although slightly clammy, the air was cool, and once she'd calmed down and stopped fighting the corset, she was having no difficulty breathing.

Suddenly, she recalled the conversation she had with Dave, her boyfriend of the last year. It had been over a month ago; it was late in the evening, and they had both been a little tipsy at the time, but not so drunk as to not take it seriously. They had been talking about their deepest, darkest fantasies and fears.

Her fantasy, and fear, had been to be buried alive, to feel that there was no possibility of escape. She didn't want to die; the death part wasn't part of the scenario, but the possibility, or even inevitability of it was. Many times she had tried unsuccessfully to reconcile what she considered her morbid, self-destructive fantasies, with her strong will to live and real concern for the welfare of other people.

Her obsession with danger had formed an itch that needed to be scratched; climbing trees, and later cliffs had provided partial relief; the danger was there, but she always felt she had the choice at each point to take that next step or not. What if she couldn't get down?

From a young age she had tied herself up, even suspending herself by the wrists, ankles or both. Always she loved it, and always she wanted more. But always, that sense of self preservation prevented her from achieving what she wanted, to really feel like she could not escape.

A couple of times, her self-bondage had gone wrong, escape mechanisms had failed and she was left fighting for her life. Each time, that will to live had kicked in, and once she had control over her panic, she had been able to escape, finding a weak point in her bonds to break out of, or discovering the inner strength to stand the pain of pulling out of what she had previously assumed was an inescapable cuff. Those events had both thrilled her, and disappointed her. The disappointments were two-fold and contradictory; she could not genuinely feel the despair of a truly inescapable situation, and yet she was angry at herself for failing to properly ensure her own safety.

Then she had met Dave. After several unsuccessful relationships, she had finally met someone who understood her needs. They had started with simple bondage during sex, and as they had become more comfortable playing together, she had convinced him to bind her more strictly and for longer periods. But still, she felt safe. Too safe.

Now that sense of safety was returning. Of course this was Dave's work. Who else would have done it? Or could have done it? She was in her own clothes, and Dave was the last person she'd seen. He must have put something in her drink.

And yet, she had heard the earth being shovelled in on top of her; the sides and lid of the coffin sounded solid from the pressure of the surrounding dirt. There was no give in any direction, not that she could get much leverage. Yet there was air. She could feel a slight draft around her face, or was she imagining it? But it was clear the air was not getting stale, despite how long she had remained down here.

Again she relaxed. An air supply meant that, barring accidents, she wasn't going to die here, at least not from suffocation. This must be just another bondage scene. Now she started to examine the parameters of her incarceration.

While she had air, there didn't appear to be anything else. Obviously, the coffin was vented in some way, but the other elements of life support didn't appear to be present. Food, water and waste collection would be required for an indefinite stay, and these didn't appear to be present. That must mean that she would be released soon, before dehydration took its deadly toll.

Or perhaps it meant that Dave was out of his depth, and she really was in danger. Maybe this was a drunken stunt. What if he didn't know what he was doing? What if it wasn't Dave at all?

Again she panicked, yelling and thumping on the lid. She called on Dave to let her out, calling him all sorts of names. Only the silence replied.

Soon the panic attack subsided, but she was still scared. And thrilled. Torn between these two visceral emotions, another stirred. She was getting aroused. She started stroking her body. Her breasts were enclosed by the heavy structure of the corset; she could squeeze them a little, but they were already well compressed. Her hands drifted own between her legs. Her fingers reached the waist of her jeans, but the belt was too tight to admit more than the tips.

She started to undo the belt, only to discover that the buckle would not let go; feeling around, she felt a thick plastic loop, probably an electrical cable tie, alongside the buckle prong. Without tools, there was no way to open it.

Pressing on her crotch, she found that there was more than just her jeans covering her most intimate parts; the denim itself was thick, but there was more, some kind of padding. Her rear was similarly covered. Realisation dawned; she was in some kind of diaper, held in place by the corset and jeans. Further investigation revealed what felt like the edge seams of a heavy, long-leg pantie-girdle beneath her jeans and corset, adding extra security to the diaper. Worse, there seemed to be something hard between the girdle and diaper, reducing any movement applied to the sensitive spots she most wanted to reach right now to a dull pressure around the whole area.

She reached up to her waist again, this time seeking to unzip her fly and put her hand under her jeans; she wasn't hopeful of any kind of success even if she could get in, and was not surprised to find another cable tie wrapped around the base of the button, firmly capturing both the corresponding button hole and the end of the zipper pull.

Defeated, she tried again to reach her breasts. She was surprised to find that the zip that closed the corset at the front was secured with another tie through the pull and two small, freshly installed grommets at either side of the zip. The corset was scoop-necked, but sat high over her breasts; without a shirt, cleavage would be visible, but her sensitive nipples were far inside the enclosing leather. That cleavage was formed by pushing her breasts up as far as they would comfortably go; there was no real hope of lifting them further.

Even if she couldn't get a hand to her nipples, maybe she could massage the bare flesh of the tops of her breasts, currently protected by the fabric of the tight, long-sleeved turtle-necked top underneath the corset. Sliding her hand under the neck of the shirt, she discovered that the base of the neck had a thick line of some sort threaded through it, no doubt knotted somewhere under the corset. It wasn't tight, but there wasn't going to be enough room to reach in.

The other way of getting past the corset was to undo the laces. She twisted her body, struggling to get an arm behind her in the confined space. There wasn't quite enough room to rotate her shoulders to lie on her side, let along roll on her stomach, so she had to hold the twisted position and arch her back.

She felt up and down the lacing for the knot, expecting to find it at the small of her back. Instead, the lacing continued uninterrupted down her spine and into her jeans. Through the denim, she could feel a small knot at the bottom of the corset, safely out of reach of any probing finger. From the size of the knot and the lack of other bumps, it seemed the loose ends of the laces had been cut short after being tied off. That route too was barred.

Before removing her arm from the its uncomfortable position underneath her, she felt the laces. These felt different to what she remembered, thinner, but more slippery. They had been replaced, probably with some kind of nylon cord. She sliced at it wit her fingernails, but feeling no sign of abrasion on the taut fibres, brought her arm back out in front of her.

Frustrated, she reached back down over he crotch and rubbed vigorously, trying to get some relief from the arousal she now felt. She so wanted to put her finger on her clitoris, circling it gently while squeezing and playing with her nipples. She wanted to slide her finger in and out of her love tunnel until her body convulsed in ecstasy. If only these activities were not denied from her by the sturdiness of her own clothes and the shield over her mound.

Harder and harder she rubbed, trying to get enough vibration in her whole lower region to put herself over the edge. Her other hand alternated between wrestling with the leather covering her breasts, and banging on the lid of the coffin, shouting obscenities at whoever may or may not be listening. Now she just wanted to get out of the box, out of the ground, and out of these confounded clothes. And again, she was to be denied.

Eventually, she tired and calmed down, and again took stock of her situation. Her stomach grumbled.

The rat, she thought. The reason she couldn't remember anything after that first glass of wine was that she must have been out cold soon after. Dave must have spiked her drink. And that meant she wouldn't have eaten; in fact she hadn't had much for lunch either. Since she'd had a bowel movement that day, it did mean she wasn't going to need to go number twos any time soon. Number ones would be taken care of by the diaper, for a while at least.

It also meant that she didn't need to be released any time soon. Food and water were her remaining concerns.

She was not wearing a watch, and couldn't read one anyway in the pitch darkness. She tried to track the time; surely she had been here for nearly an hour now. She had no idea how long she was out, but figured that Dave must have worked reasonably quickly; surely he wouldn't endanger her life by keeping her drugged for too long? He must have prepared this, the only things remaining being to get her changed, and put her in the hole, an hour tops. That meant it was maybe around nine or ten p.m. Friday, with the weekend ahead of her. He wouldn't keep her in here for two whole days? Would he?

She tried to relax, telling herself there was nothing more she could do, and she would just have to wait it out. Just try to sleep, make the time go faster.

She was tired after all the exertion; if only she could turn over, get more comfortable. Not that she was too uncomfortable, as the bottom of the coffin was padded, but she was not used to sleeping on her back. Actually, she really wanted to curl up into a foetal position right now. She laid her hands by her sides, allowed her head to flop to one side, and tried to sleep.

Sleep came, but it was fitful, and full of frightening dreams. Once, she was sure the lid was collapsing; she woke in a cold sweat, screaming. It was an hour before she could drift off again. Other times she tried to turn over, bumping her shoulders or head against the lid. She fought the unyielding casket, until she woke enough to get a grip on herself. And so the hours passed.

She had no idea how long she had been there when she started to notice her mouth was dry. Cold sweats and frightened bouts of anger and fruitless yelling and thumping on the coffin lid had taken its toll. The air was moist, which had kept dehydration at bay for this long, but now she was losing that battle. She realised she would have to relax if she was to last until she was released.

If she was released.

The only indications that this was anything other than a true premature burial was the continuing supply of cool, moist air, and the clothes she was wearing; the latter had other possible explanations. It had been hours since she had heard the last distant thud of earth being shovelled into the hole, and maybe she had imagined that. She was only assuming that because they had discussed burial, and not even at great length, that this was a bondage scene and not something much more sinister. Dave might not even be involved.

Nightmare scenarios again flooded her mind. Perhaps she had been kidnapped; her parents were well off, as were Dave's; they might be good for a ransom. Worse, they might not be as well off as they appeared; they worked hard at businesses that looked prosperous, but could just as easily be on shaky financial ground. After all the recession had taken many formerly successful business people down. What if they couldn't pay?

Perhaps Dave was lying right beside her, in his own nameless grave, the also victim of a kidnapping, or worse? Perhaps Dave wasn't all he appeared? Maybe he was a psychopath, enjoying making his victims suffer before cutting off their air?

She told herself to calm down, resisting the urge to again scream and bang on the lid. Worrying was useless; it didn't matter what the true situation was, she just had to survive as long as possible.

Eventually, she was able to drift off again into a restless sleep.

A splash on her temple awoke her abruptly. Confused, she lifted her hand to her face, feeling the remains of the drop below her ear, and licking the dampness off her finger. As she did so, another drip hit her squarely on the bridge of her nose, splashing her eyes and cheeks. She put her hand to the lid of the coffin above her face; it was damp.

More drips came, again splashing on her face, before she realised that she needed water, and opened her mouth to catch them. Soon the drips had become a weak but steady stream. The water seemed sweet to her parched mouth, and she swallowed the water hungrily.

Maybe she was being watered deliberately. That was the obvious thought as it continued to stream into her mouth. She put her hand up to the lid above her experimentally, sensing what she thought was a crack, or a hole where the water was coming through. She didn't know if it had been there before; she hadn't been looking for such detail when she first explored her surroundings.

Again, the alternatives filled her mind, building on their earlier constructions. What if it had started raining; waterlogged earth could collapse the lid of the coffin, blocking her air supply and crushing the life out of her.

The water was showing no signs of abating; she felt she had to get as much of it as she could, just in case it stopped. What if it didn't stop, and the coffin started to fill?

As she thought this, the flow started to dribble. She was still a little thirsty, and she desperately reached up to the source of the flow to lick away at the last drops. She had been expecting disaster from drowning, and now the water had stopped before she was satisfied. It meant a longer lease of life, but how much? Would there be water again? And would it stop? Now she knew death from dehydration was several days away. And she wondered if the sweetness was just due to the how welcome the water was in her parched mouth, or if there was something in it.

But that brought another fear. She had heard of hunger strikers going for over a month without food. She had to hold onto the belief that this was just Dave giving her what she asked for, but a supply of water as well as air meant that he could keep her here for weeks. They had discussed a fantasy, not a scene, and they had not set any limits. Again she had to work hard to calm herself.

Boy, was he a dead man when she got out of this hole!

And damn it, how could he give her a scene this long where she could not get herself off? It was inhuman! Her arousal and frustration were building again.

She reflected that the fact this just made her hornier. If she had got off the first time she reached down there, so many hours ago, she probably wouldn't even be thinking about it now.

Hours? How many? How she wished she had some way of tracking time. Sleep, when she could get any, was good for passing the time; there wasn't much else to do except think of ways things could get worse, or to rub fruitlessly at the clothing covering her sensitive parts. She she had no idea how long she had been asleep, and therefore no idea how long she had been in the coffin. In fact, she didn't even have a handle on how long she had been awake.

As the hours, or days, ticked past, she could measure time only by water; she had no real idea how often the water came. She was thirsty all the time, and the brief drinks of water she was getting were enough to get her back to the state she was after the previous one, but she was always thirsty. And increasingly hungry.

It left her feeling utterly more powerless; she was totally dependant on outside agencies for her very survival, and she couldn't even be sure who or what those agencies were. The water might still be from passing rain showers; logic said they were too regular for that, but logic also said that in the monotonous stillness of the coffin, she had no real indication of what "regular" was.

And still she was being made to suffer. The constant thirst was one thing, her hunger another. Keeping the same position hour after hour in the small space was taking its toll as well; her buttocks were starting to hurt, and the rigidity of the corset, and especially the impressions formed by the rear boning and lacing, were making their presence felt. She was starting to feel dirty. She had urinated into the diaper several times, holding onto it as long as she could before letting go. It felt clammy around her; she imagined the urine pooling under her; probably most of the feelings of dirtiness were in her mind, but it didn't feel good. The creases in her body felt like they were filling with gunk, and she craved a hot bath.

Her feet had been sweating since not long after she first woke up; the stiff, lace-up boots were patent leather, not known for being breathable. Or its flexibility; she struggled against the firm leather to rotate her ankles and keep her calves from cramping up.

She worried that her sanity was also going to suffer. Of course prisoners kept in solitary confinement don't go crazy immediately, she told herself. But still, in the absence of any real stimulation, she worried.

She was now sure that the water was artificially sweetened; this meant that she was getting energy as well as liquid. It also meant that possibly, hunger wouldn't be the limiting factor on how long she stayed here after all. She shuddered at the thought. Malnutrition would get her in the end, but that could be months away, especially if there was more than just sugar in the water. She would be a gibbering, emaciated wreck by then. Infections were a likely cause of an earlier, lingering and painful death, if she didn't lose the will to live sooner.

And yet, amid all this morbidity, she was as horny as Hell. It kept her awake when she craved oblivion. Damn it, if she could just get enough movement into that shield! The sensory deprivation was getting to her too; there was nothing to see, and all she could hear was the sounds made by her own body. Her breathing and heartbeat, normally so quiet and easily ignored, seemed to fill her small cavity in the earth. The only identifiable smell was her own sweat, and she was soon used to that.

Her only option was to squirm around; rubbing life back into the pressure points of her buttocks and shoulders, difficult to manage in the small space. If only she could just roll over! The pressure points from all the tight clothing was starting to get a bit raw too, and there was little she could do about that.

She felt she was getting more sensitive; she pulled her sleeves up and stroked her forearms. Damn, that tickled! But maybe she could stimulate parts of her body other than the obvious ones, maybe she could even manage an orgasm.

Please!

She played with her earlobes, pretending it was the hand of a lover; the nape of her neck also afforded a certain sensuality. Closer to convention, she tried rubbing her inner thighs through her jeans and the girdle beneath them; that afforded a small but unsatisfactory reaction.

She couldn't help but to put her hand back on her crotch, and shake the unyielding shield violently again. With her other hand stroking her neck and earlobes, she was getting more stimulated, but that all important release still seemed so far away.

Now she fought the coffin as well. She pulled her knees up so that they banged on the side of the coffin, while her heels connected with the other side. He shoulder contacted the lid. She kicked both sides of the coffin, tearing the fabric with her heel. Harder she rubbed herself; as she felt she was making headway.

Just as she was feeling as if there might possibly be a chance of success this time, water splashed onto her neck from above. Damn it! Not now! Still, she had to stop and drink, lapping the water from the lid of the coffin.

This time the water did not leave her unsatisfied. She kept drinking, until she could feel that she was no longer thirsty. As she lapped at the point where the water was coming through, a drop hit her squarely between they eyes. The flow diminished from the previous point, but kept dripping, but now it was dripping from other points above her face and around the head area of the coffin.

This was different and it worried her. What if it didn't stop? Worse, there didn't seem to be anywhere she could go to avoid at least some of the drips. Had something broken? Or was her assumption that the water supply was artificial been wrong all along? Why change now?

She shuddered; the violence of the last few minutes might have broken something. Perhaps she had weakened the lid; might it collapse on her at any moment? The dripping was unpleasant, unavoidable, and utterly frightening. She resolved to stop banging or pressuring the coffin's sides and lid, lest she upset anything else that was keeping her alive, and try to relax.

That was difficult with the water dripping on her, and the pillow and mattress under her head and shoulders was getting quite damp. It seemed to be slowing though, and she thought that now she had relaxed, the problem had sorted itself out.

Now the drips were just occasional, sometimes up to a minute apart, but seemingly random.; she was reminded of the so-called Chinese water torture; there was no way she would be able to sleep like this. She was getting more agitated by the moment, frightened at the change, angry at the drips for being just so persistent, and angry at herself for possibly damaging whatever arrangement was keeping her alive.

The longer she tried to control herself, the harder it was. Again, she tried to distract herself by playing with herself, trying to get a sensation stronger than the that of cold water on her head and face.

It was no use; after nearly an hour of struggling to control herself, she lashed out again at the wooden enclosure, getting a grip on herself a few moments later, before breaking down in tears instead. She just wanted this to stop. She wished she had never mentioned her fantasy to Dave, wished she had never met him, wished she had never tied herself up. She would do anything to live a normal, kink-free life, if she could just get out of this infernal box.

As her tears dried, she noticed that she hadn't been dripped on for a while; the lid was still damp, but no new drops appeared to be forming. She also noticed that it was getting noticeably warmer.

Now what, she thought, had her latest outburst damaged the air supply? As time passed, the temperature rose; now she was sweating, and starting to breath heavily. The air was definitely stale too. The air supply that had sustained her for so long was no more, and now she knew this was the the beginning of the end.

She was fighting the corset for every breath now, her chest was heavy, her ribs sore. It was just a matter of time before she passed out. And yet, her arousal was making its presence known again. She had heard of auto-erotic asphyxiation, and maybe this was her last chance for that release that had been denied her for so long. She reached to her privates and breasts again, rubbing and squeezing for all she was worth. Her chest was screaming, breathing faster and faster, trying to get far more air than the corset would ever allow. She couldn't tell if the roaring in her head was from her own building sensations, from lack of oxygen or the endorphins from the pain of suffocation; probably all three. Still she rubbed herself for all she was worth; probably the act was doing more than the actual sensation induced, but it was all she had.

Then suddenly, it arrived. The orgasm crashed over her, seemingly for several minutes. She had done it, she could stop breathing now, as if she had any energy left to do so. Her head lolled to one side as she waited for death to claim her.

Her head snapped forward again moments later, as suddenly her still, silent world was filled with noise and violence. Her last thought was that the coffin must have finally caved in and it was finally over; she felt only relief as her consciousness departed.

She awoke in a bed. Soft pillows, proper bedding, a night dress. Light, curtains pulled, but definitely daylight. Her body hurt, but it was a good hurt, one of old pain diminishing, not of serious injury.

Dave was there. He put his hand on her head to re-assure her. It felt comfortable, for now. "You're OK," he said, "Just relax."

She pulled herself up. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, Buster," she said, trying to be angry but not quite getting the venom into her voice.

"And I will, later. Now you're awake, I'll get you some breakfast."

"What time is it?" she asked as he turned for the door.

"Tuesday."

"Thanks." It was all she needed right now. She would miss days of work, but didn't care. She would worry about that later.

It was a serious breakfast. She hadn't eaten for over three days, and she wolfed it down hungrily. Dave refused to serve her more, telling her that she would get a good lunch, but right now she needed to digest what she had just eaten.

"So," he asked, "did you enjoy your little fantasy?"

She wanted to kill him right now. Painfully. Messily. But the answer that passed her lips surprised her.

"Yes," she said quietly. "But promise you'll never pull something like that again. I could have died."

He promised. But then he invited her to see exactly what her situation had been. In the middle of the garage stood a large but low metal skip, filled with earth. The skip had an angled end to allow its contents to be tipped out, and this end faced the garage door. Just beyond that lay the coffin, attached to a kind of sled, still connected via a steel cable to Dave's four-wheel drive in the driveway where it had been dragged from the skip. The lid lay to one side. The garage was at the back of the house, and hard to see from the neighbours, so Dave hadn't needed to clear away the mess after getting her out.

Dave pointed out the various attachments to monitor the temperature, oxygen and moisture content inside the coffin, and to ventilate and control gas mixture. A gas cylinder lay alongside the bench with the computer and monitoring equipment. "I'm proud of that," he said. "I never cut off your air at the end; I just increased the carbon dioxide level to around ten percent and upped the moisture content and temperature. Did you know your suffocation reflexes are triggered by excess CO2, not a lack of oxygen?"

She muttered that she did know that. She had to accept that it was clever, though, and she really had thought she was suffocating in there. Dave continued, "you see you weren't really buried in a hole; we just heaped the dirt on top, and kept things very quiet. So we were sure we would be able to just pull you out quickly if anything went wrong. And there is an infra-red camera and microphones in the coffin, so we could see and hear you."

"What do you mean by 'we'?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Patrick." A good friend of Dave's, and a pharmacist. That explained the drugs. "He's a bit kinky too. We were both here the whole time, in case something went wrong. If one of us needed to sleep, we slept in that camp bed there."

"OK, well done. But what about my job? Did you call me in sick or what?"

"Better than that, I arranged a vacation for the week. And I asked your boss not to tell anyone, as it was to be a surprise. She's a good sport, you know."

"But a week?"

"Yes, are you up for more play? Or how does a holiday away sound?"

"You complete and utter bastard," she told him. "You scare me out of my wits, keep me locked up, frightened and hurting for three days, and then you expect me to come away with you as if I'm going to forgive you? You're completely crazy.

"But, yes, let's go. Can I bring some toys?"

30.06.10