CHAPTER THREE - WEDNESDAY 22nd DECEMBER

6:00 a.m.

For the third morning running an alarm in the building went off at six o'clock precisely. But this time it was not the hum of an electronic radio that broke the silence but that of a rusty old bell on an aged wind-up clock.
Malcolm opened his eyes and looked about the darkened room at the strange surroundings. Quickly he remembered were he was. He was lying in Mr. McTavish's bed with a naked Katie by his side. He waited for the clock to wind down of its own accord before getting out and putting on a dressing gown. Still half asleep he put on the lights and shuffled across the carpeted floor to stand between the desk and the window. Opening the curtains slightly he peered out onto the gloom of the morning. It was dark outside, and apart from the different aspect afforded by the view from Mr. McTavish's window, the sight that greeted him was not too dissimilar from that observed on the previous two mornings. The deep frost of the night had once again coated the grounds and railings of the Amusement Park a phosphorescent white; the same isolated street-lamps and Christmas trees were still glowing brightly; and the lights of the small paper shop burned as fiercely as ever over on the far side of the road.
Malcolm ambled back to the bed and stripped away the bedclothes. The curled up body of a naked Katie lay exposed on the bottom sheet. Her head was buried deep in a pillow. He rocked her gently and said: "Come on Katie! Get up you lazy thing! You've got a train to catch!"
She opened one eye and peered up to him. Sleepily she asked: "What's the time?"
"It's six o'clock in the morning," he informed her. "Now get out of bed!" Then just for good measure he gave her a hefty slap across the backside with the palm of his hand.
"Ouch!" she yelped and sat up.
Lying huddled together in each others arms the night before the lovers had made tentative plans for the morning. They decided to set the alarm for six o'clock and hoped that it would wake them up. Unfortunately it meant that they would only get about four hours sleep. However this did not seem to matter. Katie reckoned she could make up for lost sleep on the train, and Malcolm could go back to bed at anytime. So the early train it was to be, which, if everything was running to the timetable, would leave Littlesea Station at five minutes past seven. They were cutting everything fine, but they reckoned that if they got a move on, then they could just about make it.

7:00 a.m.

An hour later they were on their way, with Malcolm driving the Company's delivery van. At seven o'clock precisely the couple arrived at the station. Katie had packed her smallest suitcase, leaving the larger one behind. Malcolm carried it for her as far as the booking office then waited whilst she paid for her fare. With ticket in hand she returned and pecked him quickly on the lips. She told him hurriedly: "Got to rush Malcolm. Thanks for everything sweetheart. You were just wonderful last night!"
He returned the kiss. "So were you!" he whispered.
Katie slid a hand inside a coat pocket and took out a small package wrapped in bright Christmas paper. "Here's a little something for you Malcolm," she said handing the present over and at the same time giving him another little peck on the lips. "It's something I was going to give old fuck-face for Christmas, but it's yours now. Merry Christmas Malcolm."
Malcolm's immediate thoughts were ones of  horror. Mr. McTavish had also caught him out like this. Why did people keep handing him presents when he had nothing to give in return? "But I've got nothing for you! I'm sorry Katie, I just didn't expect this! You should have warned me!" he said apologising profusely.
She kissed him once more. "Don't worry sweetheart, look, I've got to go!" she said glancing up at the station clock. The large finger was getting ominously close to five minutes past the hour. Quickly she grabbed the suitcase.
Her assurances did little to pacify the teenager. Holding out the small package he told her: "You should have told me! I'll have something for you when you get back, I promise! Is there anything that you specifically want?"
Katie's response was immediate and totally unexpected: "There's only one thing that would please me more than anything else in the whole wide world right now, and that is to see Tracy Goodyear laid out naked and strapped to that 'tourmenter' of yours. If I were return and find her like that, then I'd love you for ever and day!" she said with a twinkle to her eye.
Malcolm did not know how to reply. Was Katie being serious? For one awful second there was silence between them. Suddenly Katie turned towards the station clock. "Look love, I've got to go!" she said hurriedly, and with that she turned and ran. Without looking back she called: "Merry Christmas Malcolm, see you on the twenty-ninth." Then seconds later she was through the barrier and out of sight.
Malcolm waited in the car park alongside the tracks until the train moved out from the platform. As the carriages began to rumble past and pick up speed he saw Katie settling herself down in a seat by the window. He smiled and waved furiously. She caught a quick glimpse of him and waved back: And then she was gone.
On his way back to the Amusement Park, because of Littlesea's notorious one-way system, Malcolm decided on a shortcut that would bring him eventually down the side road next to Alf's Café. As he approached the end of the road he noticed Jimmy's Jaguar parked outside so he pulled in behind and went inside.
Jimmy was in his usual bench seat next to the window reading his morning newspaper. Malcolm ordered a breakfast and a mug of tea then joined him. "Morning Jimmy.... did Mr. McTavish get away all right?" he said greeting the chauffeur as he parked himself down at the table opposite.
Jimmy looked up. "Yeh! Fine Malcolm! No problem at all. He'll probably be sunning it on Bondi Beach by now," he confirmed.
Malcolm smiled. That was good news. He would have hated it if anything had gone wrong for Mr. McTavish.
"What's with the van?" asked Jimmy looking out the café window at the vehicle parked outside.
Alarm bells suddenly started ringing. Malcolm had forgotten all about the van, and this was careless. If anybody had seen him and Katie together, and if ever Mr. McTavish got to find out, then he would be for the high jump. He thought quickly. "Err... just filled her up with diesel... I might have to pop back to London a bit later," he gave as the excuse.
As it happens Jimmy was not particularly bothered over the presence of the large van parked outside the window. He was just trying to hold a polite conversation. "Mind the roads," he informed him. "There's some ice about and the forecast is for freezing fog by this evening," he warned the teenager, and that became the end of the matter.
As invariably happened when the two met, they had very little to say between themselves, but at least both felt comfortable in each others presence. After several minutes of silence, Jimmy folded up his newspaper and took from the inside pocket of his chauffeur's uniform a letter that had a 'Kryton Chemicals' logo on the top. He began to study the contents. "Silly bitch! The old fart wants a good fucking," he said muttering to himself.
"Something wrong Jimmy?" asked Malcolm whilst champing on a mouthful of sausage.
"Oh it's only this list for tonight. The boss's secretary's expecting me to work bloody miracles as usual," replied Jimmy still obviously worked up about something.
"Why? What's wrong?" queried Malcolm.
"This is what's bleeding wrong!" fumed Jimmy tapping the sheet of paper. "This is a list of people who want a lift tonight. It's the Lab's turn for a party, and muggings here's expected to do all the donkey work as usual."
Malcolm looked across the table at the list. It was upside down so he could not read it properly, but he could see that it had about fifteen names and addresses on it. "What's the problem then?" he asked.
"The problem is simple,... where the bleeding hell do I start? These addresses are all over the place. Now take this one here. This girl lives right around the bay at Castle Point, up in the cottages by the old castle ruins. She's expecting to be picked up at seven-thirty, but I've also got down here that I've to pick someone else up at the same time, and that's over at Brownsands, five miles in the other direction. That fucking Secretary wants a good shagging! And it'll probably be the first one she's ever had in her whole life!"
Malcolm craned his neck and Jimmy turned the sheet round for him to see precisely what he was ranting on about. He could not see the name and address in question for it was partially obscured by Jimmy's finger, but another name near the bottom of the list did catch his eye, and suddenly he was all interest. The address read: '124A, The Prominade', and with a certain Richard Davies apparently scheduled to be collected at seven forty-five.
"It's this one here that's the problem," said Jimmy still pointing to an address about a third of the way down the sheet.
Malcolm read the line and his mouth dropped. The chauffeur was tapping the sheet at an address that read: 'Miss Tracy Goodyear, 3 Cliff Top Cottages, Castle Point, 7:30 pm'. The teenager had not been prepared for any of this, but with the little incident with the van just a few moments earlier he remained on his guard. He decided that the least said the better. If news ever got out that he knew of the blossoming relationship between Tracy Goodyear and Richard Davies, then that would inevitably lead to more awkward questions being asked about Katie Brown, and ultimately to where did she sleep last night? He thought for a moment then asked: "Who will you collect first then?"
"It'll have to be Brownsands first. There's four more to collect out that way. I can do them all in one big sweep, drop them off at the factory's social club, then head out to Castle Point afterwards. She'll just have to wait! The silly cow!" said Jimmy relating the plan he had in mind.
"This one over at Castle Point... couldn't she wait somewhere else... say at a friend's house, to save you going all the way out to there for her?" suggested Malcolm. He wanted to save Jimmy some bother, but could not put it directly to him that he knew something concerning the new and blossoming relationship between Tracy Goodyear and Richard Davies.
Jimmy shook his head and explained the reason why not: "No... She's a new girl and hasn't really had much time to make friends yet. Don't worry, I'll pick her up. It's no big deal. She'll  just  have to wait half an hour or so longer, that's all!"
Malcolm wanted to inform Jimmy that, despite what he thought, this girl had managed to make at least one good friend very quickly. However, he simply shrugged his shoulders and took a swig of tea from his mug. Talk of Tracy Goodyear had set his mind racing off at a tangent. He recalled Katie's parting wish of wanting to see the big busted girl stretched out on the rack. For a brief moment he found difficulty in coming to terms with reality. Did she really mean it? He was not sure what to think.
Malcolm pulled himself together. "She'll just have to wait half an hour then?" he said, repeating Jimmy's words and putting down his mug.
The chauffeur nodded his head. "It does women good sometimes to keep 'em waiting. Shows 'em who's boss," he said with a wink, then after some thought added: "You're right... thirty... thirty-five minutes at most... she'll keep... I think I've got it all worked out what to do... She'll be the first call on my second run."
After that the conversation died away with little else of any substance left to be said. Eventually the mismatched pair were to go their separate ways, Jimmy to his Jaguar, Malcolm to the Company van.
At the main gate to the Amusement Park the teenager stopped to collect the mail from the box. There was only one letter inside and it was addressed to him. On reaching the kitchen he opened it. As he suspected it was a Christmas card from his Mother, and inside was a stores voucher for twenty pounds. His Mother did not say much, but wished him a Merry Christmas and asked him to phone her occasionally. He was half expecting some other mail. Mr. McTavish had promised to send him a postcard, by airmail and first class as soon as he arrived in Australia, but he guessed it would still be a few days in coming. Other than that he was not expecting any more mail. All the bills and commercial correspondence had been re-directed to the London office in Mr. McTavish's absence.

9:15 a.m.

A little after nine o'clock Malcolm decided to get some work done, for despite only having four hours sleep he did not feel at all tired. After putting on a pair of clean overalls he descended to the basement. At the bottom he checked on Mr. McTavish's list. Item one concerned the rack, this had not been completed, but he had left the working drawings upstairs, so he decided to have a crack at item two. The instructions read: 'No. 2 - Repair broken stands in first floor storeroom. Tools and equipment are in the basement.'
He looked around. All the tools (hammers, screwdrivers, saws, etc.,) were hanging on a board fixed to the wall close by, and the repair materials (nails, screws, glues, paints, cleaners, etc.,) were all stored in a large metal cabinet alongside. He crossed the floor and took down from the top shelf a large tin of industrial glue. He had already been taken to the storeroom and shown the stands in question by Mr. McTavish, so he knew basically what was needed. The majority of repairs only warranted a small touch of strong, commercial adhesive to get them back into shape again.
Returning to the workbench he prised open the lid to the glue tin with a screwdriver. The fumes were a bit overpowering and he held his breath whilst he checked on how much was inside. It was about a quarter full. This he considered was more than ample for the task in hand. Quickly he replaced the lid, exhaled and shook his head to clear away the haze. The lid had only been off for a few seconds and in that short time the fumes had already managed to make their presence felt within the workshop.
After drawing in several deep breaths with the intention of clearing his head, Malcolm did what he should have done in the first place and that was to read the caution label on the side. There was a whole string of warnings, but the two that concerned him most were: 'Always use in a well ventilated area', and 'Always wear a safety mask'. Still feeling a bit groggy he returned to the cupboard and found a box of masks. He took two out, popped them into an empty medium sized cardboard box, then set about gathering up all the other bits and pieces needed to finish the repairs.
The most direct route to the storeroom on the first floor was via the service lift at the front of the building. With his cardboard box crammed full with tools and materials tucked beneath one arm, Malcolm set off through the door in the partitioning to the main exhibition area beyond. From here he crossed the floor to the stairs. It was at this point he decided to take another walk through the grotto. At the back of his mind were fears that Katie or himself had possibly left something behind. He just needed a quick look around in order to assure himself that no evidence of last nights steamy love-making session had been left behind.
Malcolm walked the route in reverse. Entering via the cave destined to become the exit when all was in place. With only the emergency lights switch on, the alcove where it had all happened was in darkness, but he could still vividly recall the marvellous moments. Katie had been wonderful. Twice he had taken her whilst she hung there helplessly chained to the wall, and then twice again afterwards in Mr. McTavish's bed. He loved her so dearly he would do anything for her. Once again he recalled her parting wish. If she were to return and find Tracy Goodyear strapped to the rack she had promised to love him for ever and a day. If only there was some way of accomplishing it, then he would do it. He began to think of ways of achieving a successful abduction, but quickly shook his mind free of its wanderings. This was not the time or place for such outrageous thoughts. However this whole dungeon display area had a certain ambience and physical presence about it, and before long his fertile mind was working overtime once again, this time to contemplate Mr. McTavish's notes on how the display should finally look.
Deep in thought he moved on, firstly to replace the rope barrier nearest to the exit cave, then head directly across the mock dungeon to put the other rope in order. As he crossed he noted that the stool had been returned to stand alongside the winding gear. He remembered that Katie had done this whilst he collected up all the clothes last night. Satisfied that all items were now back in their proper places, he turned to stand and look at the display. For a moment he tried to picture the scene as Katie had described it the night before, but first he had to put the box down. It was far too heavy to hold whilst he was trying to concentrate. He wondered why he had not left it by the stairs in the first place. With a dull thud he dropped it to the floor. What he did not see was the lid on the glue pop open and slide slowly down, clinging doggedly to the side of the tin.
Oblivious to what was happening at his feet, Malcolm fixed his thoughts upon the area spread before him. Mr. McTavish's notes had asked for fresh ideas. He had his own thoughts quite naturally, and Katie had also given her input. He pondered upon the finished display taking into account his own ideas, along with Katie's lucid visions, plus the Scotsman's notes in the folder. The centre piece of the show was most definitely the rack. On it would be placed the body of a naked girl. She would be stretched out and screaming. A jailer would be positioned at the wheel, leaning forward and, in the words of Katie, tormenting his prisoner. He visualised an image of Tracy Goodyear lying there, and he liked the idea. A dummy with the same shapely body and bulging breasts would most certainly go down a treat with the public.
He made a mental note of all that he saw then turned his attentions to the long chain that hung down from the arched ceiling. The contraption on the end would be a lot higher than it was at present, and the stool now lying next to the winding gear would be positioned directly beneath. Standing on the stool would the figure of a naked woman. In contrast to the dummy on the rack, she would need to be a little bit older, possibly someone in her mid-thirties, and instead of dark hair this one would have long bedraggled blonde locks that hung down about her breasts. Her thumbs would be gripped tightly in the device, and she would be at full stretch with her toes barely reaching the stool. As a final touch to this gruesome scene she would have whip marks on both the front and back of her body, all put there to emphasise the sort of treatment once meted out to the victims of such an ordeal.
With the format of the floor area decided,  Malcolm turned his attentions to the rear of the display, and specifically to the question of what to do with the two cells. Katie's description of the poor battered wench inside one cell, and a bent and broken woman in the other, appealed to him. He began to consider the scene in more detail.
To maintain the best balance as he saw it, the battered girl needed to be younger than the rest, possibly in her mid-teens. The cells were positioned against a darkened background, so a pale complexion with short fair hair was in order to make her stand out better. The light skin would also assist in highlighting the deep sunken eyes, the undernourished body, and the raised welts from the many blows from the whip. To complete the scene she would be stood peering out through the bars of the cell and clutching them with blood-soaked rags wrapped about twisted and swollen thumbs.
Happy with the way he saw things, Malcolm began to consider what best for the cell nearest to where he stood. His three chosen dummies already covered an age range between seventeen and thirty-five. He wondered if he should reconsider, but decided against it. Tracy Goodyear was quite young, aged about twenty-one, and a dummy constructed in her image would be placed on the rack. Therefore, to maintain the balance, what was needed was someone around twenty-seven years of age to fill the gap.
With the ages finally settled he moved on to appearances. He had too blondes and a dark haired girl thus far. The obvious choice for the fourth was a brunette. The hair would be of medium length and probably straight with nothing fancy about the way it was cut. This figure would be in chains looking out at the dreadful scene taking place on the rack. The look upon her face would be one of anguish knowing just what atrocities the girl on the rack was being put through.
Malcolm set about bringing all the pieces of the jigsaw together, to visualise the scene from the aspect of the paying public walking around the perimeter of the dungeon. He liked the end result and overall perspective, and from an artist's standpoint there was a good balance to the composition. Perhaps the only thing he had not considered in great detail was the jailer. He accepted that a man would be stood behind the wheel, but other than that he had not given the subject very much thought. A person with a big and bulky frame came immediately to mind. Someone to add dominance to the centre and a focal point around which everything could revolve. He considered a person similar to Mr. McTavish in stature and appearance, or even the lankier Jimmy Jones, both of them were tall, but on further thought he dismissed both as unsuitable. The jailer would be wearing a hood that hid the eyes and nose but left the mouth and chin uncovered. Both these men wore beards and a clean shaven look was much more preferable to present the inevitable grin to the public.
Then vanity took control. If neither of those two, then why not himself? He could be the tormentor, or at least a dummy in his own image could do it. It would be his and Katie's little secret. No-one else would know it was him, for he would be shrouded in a dark cape and leather hood to depict the evil presence that abounded in the chamber. A mental sketch of what was required took shape. He set the image of himself behind the wheel, leant the body forward a little and set the mannerisms as if he were going about the business of interrogating.
Finally he recapped on all the things he had decided. Behind the rack would be stood the jailer, his hands upon the wheel and inching it slowly round. He would be leaning forward, demanding answers from the girl. She would be naked and stretched out before him. Her mountainous breasts and huge aureole nipples would be projecting up at him. The girl's legs would be spread to the width of the bench with her ankles strapped to the bottom corners. Her arms would be straight and drawn high above her head. Every sinew of her body would be under strain, stretched rigid by two thick hawser ropes attached to the wrists by two stout leather straps. The look upon her face would tell only of agony, and with mouth agape she would be pleading with the jailer to cease the torment.
The scene appeared so lifelike it could almost have been for real, and Malcolm began to watch with interest as events began to unfold. The girl, in the shape of Tracy Goodyear, despite all the evils being beset upon her, continued vehemently to protest her innocence, whilst on the other hand, the jailer, in the form of himself, remained resolute and doggedly sticking to his task. A pattern began to set in. Firstly his image would advance the wheel a single notch. Next the girl would scream and shake her  head. Then there would be a pause, just long enough for the noise to settle down before the same repeated question was asked: "Who doth thee protect then wench?"
On each occasion, between deep gasps for breath and shakes of the head, the girl would give the same reply: "Non!… Non!… Non!… Merci!… Je ne comprend pas!…"
This was all very well and good, but they were not getting anywhere, and the problem, as far as Malcolm could see, was the language barrier: Unfortunately they were not speaking in the same tongue. His 'alter ego' was demanding in a very old English dialect, and was threatening to intensify the treatment unless she gave him the name of the traitor she was protecting.  But it seemed the girl could only respond in French, and no matter how hard she tried to explain, it was simply impossible for her to get the message across.
As the seconds ticked away the ropes began to draw tighter and the screams of the girl grow even louder. Malcolm decided to intervene. His other self just had to be told of his failings. "She doesn't understand English!" he called across the floor.
Suddenly the hooded figure stopped what he was doing and sniffed the air. Suspiciously he looked about the chamber. Then he saw the lone figure of Malcolm standing in the shadows and, with the slow beckoning movement of one solitary finger, he summonsed him across to join him.
Cautiously Malcolm took one step forward over the low rope and began to drift silently towards the figure shrouded in a long black cape. It felt as if he was floating not walking. Below the leather hood the jailer's mouth was smiling and his finger forever beckoning him to his side. Locked in slow-motion and moving one frame at a time, Malcolm edged his way towards the centre of the chamber.
The masked figure stood waiting with both hands held out in greeting and took hold of his finger-tips on arrival. Slowly he steered the teenager's hands towards the wheel, placed them on the top, then gave the mechanism a little helping turn. Malcolm heard a click that was immediately followed by a high-pitched piercing scream which brought pain to his ears. Instinctively he snatched his hands away from the wheel and clamped them to the side of his head.
In time the pain eased and Malcolm looked down upon the source of the outburst. The body of a naked girl, looking every bit the image of Tracy Goodyear, was stretched out on the rack before him. She was gasping for breath, her chest pumping up an down, and her face was raked with pain. It was clear that she was in agony, yet he could feel no compassion for her. This was exactly the scene Katie wanted to see, and for that reason alone his own hatred for the girl ran equally as deep within his veins. Between loud gasps for breath the girl called to him in French, but he merely shook his head. He did not understand a word being uttered. He turned to the hooded figure by his side and asked for help. "What's she saying?" he asked.
It was himself beneath the hood, and he expected the answer to be negative. Why should his other half know any better? But no answer came, instead the masked illusion took hold of his hand and placed it upon the girl's stomach. In this unreal world Malcolm expected to find coldness and numbness, but strangely the flesh felt warm and soft to the touch. Slowly the figure moved Malcolm's fingers up and over the curvature of the girl's body to come to rest upon a mountainous breast. Her excited nipple felt hard and erect, and he traced a circle about it with his index finger while he mused upon the strange happenings going on about him. Something was not quite right, but what? Everything he touched felt real, yet something was most definitely amiss, but what? Slowly he spread his hand over the breast and began to knead the ballooning mound between fingers and thumb. He was confused. What was this all about? Could all this be for real after all?
There came a tap to Malcolm's shoulder and he looked round to see his other image making squeezing signs with his fingers. It was clear that masked figure wanted him to pinch and manipulate her nipples, but he was not so certain himself. He looked about the chamber for encouragement. The woman in the nearest cell was peering out between the bars at him. She smiled and nodded her approval. She wanted him to carry on. He swung around. The two other girls, the blonde on the chain and the poor lass in the cell were both nodding their heads.
Tentatively he squeezed the nipple between thumb and forefinger. The pressure made the girl wince and shut her eyes, but that was all, and immediately the figure beside him began to tut his disapproval. Malcolm glanced about the chamber. The verdict appeared unanimous. Everyone about him wanted him to do it. Encouraged by his onlookers he squeezed the nipple with every ounce of his strength. The girl's head bobbed up momentarily to make her discomforts known, then fell back with a thump against the hard oak boards. He squeezed again and this time she screamed. Now he was getting somewhere. This felt good. So good in fact he could feel a climax building within his loins.
Keeping a firm grip on the nipple, he leaned across and grabbed the other one. Then with both held tightly, he pulled, twisted and painfully distorted the flesh in all directions. For what seemed like eternity the girl's screams were his delight to control and manipulate. However, despite all his enthusiasm, that elusive climax he so desperately sought was just as far away as ever. In the end he stopped and turned to his 'alter ego' for help. "It's no good!…" he told himself, "I need to come!… Please help me get there!… Please!…"
Without a word of reply the shadowy figure simply took hold of  Malcolm's hands and returned  them to the wheel. The teenager could sense that time was running out. If he wanted to climax then the session had to be brought to a swift and decisive conclusion. There was no other way. With a new sense of urgency about him, he spun the wheel in a quick fire series of rapid clicks, probably ten to a dozen in all.
Suddenly the girl's screams touched fever-pitch. This was more like it. Things were beginning to hot up now. He could feel himself coming. He was nearly there. Just a few more clicks was all that was needed. He looked deep into the girl's big, dark, and very watery eyes. They were pleading with him to stop, but there was no way he could do that now. He just  had to carry on and reach the climax he so desperately craved. She called up to him, begging and pleading with him to stop, but her words were in that strange French tongue that he did not understand.
Two more clicks followed and he was almost there. The point attained where both victim and tormentor could take no more. Suddenly the chamber echoed to the sound of pitiful wails. Malcolm slumped forward to give the wheel an involuntary click, and as he did so a deep and burning sensation punched him in the stomach and gripped him tightly about the loins. He turned the wheel once more. Just one final click was all that was required. Suddenly the pitch of the girl's screams were at crescendo, and his own body felt like it was about to burst. The pain he felt was both bliss and agony combined. The bliss was his, for he was in heaven, but for the poor girl beneath it was the agony of a burning hell.
But wait! Surely this was not right! This was not how it should be! These were not Tracy Goodyear's pitiful wails that filled the chamber. They were those of his own, and they were not screams of agony and torture, but squeals of pure ecstasy and delight. He shut his eyes and waited for his climax to subside. But it just would not die away. This was an experience so wonderful, so divine, that he wanted it to go on and on, for ever and ever, and never go away.
Finally his head slumped. After the ecstasy came the inevitable depression. For ages he stood gripping the wheel, panting, with his eyes closed and listening to the sudden and inexplicable silence that now engulfed the chamber.
Eventually the numbness passed and there came a new emotion: That of pity. He opened his eyes in order to see what evil atrocities he had bestowed upon this poor and innocent lass that lay naked and helpless before him. Then suddenly there was shock and horror were previously that pity had lain. His focus was blurred, but he could see enough to realise that Tracy Goodyear was no longer there. The table lay bare before him. He looked desperately around to seek his 'alter ego', but his own image had also gone. He spun towards the cells: The girls were missing, and so too was the woman on the chain. In fact the whole chamber stood empty. There was not a soul in sight. All had deserted him.
In shock he jumped back from the rack and immediately sensed the soggy dampness within his pants. He staggered back to the aisle with drunken steps, his mind in turmoil and his thoughts directed upon returning to his room. As he stumbled towards the aisle a foot caught the rope and he crashed to the ground. A cardboard box broke his fall and he rolled to one side before coming to a halt.
Malcolm pushed himself up to crouch on hands and knees. The fall had brought him back to his senses and for the first time he could smell the fumes. Immediately he recognised the danger and realised that he must act immediately before the glue took effect and he started hallucinating again. Still slightly unco-ordinated in his movements he replaced the lid and sorted out a face mask for himself. His brain was only half functioning, but even in this diminished state he was conscious enough to realise that he had to get the box away from these confined conditions as rapidly as possible. Quickly he collected up the box and raced out of the cave into the spacious hall beyond.
Depositing the box on the floor in the very centre of the chamber, Malcolm rushed on to re-enter the work area tucked away behind the partitioning. Beneath the stairs he located the electrical switchboard that controlled all the extractor fans. He found the trip marked 'Dungeon Project' and threw the switch. From a distance he heard the hum of electrical motors starting up. The extractors were powerful and designed to replace all the air several times in a day. He knew this. He had read the Health and Safety report on the new proposals. By his own calculations he reckoned a couple of hours would see the fumes all gone. He looked to his watch. His focus was blurred but he could tell that the time was now ten o'clock. He decided to take no chances and gave it at least double that before venturing back into the confined space once again.
Malcolm put his head between his hands and took several deep breaths. He felt like death warmed up and with a terrible headache coming on. He decided to go back to bed. With only about four hours sleep last night he reckoned the best thing to do was take a couple of aspirins and go and lie down for while.
 
 

cont.