Broken Red Line
By Musuko

Slithery wet smile on the face of the attendant up in first class. Slimey rain against the windows. Stink, rank and fetid in the taxi. Meat breath on the driver. Folds in his jowls. A watery, diseased cheerfulness in his loose, rancid smile. Wet streets. Wet life. Wet sky. Soiled and brown air. Plastic wrappers on stained concrete.
	I hate this island.
	The uniform at the door carries a sneer. He has a hole in his chest, full of writhing, retching, wretched worms. Skeletal grin. “May I take your coat, ma’am,” he croaks, teeth against teeth. Clickety click. Moans from a tomb. Fuck you. Prissy smiles at the desk, so happy to be insulted. You’re a bitch. Welcome to the King George! Fuck your mother, I hope you die. Have a pleasant stay! I’m going to stick you with a knife and twist it until you can’t scream any more. Here’s your key!
	Damp room. Wet air. Sodden carpet. Rivulets running down the TV screen. Crackling static in the grey sky. Dead window. Dead air. Spores in the bed, feelers growing up and out. Prickles down my back, everything foul and slippery to touch. Suitcase, dropped and kicked, shunting, splitting.
	Fall into the bath. Cold. Red.

I open my eyes back to a world of lifted pressure. The sweet light of the bulb above me. I take not of the tasteful fixture, of the curved, aquatic glass. So very elegant. So sweet.
	I sit up and recognise what a mistake it is. The stab enters my left temple and exits the right, and between the two my head sizzles. I claw out of the bath and drop onto the smooth, cold tiles, dragging myself back to my suitcase. I dig through, clothes flailing over my shoulders. The bag, the packet, the crackling plastic, the pills.
	The headache fades. The rolling, vibrating room settles back to gentle placidity. Elegant lighting on sumptuous furnishings. Deep, soft carpet. A bed to die in. I sit down, fall back, feel the smooth fibres under my back. Truly blissful. I take a moment for peace.
	The lobby dwellers smile at me again. I raise a paw, happy to see them. Why, hello there! Well you have a good day too, y’hear? Would you like a car? Why, yes I would, most kind of you!
	Cheerful morning sun on wet metal. Little droplets like jewels on every surface. A sunny smile for the driver who opens the door for me. Would you take me here please driver. Only a glance at my finger on the map. Certainly ma’am! Thank you kindly!
	What a sweet little island. They all sound like they have an apple in their throat. I hear every letter in their words. Cer-TUH-nly. Why, some I never even knew were there! A most fine people. So civilised.
	Shiny buildings and old stone and flappy pigeons. My heavens, the suits! But no hats? Umbrellas though, ah how wonderful. Red headlines in the newspapers, red mailboxes, red telephone boxes, red trucks, a red town and city! Two red crosses in the flags. Here we are ma’am. Much obliged!
	High stone pillars. High steps. Tall doors, deep rich wood, and sombre halls beyond. Oh I know these kinds of buildings. Inside, deep and dusty. Ugly faces beaten with baseball bats, noses up, eyes drooped and watery. Ah, good evening ma’am. Please have a seat. Why, thank you. Overstuffed leather. Tappety tap of keys. Sonorous tick of the clock, thunk, thunk, thunk. Wet disgust in that man’s face, but that’s actually there. No pill wipes clean what’s actually there. Tap tap tap. What’s he writing? I scratch a claw against my thigh, up and down through the hole in my jeans. Just look up, I know you want to. Look at me with that high-flown veneer of pomp you so badly want to fling at me, manure on the pig. Go on. I know you want to. Just a little look. Just a hint, just to put my in my place. Look at me, you fucking stain, and see what happens!
	You may go through now, it says.
	Thanking you kindly!
	Oh how sweet and charming. A smile wriggles into his jowls. Oh dear, how I had him all wrong. A sweet old deary. He wears worn out old sweaters at home, and has a little garden for vegetables, and has to use glasses he keeps in his pocket when he wants to read the instructions on his microwave meal for one. You broken down old dog. You keep it up! You’re just a cog here. This isn’t part of who you are. You’ll be at the bar later. No, the pub, ain’t that right? Drinking something brown and watching the brown all around, darts and football and eyup me trousers, ain’tcha?
	I’m staring at him. He looks a little confused. I smile.
	Just down there, the room on your left, number four.
	Much obliged, thank you!
	Aw hell, my head’s in a twist ain’t it?
	Big dark office. Lots of wood and green leather and books. So many damn books. Ancient little rat with glasses and patchy paws. Got something about him. I like him. Bet he likes the girls in leather boots to whip him at the weekends. Pervy fucker written all over him. I could make him lick the dust off of every one of these books and he’d pay me for it and buy my flowers on Valentine’s day, hell’s bells.
	More inheritance you say? Oh Uncle Whateveryournamewas, you were so kind. Sniff sniff, dab at the eye. I’ll never forget how you...or when you...and this and that. Crossed the ocean to hide from the accusations didn’t you? Oh yes, not to mention that. Got discovered all rancid and moldering in your posh apartment with a belt around your neck and a lemon in your teeth. Oh dear, not meant to mention that either. Just dab and sniffle, such a shame to lose him! A member of the family, boo hoo! Oh that is a lot of money, isn’t it? Well, just sign here? And here you say? Well that’s that ugly business all taken care of. Thank you for your understanding. You have made a difficult day so much easier.
	Squeeze his paw. Look him in the eye. Scrape a claw across the back of his paw and watch him jump, that little widen to the eyes. Oh I’ve got you figured out, you dirty old codger you! Hah.
	Sun’s gone a bit wet outside, but that’s okay. Air smells sweet. Traffic’s back and forth. People everywhere. Suits and umbrellas and newspapers. Camera up on that pole. Camera up on that corner. Windows up to the sky. Eyes all around. But there’s always a rat’s nest, isn’t there? A warren of dirt under any shine. Just need to look down, and you’ll see the trodden cigarette butts under your feet. The little black spots of chewing gum. Even right here, amongst the tall pillars and tall steps and tall doors and nose-up pomposity.
	I decide at that moment, with the refreshing luxury to do so that comes with only the carefree freedom that chemically-induced contentment can allow, to go find something to get really angry about. I know how to walk a city. They’re all the same, when it comes down to it. Once you get away from all the classical style pillars, and if you steer clear of the shiny new glass stuff, you’ll find the same thing underneath it all; dirty concrete, or stone, or brick, or wood. Whatever it’s made of, it’ll be dirty. Ah, it smells so good.
	And oh look, there’s what I’m after. A pub. How dear!
	It smells of old beer and old people, but there’s a rainbow on the sign outside, and the man up on the stage is wearing a dress and a wig. Well, I most certainly like the flavor of this place! The ladies are dressed like men and the men...well, one of them makes a mighty fine lady. The rest of them look a little too much like my doggy friend from earlier. But who am I to judge? Sad old men need some meat between their buns sometimes, you know!
	The singing man-lady is wailing and warbling, and I slip my order in when he-she takes a breath. I point. That one...no, that one. Hell, I don’t know what it is. It’s gold and got grain in it.
	Oh bless him, the girly wisp of a barman, a meercat I think...and I think he’s a man. A girl could get confused in a place like this. Men in wigs and men with rings in their lips and more curve on their hips than I have. And the ladies in check shirts and jeans. But hell, I can’t raise my nose on that accord; I’m dressed just the same! Hells, I fit right in!
	“Want some ice with that, dahlin?”
	Well, isn’t that the same, but different? Darling back home, darling here. Same word, different drawl.
	“No thanks, sweetheart,” I say. Well, get into the spirit. Why not? I look over at the singer.
	“I love your accent!” the barman coos. I look back to him, eyebrow up, along with the fur on the back of my neck.
	“Thank you?”
	“Here you go,” he says, placing the glass down and resting his elbows on the bar, his muzzle in his paws, a cloth hanging from his palm. “You’re like one of those lovely southern belles. Can you sing?” he says, jerking his eyes over at the singer.
	I prickle. Could it be so easy? I roll myself across the bar, arms laid either side of my drink, my smile getting ever so close to his. “I’ve got a talented tongue, if that’s what you’re asking.”
	“Sorry love,” he says. “Not my type!”
	The ripple of heat. Fur spiking. Well damn, so easy indeed. I lick my lip and tip my head coyly. I drop my voice right down into the deepest masculine I can manage. “How do you know I’m not your type?”
	A little gasp on his girly lips, and he clicks that ring against his teeth. “Really?” His eyes flit about, and I watch his expression wander through all kinds of confusion. “Well fuck me, you had me fooled!” He leans back on the bar again, a little more attentive now. “So, what are you, pre or post op?”
	“Pre,” I say without really bothering to think it over. He’s hungry for dangly bits, after all. I guess he just wants a girl to be wearing them. “But these are all real,” I say, cupping my chest. He laughs.
	So when do you get off? Whenever you like, baby. And on it goes. Play the game, dance the little dance. It’s so easy in a place like this, where conventions are twisted and the questions can be straight to the point. And it turns out he’s off whenever he wants to be. And off we trot, to his little apartment...wait, flat...above a shop just around the corner. How pretty! How easy!
	“Would you like a drink?” asks the ever courteous barman. I put my paw on his chest and knock him back towards his bed. Takes me straight to the bedroom and then asks that? Tsk, little boy. I see through you. I clamber up astride his thighs and slide my paws up his skinny little tummy and over his chest and oh, hello, is that a nipple ring I feel through this shirt? I give it a tug and hear him gasp, body flexing beneath me. I tilt my head and smile in the fading light from his window.
	“What’s my name, little boy?” I say.
	“I don’t know,” he gasps. I twist the ring a little. He yelps, but his paws stay where they fell, flopped either side of his head.
	“That’s right. You don’t.” I lower my muzzle to his, chuckling on my way down. I slide my paws up to his arms and work them up to his wrists, gripping them and bringing them together above his head just as my lips meet his, and I treat him to a dainty little kiss that lifts away out of his reach when he tries to take more than I give him.
	“Pretty little thing, ain’tcha?”
	He nibbles his lip ring and nods, smiling. Well ain’tcha full of yourself, little queen. I loop my fingers and thumb around his wrists to hold them together, freeing my other paw to glide my claws across his chest. He shivers something nice when I scratch him like that. I bring my finger up against the underside of his muzzle and make him look at me.
	“Got any rope?”
	“I don’t really know you,” he says. “I wouldn’t…”
	I press my claw against the fleshy underside of his muzzle. He yelps. I feel his legs squirming about behind me, and can feel his hard cock poking up at my butt. Enjoying this more than he really should, silly little boy.
	“In the drawer,” he gasps, jerking his head. “Over there.”
	“Why, thank you, loverboy.”
	I lean over, reaching for the drawer in his bedside table, able to slide it open without even having to let go of his wrists or climb up off his hips. So convenient! I rummage in amongst the condoms and rubber toys and bits and bobs, snagging a coil of black rope and lifting it out. He wriggles underneath me. Sense and lust having a fight, I reckon. I press my butt back against his cock, and he moans wonderfully. He thinks he’s gonna get laid!
	I unroll the rope and start working it around his wrists, deftly juggling him between the rope and my gripping paw so he’s never quite free, not until he’s nicely trussed up there. Now, there’s a lovely big brass bed frame I could lash him to, but I figure he’s used to that sort of thing. I mean, who has a brass bed frame these days? Little fetishists, that’s who. And this boy...I look at his drawer...well, he’s definitely one of those.
	So...I yank his paws down behind the back of his head and loop the rope around his neck. He yelps in protest and starts to complain.
	“Shh!” I hiss, before his first word can form. I tie off the rope at his throat, out of reach of his wriggling fingers, and where the knot would dig in quite uncomfortably against his throat if he tries to struggle too much. His brow is knotted, probably from having his arms bent back quite so far. Oh so very delicious!
	“Well, don’t you look pretty!”
	He seems uncertain. Sense having a bit of a victory against lust, perhaps? Maybe thinking he shouldn’t have let this sexy stranger tie him up in his own bed, perhaps? Well, too late for that kiddo. This is what’s happened. No changing that now, nosiree! But you don’t seem too concerned, do you? Still feel ya, nice and hard and eager against my butt. And you’re not wailing for help like I’m sure you could be. No, you’re all ready and holding out waiting for me to deliver the nice big cock that I promised you.
	I scoot up to sit on his chest, then rise up onto my knees, my crotch right up against his nose. I can see him, confused. Something’s wrong. He knows it now. And when I pop the buttons on my jeans and let them fall open, there are no panties to confuse him. My little gay barman gets a good noseful of girly bits!
	He takes a deep breath. Oh no you don’t! I clamp my paw over his mouth and squeeze his nose between my fingers. “Shh, none of that now you hear? You gonna be a good boy and keep quiet?”
	I let the crack show in my eyes. I let him take a moment to register it. Oh shit, he must be thinking. This is like what you read in the news. A hookup goes wrong. Some poor guy gets a psycho in their nest. You’re that poor guy now, little meerkat boy. You understand that now, don’tcha? I ease my grip off his mouth.
	“You’re post op! You lied!”
	“Ah hell, you got me. But it’s worse than that: I ain’t an op any which way. Born and bred girl through and through. You were right the first time; I’m the real deal southern lass.”
	“Let me go! I’m not into this.” Oh such a tremor in his voice. So sweet!
	“Ah, honey, I know you’re not. That’s why I’m into this.”
	A deep breath again, another scream winding up. I muffle him again with something else! I grip a great big pawful of his hair and drive his muzzle right against my cunny. Oh how he fights and twists. But my paw just stays right there, holding him. He can’t buck me off. Skinny little legs ain’t no contest against my muscle! Feels good, though, those struggling pants...nice hot air right where it feels good to have it! I press him in deeper, grip his head between my thighs, and see his nose disappear entirely. Only a matter of time. I let him struggle a little more before I give him his out.
	“If you want some of that sweet, sweet air, you better get licking!”
	Nice big wide eyes! Beautiful fear, with just enough uncertainty. Am I just playing? Am I for real? Is this play, or is this serious?
	“And you want some air, don’tcha?” I grind myself into his muzzle and feel his cry more than I hear it. A lovely muffled breath of air against my lips, feeling so good. His struggles get more insistent, which is odd. He’s nowhere near yet out of breath is he? Oh lord, maybe he’s got asthma? Dear me boy, better get licking quick! And then I figure it out: I’m leaking like a faucet, getting my juices all over his muzzle and nose. Must be hell for a gay boy! Poor thing! Haha, poor boy!
	And then finally, the glory of conquest: the feeble tickle of his wet tongue against my lips. I barely feel it, but it’s enough. I’ve got him beat. Such a feeling, taking this stranger and forcing him to do something he absolutely does not want to do in the slightest! I grip his head between my paws and grind his face hard against my sex as I ride him and rape him! Oh so very perfect! I pound myself against his head, feeling his tongue against me and then inside me, licking and thrusting so urgently, harder and harder, needing to please me, needing to get air! I sink my claws into his skull and howl in pleasure as I fuck myself on his face!
	And it’s only afterwards, as I’m sinking back into myself and settling down from the cottony fog of satisfaction that I realise that the skinny little boy laid on the bed is stone dead.
	I can’t help but laugh. Killer pussy! I laugh and I laugh, helping myself to a shower, to his wallet, to his phone, to his…
	His phone rings. Well, isn’t that something? Now, let’s see if I can mimic his voice…

Looks like the next step up a ladder. From a flat above a shop to an executive mansion...of sorts. I figure it wouldn’t be much of a house back home, but here where all the houses are pokey little things? Hell, this one has a two car garage. That makes it Buckingham fucking palace in this place. And who do I spy glancing out the window, but the lovely old chap with a mortgage and a sensible estate car and a loving wife and a couple of kids, who just needed to spend a few hours with a young kid who works behind the bar at a gay pub. Guess he’s got a bit too much money in his pocket and a bit too much spunk in his balls! Guess I’ve robbed the world, little meerkat, taking your talented tongue away from all those eager cocks willing to pay you for your time.
	He opens the door to me. Kinda handsome, as these guys go. No paunch. That’s a bonus. Keeps himself fit at a gym, I suppose. Probably enjoys sneaking looks at the guys in the showers. Probably given them some money too. Oh my my, you are a naughty man.
	Feline. Can’t quite place him precisely. Part tiger, perhaps? Bit of a mix? Just enough to be regal in his middle age, but not enough to look too pompous. Wearing a shirt and tie at home in the evening. So...just got home from the office, wife’s away with the kids somewhere perhaps? Picked up the phone, called your little gay friend, was too stupid or just plain unobservent enough to notice that his voice wasn’t quite as you remember it. And now you stand at your door, facing the smiling fox who is distinctly female, and not at all like the fiesty little cocksucker you no doubt expected.
	“Can I help you?”
	“Well sir, you called me. So here I am!””
	“You’re not Liam.”
	“Liam!” I clap my paws and smile. “So that was his name. No, Liam isn’t coming. I’m here instead.”
	“I don’t think so.” He starts to close the door, but my foot catches against it, and my paw grips the edge of the door, and my other paw reaches past it and holds the big old bread knife from Liam’s kitchen against my new friend’s throat. He hisses sharply and lets go of the door, backing away with his paws in the air.
	“That’s right,” I say, stepping inside. “Easy now. Nice and easy. Let’s go upstairs, shall we?”
	I close the door behind me, with a nice big heavy thud.

I think he figures this is some kind of play. Maybe a defence mechanism, where he doesn’t want to face the reality of his threat? Maybe he’s just all kinds of messed up in the head. Silly Liam, getting involved with sickos like him, like me! Look what happens.
	So of course he shows me the play room. Clever man, keeping all this hidden from the wife. Just an ordinary study, behind lock and key. Shh kids, daddy’s working, don’t disturb him in his study. But roll the desk that way, and open that cabinet there and pull away the false back, and lift away the light fitting, and my word!
	I have him naked and hanging by his wrists, with nice sturdy leather cuffs, attached to a big fat chain, connected to a powerful winch hanging from the strong hook where the light fitting had been. He looks awfully stretched out, chest puffed out and tummy sucked in, as happens when the arms are pulled up like that. Scrabbling his toes against the nice hardwood floor, his legs held apart by the long spreader bar fixed to his ankles and to the little eyelets cunningly hidden in the floorboards, underneath the rug now rolled up against the wall. Little cocky all limp and floppy, but I see some life in there, stirring as I strut around and look at all his nice toys, tapping the knife in my palm. Guess the older guys need a little time to get the engine warmed up!
	I pick up a gag from a hook. Big red one with a black strap. Fat, squidgy red ball. Size of an apple. Stinks of rubber. I hold it up to his mouth, and he watches me with the same nervous expression Liam wore. Ain’t that something? They never know if you’re the monster they want you to pretend to be, or whether you are actually the monster they never want to meet.
	“Open wide!”
“My safe word is red.”
“Well ain’t that nice!”
I stuff his muzzle and strap it nice and tight. His cheeks bulge out, and he looks in pain already. Too tight? Aww, sweetie, there ain’t nothing I can do about it now. My paws are tied, you see. Gotta keep things moving along. No time for fiddling about and making sure kitty is nice and comfy.
“So, what’s my name, fella?”
“Mmmph hmmmph!”
“Hell, that’s not my name at all. What’s the matter, don’t you know my name?”
He shakes his head, bumping against his biceps. Already he’s drooling. An embarrassing trickle down his chin. Big tough man, all helpless and vulnerable. And there it is, his red cock getting bigger and bigger, flaring up with those fleshy little spines. Getting off on being the bitch. I wonder if Liam used to have him like this. Now there’s a sight for the mind’s eye, that femmy little bar boy lording it over this fine and mighty man of the world.
I give his cock a little flick. Just...push it down nice and firm, then let go and watch it slap his tummy. He closes his eyes and moans into the gag, tilting his head back. You enjoy that, huh? I set the knife down on his desk, and I see the relief in his eyes. Now he can really get on with enjoying this. That’s his thinking. It’s so clear to see.
	So I leave the room.
	And return with the big electric carving knife from his kitchen. And wouldn’t you know, he gets all animated again, squealing and hollering through his gag. Too bad you wound up wealthy enough for your neighbors to be all the way across the other side of that nice big garden, isn’t it?
	I plug it in, give it a whiz in the air. Nice sound! His eyes blaze with anger, and he’s screaming something awful into the gag. I pay him no mind, just putting my attention into positioning a stool between his parted legs, setting its legs either side of the spreader bar. Perfect height! It presses right against his inner thighs, and his balls lay on the seat. I fetch some rope and spend a good long while lashing his thighs to the legs of the stool. By the time I’m done, little cocky is starting to droop. I tickle it with my fingers.
	“Think sexy thoughts! You’re gonna want to.” I close my paw around his shaft and gently pump him. I can’t quite decide whether he’s happy for me to be doing it. He’s definitely not happy when he sees me lay the electric carving knife onto the seat, laid with the blades teeth-up, lined up with the underside of his cock. I let go of him so I can have two paws to lash the device into place. I spend some time adjusting it so it’s positioned perfectly.
	“There we are!”
	He’s blubbing now. No anger. Just pleading fear. He can see how it’s all set up, with those blades positioned right underneath his hard cock. If he gets too soft and his cock falls down onto them!
	With a cheery smile, I switch the carving knife on. His scream competes with the whirring motor and the clatter of the blades. He tries to swing his hips from side to side, trying to dislodge the stool no doubt. But he’s stuck fast to his restraints and the stool is stuck fast to him and the carving knife is stuck fast to the stool, and none of it is going anywhere. Where his cock goes, the blades go too, just waiting for him to get limp.
	I lean back against the wall and watch. No fire inside to satisfy for the moment. Liam took care of that. But, maybe later eh? I just smile at him as he pleads noisily into his gag. He cries. He blows snot bubbles. He bites hard into the gag and he pulls harder against his cuffs, making the floorboards groan and the ceiling beam creak. But none of it helps. And as his terror wins out against the fading remnants of his arousal…
	I close my eyes and gasp as the spray of blood falls across me in a gentle shower. I lower myself down the wall to sit with my legs apart, my paw finding its way to the crotch of my jeans. Liam perhaps didn’t satisfy me after all. Not fair of me to give him this to compete with, I suppose. I open my eyes to watch the bound body shaking as the blades shred its cock, sending blood and chewed up chunks all over the place. I pop open my jeans and lose myself to my own paw, watching the bright red pour out of him, watching as his struggles wear away to nothing.

Another shower. My, aren’t I a clean bee? And fresh clothes, stolen from his wardrobe. His, not hers. Ew no. Much too Stepford for my liking. I take the jeans he probably wore when he needed to paint something or hammer something. A button up work shirt too, nice and clean and ironed. I roll up the sleeves past my elbows. It’ll do. It’ll do nicely. I bundle up my old clothes and take them with me. DNA’s a bitch, after all. Not that I’ve got any on record to get compared against, mind.
	His wallet, his phone, his money...lots of that this time! Liam was earning a pretty penny from this fellow. And a nice chunky key from his pants pocket. I lift it up and eye the logo.
“Well hello there Mister Bentley!”

Life feels so much better when you’re behind the wheel of a big luxury car. Even the strangeness of being sat on the wrong side of it isn’t enough to knock my spirits down. No need for pills tonight! The sun is gone, the lights are on, and everything is orange and clear. I roll around for a while. Nothing to do. His phone doesn’t offer me a next step like Liam’s did. What does a girl do when she has no date for the night? I sit in a traffic jam for a while. I cruise along a highway for a while longer. I turn off at random and lurch about through country roads, struggling a little with the big car’s girth on the little roads. I mean really! Who builds a country like this?
	I toss mister bleedy’s phone into a hedge somewhere and carry on some more. I clip a sign on a corner, scratching the fender. Oh well, never mind. These things happen. And then, like a blessing, I meet a pair of headlights coming the other way on some narrow country lane, one that’s no doubt flanked by pretty fields and hedgerows of the old world. I might even be able to admire them in the glow from the stars and the street lights if it weren’t for this guy’s high beams right in my eyes.
	I figure I’ll be nice and back up so we can squeeze past each other where it’s a bit wider. Hell, no need to be rude when you’re the guest in someone’s country, is there? But then the gift comes.
	He leans on his horn.
	Oh really now? I step out of the car. His is an SUV. A tiny thing compared to back home, but I know that they don’t do things so big over here. I stroll over to his door, and he winds his window down as I get near. I have him figured out the moment I see his face in the light from the Bentley. Posh.
	And an avian! You don’t see that very often.
	“Would you mind backing up, please?” he says. Ever so courteous, but I know that tone. That’s venom wrapped up in a polite sheath so you’re distracted from the nastiness. He says please, but the snippity-snap in his voice says peasant!
	I lean my paws on his door and smile ever so gracefully. He leans away. How dare I, he must wonder. What kind of swine am I, to touch a gentleman’s car?
“My name is Lady-belle Clarence. Pleased to meetcha!”
I got him stunned good. He flaps his beak for a bit, stuttering noisy little bits of words as if he needs to fill the space with something. I just keep on smiling until he sorts himself out.
	“Uh...t-there’s a gate just back that way,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder, his eyes locked onto my big friendly grin. “I’ll just back up, shall I?”
	I’m still leaning on his door. In fact, I’m leaning into his car just a little too much.
	“Would you...would you mind just…”
	“Say! Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what my name is?”
	“What?”
	“Oh dear! And didn’t I just tell it to you not one minute ago?”
	“Now, look here!”
	And that’s when I decide to put my paw on his throat. Ah, that feels nice.

I keep him driving for a while. Those big rugged tires beneath us work ever so well on the bumpy farm lanes. It’s a good thing I’ve got such a secure grip on the back of his seat and on his neck, because I’d be liable to go flying all about the cabin! He stays nice and quiet, eyes fixed dead ahead. I can feel his adam’s apple bobbing under my palm. Nervous little gulps. Overall I must say he’s very calm and collected, given the circumstances.
	“Stop here,” I say. And he does, bringing the machine to a smooth rolling stop, out somewhere in the middle of a field, with only dirt lane ahead and dirt lane behind. Nothing else all around for miles, except for the dim lights of a village over yonder.
	“Engine off.”
	And everything winds down to silence. I hear his rapid breathing.
	“If it’s money you want…”
	“I don’t want money.”
	“What do you want?”
	“Now now, a lady doesn’t tell all her secrets.”
	My paw lets go of his neck, and he makes to sit forward. But he doesn’t get long. Mister bleedy’s tie replaces my paw, looping around his neck and tying nicely behind the headrest. I make sure to yank it tight, and he gasps breathlessly, clutching at his neck. I slap at his feathery fingers. “None of that, y’hear? You sit quiet.”
	He makes an awfully unhappy squawking noise. I hop out of the car and jump into the front passenger seat. He visibly recoils as I slap my thighs.
	“Well, isn’t this nice!”
	I push in the cigarette lighter on his dashboard. I watch his feathered paws fret at his sides, and watch one of them wander towards the door pocket. I grab his wrist and pull it back.
	“Oh, I see I see!” And I lift out the screwdriver from the pocket, tapping its tip against his beak. “What’s all this about?”
	“Please...what do you want? You don’t have to hurt me!”
	I lift out the cigarette lighter. The business end is glowing rather nicely. I haul myself across the gearstick and sit straddling his lap. Most guys would kill for this kind of treatment, having a fine lass sat in their lap, ample bosom in their face. But this guy seems rather unhappy. I wonder why? I press my knees against his forearms, pinning them against the chair. And with one paw I grab hold of a pawful of feathers on the top of his head, and with the other I aim the glowing cigarette lighter towards his right eye. He shrieks and closes it, thrashing about in the seat. But the heat presses against his eyelid and the pressure and temperature carries right through to the juice within.
	The second one hurts more for him, of course. The lighter has to recharge, sizzling in the dashboard. And he has to sit there, moaning and sobbing, one eyeball left in his head, knowing that it’s soon going to go like the other, and more importantly knowing exactly how much it is going to hurt.
	I touch my lips to his beak for an ever so lovely kiss as I bring the lighter up to his second eye…

It turns out my feathery friend had a very nice country estate! I should have guessed, what with the attitude and all. I keep him in the trunk on the drive over so I don’t have to listen to his gurgling expiration as he tries to fight the inevitable end that the screwdriver embedded deep into his throat is going to bring to him. I expect servants as I stroll my way up to the big front door and let myself in, but none show themselves. Pity. Maybe my bird has fallen on hard times? Just him alone, rattling around in this big old country pile. How sad, so very tragic!
	Another shower? Why, no, not this time! I relax into the scented bubbles of a very big bath in a very big bathroom. There are claw sculptures on the feet of the bath! The very peak of opulence! I enjoy myself ever so much, and I’m still in a pleasant and relaxed mood when the front door downstairs opens to catch me halfway down the grand staircase, towel around my waist and towel turbaned around my head.
	“Who are you?” she demands, her key still in the door. “Where is my husband?”
	The bird married a cat? Oh my, now isn’t that a thing!
	I lean against the railing, smiling like a minx. “He’s upstairs, sleeping it off.”
	She puffs like a fish, all swollen up with rage. “Get out! Get out!” She storms up past me, hitting me with her expensive-looking designer bag on her way past. I tuck my towel in a bit more securely, then turn to climb up after her. The hallway up here has a nice little seating area, with a big window and a big fireplace. I pick up a brass poker and carry it towards the master bedroom.
	“Rupert? Rupert?!” She wheels in the doorway, eyes on fire. “He’s not h-”
	Such a lovely sound, metal on skull. She crumples to the floor, and I step over her into the bedroom. Well, there go my plans of making something to eat. I get hold of her ankles and start to pull.
	I know she doesn’t have long. I can see the signs already, of the deep trauma now settling into her head. I haul her up onto the bed and sit panting astride her middle.
	“Damn shame,” I say, looking down at her. I slap at her cheek, but her head just rolls limp, and there’s blood getting into the bedsheet.
	“Not gonna wake up, huh?”
	Disgusted, I climb off her. Back to the original plan. Get dressed, leave, maybe find a drink or two.
	Halfway down the stairs again I hear her groans. Oh joy!
	Just a little flicker of recognition as I reappear. Her arm limply reaches for the telephone on the bedside table. I flick it away, knocking it with a clatter to the floor. Up onto the bed again, sat astride her elegant body. I do like this position, one of power over someone laid beneath you. Don’t they call it “the cowgirl” for a reason? The one on top holding mastery over the beast below? So very fitting. And to think most people just think of it as something sexual.
	“Hey there, missy.” She gurgles, and I think for a moment that she’s on her way out again, for the final time perhaps. But her eyes fix on my with a little fire left inside.
	“Help,” she whispers.
	“Help?” I ask. “Why would I help you? I did this to you.” I tut and shake my head. “You’re not thinking straight, lady.”
	“Hoss…”
	“Hoss?”
	“Hoss...pit…”
	“Hospital? Oh no. I don’t think…”
	And then I pause, thoughts running through my head. See, she’s not all the way gone. She could be pulled back from the brink of this. One quick telephone call, and then the sirens and the equipment and expertise. They’ll fix whatever’s going wrong in her head, the swelling or the bleeding or whatever it is that I’ve done to her. And then she’ll be in a hospital bed to recover...mostly. Maybe half a person would come back, forever broken and hobbled? And they would find her dear hubby, and she would have just about enough of her mind left to comprehend that awful reality.
	And, do you know, an uncharacteristic sadism takes me over? I could watch her go right here on her bed. I could help her along. I could make her last few minutes of existence a nightmare.
	Or...I could trap her in a nightmare to last a lifetime more.
	“You rest your little head, now,” I say, patting her hip. “I’ll fetch you help. You sit tight, m’kay?”
	So I speak to a very polite and business-like lady on the phone. Then, after helping myself to some leftover chicken slices from the fridge, I head out into the night to take a walk.

Already I feel the memories getting muddled up. In the gloom of the country lane, the bird flirts with me in a pub. An angry cat pulls against restraints and sings. A bitch screams and begs. A tangled, dangle from a winch, the twist of a thin body and a sob of a bloated lump. I step back into a hedge as a pair of headlights sail past. Blood and shouts and lurching, tortured lust winds into a taut knot of screaming confusion-
	“Are you alright?”
	I tip forward, catching my balance against something warm. A touch on my shoulder. Winning spinning dreams…

I open my eyes to the sound of gurgling, draining water, and look up at a blank white ceiling. I turn my head to the right and feel a pillow against my cheek. I taste...something. I work my jaw and explore.
	Sock?
	Bit by bit, my senses work their way back to full report. My arms and legs are laid out. I’m spread like a starfish. I am naked. I feel...leather straps.
	Well, ain’t that something.
	No fear. No really. I wiggle my fingers and my toes, checking I could still feel them. I feel oddly comfortable and light-headed. Slowly, I work my thoughts towards the conclusion that the empty stretch in my recent memory must have contained the act of consuming my pills, and more than I am meant to take.
	I almost purr from the feeling. And then I can’t help but laugh into the sock stuffed so rudely and deeply in my mouth. Purr! Hah! I’m not a kitty cat. Pfft!
	“Good morning.”
	It takes me an embarrassingly long time to realise it’s not me speaking. I loll my head like a broken toy and beat my mind’s fists against my eyes until they get their act together to focus properly, and they wobble a mouse into view. A white mouse. With really red eyes.
	“Mmmphthin,” I mumble.
	White mouse. Red eyes. Black t-shirt and jeans. In a very ordinary bedroom, with water running somewhere. I watch him with a dim sense of curiosity. But I don’t care, not really. Just, chemically relaxed.
	“You’re a very interesting lady,” he says. And I could almost swoon at that accent. Now that’s how these little islanders should sound! Not like dirt dredged from a canal. Not like Lord Poncington Smythe-Stanley the third. No, they should sound like this mouse. Like a pawful of needles rattling in a wine glass. Sharp and clear  and cold, tink tink tink.
	“Mmpffrhl immph plnnnth.”
	He sits on the corner of the bed. His eyes don’t seem to leave mine, but then could I really tell if they did? They’re just red balls. Like someone’s stuck a couple of snooker balls in his head. They could be looking anywhere, the damn pervert.
	“Do you know my name?”
	I burst out laughing into the sock and shake my head.
	“I know yours.”
	I go silent. I narrow my eyes a little.
	“You’re not as good as you think you are.”
	A...little growl. All that lovely calm, starting to ripple a little.
	“You see, I’ve been watching you since around the time you took that girly little thing back to his flat. Well, I lie a little. I say I was watching…”
	A click, and I flop my head to the left. And there in a doorway is a wet bat with a towel around his waist.
	“Oh,” says the bat. “She’s awake?”
	“It seems so,” says the mouse.
	I rumble a little, throat vibrating. The bat strolls his way over. He looks down at me. “Hmm,” he says. And that’s it. He heads out of the other door, pulling his towel off and using it to rub at his head, letting his tackle dangle free to the air. “Don’t take too long. I’m hungry.”
	And then I’m alone with the mouse.
	“He’s mad at me,” he says. “For making him work in that place. Did you notice him? I suspect you didn’t. Your attention seemed a little too focused on the meerkat behind the bar. You did realise he wasn’t your type, didn’t you?” The mouse leans over, eyes dead and blank. I feel a tremble of unease. “He was my type. I was looking forward to getting my claws into him. And then you went ahead and blew a fine gourmet dinner by deep-frying it and choking it down with beer.”
	I frown. That sounded like an insult.
	“My lovely bat kept an eye on you for me. You’re not exactly graceful. You’ve blundered through my country with all the subtlety of a drunken hippo, and left a wide trail of wreckage and wasted bodies behind you. Even the wretched police could have caught hold of you, if I hadn’t snagged you first. And now you’ve got them stirred up and out looking for a killer. And you’ve gone and made my life just that little bit more irritating. You’ll have caught the attention of that damn cat.”
	I growl. Definitely an insult.
	“So,” he says, patting my thigh. I stay still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Thank you. For all that. It’s much appreciated.”
	He stands up, strolling over to the bathroom. My attention catches on the strangest things. He’s barefoot. Little wiggly mouse toes. And I wonder, why would he barefoot? And then a sensible bit of my brain says “because his socks are in your mouth, you idiot.” And then I think...why? Why are they still there?
	Because nothing seems to be holding them there. I push my tongue against the wet ball of cotton and push it out with a “pah!” noise. It bounces off my bare chest and falls to the bed, lying wet and cold against my side.
	The mouse returns, carrying a bucket, with a towel over his arm. He sets them both down out of my line of sight, down beside the bed.
	“Who are you?” I ask. I feel proud at how calm and ordinary my voice sounds.
	“Why don’t you guess my name?”
	I roll a growl around in my throat, and he pats my thigh.
	“I’ll give you a few minutes to settle down,” he says. “To get your bearings, get your brain in order. Then we can have some fun, don’t you think?”
	I growl louder, and he holds up a finger.
	“Not too loud now,” he says. “I don’t want to have to snuff you out just because you’re bothering the neighbours.”

The situation is interesting, and in a detached, objective kind of way I can say that I kinda like it. It’s mighty inventive, I can give him that. And hell, I might have thought up something like this myself. But I’d much rather be witnessing all this from the other side of things.
	He’s got himself a chair, pulled up against the foot of the bed. And there he sits, all wrapped up in what he’s doing. Barely paying any attention to me, like I’m just an inconvenient necessity in the game. He licks his lip like some damn artist, and drags the point of the scalpel through my skin to draw a red line down the sole of my left foot.
	Naturally, I don’t much like the feeling of that! And I make the most undignified noise into the big rubber ball he’s got strapped into my mouth. I’m not too happy about that neither. I don’t fancy having to suck on some stinking sex toy owned by a rotten mouse and bat. But, there I am, with not much in the way of options otherwise. I clench my eyes shut and force myself to survive it. I keep my toes splayed, held up and taut, trying not to pull at the strings tied to them.
	“Very good,” he breathes. “Looking nice there.” He sits up, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his paw down his muzzle. Then, thusly prepared mentally I guess, he leans back in to touch the sharp blade once more against my sole, next to the burning rage of pounding, stinging pain that it left just moments ago. Once more he drags the steel down through my skin, and once more my skin parts around it, leaving a rich red trail that seeps and spreads, dripping onto the towel laid beneath my ankles. Again I scream into the gag, producing the humiliating gurgling noise. My muzzle is awash with my drool, and I can feel it down on my neck. He’s going to fucking pay for making me look like some animal!
	“Careful now,” he says. And then the fucker touches one of the strings with a finger. I hold my breath. From my toes to the ceiling stretch the strings, up towards the lampshade. There, they loop over the top of the shade and dangle back down, tied together, and tied to a single dangling kitchen knife with a very heavy blade and a very sharp point. The lampshade has a comfortably shallow curve to it, allowing the strings to lay supported over the top of it. But, disturb it too much and it’ll slide off, and the knife will fall. And wouldn’t you know, the knife is hanging right above my naked and very immobile belly, strapped firmly in place above and below by hospital-grade restraint straps.
	All it takes is a wiggle of my toes, and I gain a new belly-button piercing.
	So yeah. At some level I’m loving the wicked inventiveness of the smirking little shit-mouse’s creation. I just wish it were happening to someone else. Preferably the mouse himself. Oh wouldn’t that be nice; to see him laid out like this, screaming and begging. I wouldn’t hold a fucking knife to those wriggling feet of his, oh no. It’d be the blowtorch for him. And then if he turns out to have enough self-control to keep his toes from pulling the strings, and I’d so hope he does, I’d be forced to resort to something else. A nice big pair of garden shears should do the trick. Big dull blades spread nice and wide, positioned in a line to catch all those lovely little pink toes. And then...snick...the knife falls and the strings fling up and ten little severed mouse toes go flying up into the air flinging their blood all over the place while the knife slams deep into his gut, up to the handle, striking bone at the lower side. And oh it would be so good. He wouldn’t be dead yet. So easy to just take hold of that handle and dig around.
	I laugh through the gag. I doubt he’s really paying attention to me. I feel his blade carving another straight line down through my sole. I can feel it, and it’s fucking painful. But mainly, I’m thinking about his screaming expression and his bloodied, toeless feet violently shaking from the pain.
	“Something funny?” he says. The scalpel lowers.
	I mumble something wordless through the gag. He sighs and rolls his eyes.
	“You know, I can’t understand you. Although, I don’t think that is just because of the gag. You’ve not exactly got a good voice. Bit of a yokel twang.”
	I narrow my eyes.
	“It’s true,” he says. “Why, are you ashamed?”
	I shake my head, and wonder why I’m engaging with him.
	“You seem like you’re ashamed.” He twirls the scalpel, and with a little flick he draws a red line across the pads of my toes. I groan and curl them. The knife above my pulls upwards an inch and bobs, then sways. Quickly, I relax my toes. The knife continues to sway. Everything is tense, and we both stare at him. The mouse, of course, is grinning.
	“Oh, so close. Be careful, little yokel girl.” He puts on a mocking accent. “That’ll make a mighty fine hole in you, I do declare!”
	I wish I had my legs free. It would almost be worth the knife in my gut to wipe the smug off his face with a swift kick.
	“Let’s see if you can stay controlled, hmm?” He taps the scalpel against my big toe. “All you need to do is just keep those toes nice and stretched. Nice and taut. Don’t move a muscle. Not a single twitch.”
	And then, meeting my eyes, he just pushes the point of the scalpel into the flesh of my foot, right underneath my big toe, and presses the palm of his paw against the base of the handle. I hiss through the gag and fight the urge to curl my toes and try to push the blade away. The pain...I try to block it out, or ride above it, or all sorts of other things. Fuck fuck fuck, the fucking mouse knows just where to hurt to make it too much. There’s all sorts of different agonies, brought out by all the different tortures and parts of the body. And this one...this one is a wicked one. My toes twitch, and the string quivers. Oh I could get to like this mouse, if it were anyone other than me he was doing this to.
	He slides the blade back out of the ragged wound in my foot. “Oh well done,” he says, bringing his paws together. “I think we could-”
	“Are you done yet?”
	The mouse sighs, and leans back to call over his shoulder. “Just order takeout!”
	“Yeah, but what about you? Aren’t you hungry?”
	“I’ll get something later.”
	“Alright, but don’t you come bitching to me when-”
	The mouse pushes the door closed. I laugh through the gag.
	“You find that funny, hmm?”
	I nod, laughing louder. I don’t even care that the gag makes it sound stupid.
	“Really now.”
	He swipes through the air with the scalpel, dissecting the strings. I have only enough time to gasp as the hanging knife drops through the air…

...and comes to a stop with the point poised mere inches from my fur. The mouse lifts it away and flips it in his paw, catching it by the blade and laying it down on the bedside table.
	“You’re lucky I’ve still got the knack,” he says. “My skills with the knife are a bit rusty.”
	I’m at a loss for words. Not that it matters, with the gag. My heart pounds, and I feel hot. I wonder if he can tell.
	He hauls the bucket up from the floor. I’d forgotten about it. I can see the water slosh inside as he slides it onto the bedside table, nudging the knife out of the way. I flex my fingers. Six inches away. Damn.
	“You’ll like this,” he says, lifting up the towel and folding it neatly in half. “This should remind you of home. A good old-fashioned star-spangled torture. Sorry, I mean, enhanced interrogation.”
	With a soft flop, the towel falls onto my face. I roll my head to flick it away, but I hear the tear of duct tape and feel the mouse laying lines of tape across the top of the towel, and feel him lift my head to wind it around the back of my head. I growl through the gag, seeing only dim pink light through the towel’s weave, feeling its soft fabric against my nose, smelling the fragrant detergent. So domestic, so normal.
	And then the first gush of cold from the bucket. Water pours through the towel and soaks my face. The wet fabric clings against my muzzle and blocks my nose. Water trickles into my gagged mouth and I cough as it reaches my throat. I roll my head from side to side, but the towel moves with me, trapped against my face. I squeeze my eyes shut and fight to breathe. Another splash, water entering into my nose. And now I struggle, like never before in my life, fighting against my restraints with animal frenzy. I can’t even scream. Instinct has me, spluttering and struggling for air in such a pathetic instinctive response. I try to reassure myself, that this is not my fault, that under my mind is the animal brain, and it has control now. No shame to be felt in being forced down into that depth. But it doesn’t help. And my head screams with the panic of mortal terror as I fight away against the threat of drowning, here on that fucking mouse’s bed, killed by a pink bath towel.
	Finally, I get a moment’s breath, enough to scream a muffled noise of distress.
	“Anything you want to say?” he says.
	“Mmmh-hmm!”
	I feel his fingers on the towel, pulling it up and lifting my head off the bed. I feel him at the buckle at the back of my head, and the ball in my mouth loosens enough for me to push it out, enough for him to pull it by the strap and thread it out from under the towel.
	“Well?” he says.
	I pant for air. The towel rises and falls a fraction, the wet fabric ballooning from my breath.
	“Fuck...you,” I spit.
	The water fills my mouth as a fresh cascade floods the towel. Back to the thrashing, animal and uncontrolled. I slam my head up and down against the sodden mattress. Nothing I can do can escape the horrible cling of the wet towel against my face. When the flow stops, and I have a moment to breathe, all I can do is sob.
	“What about now?” he says, after a long pause, while my pathetic noises fade away.
	“Fuck…” is all I manage to gasp before the next splash of water assaults my face. I try to hold my breath this time, but it’s no good. The water gets into my nostrils and starts me spluttering once it reaches my sinuses. My eyes are watering, and I’m mewling like a kitten when it finally stops. I can’t take any more. My shame swells up. I can’t imagine suffering another moment of this.
	“And now?”
	“No more...please.”
	I hear a soft thud. The bucket being set down? Oh I hope it is. I concentrate on breathing, even and slow, trying to keep the wet towel away from my lips.
	“That’s much better. Now.” I hear the sound of the chair being shifted, and the mouse’s voice comes very close to my ear. “Let’s talk about the cat.”
	“What cat?” I gasp.
	“Ah, well,” he says. “I’ll tell you all about him.”

I sit in the most unusual situation I have yet to find myself. Cradling a cup of milky tea, sat across a coffee table from the mouse and the bat. The mouse similarly has a cup, while the bat is contently gorging on the greasy contents of a chinese takeaway box. It would all be very normal and civil if it weren’t for the long, sharp knife resting in the mouse’s lap.
	I watch them carefully as I sip. My feet sting inside their bandages.
	“Of course,” says the mouse. “You’ll have missed your plane home. And with the trail of death you’ve left, you can’t have much hope of staying out of the glare of a police spotlight for long. I know a little about covering my tracks, and you’ve not taken the same precautions as I would take.”
	“Well,” I say, as charming and as civil as I can, whilst fantasising about squeezing my thumbs against the mouse’s throat. “I’m not you.”
	“That you’re not.” He sips. I sip. All very elegant and high class. The bat continues his sloppy gorging. “So,” says the mouse, setting his cup back down on the table. “What do you think about the cat?”
	“I think he’s your problem, not mine.”
	“Well, ordinarily yes. But this,” he says, drumming his fingers on the knife. “This makes it your problem.”
	“I see.”
	“This, and that,” he says, pointing across to the telephone on the counter on the other side of the room. “But I don’t really want to use that. I’m not keen on bringing myself to the attention of the police, any more than you want them looking at you.”
	“So,” I say. And I let the sentence hang.
	“So,” he says. “I want to steer you towards something. Someone.”
	“And why’s that?”
	“Because I’m a known face and you’re not. Because CKC would kill me on sight, and you they would not. Because you can get close to someone and you can get some information for me.”
	“And you think I’m going to do what you want after you’ve done all this to me?”
	“Yes.”
	“Why?”
	“Because,” he says. “I’m handing you a victim and taking care of the coverup for you. You’ll have the fun, and it’s me they’ll think did it. The mouse killer returns to these shores. They won’t be looking for you.”
	“And why shouldn’t I just board a plane and go home? Why would I hang around on this wet little island with you?”
	“Because,” he says, smile widening, the bat glancing over with a raised eyebrow. “you really like the sound of what I’m suggesting.”
	I stare at him, severe and calm, trying not to let the corners of my mouth twitch up. What a bastard.

He’s there, just as the mouse said he would be. It turned out to be altogether too easy. Now why on earth haven’t I done it like this? Now, I’m a pretty gal I know, and I’ve used my charms to get my way before. But like this, to convince a guy into meeting up after a few messages on some anonymous internet dating site? Genius!
	He smiles and I smile. Such cordiality and grace, sat in rare sunshine in a cafe on the high street. He’s a nice sort, thin and sculpted and kind of face. A smiling, pleasant guy. Works as an accountant he says, with a chuckle and a quip about being dull.
	He’s a researcher, the mouse had said. Works at this CKC place. Has all sorts of access codes and inside information.
	I put my paw on the back of his. Smiles. All smiles. I like otters, I say. I feel his fingers curl. I like their webs, I say. I’m laying on all the charms. Smile, tilt head, charm and smarm. I like how they feel, thick and soft, like this. And I lift his paw and press my palm to his, fingers entwined and squeezing. How about we go for a walk?
	So we walk along beside the river. He asks about my life, and I tell him lies. I ask him about his job, and he tells me lies. Really, it all has the makings of the basis of a wonderful relationship. We reach the road at the end, all smiles and laughing, and I suggest we go back to my hotel for a coffee. He seems amused by the wonderful up-front and foreign nature of my suggestion, and says as such. We go to my car, liberated earlier that day from some unsuspecting person’s driveway, and away we drive, off towards the quiet little lockup that the mouse assures me is just perfect for remaining undisturbed. By the time my date’s suspicions are aroused by the route, the drug in his coffee has kicked in, and I drive in silence for a while as he sleeps beside me.
	He wakes up, eventually, prepared and ready. He dangles nicely from his wrists, toes touching the cold cement. And I do enjoy the sight of those webbed toes, I really do. That much wasn’t a lie. I enjoy them so much that I stuck the point of a screwdriver through each one and threaded steel wire through them. They make a very handy anchor to the floor. I couldn’t do the same with his fingers, of course. They’d just rip right out with the weight. So, I simply went biblical on him: a steel hook through the soft tissue of each wrist, hauled up above his head for him to hang from.
	I am surprised he didn’t wake up earlier. The mouse really didn’t lie when he had some handy little chemicals. How neat! I fancy getting some of those for myself.
	Mmmmph he says, through the socks stuffed in his muzzle. Thought that a bit poetic, after the mouse’s treatment of me. And like all stories told over and over, he spits them out with a wet pah just like I did. I let him hang there, moaning in distress as he takes stock of the various wounds and pains, of the blood trickling rivulets down his arms and dripping from his toes onto the floor beneath him, making it slick for him to stand on.
	“Jenny,” he gasps. That being the name he thinks is mine. “Jenny, what is this?”
	I hover my paw over the collection of devices. So masculine. So powerful. A heap of metal and plastic and power. Each one trailing a wire to a collection of wall sockets. Each one ready, humming with electricity, eager to pulse and turn and rotate and burn. I lift a drill, feeling its weight, holding it like a submachine gun, one paw on the handle with the trigger, the other on the one beneath the “barrel”. It’s a heavy-duty tool, built for pounding concrete and stone into dust, to cut smooth cylinders of air through hard materials. I squeeze the trigger and hear the roar and feel the air turn around the spinning half-inch wide bit.
	The otter shrieks for help. I leave him for a while. Let him get it out. Nobody who can hear him cares. I take a step towards him, and his sole attention is on me.
	“What do you want? What do you want?! Don’t do it! I’ll tell you, whatever you want!”
	Well, that’s no fun. I walk over to him and he tries to swing away. His struggles dig the hooks harder into his wrists, and the wires cut the holes in his webs into longer lines of bleeding red. I touch the tip of the drill to his stomach. He’s pulled back as far as the hooks will let him. He’s blubbing like a baby, begging with broken words.
	I give the trigger a little squeeze. The bit spins and catches his fur, ripping it from his skin. He shrieks and spasms, and I pull the drill back towards me, leaving only a red spot the size of a small coin, barely cut into the skin.
	“What do you want to tell me?”
	“Anything!” he cries. “Please don’t hurt me! Please don’t kill me!”
	I’ve heard it all before. I rev the drill a few times, and he shrieks in panic again. He doesn’t even notice the splatter against the floor as he loses control of his bladder, pissing all over his feet and into his blood on the concrete. Seen that before too. Doesn’t ever get old, though, watching a grown man piss himself in fear. Love it.
	I look to my side, checking the sheet of paper on the table next to the toys. I don’t need to note down his answers. The mouse has got that covered with his little microphone. But I need to ask the right questions.
	“What’s your login ID?”
	“W-what?”
	I spin the drill. The howl of the motor fills the room.
	“What’s your login ID?”
	I watch the cogs in his head turn. His eyes dart about as if reading his memory. Then realisation dawns, and he looks up at me with a dead look of resignation. He understands now.
	“B5349GFV,” he says, as if reading it off. I don’t react, standing and looking at him with a fixed expression.
	“What’s your password?”
	His lip trembles. “Guru386.”
	Again I wait. And this time, the tiny voice in my ear speaks, a whisper from the hidden earpiece.
	“It works.”
	I check the paper again. And again, and again. Each question gets a response. I understand few of the questions, and even fewer of the answers. I understand only that the mouse is getting everything he wants, a gateway into whatever this CKC place is. I can only squirm in discomfort, waiting impatiently. He hangs there, and the drill weighs heavy in my paws, and I cannot bring one to the other just yet. He’s being far too compliant. There’s no need to tear the answers out of him. The threat alone is enough. Pity.
	Finally, the last question, and the last answer. And I hear the words I’ve been longing to hear.
	“He’s all yours.”
	I spin up the drill and walk towards him. And this time, it’s more than just a step.
	“No! I told you everything you wanted! Please don’t do this! Please! Please!”
	The spinning metal teases at his fur. I watch it blow past, occasionally catching and ripping chunks of fur and flesh out from his body and scattering them to the room around me. Just tiny, glancing touches. Nothing that could rend an organ or send his head nodding down into endless sleep. Just a few little agonies, to keep him dancing, to keep him tugging at those hooks and the wire.
	Just the tiniest touch. Spinning metal against his dangling malehood. The flash of blood as the skin catches and shreds. The intrusion of the pointed tip, digging a trench. He screams and thrashes, and I move effortlessly to keep the tool in position against him. The skin catches and winds, wrapping around the spinning bit like the public safety videos always say it can. A spray of skin and blood, and the unearthly howl of an otter who’s just had his cock flayed.
	I drop the drill on the floor and hear the plastic crack. The motor winds down to silence, taking the longest time. Nothing left but the otter’s sobbing moans. He’s staring down at his mangled cock, at my paw that now closes around it, squeezing, blossoming blood into the fur of my paw. Squeezing and milking out the blood, like a juiced orange. I feel a gasp of pleasure coming on as I feel the wet flesh disintegrate between my gripping, twisting fingers. I can barely keep a grip. My claws sink in. I tear and pull and rip, and in my mind it’s the mouse I’m demasculating. It’s his screams I hear. And its his flesh that I fling from my drenched paw to splatter onto the cement.
	I turn back to the table and pick up the electric chainsaw. The otter’s head has slumped forwards. He’s awake, he’s there, but only just. Time to finish things off. I rev up the motor, hear it scream as the blades churn. I dwell happily in the pure noise of it, watching as the otter’s head groggily rises.
	And with a happy cry, the world around me forgotten, I dive in to the blood and gore of it all!