Free The Basement by Stephen Leather Page B

walls by reinforced hinges. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, her long legs crossed at her ankles.
    You get a tight feeling in the pit of your stomach as you see that she's wearing her high heels.
    She's looking at the padlock which keeps the chain locked around her waist and you know that she's trying to find a way out. She's still clinging to the hope that she'll be able to find a way out. It's a good feeling, watching her and knowing that you have absolute power over her. She reaches up and rubs her nose as if it was itching, a small, child-like gesture. She looks directly at the door, almost as if she sees you, though you know that's not possible.
    She's wondering whether or not she'll be able to get the door open if she does manage to get free from the chain.
    You punch the combination into the panel and the bolts click back. You check the peephole again and see that she's standing up, her hands linked at her waist, her head down.
    You open the door and step into the room. “Good,” you say, “you look much better.”
    You close the door behind you and stand with your back against it, savouring the anticipation. It's not the sex, you know that, it's something much stronger, much more stimulating. It's the power, the ability to make another human being conform to your wishes,
    no matter what they are. The power to make them do whatever you want, and to gradually take away everything they hold dear: their freedom, their dignity, and, eventually, their life.
    You feel a shiver of anticipation which is so intense that you gasp and close your eyes. The tremor passes after a few seconds and you run your hands against the sides of your trousers.
    Your palms are sweating, but, perversely, your mouth is dry. You walk to the bathroom and pick up a paper cup from the shelf under the metal mirror which is bolted to the wall. You fill the cup with cold water and drink half of it slowly, and then carry it back into the main room. You stand at the end of the bed, looking at her, side on. She has a good figure, no indication that she's a mother of young children. A word comes to mind suddenly: ripe. The woman is ripe for picking, like a fruit that is ready to drop from the tree. You lick your lips.
    “Take off your blouse, Sarah,” you say quietly. She starts to tremble and at first you think she's going to resist but then her hands flutter up to the top button of her shirt. One by one she undoes the buttons and then her hands fall to her side as if reluctant to do her bidding.
    “Take the shirt off,” you say. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then shrugs the shirt off her shoulders and removes her arms from the sleeves. She half turns and puts the shirt on the bed, careful not to catch your eye. Her hands return to their original position,
    linked at her waist. You move to stand in front of her. Her breasts are rising and falling as she breathes, and you can see beads of sweat gathering in her cleavage. Her bra is white and lacy with a small metal clasp at the front. It seems a fraction too small. Perhaps she buys them that way deliberately, knowing that it has the effect of pushing her breasts together,
    making them look larger and firmer. Her skin is milky white and unmarked, no scars or discolorations, as if she'd spent a lot of money on expensive oils and soaps and kept out of the sun. You savour the moment, and fight back the urge to rush things. You rushed the first few, but you've learned from your mistakes. For the power to be truly appreciated, it has to be extended. Prolonged.
    “Sarah,” you say, “I want you to take off your bra.”
    She swallows nervously. You know what she's thinking. She thinks she's smart, she thinks that if she can only talk to you that she'll be able to persuade you to let her go. She's used to dealing with her children, using the force of her intellect to keep them in order, and she's used to getting her own way with a husband who probably worships her. All her life she's