'I've never seen the attraction in this,' said the man.
'Domination. I don't think I'm the least bit submissive. The idea of a woman hitting me .. .' The man faked a shudder.
'There are so many better things a woman can do.' He grinned.
'I guess that's why they call it the English vice, isn't it?'
He walked over to Hoyle and stood in front of him. Hoyle flinched as the man reached up and held the zipper over his mouth. He ran the zipper back and forth several times, an amused smile on his face, then zipped it closed.
'You get given a get-out word, don't you? A word you can use when the pain gets too much. When you really want it to stop, right?'
Hoyle nodded.
'Just so you know, Mr. Hoyle, I won't be giving you such a word. The only way you're going to stop me is by doing what I want. Do you understand?'
Hoyle nodded again. His penis had shrunk to nothing and sweat was dripping down his back.
'Good,' said the man. He stepped back and pointed up at a brass light fitting in the ceiling, below which was suspended an etched-glass bowl.
'Did you know there was a camera up there? She records everything. For insurance. In case a client should die down here, she could prove that it was all consensual. She keeps the tapes. I've got all your sessions. I'm about half-way through them.' The man grinned.
'You're a naughty, naughty boy.'
Hoyle screamed as something hit him hard on the left thigh. Hoyle's eyes watered. One of the men was brandishing a cane.
'Now, on the plus side, if you do what I want, I'll make sure that nobody else ever sees those tapes. Your wife. Or your partners. Or the tabloids. Or your mother.' The man unzipped the mouth slot.
'Say thank you, David.'
'Thank you,' said Hoyle hoarsely.
The man nodded and zipped the slot closed.
'On the negative side, if you don't agree to do what I ask, my men will keep hurting you until you change your mind. They're experts at inflicting pain. Not the pretend sort that hookers like her dole out. Real pain. Crippling pain. Permanent pain.'
The cane slashed into Hoyle's other thigh and he cried out again, his screams muffled by the leather hood.
'Where is Victoria Donovan?'
Hoyle shook his head. The cane whipped through the air and pain seared across his stomach. He screamed. Tears streamed down his face and soaked into the leather.
'Where is Victoria Donovan?' asked the man again.
'I can't tell you,' said Hoyle.
The man frowned and unzipped the mouth slot.
'You're mumbling, David,' he said.
'I can't tell you,' said Hoyle, 'because I don't know. He won't tell me where he is.'
'He?'
'Stewart. Stewart Sharkey. The man she's with.'
The cane swished again, and smacked into his stomach, a fraction of an inch lower than the previous time. Hoyle screamed and his whole body went into spasm for several seconds. Hoyle's mistress knew how to use the cane so that it didn't leave a mark, but Hoyle knew that the welts he was getting now would be on his body for weeks.
'Before you get any ideas about that hooker calling the police, I've paid her to take a week's vacation,' said the man.
'And I've promised her that we'll have cleaned up by the time she gets back. Seems we've got mutual friends. Now, how do you get in touch with him?'
'Phone.'
'There's no number in your office.'
'Stewart told me not to write it down.'
'UK number?'
'A mobile.'
The man took out a mobile phone.
'Right, here's what we're going to do, David.'
Stewart Sharkey's mobile phone trilled.
'Who is it?' asked Vicky, standing at the entrance to the terrace, a glass of champagne in her hand.
Sharkey forced himself to smile. He wanted to snap at her, to ask her how he was expected to know. He wasn't psychic, for God's sake. He picked up the phone and pressed the green button.
'Stewart, it's me, David.'
'Yes, David.' Hoyle sounded stressed.
'Is there a problem?'
'No, no problem,' said Hoyle.
'Everything's going ahead as planned. I've some forms for Victoria to sign, that's all. For the custody application.'
'Can't you sign them on her behalf?'
Vicky frowned and mouthed, 'Who is it?'
'No can do, Stewart. Sorry. It has to be her.'
Sharkey put his hand over the bottom of the phone.
'It's the lawyer. You've got to sign some papers.' Vicky visibly relaxed and Sharkey realised that she thought the call might have been from her husband.
'Stewart? Are you there?'
'Relax, David. It's okay. What about faxed copies? Would that do?'
'Has to be originals, I'm afraid. Is there any possibility of you both coming to the office in the next few days?'
'Absolutely none,' said Sharkey. He winked at Vicky and she took a quick sip of her champagne.
'You'll have to have them couriered out here,' he said.
There was a pause as if Hoyle had taken the phone away from his mouth, then he coughed.
'That's fine,' he said.
'Where shall I send them to?'
'Have you got a pen?' asked Sharkey.
Juan Rojas put away his mobile phone.
'See, that wasn't so hard, was it?' he asked Hoyle.
Hoyle had sagged against the wooden cross. The strength had gone from his legs and all his weight was on his wrists.
'Please don't kill me,' he sobbed.
'Wouldn't that be the ultimate thrill for you?' asked Rojas.
'Bit like Christ, dying on the cross.'
'I don't want to die,' Hoyle moaned. Urine splattered on to the carpet and Rojas wrinkled his nose in disgust.
'No one wants to die,' said Rojas.
'No one's ever begged me to kill them.' A thoughtful look crossed his face.
'Actually, that's not true. There was a man once, in Milan. After what we'd done to him, he really did want to die. Begged and begged.' Rojas smiled.
'I've no wish to kill you, David. None at all. I'm going to leave you here for a couple of days. One of my men will come in to give you water.' He nodded at the sodden carpet.
'Might even put a bucket under you. After forty-eight hours we'll let you loose. We'll still have the videos, so
