Wendy had spent the morning crying. It was how she had spent every morning of the past two years. It looked to be how she would spend every morning for the rest of her life.
The physical suffering was no longer significant. He had said she would adapt, and she had. But the humiliation had never diminished. Rather, it had increased until she could barely think about the continuation of her life.
Many would say she had married well. The daughter and sole heir of a wealthy financier, and classically beautiful to boot, she had been pursued by fortune hunters from all the continents of the world. Her father had protected her scrupulously. No one had been permitted a hundred words of conversation with her without first proving his bona fides to the satisfaction of a regiment of detectives. The bequest of the Milliards' family fortune would not be a prize for some rapacious gigolo.
Instead, it had been won by a fiend.
Paul Martin had seemed too good to be true. He came from an irreproachable East Coast family, an original member of the Four Hundred. He was as handsome as Wendy was beautiful. Notwithstanding his clan's position, he was independently wealthy by his own labors in the marketing of consumer electronics. He had been the target of enough women with dollar signs in their eyes to staff a large brothel. In public he was always gracious, faultlessly polite, and completely the master of his circumstances. He carried himself with the natural grace and unselfconsciousness that bespeaks true gentility. She had hardly been able to accept that he was genuinely interested in her. It was the stuff of dreams.
And like all things that seem too good to be true, he was not what he seemed. The echoes of their marriage vows had barely faded when he began to show the sadism at his core. Now she bore it like a cross.
He made her do things: degrading things, things beyond the darkest hints she, a virgin when she married, had ever received from more experienced friends. He had started out gently enough, and she, desperately eager to please him, had complied with his early requests without thought. It had taken only a little while before she realized what he was turning her into. When she protested, he overrode her with a forcefulness she could never have expected. From that moment her real torment began.
He had turned her into an object. Her sensibilities, to which he had previously paid lip service, were as nothing to him. Her role in his life was to be the raw material upon which he would act out his dark urges. He had almost ceased to speak to her; she could no longer speak to him at all.
Each day he sealed her into a corset that covered her from breasts to knees, pulling the laces so tight that she could barely move or breathe. He locked bizarre shoes upon her feet: shoes with toes so short and heels so high that she could barely totter across their home. Sometimes he would add hobble chains; sometimes, a gag. And always, when he had finished dressing her, would come the ultimate degradation: the two long, thick plugs, one for her vagina and the other for her anus, attached to a harness that locked about her waist. When, crying furiously, she dared to ask why, he smiled and said it was to teach her continence and self-control.
Today, at least, he had omitted the gag, and she could wail her full measure. But there was no salvation for her in this, only the relief of that one need. Their house, nestled in the country woods, secluded and far from any neighbor, had a telephone with an unlisted number, set only to receive calls. She would be held captive here until he relented or she died.
All that sustained her was faith: an unreasoned belief that some form of salvation would be hers if only she could persevere. She had always thought herself weak, but how weak could she be, if she could endure this? Help was out there somewhere. She waited for it as patiently as she could.
------
The telephone rang.
The sound was so unexpected that she jumped to hear it. Moving with care, she went to his office and picked up the handset.
"Hello?"
"Is this Mrs. Paul Martin?" The voice at the other end was a smooth baritone, pleasantly inflected, with a hint of an accent she could not identify.
She winced at the pain of being called by his name. "Yes, this is she."
"Mrs. Martin, I represent Turnabout, Incorporated. We've been given to understand that you might benefit from our services. Do you know of us?"
"No, what do you do?" The strange name brought her an image of a company lifting their house with a crane and spinning it around.
"Mrs. Martin, we are the enforcement agency for the Golden Rule. We do unto others as they do unto you. Some can't manage that for themselves, whether from circumstances or temperament. Might this describe you in some way?"
The words seemed to ring in her ears. "You...do unto others?"
"Yes, Mrs. Martin, exactly as they've done unto you. No more and no less. We've received a call from someone who knows you quite well, suggesting to us that you might fit our client profile. Are you being victimized in some way that makes you unable to respond? Might you be able to use a capable ally with coercive resources?"
There was a slight emphasis on the word "coercive." She could hardly believe what she was hearing.
"Who was it who told you of me?"
"Mrs. Martin, our sources of information must be kept confidential, to protect against the possibility of harmful backlash. We are merely inquiring about whether you might find our specialty valuable. Consider it a 'cold call,' that you might receive from any other kind of retail organization. Would you like to schedule a visit from one of our representatives?"
A wild joy rose in her, faster and stronger than thought could follow.
"Yes! Yes, get someone here as quickly as you can! The address is -- "
"Oh, no need for that. We know where to find you."
The caller hung up.
------
The doorbell rang only a few minutes later. She scurried to answer it, ignoring the pain in her feet, and threw the door open. The man who stood upon her step was of medium height, pleasant looking, and garbed in a dark business suit. He carried himself with the assurance of a successful corporate executive. He could have been any of Paul's business associates. He looked at her with only a slight smile.
"Mrs. Martin? I am Harrison Avenell of Turnabout, Incorporated. May I come in?"
"Yes, yes." She ushered him in and bade him sit upon the sofa in the living room just beyond. He did so, leaning slightly forward, hands clasped before him. She pulled a chair up to sit in herself.
"May I inquire as to whether your...unusual style of dress has anything to do with your problem, Ma'am?" Avenell withdrew a small notebook and a pen from an inner pocket of his jacket.
Her breath caught in her chest. The moment had come. From here, there could be no turning back.
"It has everything to do with it." She described her husband's proclivities, and how the course of their marriage had run. Avenell listened attentively, occasionally asking for details and making a notation. When she had run out of words, he nodded, put the notebook back into his pocket, and clasped his hands before him once again.
"I don't recall seeing a case like yours before, Ma'am. It's both heartbreaking and entirely new. Did I describe Turnabout's methods when we spoke on the 'phone?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so."
He leaned slightly farther forward and spoke softly. "We believe in the Golden Rule, Mrs. Martin. We believe in it passionately. We are supported by people who believe as we do. Sometimes, the Golden Rule needs a little force behind it. We provide that force. If you decide to employ us, we will reproduce the pattern of your victimization upon your husband. We will strive to duplicate what he has done to you in all details. Some might be beyond our abilities, but, excepting those, his condition after we have finished with him will approach what you have endured as closely as human ingenuity and effort can manage." He paused and glanced at his hands. "I doubt he'll like it much."
She began to laugh. The laugh got away from her, escalated into a crazy shriek. It must have frightened him, for he went to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and shook her gently until she regained her self-control.
"Mrs. Martin, do you intend to engage us?"
Breathing deeply, she nodded. "It's what I've dreamed of. Oh, God, I knew if I could just hold out, there would be help!" She caught herself, strove for steadiness. "When can you start?"
He smiled. "Right away." He went to the door, opened it, and beckoned to someone she couldn't see. Within seconds, a man bearing a large toolbox had come in. He extracted cutting devices from the box and went to work on her restraints without a word. Incredulous, she looked up at Avenell. He smiled.
"We always come prepared. When does your husband usually get home?"
------
Paul Martin pulled his Mercedes into the driveway of his country home a little after seven that evening. It had been an ordinary day, with neither a challenge nor an opportunity to make it memorable. But his evenings with Wendy were never ordinary, and tonight he would have the most extraordinary one he could manage.
He locked the car door, hefted his oversized briefcase, and went unconcernedly to and through the front door of his manse. It took a moment for him to realize that the house was completely dark. He dropped his bag and rotated his head slowly from left to right, peering through the murk for any sign of human presence.
"Wendy? Wendy!"
