"I'm home, honey," Carol announced as she stepped through the front door and pushed it closed with her foot. Her arms were taken up with her usual 'take-work-home-with-her' gear, a laptop, a case of files, and a pre-cooked dinner destined for the micro-wave. She set most of her load down on the hall table, took the dinner and headed towards the kitchen.
"Hank? Hank - are you here?" she called again, having had no response to her first greeting. "I hope you've eaten, I only got enough for me."
Silence.
Carol was getting a bit worried now, she checked the lounge and noticed a chair had been knocked over. Through to the kitchen where a tap was running. The back door was open.
"Hank?"
She looked through the adjoining door into the garage. His car was there. She checked the back yard, but found no sign of her husband. Puzzled, she went back in to the lounge and righted the chair. In doing so she spotted a red envelope on the floor, it was addressed to her.
Curious, she opened it. Inside was a note: 'If you ever want to see your husband again, you will follow these and all other instructions I give you. Go to your room, you will find further instructions there. Signed Happy Boy.'
Carol swallowed hard. She recognised the hand writing. She thought she had finally dealt with this sick bastard last year, but he had come back to torment her. Fearful of her husband's safety, she hurried through to the bedroom. Sure enough on the vanities table there was another red envelope. It was surrounded by an array of cheap cosmetics.
This note read: 'Make yourself up like the whore you are. Then have a cab take you to the public toilets on Wilmot Street. Signed Bidet Boy.'
There was nothing else she could do. Carol removed her delicate, fashionable make-up and started to apply the cheap cherry-pink lipstick. She penned in dark, thin eyebrows. Stuck on ridiculously long fake eyelashes. Pressed on fake pink nails. Brushed in the gold-glitter eye shadow.
It looked cheap, trashy. The contrast with her stylishly coifed hair and burgundy business suit made it worse. It didn't stop her from calling a taxi.
The toilets were easy to find, she passed them every day on the way to work. Telling the driver to wait for her, she hurried in to the women's side. There was nothing. Mentally she kicked herself, of course it wasn't going to be that easy.
Summoning up her courage, she went in to the men's side. Fortunately there was no-one visible although she could hear someone in one of the cubicles. A hurried search found the next envelope taped to the underside of the sink. She grabbed it and ran back to the taxi.
The driver accepted the delay as she opened the envelope.
'Take off your blouse immediately!' it said. "I may be watching you.'
Carol glanced around instinctively. There were any number of men on the street that could be her tormentor. She unbuttoned her blazer, aware the driver was waiting for directions and had her reflection in his mirror. His eyes widened as she took off her expensive silk blouse. He only got a few seconds to perve her C-cup breasts and plain cotton bra before she had her blazer on again. She stuffed her blouse into her handbag and read the rest of the note.
'Now go to the Hollywood Nights Salon. They have a wig waiting for you under the name of Prudence Dullinbed. Have it fitted. Signed Rug Boy.'
Carol didn't have a clue where that salon was, it certainly wasn't her regular one. The driver had to radio back to his control to get the address.
It wasn't in the worst part of town, but getting close. She didn't have the taxi wait this time since she didn't know how long it would take to have a wig fitted. Inside the salon she was assailed by the usual smells of peroxide and hair spray, but also of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. A girl who couldn't have been more than eighteen was sitting laconically at the front desk.
"Hello," Carol said. "I'm here to be fitted for a wig."
"You Prudence?" the girl asked, looking at a battered ledger. The girl then giggled, "Prudence Dull-in-bed?"
Carol flushed. "Yes," she said as primly as she could manage. That just amused the girl more.
"Andrea," the girl shouted over her shoulder, not bothering to get up, "That prepaid wig for Prudence Dull-In-Bed is here."
The woman that came to the counter was older but no better dressed than the receptionist. She too was amused by the name.
"This way," she directed. Carol meekly followed.
Carol's stylish hair was slicked down against her scalp with gel, a two hour styling session with Mr Paul destroyed. The wig was platinum blond, shoulder length. A few women, with the right make-up, could look good in it. Carol looked like a stage act in a sleazy cabaret.
"This came with the payment," Andrea said, handing Carol a red envelope with 'Prudence Carol Dullinbed' written on it.
Carol waited until Andrea had wandered off to deal with another customer before she opened it.
'Remember your husband's continued health and well-being depends on following my instructions,' it began. 'Take off your pantyhose and give them to the first man you see. The next envelope is waiting for you in the bar across the street. It contains further instructions, and a memento from your husband to show that I am serious. Signed Thigh Boy.'
Carol borrowed the salon's toilet and peeled off her pantyhose in private. Coming out she found a male hairdresser and presented him with the pantyhose, hoping that he was gay and wouldn't take advantage of her. Either way, he was too surprised to do anything and she was away.
The bar was a dive, smoky, dirty and inhabited almost entirely by fat men in overalls. She ignored the lewd comments and strode up to the bar. She caught the attention of the only woman serving, a heavy-set creature with a crooked nose and tattoos covering her bare arms.
"Do you have a letter for me? A red envelope?" Carol asked, having to shout over the noise.
"Dunno," the woman shrugged. "I'll ask Karl."
Carol stared fixedly at the bottles on the wall, not daring to make eye contact with any of the clientele. It seemed to take forever but Karl arrived holding a red envelope. Carol reached out to take it, but he held it back.
"Sorry, luv. It came with instructions that you have to have a shot of bourbon before I give it to you. Drinks been paid for." He added that last bit as though it made it easier.
The 'shot' looked more like a treble, and Karl shook his head when she asked if she could have some soda or water with it. Steeling herself, she took the glass and sipped gingerly. It stung her mouth and cloyed at her throat. She didn't drink much but even she could tell this was cheap and rough.
Knowing she had to get it over with, she tipped the glass to her mouth and gulped it down in two swallows. It almost came straight back up again and Carol spent several minutes gasping and heaving over the bar top. Even when she got herself back under control she could taste the bitterness and feel the alcohol dulling her senses.
Snatching the letter from Karl's hand, she practically ran out of the bar and half a block down the street before she felt safe enough to open it.
It contained another slip of paper and a tangle of pubic hair. God, the sick bastard! Carol thought to herself as she read the note.
'As you can see, I have begun stream-lining your husband for a more interesting life. You had better hurry to the sex shop on the corner, before I cut off anything else. I want you to buy a bustier and matching fishnet stockings (I will let you choose the colour) to replace your current underwear. Signed Daydream Boy.'
Carol looked around, she couldn't see any sex shop nearby. Then it occurred to her that her tormentor might assume she would read this in the bar. She went back down and from outside the bar she could see the gaudy neon sign advertising 'adult' products.
The choice of colour turned out to be black or red, and as red stockings were too trashy to even consider, she opted for black. To her annoyance, this time the purchase hadn't been pre-paid and as she didn't have enough cash on her she had to use her credit card. She shuddered to think that 'Foxxy's Adult Shoppe' was going to appear on her next statement.
The greasy little shop keeper handed her a red envelope along with her card. She took it outside, all too aware of her new lingerie.
'You are to go back to the bar," the note read. "There you will find a man named Max and you will give him a blow job. If there is more than one Max, well, that's just makes it more fun. Remember, you have to do this if you want to see your husband again.'
Sick bastard! Sick bastard! Sick bastard! Carol repeated to herself as she returned to the bar. It was even more crowded, but at least there were some presentable guys there now. Figuring that she might as well hope for the best and work her way down, she went up to the cleanest looking guy there.
"Are you Max?"
"I could be if you want, honey," the man drawled, but Carol was already moving on. She didn't have the time or courage to muck around. The next three men gave her two lewd come-ons and a polite no. With only one vaguely presentable man left, Carol's hopes were sinking.
"Yeah, I'm Max. Strange guy told me that if I hung around this bar that I'd get lucky. That wouldn't be you, would it?"
He looked more intrigued than sleazy, which made it a bit easier for Carol. "Come with me," she said, doing her best not to be too obvious, "and we'll see how lucky you get."
"Hey, I'm not going out back to get rolled."
Carol frowned. She couldn't blame him for being paranoid but at the same time she didn't want to have to do this in front of all the bar patrons.
