MEL looks much better than expected.
        In the photographs he never wore glasses and I like the way he tilts his head when he glances over their black frames. It makes him appear intrigued – almost interested. His amused smile confuses my well-prepared plans to make light-hearted conversation.
        We share a bottle of wine in a pub; then pizza and more wine in an Italian restaurant; then something eye-watering sharp in another pub.
        While we wait for the boy behind the bar to refill our drinks for the last time he kisses me. His tongue invades my mouth carelessly as if my lips were a dessert he forgot to finish off. When I respond to his kiss he bites me.
        My knees go weak. A mixture of fear and hate warms my heart.
        I let him kiss me. I let him bite me. He is that sort of man. There is no point pretending I am not that sort of woman. Knowing who we are is a bond strong as steel.

He calls a week later.
        “The Gate. Find the address online. Be there Friday at midnight. Dress appropriately.”

I arrive at the The Gate half an hour early and wait at the bar, hoping that stockings, mini skirt and a whiff of nothing top are appropriate.
        A man with frogeyes and ballooning gut walks up to me.
        “I am with somebody,” I say.
        “Never mind. I just want to chat.”
        The Toad buys me a drink.
        I know MEL has arrived when I feel a hand touch my neck from behind. His fingers are firm and warm. I lean back against his chest. He turns me around and pulls me off the barstool. Our eyes meet.
        “Who said you were allowed to talk to anybody while you wait for me?”
        Before I have time to reply he pushes me down until I kneel on the floor in front of him. He fills my mouth with his flesh. I work my lips and tongue around him and pray he approves of my efforts while he starts a conversation with The Toad. I strain my ears to hear what they say but cannot understand a word. They seem to get along fine because suddenly MEL slaps me just hard enough to make me stop what I’m doing and shoves my head towards The Toad who hastily unbuttons his fly.
        I frown at the pinkie-sized worm sneaking out of the green cotton briefs underneath his black leather trousers and shake my head. MEL slaps me once more. I open my mouth. Then I bite.
        “What the f … ,” The Toad winces and jumps.
        I hang my head in shame but through a few strands of hair that have come loose I glare at MEL, surprised how easy it is to look down from below.
        He heaves me up by my arm. I try to shake myself free. His grip hurts. There is ice in his smile.
        He nods at The Toad who greedily reaches for me. Together they lead me into another room and lie me down on a cross.
        MEL fastens my arms above my head, spreads my legs and secures them with leather straps. He rips off my clothes with calm hands. They glide over my skin, remote, only vaguely interested, as if he was checking the texture of goods he is not convinced he wants to buy.
        I feel his finger inside me. He observes my reaction as he pushes in another finger – and another - and another. I move my hips up and towards him as far as my ties allow.
        “This seems to be safer,” he says.
        The Toad’s eyes light up. His tongue flickers across his moist lips and pointy brown teeth. He unbuttons his trousers again and his puny red jelly worm reappears. He stuffs it into an extra durable, easy-on, natural rubber fetherlite.
        I struggle against the straps. MEL attaches two cold clamps to my breasts. They cut so deep into my body my heart feels the strain and misses a beat. He brings his face close to my ear.
        “Keep still,” he whispers. “Keep still or I have to hurt you.”
        The Toad’s sweaty gut sticks to my stomach. There is a sucking noise when he starts moving his baby thumb in and out of me.
        MEL’s eyes darken. He rams a metal gag ring between my teeth that pushes my tongue down my throat and forces my jaws wide apart.
        He steps back and looks up. I follow his gaze. A million eyes stare at the wormhole that used to be my cunt and the open flesh wound that used to be my mouth. He turns back to me.
        “How many more would you take for my pleasure?”
         I blush.
        “Good girl,” he says and pats my head.
        His smile tightens the screws around my heart until it breaks. He looks at the pieces and nods. Then he walks away.