I divide the story of my life into two parts: the years before the incident and the time since. What occurred rocked my world like a psychic earthquake. I was looking for a transformation, and I found it in the abyss of a human soul.

Growing up, I had been a loner, an introvert who withdrew from the company of others. I avoided social gatherings whenever possible. This practice conflicted with the wishes of my aristocratic family, whose business dealings and political pursuits kept them perpetually in the limelight. They tried to force me to be more outgoing, but this only increased my distress, resulting in several panic attacks in public. The elders discussed several options for me. My grandfather sent me to a psychiatrist who diagnosed a social anxiety disorder, which was a politically correct way of saying that I was afraid of people. The doctor's solution was prescriptions of Prozac and Valium combined with talk therapy, where I felt compelled to ramble on about my childhood. I didn't see the value in those $600-hour sessions, but I couldn't object to Papi spending his own money if he insisted on it.

Dr. Wildare was a stereotypical Freudian shrink who focused on my parental relationships. His theory was that my strict upbringing had instilled in me a sense that I could never meet expectations. The internal belief that I had disappointed my parents made me fear rejection from everyone. As a consequence, I ended up trusting no one. Fears of what might happen prevented anything from happening, a disabling process he called catastrophizing, by which a person cages himself in. It made sense to me, but self-knowledge of the problem did not eliminate it. The effect of this analysis was to make me feel psychologically damaged.

He threw out many suggestions for me to try. They were strategies designed to alter my way of thinking. I'd listen politely to his proposals, promising to give them a shot, before forgetting about them the minute I got out of his office. But then he came up with a new idea that intrigued me. He said that to escape my fears: I should try leaving myself behind. He suggested that I go somewhere I'd never been, incognito, and act out a new role for myself. Essentially, I might lower my perceived risk to myself by being someone else for a while. If I could relax in those circumstances, the experience might teach me to be more sociable.

This novel plan appealed to me. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to try it. Coincidentally, Halloween was only two weeks away, so I had a practical reason for wearing a disguise. I found a specialty store in Boston that rented out high-quality costumes. They had dressed up a mannequin in their display window in a precise copy of the original Batman outfit. It was magnificent! I had long appreciated the dichotomous nature of the Batman character, identifying with the reserved privileged life of Bruce Wayne while fantasizing about morphing into the flamboyant superhero admired by all. I had the costume custom-tailored for a perfect fit. The mere act of putting it on improved my mindset.

The next piece of the puzzle was figuring out where to go. I needed to get away from my locale to find a social environment different from the high-brow gatherings of Boston Brahmins with which I was most familiar. While hunting online to find something with a rougher-edge feel to it, I located a Halloween party to take place at The Tentacles, a club near Portland, Maine. It was over a hundred miles away. I knew right away it was a perfect choice.

As soon as my afternoon seminar at Harvard Law ended on October 30, I rushed to my Beacon Hill apartment to put on the outfit before hitting the road. I had added bright red pinstripes onto the hood and side panels of my black sports car to give it a Batmobile flare. The fact that I felt like Batman made me giddy as I headed up the turnpike on this adventure that I thought might change my life. I had no idea of how right I would turn out to be.

Part 2

The Tentacles was a popular nightclub about five miles outside of downtown Portland. It attracted a working-class clientele who came out to have a few drinks and blow off a little steam. This hotspot had a large bar with a dance floor and the usual pool tables and pinball machines, but its most outstanding feature was a long outdoor deck with a scenic ocean view. Three wooden ramps led down to the beach for those who wished to walk along the shore. Because I had arrived early, I ordered a late lunch on the patio before the holiday festivities began in earnest. It was a beautiful day with hardly a cloud in the sky. The cool salt air was energizing.

By seven o'clock, the party was kicking into high gear. The owners of the club had offered prize money for the best-dressed revelers in several genres. As a result, there was an abundance of spectacular costumes. I walked around in amazement, checking out the crowd. There was a touch of the beautiful, a bit of the humorous, much of the bizarre, and not a little of that which might excite disgust. I quickly decided that the winner in the latter category should be the woman wearing the tattered shrouds of a victim of the Red Death. Blotches of the scarlet horror stained her exposed skin, with hideous shades of purple and black surrounding her eye sockets. Particularly innovative was the man who wore an Einstein mask while disguised in Robin Hood attire. He was walking around sniffing a drainpipe while reciting the alphabet in a childlike manner. The symbolism escaped me, but there is no doubt he was attracting much notice. I even shared a good-natured laugh with a couple dressed as Batman and Robinette.

The reader may discern that I was enjoying myself. No one was more surprised than I at my exhilaration. I was initiating conversations with total strangers, even finding the courage to ask two women to dance, something I had never done before. My spirit was coming to life. That night, for the first time in my life, I was more than just a member of a prominent family who was expected to think, speak, and act in a certain way. That night, I was me. It didn't feel like I was being watched or judged. The costume and the anonymity it provided released me from the bondage of my identity. I was thrilled! It was exciting to celebrate my liberation with salt-of-the-earth people. I wanted to hug them all, to tell them how beautiful they were, an observation that gave rise to a fleeting urge to call Dr. Wildare to describe these revelations, but prudence dictated that that could wait until the session the following week.

I went to the bar to get another drink. I was treading lightly with the alcohol, not wanting to spoil my fun with the challenges of intoxication. I had drunk wine at all the other parties I had ever attended, but plain beer was the preferred choice this night. While looking to my left, trying to get the bartender's attention, I suddenly felt long fingernails being dragged down my right arm from the shoulder to the elbow.

"Meeeeeoooooooowwwwwww!"

I turned my head to meet the gaze of a goddess-like temptress come to life in the guise of the Catwoman. This captivating beauty oozed sensuality in every aspect of her appearance, from her jet black hair flowing down past her shoulders to her glistening ruby red lips and curvaceous body exquisitely outlined in form-fitting black satin. But the most extraordinary feature of this alluring woman was her emerald green eyes which seemed to have a light of their own. Their hypnotic radiance captivated me, stunning me, leaving me standing there drowning in them, unable to speak or move. The tension I felt contrasted sharply with the relaxed, confident look she displayed.

"Hmm ... well, Caped Crusader, we are known for having roiling chemistry between us, but your reaction seems particularly strong tonight."

I could not answer, for her powerful eyes had penetrated the protection of my disguise. She acknowledged this with a coy smile.

"It seems the cat really has gotten your tongue." My seductive antagonist leaned forward to kiss me, separating my lips forcibly with her tongue, pulling mine into her mouth with gentle suction. While backing away, she whispered in a teasing tone: "Don't worry, she'll give it back."

"I'm thankful for that." I was finally able to smile, although with a tinge of embarrassment. I was off-balance, feeling lost, scrambling for something to say.

"My! We are shy, aren't we?" she snickered as she scraped her long black nails down my chest, deliberately directing them across both nipples. "Fortunately, I am much more forthright. I am Catwoman, although right now I feel more like Cougarwoman, on the prowl for the purrfect prey. When I spot a well-dressed muscular version of my primary nemesis, I spring to life, especially when he's young, virile, and needing attention."

"You think I need attention?"

"Oh, yes, very much so. I've been watching you."

"And what do you see?"

"I see a spoiled, repressed young man who's scared, feeling his way, trying to break free of the chains holding him down. I see a rube who's willing to take chances to find the excitement he craves to experience."

For a brief moment, I recoiled. I was not used to frontal assaults. But in my mind, her willingness to wield the truth like a sledgehammer quickly overcame her lack of bourgeois diplomacy. She was sensual, brutally honest, and intelligent: a combination I found most refreshing and fascinating. And I will confess (although I'm sure the reader has already figured it out) that I was beyond pleased to be receiving the attention of an experienced older woman. And like Mae West, this enticing seductress may have noticed a sign in my tight outfit that I was indeed happy to see her.

"You're very direct, my furry feline friend."

"Yes, like a Siberian tiger. Come and see. Come dance with me, crimefighter."

I followed her to the edge of the dance floor. The band kicked in with a rendition of Eric Clapton's 'Wonderful Tonight': a tune that brought us close in a slow dance. I could feel the warmth and softness of her body, as I'm sure she felt the hardness in mine. She looked into my eyes, which were transfixed on hers. There was no way I could break off from her gaze. Her green irises sparkled in the light, reflecting a sublime beauty worthy of divinity. Our eyes swam together, mixing and coiling like entrapped lovers, which I felt certain we would be before the night was over. Time evaporated, the dance becoming a dream in slow motion with visions of ecstasy on the horizon.

As the last note was fading, she again ran her nails down my arm. "Tell me your name."

"Richie."

"I'm Cleo."

After some applause for the well-played song, the band launched into the more raucous "Tumblin Dice", a Rolling Stones hit about a gambler losing his bets after being conned by women. Cleo immediately changed gears, rocking and gyrating her hips in pulsating motions that had me salivating with desire. She was sweating up a storm as she pointed at me while belting out the lyrics like she had written them for me.

My dancing was clumsy, erratic motions out of sync with the music. I was a 'rube' compared with this entrancing woman who could switch from a romantic softness to boldly sexual in a flash. As the song ended, the thought hit me that her picking me out of the crowd was a change in good fortune for me.

"Wow, that was fun! Let's go out on the deck. I need to cool down a little."

We walked outside. I started to pull a chair out for Cleo at the first empty table. "No, Richie, let's get a table at the edge of the deck. They look the other way if you smoke out there, and I need a cigarette." That suited me just fine as I was feeling the nicotine call too. We grabbed a table at the rail where we were away from the crowd. A waiter came over after we sat down.

"Buy me a drink, Richie." Without waiting for a response, she turned to the waiter: "I'll have a bourbon, JTS Brown please, on the rocks, a double, if you will. Bring him a Heineken." As he walked away, she took her cigarette case from her purse and continued fumbling around, searching for something. "I ordered you a real beer, a step up from that Budweiser piss you've been drinking. I don't know why you get that; you obviously can afford quality. Shit, I must've left my matches in the car. Do you have a light, baby?"

I pulled out my lighter that had fit conveniently into one of the latching compartments on my Batbelt. I flicked it, leaning over to put the flame to the tip of the Virginia Slim hanging expectantly from Cleo's lips.

"What is that?" she asked with some urgency.

"It's a lighter that once belonged to Hermann Goering. My great-grandfather was a colonel in the Army in World War II. He commanded the brigade that captured Goering at his villa near the end of the war. While waiting for orders on what to do with him, my great-grandpappy got to know this high-profile prisoner pretty well. He split a few bottles of wine with him over several lavish dinners. When the Army sent MPs to take Goering to Nuremberg for trial, he gave this lighter to the colonel as a thank you gift. I hardly ever use it, but I decided to bring it out tonight for the party."

I passed it to Cleo so she could look at it. It was in the shape of a small grenade. On one side was a swastika made from inlaid black obsidian on a background of red enamel. On the other was a solid gold replica of the Blue Max, a highly coveted military medal that the Reichmarschall had earned as an ace pilot in World War I. In the center of the award was a large ruby surrounded by a circle of small blue diamonds. Numerous precious stones studded the platinum base, which was engraved with his name and squadron. Weeks of precision work by a skilled jeweler were evident in the craftsmanship.

"This must be worth a lot of money."

"Possibly. I like the historical aspect of it; I will never sell it. It's very well-designed too. It never fails to light."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Interesting. Do you ever get bad vibes from it? I mean, you know, the swastika and all the evil Nazi stuff. Where did they get the gold to make it? Do you think about those things?"

"Not really. As I say, I look upon it as a piece of history. I think I was lucky to get it. The family may have given it to me because I'm the only one of my generation who smokes."

"Interesting. I have something with some history attached to it, too, back at my house. I'll show you when we go there."

With my cigarette now needing a light, she gave me the lighter back. As I lit up a Marlboro, there was a slight tremor in my hand, no doubt from the excitement I felt at her intimation about going to her place.

Cleo pulled a small ceramic bullet-shaped device from her purse, shaking it a few times before putting it to each nostril, inhaling deeply with visible relish. She then shook it again before passing it to me. I studied it inquisitively.

"It's a mix of South American herbs that I put together. Go ahead. It'll pep you up."

Following her example, I stuck the open tip in each nostril and snorted up, feeling the familiar coolness of menthol, followed by a tingling sensation in my sinuses. A few seconds later, there was a bitter metallic taste numbing my throat. I had expected something very stimulating, a feeling of excitement and joy, but the reaction was much more insidious, a smug complacency that began to steal over me most delightfully. I took several large swallows of cold beer to soothe my throat before leaning back to finish my cigarette.

As we sat at the table talking, I felt myself becoming more alert. The 'herbal mixture' was seeping into my brain, giving the world an exceedingly rosy appearance. The mundane became fascinating. I noticed things like the intricate stitching and designs in Cleo's costume. It was certainly not an area of expertise for me, but I knew that considerable effort must have gone into its creation. I was amazed at the beautiful effect that small bits of bright red threading had when contrasting with the black satin. I began to expound on a myriad of topics, including wine, spirituality, and religion. In the course of these discussions, we discovered that we were both recovering Catholics tainted by the guilt we had learned to manufacture neurotically for ourselves.

As evening descended, a full moon rose in the sky, illuminating the heavens while romantically reflecting off the endless expanse of the sea. The magnificent setting paled in comparison to the intense beauty gleaming in the eyes of this vixen, who had me in the palms of her hands. As I sat talking with her, I became ever more dreamy. My raging hormones enhanced by the powder compelled my flirtatious come-ons that earned her subtle smiles, increasing my confidence. I fancied myself a budding Casanova, clueless to the fact that I was more akin to an ant on the periphery of a dangerous web, where the black widow sits silent and still, in wait.

"Richie, it's getting cool. Let's go to my cabin. We'll take your car."

"Ok." I watched her down a half glass of bourbon before getting up. I was positively glowing as we made our way to the car.

...............

"Hmm ... very nice car. Did Daddy buy it for you?"

"Yeah, but I'll be able to afford my own someday soon."

"I'm sure."

Leaving the lot, Cleo put the bullet to her nose, taking two more blows. She handed it to me. I was no longer a rookie. I inhaled deeply to get more effect, then shook the dispenser and took two more fast draws off it. Cleo grinned as she took it back.

After entering the on-ramp, blue flashing lights lit up my rearview mirror. The ramp was too narrow to pull over, so I decided to wait until we were on the highway, where there would be a wide shoulder.

"What did I do? Why are they stopping me?"

"I don't know, Richie, but I'll tell you what: I bet this car can bury them. Stomp it! It'll get us to my place quicker, so we can fuck our brains out."

There was no thought, only reaction. I hit the gas, putting the accelerator to the floor, producing a force that pulled us into the back of our seats. In just a few seconds, we had hit 100 mph, and full power hadn't kicked in yet. The Mercedes-Benz AMG GT Coupe with 577 horsepower was unleashed. I had never experienced anything like it. Cleo let loose with a shrill scream as the speedometer topped 190. We were flying. The blue lights faded out. The cops knew they couldn't hang, so they gave up the pursuit. German engineering came through for us. Keeping the pedal to the metal was a mind-blowing intoxicant. It was by far the riskiest thing I had ever done. My heart rate jumped off the charts as the muscle convulsed with the exhilarating terror. I didn't care about any possible consequences. For three minutes, my brain was open at full throttle, and I loved it.

"Next exit, Batman! Next exit!"

I slowed to 100 on the off-ramp.

"Left at the Stop sign!"

"We're going left, but we ain't stopping!" I hit the turn at 80 mph with the thrilling sound of squealing tires breaking the night silence on the back road. The winding lane forced me to slow down, yet we were still over double the speed limit.

"Richie! Jesus! Slow it down! A quarter-mile up, take a right on the dirt road!"

The turn came up quickly. I slowed the car as we were now free from any chance of being caught.

"After the next curve, there's a dirt driveway on the left that's hard to see. Take it."

The driveway went through some trees, curving at the end in front of a two-story log cabin well hidden in the woods. I parked and shut the car down. We looked at each other with our eyes the size of saucers. Catwoman let out a loud purring sound before we both broke down into hysterical laughter that went on uncontrollably for several minutes.

"That was exciting!" I said with extra emphasis.

"Yes, I've got more for you, though."

"Hmm, what more have you got, sweet lady?"

"Come and see."

Part 3

The second the door closed behind us, Cleo came at me. Grabbing the back of my head, she pulled me to her, plunging her tongue into the cavern of my mouth. Her two-inch nails dug into my neck and shoulders. My reaction was to try to keep pace with her onslaught, but it was a losing effort. Her aggressiveness made me yield to her control, as it was far above my level of experience to oppose. I wanted her. I craved everything she had to offer, and I knew the price I had to pay was capitulation. I was merely an understudy co-pilot on the jet fighter she was flying.

"I am hungry; you will feed my needs," she spoke into my ear in a husky voice, deepened by heavy breathing. This feisty panther then grabbed my costume at the collar, savagely tearing the silk material, shredding it in several jagged lines down to my waist. I do not doubt that she had designed this show of aggression to obliterate any remaining resistance I might have. I was ready to go down whatever path she took me.

"Take off your clothes, but leave the mask on. When you are naked, go over to the blanket and kneel."

I did as I was told. I knelt in the center of the plush blanket that covered most of the living room floor. There were numerous pillows strewn about the area. Cleo had left the room for a moment, returning with a black riding crop in her hand. She put the tip of it under my chin, forcing my head up to look at her.

"Pay attention; I'm going to tell you how it's going to be. You're going to get a lot more than you've been dreaming about all night because I will be in charge. I allowed you to be the dilettante on the dance floor; you will not be one here. If I were to let you lead, the best that will happen is that you will demonstrate your inexperience, and that won't do. I am in command; I will call all the shots. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Very good. If you go with the flow, you will reach the stars instead of the moon. Now, listen carefully! Cleo is giving you an order. You are forbidden to have an orgasm until I give you permission. Is that thoroughly understood?" She spoke the words in a demanding, authoritative tone, but I believe it was the hypnotic power of her piercing eyes that brought the message across most. That is the only explanation I have for my ability to obey this impossible command.

"Yes."

"Good. Men are incompetent, always rushing, unable to control their urges. I will teach you to slow down. You will learn that the journey is far more important than the destination."

She began to undress. I knelt there in awe, watching her every movement. She was putting on a show, but it was not a striptease. Her motions were too subtle, too refined to be put into that category. It was a slow revelation of beauty, an unwrapping of mystique. The Catwoman confidently peeled away her costume veneer to unveil the naked form of a woman who knew her power. With the mask still on, she stood there, hands on her hips, proudly displaying her body to a captive audience of one. She slid her hands up and down her sides in a drawn-out fashion, increasing the mounting sexual tension.

"Be still."

The Empress kneeled in front of me, her face inches from mine. My eyes surrendered to hers, allowing them to see deep into my soul without any reservation or fear. I was gone. There was no ego for me to protect. My spirit flowed freely into hers, combining in a mystical dance that demanded a physical consummation to reach a complete union. She put her lips close to mine, lingering for a tantalizing minute before connecting with the lightest possible touch, signaling our eyes to close. Her head moved imperceptibly side to side so that the surface of our lips met with the slightest brush of skin. I wanted to press forward, but I was quickly learning the sensual possibilities of patience. She stepped up the pressure at a snail's pace until the tips of our tongues began to slide softly against each other. Time and thought disappeared, condemned to non-existence in this vacuum of pleasure.

We ended up flat on the floor, absorbed in a kissing marathon that raised our passion to a steady simmer. Eyes closed in total silence; our consciousness was limited to the sensitivity of our dueling tongues and fingers gliding over receptive skin. My lover was teaching me the intimacy of touch, awaiting my mirrored responses to be sure I learned the lessons.

"Wear this for a while." She wrapped a black blindfold around my head, tying it tightly in the back. "Lay still. Do not think, just feel. I will take care of you."

There was a brief moment of doubtful acquiesence. Among my list of recognized phobias was a lingering childhood fear of the dark and claustrophobia that had several times caused me to have asthma-like attacks, but those emotional ghouls were kept at bay by the pleasurable ministrations of this extraordinary woman. She moved slowly over my body, starting at the neck, journeying down, touching, kissing, licking, biting, stimulating every nerve and fiber in my body. I left the room, the house, the planet, traveling above the clouds, above Everest, above the stratosphere to float in the domain of heavenly ecstasy. I had never imagined that such a state of being was possible.

The session continued with Cleo slithering upward, positioning herself astride me to slide down in one smooth motion. I gasped as her heat surrounded my manhood. Neither of us moved. We were silent except for the sound of our deep raspy breathing. My dominant partner broke the stillness with microscopic movements that developed into a steady rhythm, providing stimulation over the length of my shaft. My desire was raging, but her veto power on my release kept me back from the edge.

"Stick with me, baby. Savor the moment," she whispered in words barely audible inches away.

I reached up to touch her. My hands coursed over her body, tracing the soft curves. I cupped her firm breasts in my hands, twisting her nipples with light pressure. She moaned while involuntarily increasing the gyrations of her hips, climaxing in a reserved manner as if saving her energy for a future expenditure.

After this brief loss of conscious control, she slammed her hands down onto my shoulders, her nails digging deep into my flesh, tearing cuts several inches long. I cried out in pain as I grabbed her wrists. She immediately broke loose, forcing my arms down, pinning them to the blanket. When my resistance ceased, she put her right hand around my throat.

"I'm not a lady, Richard. I never could be. Sometimes I feel like I'm not even human. Right now, I'm a combination of a caged animal, a Neanderthal witch, and a lascivious slut that needs to be taken hard in the woodshed. And you're going to fill my needs, every one of them, tonight. I want everything you got: your strength, your energy, and your stamina, all of it. Drill me as hard as you can! Leave Richie and Bruce Wayne at home; give me the best that the Dark Knight has to offer!"

She slid off of me. "Keep the blindfold in place. Take me from behind, doggie style. Show no mercy. Be my stallion. And remember, you are not to come until the time is right. Sacrifice your needs for me. And oh, here, breathe deep." She stuck the bullet under my nose for two quick blows.

"I am ready. Come and see. Come to me!"

I was ready too. As I moved into position, the thought hit my brain that my whole life had taken place solely to get me to this moment, that this was indeed to be a life-changing event for me. All night long, she had been grooming me, programming me to follow her down, to fill her needs and desires. I was willing to sacrifice everything to do it. The doses of stimulants and testosterone secretions primed me for action, with my entire being focused on delivering the goods. I felt strong. As is well known, my family is renowned for its devotion to athletics. I had kept up the tradition, but not surprisingly, I veered away from team sports. My game was long-distance running, a solitary pursuit that had built up my legs and lungs, giving me great stamina. I was determined to put it all out there for her.

Being blind, I fumbled momentarily in the dark, but I soon found the target. There was no attempt to be loving, no effort to be a gentleman who pleases his partner with a soft touch. I would obey her commands. The sex was to be primordial: base, barbaric, barely above the animal level. I grabbed Cleo by her long hair to put myself in a leveraged position from which I could thrust with maximum force. The insertion was deep, with colliding flesh the only barrier to deeper penetration. I allowed myself a warmup time to develop a steady rhythm before going full bore. There was no stopping the train now. Every muscle in my body burned energy like a furnace being fed at top speed.

Cleo cried out as her nails dug into the pillows on which she had an iron grip. She grunted to the pounding she was getting; before forming the primal gutturals into a stream of obscenities that propelled me onward. I felt a savage urge to hurt her, to punish her, to release the pain buried in her soul, to bring her to the heights of sexual rapture. I grabbed at her, squeezing and twisting her flesh in my hands, pulling her long hair with a ripping force, yanking at it, jerking her head back and forth to match the rhythm of the fucking she was receiving. Sweat poured out of us, soaking us, mixing our primitive scents together. We were one, finding ourselves in the agony and the ecstasy of tortured passion.

Without question, the stimulants propelled us past the boundaries of our physical limits. Never before or never again will I be able to draw out the vigorous exertion of power I found that night on her midnight rug. It was beyond any possibilities of which I would have thought myself capable. Yet still, we kept going with my waiting for her green light. I leaned forward once to get a brief respite, digging my teeth viciously into her shoulder, tearing the flesh, eliciting a scream saturated in pain.

"Release me, release me, Richie, release me! Take me, baby, take me, take me, take me!" I let loose with all I had left, launching the two of us into a shared explosion that convulsed our brains with nuclear effect. With the final thrust, we collapsed into a sweat-soaked heap, exhausted, breathing heavily, neither of us capable of moving or speaking.

She awakened me climbing on top of me. As soon as my eyes opened, she attacked, slapping and smacking me in the head, stunning me with the force of her blows. A moment later, she stopped, looking into my eyes, smiling mischievously before breaking out into laughter.

"That was beautiful, Richie, truly beautiful."

"Yes, it was."

"I'm not done with you. There is more if you want it. I've saved the best for last."

"I can't see how we can possibly top that."

"Have I disappointed you yet?" She took out the bullet, taking two blasts, before sticking it under my nose to give me two doses.

"No, I just can't see how we can go beyond where we've just been."

"Come and see."

Part 4

Cleo led me into a large room in the back of the house. It was unlike any bedroom I had ever seen before. It was so unusual that I will describe it in some detail to give the reader a sense of the eerieness I felt upon entering it. Black was the dominant color in this singular chamber. A deep piled wall-to-wall black carpet covered the floor. All the wood furnishings: two dressers, a stool, the ceiling crossbeams, and the wall moldings, were painted in gloss black enamel. An ebony grandfather clock stood in the corner, its swinging gold pendulum slowly ticking away the time that flies.

The only other piece of furniture was a king-size brass bed. To provide contrast with the rest of the room, the decorator had covered the mattress in bright red silk sheets with matching pillows and frilled skirting. Mirrors overlaid the four walls, top to bottom. The ceiling itself contained nine rectangular mirrors enclosed by the cross beams, with a small crystal chandelier hanging from its center. There were also four light fixtures with red coverings, but these weren't lit, nor were the long fluorescent bulbs at the tops of the walls.

The feature that stood out the most was the brilliant white St. Andrew's Cross leaning against a corner beam at a sixty-degree angle. The bottom foot plank and the two cross members at the top were firmly anchored to the floor and walls. It seemed a strange addition to a room already steeped in peculiarity.

"Welcome to my private enclave, Richie. I come here for two reasons: when I want to escape from the world, or when I wish to entertain a lover deserving enough to share with me the ambiance of this special room."

"I am honored to be held in such high regard, Madam Cleo."

"Yes, I do regard you very highly. We have revealed a lot tonight. It's been an exhilarating evening, has it not?

"Absolutely."

"Yes, and I did promise you a few minutes ago that we can take it even higher. Are you sure you would like to go there?"

"You are making me an offer I can't refuse."

"Yes, but this is personal, not business, so you can refuse if you wish. The thrills you may experience here are not without risk."

I laughed. "My god, Cleo, everything we've done tonight has been risky, taking me far above the prison of the comfort zone I know. I'm wide open, honey, ready for whatever you have in mind. Let's go there. I will fly with you!"

"Very well then, we shall proceed. Go to the cross, and stand on the footboard. Align your legs with the lower half of the X. Raise your arms and cover the upper half."

"Shouldn't you whip me before you nail me to the cross?" I asked, attempting some sadomasochistic humor.

"No, that would get blood all over the carpet. We can't have that. No, I'm going to tie you to the cross. Much less of a mess."

Now, in light of what was about to happen, the reader may well ask how I could be so foolish to allow myself to be tied to this cross. The answer is that I saw no danger. Undoubtedly the drugs, alcohol, and sex had affected my judgment, but more important was the fact that I had come to trust this woman completely. From the get-go, she seemed to know me, often in ways better than I knew myself. This seductress had a way of drawing me out of my shell, of making me want to take the next step to a higher level. Cleo dared me to look head-on at things I was terrified of so that I might conquer them. We were opposites, yins and yangs in the guises of Batman and Catwoman, brought together by Fate to complete each other's needs. In a life suppressed by fears and anxieties, she had shown me a way to break free. I had no concerns about being restrained. It was just another door to walk through on this road of exploration I had discovered.

Cleo took out a white bucket from the dresser, along with several lengths of red cotton rope. She stood on the stool, and within a couple of minutes, had my left arm tied tightly and securely to an upper branch of the cross. I could not move it an inch. I admired her knot-making dexterity, a skill she had clearly developed to the level of an art form. After immobilizing my right arm, it was a matter of no more than five minutes before this rope mistress had both my legs and feet bound to the cross. She paused for a moment to admire her work, nodding her head in satisfaction for a job well done.

An incredible feeling of euphoric numbness descended upon me. Being in bondage made me feel safe and warm, as if in a cocoon. The sensation surprised me as I would have expected the opposite, a desperate yearning to be freed. I was buzzing, and I liked it a lot.

"Ahh, it's good to see you're still on alert. We need you to be that way. Here, let me put this on you." She rolled a stiff rubber loop down the length of my cock, all the way to the hilt. It was very tight.

"What is that?" I asked with a hint of concern in my voice.

"It's a cock ring. It squeezes your veins and tissue. It will keep you hard. We need you as hard as possible for this scene."

"I like the sound of that, but it feels like it's building up pressure. Is that safe?"

"Quite safe. Like Viagra, it only causes a problem if the erection lasts several hours. We won't keep it up that long."

Cleo then shut off the chandelier while switching on the long tubes edging the ceiling. These were black lights, which bathed the room in an ultraviolet luster, making the chamber seem darker. They also changed one's perceptions of color. The bedsheets took on a more subdued tint while the rug appeared to glow slightly, its sheen reflecting the light. The most dramatic effect was on the cross, which gained the aura of a halo around its surfaces. Next, she turned on the four one-hundred-watt white bulbs encased in the red glass domes, which now began to rotate slowly. Because the glass used to make these domes was of uneven thickness, the red light came out in distorted waves. The mirrors reflected them, dousing everything in the room in shades of ghastly scarlet dancing in the steady stream of UV. This surreal effect was frightening to behold.

"I need to get a few things. I"ll be back in a couple of minutes. Don't go anywhere."

I saw the humor, but I couldn't laugh. It was disturbing to be surrounded by this bizarre lighting scheme, twisting my perceptions with a saturation of the colors of blood and death, while I was helpless on the cross. I told myself it was only a game this mystical sorceress was playing, that I needed to relax and regroup, but the scene made me feel like I had been cast into a dungeon in Dante's Inferno.

The Mistress of Ceremonies came back in with a basket of items, which she placed on the dresser. She sat on the stool with an unlit cigarette in her mouth and my lighter in her hands.

"You know, Richie, this lighter got my attention big time when you first took it out. It has it all: vibrant colors, precision artistry, and a fascinating history. The other thing that impressed me was your boast that it never fails to light. The lighters I use often need to be flicked several times to ignite. It amazes me that they put in so much effort to make this lighter operate perfectly every time. Are you certain it never misfires?

"Yes, I can't remember it happening even once." I was puzzled by all this, wondering where she was going with it. She was speaking in a strange inquisitorial tone that I had not heard her use before.

"That is so interesting. Let's test it out. What would you be willing to bet on it lighting a certain number of times in a row; let's pick a lucky number, say ... thirteen?"

"I'd bet anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"Hmm ... how about everything then?"

"Sure, why not?" Something was happening, but I didn't know what it was. She was confusing me. It was not only the conversation that seemed strange, but Cleo herself had become bland and unsmiling. Her voice was flat.

And I was tied up.

"Ok, Richie, I accept your bet. Let's get it rolling. Let me light my cigarette with the first flick." She pushed down on the igniter, producing a blue flame which she quickly sucked into the tobacco. "There. One down."

"What do I get if I win, Cleo?"

"What you put up ... everything."

"How is that?

"I will release you. And if we're in the mood, we can celebrate on the bed."

"And if I lose?" I now had a growing gnawing feeling that something was amiss, but I didn't know what. I was tensing up like an anxious rabbit who knows the hawk is watching.

"Surely you're not admitting of that possibility, Richard. Bettors should be cautious when calculating odds but confident once the die is cast. Now, before we try for number two, I want to ask your opinion on an issue. You have had a sophisticated upbringing, unlike mine. You've had a good education, unlike mine. You know fine wines, I don't. I have this bottle here that I bought a week ago. It has no label, and I'm afraid the seller may have ripped me off. He said it is Amontillado, but I have my doubts. I was planning to show it to Luchesi at the Tentacles tonight, but he didn't show, and I found you there instead. Can you tell me if it's the real thing?"

My heart rate accelerated in an instant. I was gripped with fear as I realized that I was in grave danger. The allusion to Poe's "The Cask of Amontillado" was a veiled threat made to terrify me. In the chilling short story, the victim was chained to a wall before being entombed alive. This woman, who had enchanted me the entire evening, was drawing a comparison to my situation. I was now at the mercy of a psychotic who had lured me into a trap. I felt an iciness, a sickening in my soul, as the consequences of my submission set in.

"Ahh ... the Cat's got your tongue again! Or maybe it's just too difficult for you to do delicate wine tasting in these circumstances. I understand. We'll deal with it later. But for now, let us proceed to the second attempt. Ahh ... yes, look at that, it lit. Two down. Good."

She placed a large pair of scissors on the dresser. "You might remember, Richie, that when you showed me the lighter, I told you I had something with some history behind it too. Here it is. Tell me, have you ever heard of Bedzin?"

"No."

"I'm not surprised. There's really no reason you should have. Bedzin is in Poland near Auschwitz. My great-grandmother was a seamstress in the village, at least she was until the Germans came and took her away to the camp for the crime of being Jewish. Most inmates arrived at Auschwitz by train, but because Bedzin was so close, they took the prisoners there in cattle trucks. She was never seen again. My grandmother, who was thirteen, ran away, taking very few things with her. One of them was this pair of fabric shears that my great granny used in her work. They're mine now. I used them when making the Catwoman costume. I take good care of them, even had them gold plated. And I keep them razor-sharp."

She was speaking in a monotone, staring blankly at me as she related these awful details. Her sparkling green eyes now seemed grey and lifeless. My heart was pumping wildly from the ratcheting terror as I tried to figure out what she was leading to. I kept hoping that she would turn this off by saying it was just a test of nerves designed to raise my awareness, but that rainbow was fading.

"Why are you telling me this? Why are you showing me these scissors?" the questions came out in a quivering voice. I could no longer hide my fear.

"Because you asked me the question."

"What question?"

"For the love of God, Richie, are you not paying attention? You asked me what happens if you lose."

"I don't understand what you're saying." I was pleading with her to tell me what she was doing.

"It's simple. If the lighter fails to ignite one time, I'm going to cut your penis off with the scissors and watch you bleed to death."

She raised the lighter high as she pressed the igniter down. "Three."

A stunned silence filled the room as the horror of her words sank in. A moment later, an explosion of energy erupted within my body. I strained against the ropes with all the strength I was capable of mustering, tapping into reserves that had never been called on before. It was fruitless, as the ropes were much stronger than I. There was no possibility of breaking free. I started to scream in a terrifying high pitch that reverberated off the mirrors, sending the ear-splitting sound back to me.

I was sure that I was going to die in the most gruesome manner possible. My life literally passed before my eyes. I saw my family, friends, pets, teachers, enemies, and hordes of others flash through my brain in scenes that lasted milliseconds. I wanted to scream goodbyes to them, but they could not see or hear me. I began to hallucinate. I saw mountains caving in and tidal waves washing over large cities, destroying them in seconds. I had visions of suicidal horses galloping off cliffs, slithering snakes, and vile hissing cockroaches coming out of the walls. I was transported to the gates of Hell, where Lucifer came to greet me wearing a black cape, his eyes aglow with blinding green light. And then I saw myself as a child, playing in a puddle, crying in sadness as I launched a paper boat, fragile as a butterfly in spring, across the murky water.

I was pulled away from these phantasmic dreams by Cleo standing before me, flicking the lighter to produce a flame: "Four."

I screamed: "Help! Help! Help!" over and over at the top of my lungs. The pleas were deafening in the room, reaching the rest of the house with sufficient volume but dying out before piercing the outside walls. My tormenter made this clear by pitching in with her own screams for help, doubling the decibels. My efforts ceased.

Again, she lit the lighter in front of me: "Five. You're right, Richie; this is a quality lighter. You may win the bet."

"Please let me go!"

"Richie, I can't do that. It wouldn't be fair. You made this bet. The dice have been rolled. It's out of our hands now. Fate will decide. Luck, good or bad, will determine whether I use these scissors next to cut the ropes or your cock."

She again raised the lighter. I heard the wheel grind against the flint. "Six. How about that?"

"Please, Cleo, stop this! For Christ's sake, stop this!"

"No! We must play this out. You, Richie, who came out tonight seeking thrills, should appreciate the beauty of your situation. You're putting it all up, risking everything on the cross, to either make the ultimate sacrifice or achieve the ultimate redemption. I have raised you to the status of Jesus, the Son of God. You should be grateful."

"You're insane, Cleo."

"Perhaps. Sometimes I'm not sure I'm human. I've already told you that. Luck can kill you; luck can drive you insane. I know what it's like to be held down, Richie, I know well. Five men and one unlucky girl. Luck may bring me the retribution I need to continue with my life."

She put the white bucket directly under my crotch on the rug. I felt like I might lose consciousness as she again displayed the lighter.

"Seven's a good number in craps. Let's see if it's a good number for you." She pressed down on the trigger, producing a flame. "Seven." A second later: "Eight. You're almost there. Maybe in a few minutes, we'll be making love on this bed."

"Stop it! Stop it, Cleo! You won't let me go; stop it!"

"Richard! How dare you doubt my word? What have I done to earn your mistrust? I would never deny you the good fortune you've earned. Of course, I will let you go. I have nothing to fear from it. What are you going to do, go to the Police? Tell them some crazy story about lighters and scissors? Maybe they'll come out here where I can report how you forced me into your car at knifepoint. I can recount how I was ready to get out when the cops tried to pull you over, and you floored it. I can show them the bite marks on my shoulder you made when you forced yourself on me. Oh, and before you send them out here, you might let them see the scratches on your chest from when I tried to fend you off. And what will Daddy say? I don't think you're going to say anything to anybody. No, we can have one more good screw to end the night before you leave. And we'll be done. Our paths will never cross again. Fate brought us together, and Fate will keep us apart. If we get that far."

"Please stop this. Cut me down."

"A rather poor choice of words in your circumstances, don't you think, Richie? But yes, shortly, one way or another, I will cut you down. Now, ahh, ... Nine."

"You don't have to do this, Cleo."

"Why does everybody always say that? I'm only playing my part. Everything is fixed, and I can't change that. But the odds are in your favor now, so let us continue." Her thumb pressed the lever: "Look at that pretty flame. Ten."

I felt the energy for resistance draining out of me. I swooned as my head drooped down. I was empty, without hope. There was no argument I could make, no persuasive speech I could give. I was powerless.

"Only three to go. Right now, I would say the odds are firmly in your favor. And you're still hard. I told you that cock ring would keep you up. What kind of love should we make when we finish here: angry love or make-up love? Love is a lot like luck, don't you agree? Some people have it, and some people never know it. This lighter: made for a man who tied himself to hate, passed down to a man who says he's lucky to have it. These scissors were owned by a woman full of love, who had the bad luck to fall under the rule of men who hate. And now, here they are together in this room after all these years. And the man who says he's lucky is dependant on the luck of the lighter. Now you know what it was like to be in Auschwitz, hoping for luck to keep you alive. There were many flames there. Let's see if there's another one here."

I saw the spark ignite the wick, seemingly in slow motion. "Eleven. Just two more, and you're free."

I could say nothing more. My only ray of hope was the lighter working and this emotionally crippled woman keeping her word.

"I'll tell you what, Richie, let's turn out the lights for the final two. That will put things in a different light. Yes, let's do that." She went over to turn off the black and red lights, leaving the room in total darkness. I could hear her stepping carefully to find her way back to the stool.

"Sometimes, I come in here and sit in the darkness for days, hiding away. I am safe here. Five men. They can't find me in here, the unlucky girl, safe in the darkness. Nobody can see her. In the darkness, she is too small to be seen. She is safe. They can't find her in here. They are the ones in danger when they come in here."

She pressed down on the igniter for the twelfth time. In the darkness, I could see the spark jumping across, igniting the wick in a brilliant flash. Cleo kept her thumb in place. The light illuminated her face in a pale yellow glow. She stared into the flame with eyes that had no soul left in them. I could not recognize her as the woman I had been with before entering this hellish room. She was broken in spirit, a shattered human being, lost in the pain of traumas so great; that her only relief was in the disintegration of her psyche.

"Twelve, Richard, twelve. Only one more to go for you. I will release you if you win. You will be the first. Yes. Luck is going to run out for one of us. It's either you or me, baby. Let's have a moment of silence to contemplate why we are here before I press the trigger for the last time."

I don't know how long the moment of silence in the darkness lasted. It may have been the eternity of a few seconds, a minute, or an hour. It was broken abruptly by a loud crash from the front of the house. The state police had broken the front door down with a battering ram. I heard several voices yelling: "Police! Police! Police!" I screamed as loud as I could until they burst through the door of the bedroom.

In the havoc that ensued, Cleo was tackled and dragged out of the room. A female cop grabbed the scissors and cut the ropes holding me to the cross. I collapsed on the floor, crying uncontrollably. I had been rescued from hellish torture more horrible than any I could ever have imagined.

After being helped to my feet, I picked up my lighter before going out to the living room with two cops. There were now eight of them in the house. I could hear them questioning Cleo in the kitchen, but her only replies were: "I can make myself so small that no one can see me."

Sitting on the couch, I found my pack of Marlboros on the coffee table, quickly pulling one out. I had never felt a greater need for a cigarette. Perhaps it was my shaking hands, or maybe it was the sweat on my thumb that caused it to slide down too quickly, but whatever the cause, the lighter failed to light when I pressed down on the igniter. I have never used it again.

Epilogue

On October 15, 2016, Patricia Anne Cleopatra Kilgore was found not guilty by reason of insanity of four counts of first-degree murder. She had killed four men on the cross in that hell hole in her house after torturing them in various games of chance. The police had dug up the bodies in her backyard. In her freezer, hidden beneath packages of deer meat, investigators found four frozen penises encased in ice and sealed in plastic containers. The courts remanded her into the custody of the Maine State Mental Hospital, where she has been receiving psychiatric care. It is unlikely she will ever be released.

I testified at her trial. It was a difficult thing for me to do. Cleo sat in her chair in what seemed to be a catatonic state, often sucking her thumb, rocking back and forth. I felt no anger, no hatred toward her for what she had done to me. I only felt sorrow for this intelligent and beautiful woman who had collapsed under the weight of the horror of her inner demons.

A bartender at the Tentacles had noticed Cleo and me out on the patio. He remembered seeing her there about six months prior with a man who turned up missing. The bartender called the cops, who came out to the club. When we left, they followed us, turning on the lights to pull us over to do an exploratory check-up. There was no way they could catch us in my car, but they got the plate number. They traced the registration back to the Mercedes dealership, where they got the tracking signal to the GPS unit I didn't even know it had. A DNA test on the glass Cleo left on the table matched the saliva found on a lipstick-stained cigarette in the missing man's car. Thankfully they treated the situation as an emergency.

My life changed. The trauma made me stronger. Dr. Wildare likened it to shock therapy resetting my brain. I no longer felt fear over situations that now felt trivial compared to what I had experienced. I learned what was most important to me. I finished law school and moved away from my family to take a job with the ACLU in a big city on the West Coast. I thrive in relative obscurity devoting myself to helping others. I have found my place in a world that once seemed so foreign to me.

A year after the trial, I received an envelope in the mail from my sister. It contained a postcard sent to me, addressed to the family compound on Cape Cod, with a Bangor postmark. The handprinted message was in a child's scrawl:

I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, "Come and see." And I looked, and beheld a pale horse: and her name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with her. Revelation 6:7-8