1 comments/ 4980 views/ 1 favorites The Complete CV By: Starscream_UK One Word It was one of those things you say in the heat of the moment that, if you're lucky, you get chance to regret. She looked at me with what I'd normally call bedroom eyes, sultry and dark with black lining and thick lashes. Realistically she was the type of woman you took home for one night and spent the rest of your life dreaming about; not the type you took home to present to your mother. Not that this had anything to do with me, mind you. I wasn't going to be taking her home for the night and I was most certainly never going to introduce her to my mother, god rest her soul. She gracefully rose from the chair when I entered the office, unfurling long limbs in all her dark glory. Her hair tumbled down to her shoulders, dark chocolate coloured tresses framing her face perfectly. She curled those full lips in an ironic smile and the expression fit her. She extended her hand to me and I shook it – her grip was surprisingly firm. As I sat down I could feel my shirt sticking to the back of my neck. The chair was comfortable and provided her with a slightly elevated position in relation to me, no doubt to ensure that she held a position of superiority during our discussion. She was definitely not to be underestimated under the circumstances. "Don't forget to breath Mr Waltham," her voice was smooth and a tad deeper than I expected, yet it was almost intoxicating. "I don't want you passing out on me in my office." She was right – I'd been holding my breath, partly out of anticipation but mostly due to nerves. "Thanks...I..." I struggled for the words. She smiled at me and gestured towards the clear jug of water on her desk. "Would you like a drink Mr Waltham?" she asked. I nodded; taking advantage of the opportunity it presented me. "Then just take a deep breath – I can appreciate that this is an uncomfortable situation for you and I don't want you to feel any more nervous than necessary." Her smile was disarmingly comforting in a strange manner. "I..." I was starting to feel like a fool. I closed my eyes and tried again. "I...I want you to do away with my business partner." I opened my eyes. She was looking at me with a gleam in her eyes, like a cat when it toys with the mouse. "Do away? Who on earth uses that phrase?" She mocked. "Say it again Mr Waltham," her tone was firm. "Only this time with your eyes open." I looked into them, those steely-grey orbs that were locked with mine. They seemed to draw the words out of me, coaxing them from my lips. "I want you to kill my business partner, Trent Edwards." I said, trying to match her tone and demeanour with my own. She tilted her head slightly and the edge of her lips curled upward. "I'm impressed," she answered. "Normally it takes someone four to five attempts to get to that stage." She looked down at a notepad on her desk. "Okay, what's he been doing? Embezzling funds? Selling corporate secrets? Planning to kick you off the board?" "No," I growled. "He's screwing my wife." She looked up at me and nodded. I looked down at the floor for a moment, recalling the moment I saw my wife in our bed with him – the slightly younger, slightly fitter business partner. Didn't she vow to forsake all others, to be with me in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer? She liked the richer part – the company had been floated on the stock exchange and she'd enjoyed the perks that had come with that, yet she'd also taken advantage of the time I'd spent building up the company from scratch. They both had – Trent always dealt with the PR side of things better than I did and in turn I managed the product development. While he was away attending business lunches with prospective investors I was building the system from the ground up. "Interesting." She didn't seem surprised. "Would you like me to take care of your wife too? A double costs extra, and as you already know, I'm not cheap." I could feel the anger boiling up inside me. "No, I love my wife," I shot back, not fearing the consequences of this reaction to her question. "However, she loves him now. You have no idea how much that realisation hurts – it feels like someone has reached into my chest and crushed my heart with their bare hands. I couldn't live without her, so I figure it's going to tear her apart knowing she can't be with him." It slipped out, my anger and my hatred at the situation; her betrayal and my own stupidity for allowing myself to feel like this, for allowing someone else to have this control over me. I looked at her – her face was alive as she carefully placed the pen down on the pad. "How deliciously evil," the words dripped from her mouth – her voice was having a disturbing effect on me. I shuffled in my seat, hoping she hadn't noticed. She held my gaze for a few precious seconds before she was all-business again. "So, how would you like it done?" "I...I don't know," I stuttered again. "I thought something that looked like natural causes." She shook her head. "Natural is difficult," she answered as she leaned back in her chair. "That usually involves some exotic poison and in this day and age with the advances in forensic science you can never be too sure." She twirled the pen between her fingers. "Suicide?" "No, no one would buy that." I answered – my mind swirling at the ease of my response. "He's too...vibrant." "Let me guess, young, rich and handsome? Pretty girls dotted around the place, all at his beck and call, even if they are with someone else?" the air of disdain was clear in her voice. "Something like that." I answered. She gave me a wicked grin. "I might be doing the world a favour then," she said. "No one likes someone who has it all and still isn't satisfied." I realised that I could get to like this woman – from a safe distance of course. She looked at the notepad. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?" "Well...if...if possible it needs to be done before the end of the month." I said. "We have a new product coming out on the 30th..." "...And his death will affect your share price?" She presumed. I shook my head. "No – his death will produce a minor fluctuation in the share price, nothing more than four to six percent for a couple of days," I said. "There's a clause in the company constitution that if one or the other of us dies, the others sole holdings in the company pass to them." I took another drink of water. "The bastard might have taken my wife, but I want his part of the company." She nodded once more. "I understand that your company is doing a series of press junkets across Europe in the run up to your software launch," I struggled to contain my surprise. She had done her homework. "Might I suggest that Mr Edwards is the victim of a random and ultimately fatal robbery in his hotel room one night?" "That...that's brilliant." I answered. "And...and none of this can be traced back to me?" "Mr Waltham, I'm a professional," She said as she stood up. "If this gets traced back to you then I'm at risk of exposing myself." I stood up a moment later. She extended her hand to me again. "Once we go down this route, there's no turning back, you understand that? No refunds, no cancelling the contract. Are you sure you want me to do this?" "Yes, yes," I answered emphatically. "I want you to do this." "That's all I needed to hear." She said. "I've paid the first half of the money as directed," I said as she walked me to the plain and unassuming door of her office. "When do you...?" "I will be in touch once the work is completed." She replied. "Then we will make further arrangements Mr Waltham." "Thank you." It felt strange to use those words in connection with the conversation we had just completed. "Thanks for your time, Ms...?" "Cassandra," she answered. "You can call me Cassandra." She patted me on the back as I left the office. "Don't worry Mr Waltham, the deed is as good as done." It's easy to turn a blind eye to things when you're sleepwalking through your life. All I had to do was maintain the façade for another few weeks and it would be over. The news came through at about 5 am on the 25th. The phone rang and I answered it. Speaking through bleary eyes to the manager of the promotional tour the details became clear. While in the Serbian leg of the tour, Trent had surprised a burglar in his hotel room, no doubt after the expensive laptop/clothes/watch that he carried with him on these sorts of trips. The girl who was with him could only confirm that she'd seen someone shoot him and then escape via the window. Naturally everyone in the company was upset and rallied around me as the definitive figurehead of the organisation. The software was launched in a blaze of publicity as a result of Trent's death – the memorial service was particularly touching. Liz took his death badly – her behaviour became increasingly erratic. Mood swings, increased alcohol consumption and prolonged periods of isolation within the house. I tried as best as I could to help her through this, however it was only prolonging the inevitable. The benefit was a high profile affair. The donations the company made were always good for the community, and since the death of Trent Edwards our public profile had soared. After the public speaking had finished the group moved to the more informal aspect of the night – drink and dancing. I watched as people began to pair up as the alcohol flowed and inhibitions waned. "What a surprise to see you here Mr Waltham." The voice stunned me for a moment, then I turned my head to see her standing there in a full length, dark green evening dress, "Cassandra," I said as I stood up and politely shook her hand. "What a surprise." "A pleasant one I do hope," her demeanour seemed warmer than before. "I see your company has flourished somewhat since our last meeting." "You might say that," I answered, eyeing her suspiciously. "Would...you care to dance?" I didn't care who saw us, within a few weeks the divorce would be finalised and it wouldn't matter. A myriad of questions flew around my mind as I held her close to me. "I understand that your divorce isn't going well." Cassandra whispered into my ear. I pulled back slightly – there was that same wicked grin on her face that I had seen once before. "Is there anything you don't know?" "I find it pays to stay abreast of current events." She answered as she rested her head on my shoulder. The song was slow and our movements matched it. "I also believe you owe me some money." "I was wondering when you'd get around to mentioning that." I answered. "How and when?" "After your divorce is finalised," she said. "Although, it would be a shame if your soon-to-be-ex wife had an accident, all alone in that large house, drinking heavily..." I looked at Cassandra. Those stormy grey eyes looked into mine. "I'm sure you can afford me." This Could Be Love In hindsight, I should probably have just turned her away there and then. However, you know how it is – no matter what sort of day you have, you just can't turn away a devastatingly attractive woman on your front doorstep. Even when you know that she's a professional assassin – and the reason you know this is that you hired her to kill your business partner less than two months ago. I'd moved into my new apartment shortly after the divorce began in earnest, it had dragged out longer than I'd anticipated mainly due to Liz's bloodsucking lawyers trying to find ways to separate me from my company wealth. My solicitor assured me that it was a matter of offer, then counter-offer until we reached an amicable middle ground. I left at the stage when Liz decided to vent her anger at Trent's death towards me – if only she knew how much of a role I'd played in his death. I'm sure if that had been the case her attempts to harm me would have been more concerted and fuelled by a desire for revenge rather than Jack Daniels. The apartment was a penthouse suite in a new development in the city. One of those high-rise glass things that seem to be springing up all over the place under the banner of urban renewal. Personally, the price of the place was more than worth it for the solitude it bought me. I recall the night clearly – not for any particularly untoward reason, simply because the buzzer of the door rang for the first time in the few weeks I had been in my new home. It was a strange, metallic sound and to begin with I thought it was an appliance in the kitchen informing me that I'd left it one when I shouldn't have done. By the time I had realised it was the door it had rung again. I cursed internally – what's the point in having a security-controlled building if someone can just wander up here and knock the door? I opened the door; scowling at the intrusion my expression registered no small amount of shock at the sight of the woman standing there. "It's not polite to keep a lady waiting." She said as she looked at me, a charming smile playing across her face and those hypnotic grey eyes looking into mine. I found myself at a loss for words. "Well, aren't you going to invite me in Mr Waltham," she asked. "Or would you rather I called you James?" I stepped aside and gestured as gallantly as possible to her to enter my apartment. I took a moment to notice what she was wearing – her grey overcoat covered what looked like some sort of polo neck sweater and a pair of plain black trousers, finished off by low-heeled boots. Cassandra Vincent walked back into my world and from that point onward I knew my life was never going to be the same again. **** "So, is this a case of business or pleasure?" I asked as I fixed both of us a drink. A single malt whiskey seemed appropriate, for me if not for her. She looked at me from the sofa, tracking my movements every step of the way. "Well James, I can assure you that if this were a business visit you'd already be dead," she said with a slightly comical tone dancing between her words. I didn't doubt that she meant it, but since the dance at the benefit I'd sensed something different in her demeanour towards me. Whether that was to reinforce her position of authority concerning payment – which she still hadn't asked for yet – or my sensations of guilt over my role in the events as they had transpired was unclear; however her behaviour was somewhat different to how she had treated me in the professional surroundings of her office. In retrospect, her behaviour was probably no different to how I would treat a potential new customer under the circumstances. "I won't even ask about how you found me," I remarked as I handed her the drink and sat at the other end of the sofa. I looked at her as she was coiled up amongst the leather cushions – she reminded me of a cobra that waited in its basket to be released. The question remained though – how would she react once the lid was removed. "I must commend you on your choice of décor," she stated, casting her eye around the room. "Art deco – very tasteful." She took a sip from the glass and nodded in an approving manner. "Although your security here leaves a lot to be desired, I'd bring that up at the next tenant's meeting if I were you." "Please tell me that you didn't..." I could feel the sweat beginning to form on my forehead as I formulated the question in my mind. "...Kill the guard?" Cassandra looked at me quizzically. I held her gaze, trying not to show that I felt more than slightly uncomfortable in her presence. She smiled at me again. "Of course not – I can be very persuasive when I want to be." "I can imagine." I replied. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" Cassandra stood up and drained the rest of her drink in one swoop. She looked at me, her eyes burning with something that I could only describe as barely concealed lust. "You're taking me to bed first," Her matter-of-fact tone left me in no doubt that the topic was not up for debate. "Then we'll talk." I held her in my arms – both of our bodies burning with the heat of the moment. She pushed the dark hair away from her face. The moonlight from the windows gave her complexion an almost alabaster quality to it. She ran her hand across my chest and over my stomach – the sensation was almost ticklish. My fingers ran over a series of strange marks on her otherwise flawless skin just above her right hip. "I've never seen scars like yours." I muttered. She glanced over at my hand and the tender skin my fingers were tracing circles around. A rueful smile played across her face. "It's a reminder to stay focused." She said. "You've been working out." It was a statement. "Maybe." I gave an unnecessary answer. Her eyes looked up at mine again. "You can't lie to me you know." She said as she suddenly straddled me. I could feel the sinews of muscle in her legs as she gripped my torso between them. Her body was hardened by years of training, yet still feminine enough to be desirable. She pressed down against me. "Tell me, how do you feel about his death?" "Who? Trent?" I said just to confirm what she was driving at. "I should feel guilty," I said truthfully. "But I don't. Not one bit. I hated the way they made me feel – I was so sick of myself, sick of what both of them had done to me." She never broke her gaze once as I felt the anger and bile rising in my stomach. "I destroyed two people's lives and the frightening thing is, I just don't care about it." "You're a remarkable man James," Cassandra said. "You have a clarity of thought that eludes most people in these situations. They would be muddled with delusions of a conscience and wracked with guilt." She leaned against me, pressing the whole of her naked body against me. I could feel the sweat starting to cool between our skin. "Yet you view the situation with an almost professional detachment." "And there was me thinking I was some sort of emotional retard," I quipped. "So, why are you really here?" I asked her. "I just wanted to be sure of something, that's all." She answered. Her voice seemed soft, almost demure. That's when I felt it – a single tear that rolled off her cheek and dropped softly onto my chest. That's when the words flowed from her mouth. 15 hours ago Anne Murray had entered Cassandra Vincent's office not really knowing what to expect. As she saw the woman stand up from behind the desk Anne felt confused. After shaking her hand and sitting down, the question just blurted out of her mouth. "I'm sorry, but you're not what I expected." Anne said. Cassandra smiled. "How do mean?" Cassandra replied. "Well...I don't know..." Anne mumbled. "I...I suppose I expected...well...a man." Cassandra didn't try to suppress her laugh. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you..." "You didn't," Cassandra said. "However many times I hear that it always makes me laugh." She paused for a second to have a drink of water. "So, how can I help you?" "It's my daughter, well, no, it's actually my grandson that I'm worried about," Cassandra nodded, slightly surprised that the woman opposite her was old enough to be part of a third maternal generation. "He's...he's just four years old and...and he's in danger...his mother – my daughter – has a substance problem that's escalating out of control." Cassandra nodded. "I don't want to sound like I'm turning away business," Cassandra spoke softly. "But isn't this a situation for Social Services to take care of?" "I've tried..." Anne seemed to be on the verge of breaking down. "I...I contacted them, and the Police, but nothing seems to work...each time..." Her voice gave out. Cassandra opened her draw and extracted a compact box of tissues that she handed to Anne. She waited for her guest to regain some of her composure. "My husband spent his life trying to get her into a successful rehab programme, we sold our house, mortgaged our futures and devoted ourselves to helping her...but it was no good." The Complete CV "Have you got children?" Anne asked. Cassandra shook her head. "I can't say it's something that's on my horizon at the moment," Cassandra answered, feeling slightly stung by the intonation the question carried. "But my cat can be a real pain at times." "You don't understand, you do everything for them and they repay you by cutting you out of their life..." Cassandra could see the woman in front of her was distraught – it was something she'd seen before many times from both men and women, yet this time it made her feel uncomfortable. "Again Mrs Murray, I'm not sure I'm the person you need to talk to about this situation," Cassandra tried to soothe her visitor's jangled nerves, but to no avail. "I know the number of a private investigator, I can tell him you're coming..." "Miss Vincent, the people I've talked to told me you solve problems." Anne Murray suddenly seemed filled with resolve, steeled by some inner drive that Cassandra didn't quite understand or, as she thought privately, comprehend. "I have money – my husband left quite a sizeable life insurance payout after his last heart attack, so can you solve my problem?" "That depends," Cassandra mused. "On what exactly it is that you want me to do." "I want you to kill my daughter and bring me my grandson." Anne Murray answered. 2 hours ago The car sat idling outside the council house as the rain pelted down. The heavy droplets bounced off the roof, making a hollow and repetitive drumming sound. Cassandra pulled the gloves onto her hands and then looked across to her partner. Sitting in the driver's seat was a young woman who would normally be sat behind the desk in the atrium of Cassandra's professional office. When people first entered the pristine office they were greeted by the sunny disposition of Lacey Staunton. At the moment, her disposition was anything but sunny. Lacey was an orphan who had been taken in by Cassandra after the death of a close friend and her husband. Her wild anger at the world following her parent's death had been tempered by Cassandra's training, replaced by a staunch discipline and devotion to her mentor. "So, we're clear on what we're doing?" Cassandra asked her associate. Lacey nodded. "We go in, I bring the grandson back to the car and you deal with the girl." Lacey sounded assured as she ran through their plan. "Are we going for the drug overdose?" "According to her mother she's a junkie," Cassandra said as she opened the glove compartment and removed a compact leather wallet. "So that shouldn't arouse too many suspicions when they find the body after a few days." She opened her door and walked along the drive. She heard Lacey follow suit behind her. Her gloved hand rapped on the doorknocker. Both women stood there for a moment with the rain waiting for some sign of life from the squalid abode. The time seemed to pass slowly as they heard movement from within. A few more minutes of waiting were rewarded by the door being opened – and both women were presented with a pathetic wretch of a human being illuminated by the watery light from the living room. "Miss Murray," Cassandra spoke with authority. "Can we have a moment of your time please?" Lacey buckled the seat belt around the young boy's body. Even through his jacket she could feel his bones jangle against his skin. His poor physical condition seemed to be matched by his almost non-existent vocal skills. She reached into the pocket of her overcoat and pulled out a small chocolate bar. Lacey carefully unwrapped it and held it up to the young boy. His eyes lit up. "Would you like this Sam?" she asked. He nodded enthusiastically. Lacey gave him the treat as well as her best smile. She heard the sound of the front door of the council house closing. Taking that as her cue, Lacey closed the back door and got into the driver's seat of the black BMW. A few moments later, Cassandra joined her. "It's done." She said. "Let's go." The Here and Now "So, that's when I came here." Cassandra said as she lit the cigarette. "We dropped off the boy and Lacey dropped me off here." "Don't get me wrong," I said as I pulled myself upright. "I'm flattered you came here, but you seem upset by all this and that just doesn't seem like you." She looked at me – I couldn't tell if she was scowling at me or the fact my question was spot on. "I thought I was cold," Cassandra answered, staring off into the night outside my window. "But she made me think otherwise." She looked at me. "And you've convinced me that there's still something inside me that beats with some degree of compassion, however shrivelled and withered it might be." "Are you sure that's just a normal cigarette you're smoking?" I asked, trying to lighten her mood. A faint smile drifted across her lips as her next statement dripped from her mouth. "You know James, I do believe you've found a way to make me smile." She said. "So, what are we having for breakfast?" By the time she had left it was nearly lunchtime. As I prepared to leave my apartment I noticed that my spare set of keys were no longer hanging from their hook above the kettle in the kitchen. I couldn't help but smile when I realised that this wasn't the last time I was going to see Cassandra Vincent. Untraceable Sarah scooped up the plate from the table and pocketed the two-pound coins that were lying next to the money set aside to pay for the bill. She hummed absent-mindedly as she saw him come into the café. He'd come in every day this week at 11 o'clock. His punctuality was disturbing – particularly as he wasn't one of the normal "regulars" who frequented the establishment. If she had to guess, she'd have said he was in his late thirties to early forties. He always wore the same dark coloured business suit – which struck Sarah as strange considering the temperatures outside was into the low eighties. His general appearance was that of some sort of businessman, complete with a brushed steel briefcase that he carried with him. She watched as he made a beeline for the same table that he occupied each day – in the corner where he could see everyone else in the establishment. "What can I get for you today?" Sarah asked, already knowing what his order would be. "One pot of tea and an egg custard." His response was brisk yet friendly. He looked up at her as she made a note of his order. "How are you today Sarah?" His question shocked Sarah – he'd never made conversation with her before, why now? "Er, how do you know my name?" She asked, feeling uneasy. "Your name badge," His answer made her feel foolish. "And I heard Ernie calling you a couple of times the other day." "Jeez, sorry," Sarah mumbled. "I'm good thanks – you do know that you come in here at the same time, order the same thing and sit in the same spot everyday don't you?" "Yes – except that today will be my last day in here." The man replied. "I shall be leaving tomorrow." "Oh, right." Sarah said, slightly downcast, after all the mysterious customer was in the habit of leaving generous tips. "Well, I'll get your order for you." **** He took fifteen minutes – just like clockwork – to eat the egg custard and drink the tea. As Sarah moved across with the bill, he did something unusual. "May I have a quick word with you Sarah?" he asked. She stopped in her tracks as she looked at him. He seemed sincere enough; then again, she was sure that Dennis Nielsen had been with his colleagues at the Job Centre before he turned out to be a serial killer. "Sure." She said. He pushed a chair out for her to sit down. "My name is Thompson," he said, formally introducing himself. "I represent a group of people who think that you might be able to help them." "What? What are you talking about?" Sarah asked. "How could I...? Oh, I get it, no, no way – I'm not into that sort of thing..." She got up to leave, only for Thompson's hand on her arm stopped her. "It's not what you think." He said. "Please, sit back down and hear me out." Sarah slowly returned to her seat. "How much do you owe in university fees since you dropped out last year?" "What? That's none of your..." "Six thousand, seven hundred and twenty three pounds and four pence." Thompson said. "That's not counting the month's rent you currently owe, or the interest that's accumulating on it." Sarah looked at him, shell shocked at his knowledge of her financial position. "Let's take a walk shall we?" Thompson got up, picking up the briefcase. **** Sarah found herself walking next to Thompson in silence. Despite the fact she had told Ernie where she was going, something about the whole situation didn't feel right. Eventually they entered the park about a quarter of a mile from the café. Thompson sat down at a bench and beckoned Sarah to join him. "I was sorry to read about your mother." Thompson said quietly, not out of concern for anyone who may over hear him, more out of respect. "How do you know about that?" Sarah asked. Her emotions were mixed between anger and sadness. "How...?" "I know a great deal about you, Sarah Daniels," Thompson said. "I know that your father died in prison, the innocent victim of a cruel attempt at exploitation that wasn't dismissed until it was too late and that your mother died less than a year later as a result of lapsing into alcoholism under the stress of it all." Sarah found herself shaking, tears rolling down her face. "I know that your sister is in and out of a drug rehabilitation program and you haven't spoken to your brother for three years now." He handed her a handkerchief. "Inside this briefcase," he said, patting the container. "Is a picture of the man who pursued the prosecution of your father on child abuse charges. His name is Marcus Brunell. He was confronted with the evidence of your father's innocence a full week before he committed suicide, and did nothing about it for fear of looking bad in front of his superiors. There is also a gun, sixty untraceable rounds and ten thousand pounds." "What...what...?" Sarah's mind raced from the information that Thompson had just imparted to her. "What do you want me to do with that?" "The people who employ me also employed Mr Brunell for a short while," Thompson said. "Unfortunately he has been somewhat indiscreet in his business dealings and the risk of exposure is great. My employer would rather that this didn't happen." "You...you want me..." The words stuttered from Sarah's mouth. "If you kill Mr Brunell with the weapon provided, my employers will pay you a further ninety thousand pounds and provide you with a new identity. They will also ensure that your sister receives treatment and counselling." Thompson said. "Unfortunately, they cannot do anything about the fact that communication between your brother and yourself has broken down." "What if...I get caught?" "You don't need to worry about that Miss Daniels," Thompson said with a slight chuckle. "My employers have sufficient influence to prevent any police investigation locating you once the matter becomes public. It will be written off as one of those unpleasant things that happen in today's modern world." She balled up her courage to allow the words to slip out of her mouth. "What if I agree to do it?" "Then you have to ensure that Mr Brunell is shot and killed in a public place, and it has to be tomorrow." Thompson said coldly. "He will be in your café at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. Once you have executed him you will walk out of the café to a black BMW that will be waiting for you outside. That will be the last time you will ever set foot in Ernie's Café for the rest of your life." "Why?" Sarah felt foolish asking questions. In fact, she expected to see a policeman appear out of the corner of her eye at any second. "Why me?" "It's a mutually beneficial situation." Thompson said. "My employer's privacy is ensured and you have the opportunity to right a wrong inflicted upon you." He stood up. "Your father didn't have to die Miss Daniels. If you choose to do nothing then feel free to dispose of the pistol in the briefcase – I trust that the money will be enough to ensure that this conversation is not repeated to anyone." Thompson looked around at the lunchtime population of the park. "Good day to you Miss Daniels." And with that, Sarah was left alone. **** She had spent the night fretting in bed, her fitful sleep interrupted by dreams of her childhood, of her mother's face the morning when the family had learned of the death of her father. She relived the funerals and the traumatic trips to the hospice in the final days of her mother's life. By the time she woke up it felt like she'd been through the three worst days of her life in the space of eight hours. By the time she arrived at Ernie's it was just before ten. One part of her had screamed to leave the briefcase at home – to just forget about it and donate the money to some charity somewhere – but the other part of her mind, the sleep starved part of it, had enabled her to pick up the brushed steel container and deposit it at the back of the kitchen. Her morning was a blur of normality. She served the customers and brushed off several comments from Ernie about her zombiefied state as she moved around the café on autopilot. Then she saw him. She'd spent hours looking at the photograph last night – burning the image into her brain – yet when she had woken up this morning Sarah couldn't remember his face. He ordered some sort of pretentious coffee – the sort she hated preparing because the customers usually complained that they were never quite right. Sarah fired up the coffee maker and made the drink that he'd ordered. As she placed it down on the table he ignored her, not even bothering to say "thank you". Sarah backed away from him and returned to the kitchen. She watched him through the serving hatch. He seemed to be oblivious to the world around him as he chatted away on his mobile phone, irritating the few remaining customers in the café. He asked for the check. Sarah walked up to him and presented to him. Brunell glanced down at it and dropped several coins on to the plate before returning to his phone conversation. Sarah scooped it up and placed it on the counter before returning to the kitchen. She heard Ernie ringing up the bill on the till as she picked up the briefcase. Brunell laughed at the crude joke his colleague told him over the phone. He looked around at the clientele in the café. "There's a waitress in here that's got a fantastic arse," he said as he saw the plate containing his change deposited on the table. As he looked up he found himself staring into the barrel of a snub nosed .38 revolver. Sarah stared down at Brunell as his mind registered the reality of his situation. She squeezed the trigger. Thompson had provided her with a few rudimentary notes on the use of the pistol inside the briefcase, but she couldn't have been prepared for the recoil. The gun kicked upwards, however the bullet did more than enough damage. It tore through flesh and bone, splattering blood and brain matter across the café window and the table. Brunell's body seemed to topple in slow motion, falling backwards and crashing to the floor. Sarah's heart was pounding and her arms shaking as she saw what she had done. Her mind was filled with a mixture of elation and revulsion at what she had just done, however something seemed to take over inside her. She grabbed the briefcase off the floor and walked as calmly as she could from the restaurant and the screaming that she was suddenly aware of. The fresh air hit Sarah like a brick, clearing her nostrils of the smell of blood and sulphur. She felt like she was in a trance as she saw the black BMW parked about twenty yards away from her. As she approached it the passenger door swung open. Sarah got in as the car revved up and pulled away. **** She wasn't sure how long she slept, however the muscles in her neck told her that she had been resting against the window on the passenger side of the vehicle. "Nice to see you awake." The voice was unmistakeably that of Thompson's. "How are you feeling?" "Sick." Sarah said as she looked around, not recognising her location. "You'll get over that." Thompson replied. "The briefcase on the back seat contains your money and all the identification that you'll need for your new life. My employer was extremely pleased with your performance." "Where the hell are we?" "Minford, one of the less affluent areas of town." Thompson said. He drew Sarah's attention to a run down block of council flats that was across the street from them. "Inside flat number 224c is one Joey Reynolds. He was the young man who told the police that your father abused him, although this was after your father refused to pay him under his ludicrous extortion scheme." "What do you want me to do here?" Sarah asked, her stomach feeling knotted. "Nothing," Thompson answered as he opened the car door. "I just thought you should know where you are." He got out of the vehicle and tossed the keys back inside. "Keep the car Miss Daniels, consider it a bonus for a job well done." Thompson closed the door and walked away. Sarah watched him walk down the street and make a right turn, disappearing into a side street. Then she returned her gaze to the block of council flats. Four days later Thompson sat inside the dark blue BMW as the engine idled. The passenger door opened and a brunette woman dressed in a similar style business suit to his own and carrying a brushed stainless steel briefcase got in. "Reynolds is still alive." She said. Thompson nodded. "I suspected her moral compass would prevent her from killing him," Thompson said. "Reassuring in one respect." "What do we do about her?" "Nothing," Thompson answered as the car pulled away. "She did exactly what we wanted her to do so we honour the agreement we made with Sarah Daniels. Marcus Brunell is out of the way in what appeared to be the act of a random psychotic killer. Case closed." "So, how do we deal with Reynolds?" "Miss Jackson, you're far too impatient." Thompson said as he drove the car along several streets before pulling up at a large franchise pub. "This job is all about subtly, knowing who to push and when, understanding who are more susceptible to manipulation and who require good old-fashioned brute force to march according to our beat." "I'm sorry, it's just..." Jackson began to speak. "You're young, you want to make a good impression – I can understand that." He said. "At least you want to learn, unlike that last associate they partnered me with." Thompson rubbed his temples to stave off a headache. "Now, back to the question of Mr Reynolds. I can think of several people who could be persuaded to inflict bodily harm upon him; for example he stole a large number of drugs from a doctor's office that resulted in several patient deaths. He has also been mugging pensioners in their homes, one of whom is in hospital in a critical condition." Thompson checked his watch. "Then we have the ex-girlfriend who suffered a miscarriage as a result of his abusive behaviour towards her. Now, who would you approach?" Jackson paused for a second, considering the three options Thompson had presented her. "I'd go for the ex-girlfriend. Tap into the emotional aspect of her miscarriage." "Good girl!" Thompson congratulated her. "You're going to go far in this business. Now, why don't we get a drink?" They both got out of the car. "Oh, bring the briefcase with you Jackson, you never know who might be working behind the bar." Special Delivery The last package was loaded up into the back of the brown Dodge Sprinter van and Bernie took a minute to examine the day's deliveries. He took a look at the delivery schedule and shook his head – sixty-five packages to deliver. This job was definitely getting worse over the years. He turned around – and saw a young woman walking towards him. He didn't recognise her as she smiled at him. The Complete CV Her smile complemented her sunny demeanour as her blonde ponytail swung in time with her bounce-like steps. Bernie couldn't help but notice that she seemed to have quite an athletic build under the brown coveralls. She carried a small pink rucksack in her hands and seemed to be searching inside it for something. "Hey Bernie, Saul said I could take your shift." She said as she approached him. Bernie scratched his head. "Really, how long for?" he asked, confused at his supervisor's sudden switch. "Permanently." The young woman said, suddenly serious. "Wha..." Bernie barely had chance to speak as he saw her pull a silenced pistol out of her bag. The bullets slammed into his chest, knocking him backwards into the van. He struggled to get up, his mind racing and his body screaming at him in pain. As Bernie lifted his head he saw the barrel of the pistol pointing straight at his face. "Bye bye Bernie." She fired once more – and Bernie Kovacs was dead. She carefully placed the pistol back into the rucksack, hoisted his lifeless legs into the back of the van and slammed the doors shut. **** Mike Williams was running late and he knew it. The party was in full swing downstairs and he wasn't ready yet. The costume just didn't fit right as he tried adjusting it – and the guests downstairs were utterly unforgiving. "Mike," the voice of his wife Linda came from the other side of the bedroom door. "Hurry up!" "I'm coming," he answered. "But I just can't get these bloody shoes to tie up." "Forget about it," She hissed. "Just get down there, otherwise the day is going to be ruined." "Okay, okay." He said, cursing under his breath. The UPS van pulled up outside the house on the quiet suburban street. She reached into the rucksack and pulled out some gloves. Easing them onto her hands and working the skin-tight leather over her flesh, she flexed her fingers. Once she was happy, she picked up the hollow package from the passenger seat and secured her pistol inside. She ran through it in her head. Manny had been very specific. Get him to come to the door; sign for the package then shoot him in the eye. The act would send a clear message to all the others who worked for Manny – either you worked for him, or you didn't work at all. Period. She opened the door, got out of the van and crossed the road, cradling the package in her hands. **** Mike struggled to get down the stairs – his vision impaired by his contact lenses. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the bottom. The doorbell rang. "Aw crap!" Mike cursed. "Linda? Linda?" She probably couldn't hear him over the cacophony coming from the living room and the back garden. He shook his head and reached for the door. **** She could see the shape approaching through the frosted glass. She could feel her pulse racing as the adrenaline flowed through her system. Her right hand gripped the butt of the pistol – she could feel the cold metal through the leather gloves as it calmed her boiling blood. The door opened. And that point, Hannah's world fell apart. The figure stood there, filling the doorway. The whiteface makeup covered all his visible flesh from the neck upwards. His lips were a gaudy red and two big blooms of pink adorned his cheeks. The tip of his nose was a bulbous red lump to match the colour of his ears and hair. The costume was garish, with bright yellow ruffles around his collar and an undersized pointed hat perched on the top of his head. Hannah felt her head start to spin and her knees buckle. She saw the large blue oversized shoes that Mike had struggled to negotiate the stairs with less than five minutes ago and she screamed, dropping her package and it's lethal cargo. The memories flooded back – as he took one step forward, she found herself thrown back into her childhood. Memories of a dark room and a man who abused a position of trust, of the smell of stale sweat and cigars, and the tears rolled down her face, now as they did when she was six years old. Her body became jelly as her mind retreated from the here and now into Hannah's own personal hell. "Linda! Linda!" Mike cried out. "Call 911! We need an ambulance!" He looked down and saw the pistol lying on his doorstep. "And you'd better get the Police too!" **** The paramedics secured her to the gurney as she shook. Her face was nearly the same shade of white as the make adorning Mike's face. He shook his head as the female detective who had called herself Hawthorne finished making her notes. "Any idea who she is?" she asked, nodding towards the gibbering wreck being taken away with a secure escort. Mike shook his head. "Never seen her before in my life." Mike answered. "Mmm," Hawthorne answered. "You work for DeLuca construction, right?" "Yeah, I'm an accountant for them." Mike answered. "You don't think this has anything to do with them do you? I mean, I've heard the rumours..." Hawthorne handed him a business card. "We'll talk in the next couple of days Mr Williams," Hawthorne said, as she looked him up and down. "It's called Coulrophobia you know." "Yeah, fear of clowns." Mike answered as he watched the ambulance pull away. "Well, a word to the wise from your friend Pennywise," Hawthorne said as she made her exit. "Go inside and enjoy your son's birthday. I'll be in touch." MVP CitiCorp Stadium, Arizona The locker room was emptying as the player's filtered away. The euphoria that came with the win was being tempered by the messages his body was sending his brain. Rod "Okie" Jackson picked up an ice pack and pressed it against his left shoulder as he shook his head. "Man, what a day." He muttered to himself. He held the pack against his shoulder for a few more seconds before putting it back down on the bench. Lifting his arms above his head he managed to discard the Under Armour padding that had absorbed most of the impact of the collision between himself and the San Diego Thunderbolt defensive end sometime around the mid way point of the third quarter. It clattered against the metal locker as he shed it from his body. Rod slumped down onto the wooden bench and leaned against his locker. His eyes closed for a moment as his mind recalled the events of the game – particularly those of the last few moments. As he opened them he saw the Alvin Rozelle trophy sitting on the bench next to him and a set of keys to a brand new Cadillac of his choice. He allowed himself to smile. He had just won the Super Bowl and had been awarded the most valuable player award. **** Replacing one of the cheerleaders had been straightforward. She had identified one who was a similar height, build and also had blonde hair, waited in her apartment and silenced her with a single shot to the head – after all, she couldn't risk damaging the outfit. Meredith got changed into the dead cheerleader's outfit and then scooped up her kit bag. If she did this right she'd be out of the stadium before anyone noticed the girl was missing. **** Wes Wierzbowski threw his kit bag onto the bus – as one of the less well-known players he didn't have the luxury of his own transport home. Still, he was happy to have made an impact – an undrafted, skinny white kid who had made the team against all odds had made a fingertip tackle to prevent a touchdown in the final minutes on a desperation play. As the bag landed in the luggage hold it was then that Wes realised that he'd forgotten something. His helmet was still in the locker room. He cursed his own stupidity as he trudged back towards the locker room. **** Rod placed the trophy on a table by the door before he turned back to pick up his kit bag. As he turned around he saw his path blocked by an attractive young woman. He thought he recognised her – wasn't she one of the cheerleaders? He thought to himself. She had a weird smile on her face as Rod looked at her. "Hey there," he said. "You know, normally I'd be up for it after a game, but I'm beat tonight baby – maybe we can hook up once we're back on the East Coast?" The answer to his question was delivered from the barrel of a silenced pistol. The bullet struck Rod in the leg; disrupting his balance and making him fall back against the lockers. He clutched the wound as the woman took a step towards him. Rod screamed obscenities at her as she cradled the pistol in her hands. "You cost Manny big time tonight Okie," she said in a sickeningly sweet voice. "He's really pissed." "Manny?" Rod answered between sharp intakes of breath. "Look sugar, I can make it up to him – I can get him his money – whatever he lost, I'll double it." "Double it? Really?" She answered. "Oooh, that's sounds good to me, but you made Manny look stupid in front of his boys – and you know what happens to people who make Manny look stupid." "Please baby, you don't have to do this – I'll pay you whatever you want, just don't do this." Rod pleaded with her as she pointed the pistol at him. "You know, that sounds great, in principle, although I'm not a fan of men who beg really," she mused, brushing the extended barrel against her cheek. "However, I don't want to upset Manny either – I'm not that stupid." She aimed the pistol at him again. "Still, at least you had a good game tonight, that's something to consider in the afterlife." Rod looked up into her blue eyes as she raised the pistol. It seemed like an eternity to him, although he definitely felt something in his bladder give as he stared at her. Another twisted smile crossed Meredith's face as she saw the effect she was having on Rod. She watched as he closed his eyes. "Aw," she muttered. "Poor baby." Rod opened his eyes and looked at Meredith. He locked his eyes with hers, intending to be defiant to the very end. Then he saw her icy blue eyes roll into the back of her head and her body slump to the floor like a puppet that had had it's strings cut. Rod gulped – and saw the diminutive figure of Wes Wierzbowski standing there with a shocked expression on his face. "I...I forgot my helmet." Wes said as Rod saw the blood on the silver football helmet in Wes' hand. **** The Police took Meredith away as Rod sat on the gurney with the EMTs tending to his wound. He looked around as he waited for his lawyer to turn up – the events of tonight had convinced him to come clean about his gambling habit. As they began to wheel him into the ambulance, he saw a skinny kid walk past. "Hey, cornbread!" Rod called out. Wes looked up and saw him beckoning him towards the emergency vehicle. As he reached it, Rod handed him the keys. "When I get out of hospital you're coming with me to Disneyworld." Rod said as the rookie took a second to take in what it meant. The doors to the ambulance closed and the vehicle drove off with its lights flashing. "Wow," Wes said. "I'm going to Disneyworld." Who's that Girl? Morning Detective Dawn Hawthorne sat across from Mike Williams in the diner. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes as he struggled to take in the words he had just heard from her. "So, you're telling me that my employer is some sort of crime boss?" Mike said. Dawn nodded. "And that's why he'd sent that...hitwoman to kill me?" "We believe that you might have found something in his accounts during your yearly reconciliation that could have exposed him." Dawn replied. "Was there anything that you had seen in his expenditure records that could be seen as incriminating in the last year?" "Not that I'd noticed to begin with," Mike answered. "But there were a couple of irregular payments to individuals I didn't recognise from the construction company payroll." He stirred the coffee that was in front of him as he seemed to reflect on his situation. "I'd heard the rumours, but I didn't really believe them, until..." "Until Manny DeLuca had an assassin turn up on your doorstep on the day of your son's birthday party, right?" Dawn said. Mike nodded. **** She watched them from behind the counter. Her instructions were simple – remove the cop and the bean counter. She picked up their order and walked around the till, the heels of her shoes clicking against the linoleum. She placed the plate on the table. "One plate of Pierogi." She said. "Thanks," Mike said as she walked away, moving back behind the counter. "So, the important thing..." Dawn said as something inside her mind suddenly set off alarm bells. "Hey, this isn't Pierogi," Mike said. "This is Kluski..." Everything went into slow motion at that point. The first round tore into the faux leather seat cushion just behind Mike Williams; the second clipped his shoulder, knocking him down and flat against the bench. As the waitress levelled her pistol for a third and possibly fatal shot, Dawn had managed to pull her snub-nosed revolver free of its holster. The pistol kicked back in Dawn's hands as she squeezed off the first and only round she needed. It struck the waitress in the throat, more by luck than design, knocking her to the floor. Her third shot tore into the ceiling, scattering the floor with pieces of ceiling tile as arterial spray covered the counter as she slumped down. The diner was filled with people screaming. Dawn reached over and checked on Mike, before pulled her radio out of her jacket. "Are you okay?" she asked. He was clutching his arm. "I've just been shot – does that answer your question?" Mike screamed. Dawn nodded, satisfied that he was in no immediate danger. "Great," she said. "Let's get you to a hospital and get this mess cleaned up." Lunchtime "How long have we been looking into this now?" Dawn Hawthorne asked Jerry Michaels as she followed her supervisor along a damp corridor in the cramped basement of the headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department. "Six years," Michaels replied. "And we're still no closer to pinning anything on DeLuca than we were when we started." They stopped outside an unmarked door about two thirds of the way along. "I heard about the incident at the diner today. Is he okay?" "He'll be fine," Dawn replied. "But there were only six people who knew I was meeting him there today." She looked at Michaels. "And the other four of them are sitting inside this room." She let the words sink in. "I think we have a mole." "I share your concerns," Michaels said. "But we'll discuss them privately after this meeting." He opened the door and showed her in. Several flickering overhead lights that had definitely seen better days illuminated the room. They gave the room a sickly, washed out feel to it as Dawn joined the other four individuals sitting at a table. Michaels stood at the head of the edifice and picked up a metal pointer. He addressed those present. "I'm glad we could all meet at such short notice," he said. "But we have a problem." He directed everyone's attention to the board behind him as he pulled the cover away from it. There were a selection of photographs pinned to it – all of them detailed very dead men. "It appears that someone is going after DeLuca's lieutenants. In the last week three of them have been killed," He pointed to the top three of the quintet. "Roscruitio, Edwards and Toschetti were all found dead in their apartments from gunshot wounds to the head – no witnesses or forensics that we could use. Myers and Cosgnolio were shot by a sniper the previous week as they left the Mirage by it's back door at three in the morning," he paused to take a quick drink of water. "Any idea's whose doing this?" Franklin – a burly detective from the Metro division – asked. "I mean, has DeLuca made any more enemies in the last week than normal?" "I doubt it," Michaels replied. "Our Manny has been keeping a relatively low profile after the failed attempt on the accountant's life," he took another sip from the plastic cup. "But after we caught the shooter at the Stadium back in January I can imagine that he's been feeling abit jittery." "I take that she hasn't talked?" Watson – a thin, sickly looking man from Narcotics – asked. Michaels shook his head. "Meredith Carson hasn't said a word," he said. "Same as the UPS hitter," Dawn added. "But that's because she's catatonic." "So, where's the problem?" Watson asked. "I mean, whoever it is has been doing us a favour, right?" Michaels shook his head. "Maybe, from one perspective, but Myers had been our informant on the inside – his loss is going to hurt our intelligence gathering." There was a beeping sound in the room – everyone looked at their pagers. "Aw shit, it's the DA. Listen, keep your eyes and ears open – for all we know this could be the Russians trying to muscle in on DeLuca's patch again, and we all remember how bloody that turf war was." Evening By the time Lorne Michaels crashed into bed that night it was nearly one in the morning. His sleep was fitful at best – disturbed by the usual nightmares that haunted a man constantly finding him being presented by images of the depths humanity could sink to on a daily basis. The sensation of the gloved hand covering his mouth and the cold steel of a barrel being pressed against his head woke him up instantly. His eyes could just make out a figure standing over him – a second pair of eyes were staring back at him from within a ski mask. There was a faint smell of lilies in the room that hadn't been there when he'd gone to bed. "Don't make a sound otherwise you'll be dead before you know it," the feminine voice was quiet, yet carried an air of authority about it. "I won't hesitate to kill you – you know that, you've seen my work over the last week." The hand pulled away from his mouth. "Get up and move slowly into your living room – you make a move I don't like and I'll drop you where you stand." Michaels moved as she suggested – he was trying to place her accent as he found the floor of his bedroom cold to his bare feet – it was definitely English rather than Australian. She directed him to a chair in the darkness and then handcuffed his hands behind him before she switched the light on. There was another chair opposite his – the figure was covered by a piece of tarpaulin and appeared to be shaking. "Your operation against Manny DeLuca has been compromised." She spoke softly, she must know I have thin walls, Michaels thought to himself. The Woman drew his attention to a file that was sitting on his table. "That's the financial transactions of the payments made by DeLuca to his source." She tugged at the sheet of plastic. It slid off the shaking figure of Harry Watson. Michaels could see that his face was bruised and there was a cut above his left eye. He mumbled as best as he could with his mouth covered by a strip of gaffer tape. "This little toad has been giving away the details of your investigation to that piece of crap," The Woman said. "However, that ends tonight." She moved the barrel of the pistol across Watson's face. His mumbled screams mirrored the terror in his eyes. "Don't." Michaels took the risk. "Don't do it." The Woman seemed surprised by his move. "I didn't say you could speak," she said. "He's a dirty cop." "He's also got a wife and three kids," Michaels said, before deciding to play his ace. "And up until now, you've only been removing pond scum. You kill him and no matter how dirty he is, you're a cop-killer." He paused for a second. "I can't protect you from the whole LAPD." "Who said I need protecting?" She replied – her accent was definitely English. The Woman looked at Michaels and in turn, he held her gaze. The stormy grey eyes looked at him from underneath that mask seemed to convey something to him. "DeLuca is just part of a much bigger problem," she said, continuing to trace the pistol around Watson's face. "But you may have a point." She moved the gun away from the manacled man and moved behind Michaels. He feared the worst for a second, and then heard the sound of the handcuffs being released. By the time he had turned around she had made her escape from the apartment. Michaels moved over to Watson and tore the tape from his mouth. The Complete (enough) Idiot’s Guide The Complete (enough) Idiot's Guide to Basic Concepts in BDSM Foreword: The content of this essay first appeared as a set of posts in my MySpace blog. After finishing the series, it occurred to me that the concepts presented there might be useful to novice writers as well as those who might just be curious so I decided to clean up my reasoning and present it here. It is not intended to be an exhaustive treatment of the subject matter: it should be viewed more as a generalized roadmap rather than a Fodor's™ Guide. Introduction: I sometimes take verbal flak about my self-described Dom personality. It seems that the external face of my lifestyle doesn't fit the preconceptions the complainers hold about D/s; and they persist in pointing out that I don't own a dungeon, don't make a regular practice of hurting anyone, and rarely even tie anyone up. They are obviously confused and/or ignorant about the meaning of basic terms used in the lifestyle. Dominance and submission (D/s), Bondage and Discipline (B&D), and Sadism and Masochism (S&M) are not all the same thing. Sometimes it is convenient to lump them all together as BDSM though, and I'm sure that is the source of a lot of the confusion. D/s describes a kind of interpersonal relationship, whereas B&D and S&M usually describe a collection of practices, in which some people may engage at some times. For example, one is much more likely to know people involved in a 24/7 D/s relationship (even though you are probably unaware of it) than one is to know anyone who regularly practices Sadism. Just to forestall an outcry by the impatient, I'll also admit up front that the terms dominant, submissive, sadist, and masochist, are also used to describe personality characteristics. I will deal with those characteristics in a cursory fashion near the end of this essay. Part 1: Dominance and submission As I said, D/s describes a kind of relationship. A D/s relationship may be only one of many relationships that exist between the members of a pair of individuals, and either member, or both, may have, and probably do have, relationships with others. Any specific relationship exists only between members of a defined pair; and is usually, but not necessarily, different in type and quality from any relationship that may exist between either member of the pair, and any other individual.  As in any relationship, a D/s relationship is driven by the roles played by the participants. In this type of relationship, the defining roles are those of the Dominant (or Top, or Dom/me or sometimes, Master/Mistress), and the submissive (or bottom, or sub, or sometimes, slave). A dictionary is often useful in understanding terms. The Merriam-Webster's Medical Dictionary (2002) lists one definition of the noun dominant as follows: "a dominant individual in a social hierarchy." Since this is a recursive definition, using the same word as an adjective to define the noun, we need to look a little further. The American Heritage Stedman's Medical Dictionary (2002) lists a definition of the adjective dominant as: "exercising the most influence or control." So, to expand and clarify the first definition, we can define a Dominant as "the individual who exercises the most influence or control in a social hierarchy." There isn't as much dictionary support to define the noun submissive, the way we use it, so our efforts will require a little more of a stretch. Experience with the lifestyle would support another recursive definition: i.e., "a submissive individual in a social hierarchy." Again, we use a term as an adjective, to define the same term as a noun. There is no shortage of definitions for the adjective, submissive, however, and the one which seems to fit best, comes from the Merriam-Webster's Medical Dictionary (2002): "characterized by tendencies to yield to the will or authority of others." Expanding and clarifying then, we define a submissive as "an individual who tends to yield to the will or authority of others in a social hierarchy." These definitions fit into social hierarchies of any size, even one that contains only two people - a relationship! More specifically, a D/s relationship. Any specific relationship, and thus any D/s relationship, may be said to exist in a continuum of such relationships of the same kind, and within the D/s continuum, any particular relationship might be characterized by the degree of polarization of the roles of the participants. I should mention that there exists a subset of D/s relationships where the polarization of roles is extreme: in the Master/slave (M/s) type of relationship dominance becomes ownership, and submission becomes slavery. In an M/s relationship, both the level of authority and responsibility of the Dom/me are radically increased, concurrently with an equally radical decrease in self-reliance and self-interest on the part of the submissive. One of my favorite online authors (MWTB) describes Dominance and submission as aspects of a single quantity: a number line, if you will, with submission at one end of the scale and dominance at the other. In his view, then, where you fall on the line determines which role you normally play. I prefer to think of Dominance and submission are two separate characteristics, and I believe that everyone has both characteristics, in different quantities. As separate characteristics, Dominance and submission can be described in a Cartesian two-space (plane). In this view, the polarity and other characteristics of the D/s relationship between any two people depends upon where the individuals fall on the plane. I suspect that if we were able to assign numeric values to the Dominance and submission characteristics, a scattergram of any random sampling of individuals would show that most people fall on or near a hyperbolic curve, asymptotic to the D/s axes. This would indicate that only infrequently would one observe an individual to be both highly dominant and highly submissive. Such an individual would probably be very happy as a mid-level military officer. The so-called vanilla relationship is not a different kind of relationship at all. It is just a situation that happens when two people are apparently at more or less the same place on the plane: i.e., no polarity. When a person's entire lifestyle is characterized as vanilla, it simply means that he/she habitually assumes that the people around him/her are social equals As you can see, being a Dominant doesn't necessarily require that you tie anyone up, or flog them, or in any way be cruel or rude to them, and being submissive doesn't have to mean that you have any of these things done to you. Bottom line: being a Dominant requires that you make most of the important decisions in the relationship, and being submissive requires that you accept, and when expected to, implement, those decisions. Part 2: Sadism and masochism Let's get one thing clear, right now. This is probably going to twist some tails, but there is no such thing as a Sadomasochistic relationship. If you will follow my arguments for just a little while, you'll see why. Let's look at some history and definitions. The term Sadism derives from certain sexual practices, described in novels written by le Comte Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, often appellated as Marquis de Sade. During his lifetime, de Sade frequently attempted and sometimes succeeded in creating real-life situations, similar to those in his novels, in which he inflicted pain on others for his own gratification. Most dictionaries will give a definition of Sadism similar to the following: "behavior characterized by inflicting pain (physical or emotional) on others, for the purpose of achieving sexual gratification." Note that this definition does not require the presence of a masochist. This fact, and his (often poor) choice of victims, is the principal reason that de Sade ended his days in an asylum for the criminally insane. In 1870, an Austrian novelist named Leopold von Sacher-Masoch published a novella titled Venus in Furs, in which, through the characters he described, he codified his obsession to be used and abused by the object of his desire. He had somewhat less success at achieving any long-term happiness in this way, in real life - I suspect a case of conflicting goals. At any rate Masoch achieved a kind of immortality, when psychiatrist Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing coined the term "masochist," in 1886, to describe such obsessions. The dictionary definitions of masochism can be summed up as follows: "achieving pleasure or sexual gratification from being humiliated, or from being physically or emotionally abused, either by oneself or another person." In other words, if you get off on being hurt or embarrassed, you're probably a masochist, at least to some degree. Observe yet again, no sadist is required. Complain all you want, but then look at the facts.  There may be a D/s relationship, which includes Sadomasochistic overtones. There may be a love relationship, or even just a friendship with such overtones. A pair of total strangers, with no relationship at all, or only the temporary relationship of perpetrator and victim, can engage in a Sadomasochistic behaviors. Clearly a sadist does not require a masochist in order to get his/her jollies. He/she can gain pleasure from hurting anybody, whether they enjoy it or not. In fact their enjoyment of the process might actually detract from his own. Conversely, a masochist doesn't require a sadist, in order to have fun. Anybody willing, for whatever reason, to dish out abuse will do, even someone who detests treating people harshly. Oddly enough, even another masochist will do. If no one else can be found, a masochist is often perfectly capable of becoming the source of his/her own pain. No relationship there, because nobody else is involved. Here's the thing about relationships:  for a relationship to exist, there have to be two personalities involved.  For both the sadist and the masochist, even if there is another person helping in their activities, that person is so completely objectified, that for all intents and purposes there is no other personality involved.  Furthermore, if you want to establish that some fact or condition characterizes a relationship, you have to show that it is both a necessary and a sufficient condition for the relationship to exist.  There's no way to do this with sadism and masochism: all of the relationships you might point to are either driven by something else, or they don't qualify as relationships.  Ergo, there is no such thing as a Sadomasochistic relationship. So where does that leave us? Not quite in the dark. Sadism and masochism cannot themselves define a relationship, even in part; but they are personality traits, and there is some evidence to the effect that everyone possesses them to one degree or another.  As a society, we tend to ignore these traits, unless the form of expression is extreme. The terms have also been co-opted to refer to certain behaviors or practices involving the delivery or experiencing of pain or humiliation. By mainstream standards, these practices are considered to be deviant behavior, and the personalities that actively seek to engage in them are usually considered borderline, or completely, insane. Hold on, now! I know you don't consider your harmless little bit of fun to be evidence of insanity. I'm just telling you what you already know. If you got caught doing it, by anybody with a badge, you would be taken into custody, for your safety and that of society at large. Maybe for a very long time! Of course, if you're a masochist, the idea of confinement might not be unpalatable... As an aside, it should be noted that sadism and masochism are not mutually exclusive personality traits. The term "switch," as used in the "lifestyle," ultimately derives from the fact that, early on, the mental health community recognized that some individuals can derive their pleasure from being on either side of the abuse process. Most people involved in sadism and masochism today, do not try to engage in those practices as a total lifestyle (24/7). I said most. There are always exceptions, and that's why we have asylums. If that offends you, too bad. My personal standards tell me that trying to live 24/7 either giving or receiving pain with any enthusiasm, is conclusive evidence of insanity. They're my standards, and you're not going to change them. People who just want to a have a little fun now and then, practicing Sadomasochism, usually engage in scenes. Part 3: Bondage and Discipline Both of these words have multiple meanings, and some more than others are relevant to the "lifestyle." Let's start with discipline. The definition that comes most readily to mind, for most people, goes something like this: "To punish or chastise in order to gain control of another, or to enforce obedience." Others have more to do with a learning experience: "A specific, usually named, set of rules of behavior;" "To train for the purpose of achieving behavior that complies with a set of rules;" "Behavior that is in accord with an established set of rules;" and there are more. Note the recurring theme in most of the definitions: rules of behavior. The aim of real discipline is to elicit and reinforce a particular kind of behavior. To be sure, disciplinary activity that happens in the lifestyle is often attributed to the motives specified in these definitions, but in fact, that is sometimes, perhaps even mostly, pure posturing. In that case, the so-called "discipline" is merely choreographed abuse. What about bondage? The definition most applicable in the "lifestyle." is as follows: "A state of being physically restrained for purposes of sexual gratification." Other definitions which may at times be used are: "The state of being under the control of another person;" "Being a slave or serf;" "Indenture, slavery, or serfdom;" and many variants on the theme. The mental states that described aside, in "lifestyle" terms, bondage usually refers to the physical restraint of a person, using ropes, chains or a variety of other devices that limit or prohibit movement. When bondage and/or discipline is used for purposes of behavior modification, it can be considered a true disciplinary regime. This is a normal, but not necessarily frequent or required, part of a Dominant/submissive relationship. The use of bondage and discipline to achieve immediate sexual gratification depends on the potential of the practices to cause or experience pain, discomfort, humiliation, or helplessness, as an outcome. When used in this way, these practices lay more in the domain of Sadism and masochism. Whether or not the target is bound, physical punishment as part of discipline may be delivered in a wide variety of methods. If you want a catalog of tools, go to your favorite fetish shop and you will no doubt find a huge array of items designed to inflict any level of pain to any body part desired. Novice disciplinarians though, should proceed with extreme caution.  It would be altogether too easy to cause permanent damage or disfigurement, through ignorance.  The idea of an apprenticeship for disciplinarians has great appeal, but there is the problem of finding a credible instructor.  One way might be to ask for recommendations from a submissive who has participated in multiple scenes.  Before you accept such recommendations, however, be sure to perform a full-body inspection of the submissive - remember, it takes all kinds, and your advisor may think nothing of the fact that his/her body is covered with lesions and scars. Punishment using humiliation requires more thoughtfulness, and a much more intimate knowledge of the abusee's state of mind. Given the potential for these practices to result in injury, disfigurement and in extreme cases, even death, one seldom comes upon anyone who engages in them on a permanent, full time basis. Most often, participants in the activities engage in what is known as a scene. Before we get into a discussion of what scenes are, lets first deal with another concept: that of the Safe, Sane, and Consensual (SSC) credo. It should be obvious even to the most casual observer, that these practices can result in great harm to some participants, and put others at risk for jail terms. To mitigate these risks, and hopefully eliminate them, ethical practitioners only engage in activities that are: Safe - To the extent humanly possible, risks of physical and psychological damage to each participant are identified and eliminated. Sane - All parties to the activities are nominally sane, and in control of their decisions. It should be obvious that any use of drugs or alcohol would automatically violate this condition. Consensual - All parties are fully informed of intended and potential outcomes of the activities, and agree to participate voluntarily. It should be noted that, even if written consent is obtained, it will probably NOT provide legal protection for anyone in the event of a death, or significant physical or psychological injury to one or more participants. Let me repeat this in clearer terms: CONSENSUAL OR NOT, IF YOU KILL OR INJURE SOMEONE DURING THE ACTIVITY, EVEN ACCIDENTLY, YOU WILL IN ALL PROBABILITY BE PROSECUTED! Sometimes participants will use another term for it, but a scene is a somewhat choreographed session, occurring over a defined period of time, with specific and clearly understood rules, which establish limits governing the type and intensity of activities to be undertaken. One implication of the SSC credo is that consent is dynamic. Consent may be withdrawn or modified (reduced) unilaterally, at any time by either party, and such withdrawals or reductions are binding!  For this reason scene rules also usually define the safewords: i.e., words that the receiver of abuse holds in reserve, to be used only as signals that things are going too fast or too far. It is most common to have only one safeword, which stops activity altogether, but sometimes a second safeword is used to indicate a need to reduce the intensity of the activity. Obviously, if a scene includes having the abusee gagged or otherwise silenced, some alternative means of signaling an end to the activity must be agreed upon, up front. Since most means of silencing the abusee have a significant concurrent risk of asphyxiation, such practices are generally discouraged for any level of activity beyond erotic photography. About safewords and safesignals:  It would be extremely easy to get so involved in an activity that the disciplinarian fails to notice or heed such signals.  It is good practice to pause action at regular intervals for a reality check.  During these pauses, both the giver and receiver of discipline should clearly and distinctly reaffirm the specific signals to be used and honored.  The reaffirmation should be clear, distinct, and unambiguous - redundancy is NOT a bad thing!  The conversation might go something like this: M: "Slave! What is your STOP safeword?" S: "Sir! My STOP safeword is DUTCH!" M: "Slave! Your STOP safeword is DUTCH!  Is that correct?" S: "Yes Sir!" M: "Slave! What is your SLOW safeword?" S: "SIr! My SLOW safeword is AGAR!" M: "Slave! Your SLOW safeword is AGAR!  Is that correct?" S: "Yes Sir!" As I said, clear, distinct, and unambiguous - and redundant.  This exchange brings up a few other things about safewords.  The words should be short and intelligible even if issued during a scream - for obvious reasons.  They should be completely out of place for the action that occurs during the scene - so that if used, they are guaranteed to stand out from the action and get attention.  If used the word should be shouted, not mumbled, and MUST BE HONORED AT ONCE!  A disciplinarian who fails to heed a safeword runs not just the risks associated with the activity, but may find him/herself unable to find any willing playmates - ever again. The Complete (enough) Idiot’s Guide Inasmuch as this is not a textbook, this is about as far as I intend to go with this subject. There are a lot of web-base resources for learning about them, as well as about the practices of sadism and masochism, and dominant/submissive relationships. Unfortunately sometimes those resources are erroneous or are deliberately misleading. Your best resource in dealing with these subjects is common sense. If you don't have it, don't try any of these things. Part 4: Dominant, submissive, sadistic, and masochistic personalities In Part 1, I set forth my views of the meaning of dominance and submission, characterizing the D/s experience as a relationship. The relationship, however, takes its name from the principal personality characteristics of the participants. As a Dominant, I have to admit to a predisposition for obtaining personal satisfaction or gratification, through controlling or influencing others. Any particular Dom (or Domme) may exercise control to any level of detail, using any of a variety of methods, with any degree of subtlety. A short, and by no means exhaustive, list of motivations might include: A perception that having control over others gives one greater control of his/her own life; A conviction that one is ultimately and directly responsible for outcomes resulting from any decisions; A greater confidence in one's own ability to reason, plan, and execute, than in that of others; An expectation of some specific advantage to be gained through exercising control: e.g., a potential or real improvement in financial, social, or sexual opportunities or outcomes. With a little thought and dedication, one could probably extend this list indefinitely; however, these few bullets probably cover the majority of the bases. The need to be dominant doesn't require many of these motivations to be present - any one is enough - but probably most Dom/mes have several active issues. Being a Dom/me doesn't by itself create a D/s relationship. It does, however, predispose one to seek out or establish one or more such relationships. In order to effect such a relationship, obviously, one must needs find a submissive personality to dominate; but what's in it for the submissive? By definition, a submissive (sub) is one who obtains satisfaction or gratification through being controlled. Motivations for this behavior (again, not an exhaustive list) may include: A desire to be cared for, avoid personal responsibility, and have most major decisions made by another; Emotional, and often sexual, satisfaction achieved by submitting to another. Anecdotal evidence exists to support the existence of extreme cases, in which a submissive can actually achieve orgasm at the Dom/mes whim, without any physical stimulation at all. A desire and commitment to provide for the convenience, comfort, well-being, and satisfaction - including sexual satisfaction - of another, with little or no regard for the consequences to one's person. Confirmation of self-worth, often, but not always, tangible. This is usually some kind of reward for submission to a Dom/me, and might be a mark, or a piece of jewelry, or even an item of clothing. The possibilities are endless. A sub in a D/s relationship may or may not willingly make minor decisions, but will always avoid the major ones, if possible, and will always defer to the Dom/me if there is a conflict. The sub may be capable, but not usually desirous of managing all aspects of his/her life. Marks, if used as evidence of submission, may be temporary (like a hickey) or permanent (like a tattoo or brand). More often, jewelry, such as a ring, bracelet or necklace; or a particular item of clothing (perhaps a scarf or belt, or even underwear) will be used. It may only be that the Dom/me selects sub's clothing, or just the style of clothing on a daily basis; or perhaps a hairstyle or makeup and scents. A sub might accept pain or humiliation if the sub believes it is inflicted as well-deserved punishment. Selfless devotion to a sadistic Dom/me might motivate the sub to accept pain as a means of delivering pleasure to the Dom/me. Unless the sub is also a masochist, however, he/she is not motivated to seek it for his/her own "benefit." A word about role-playing: an apparent sub may be a true submissive, or may only be role-playing. A sub also may or may not be a masochist, and if not, may role-play at being one. Now to distinguish between Dom/mes, Sadists, subs, and masochists: A sadist obtains sexual gratification through delivering humiliation, discomfort, or preferably, pain, to someone else. That is the defining characteristic and motivation. End of story. A Masochist obtains sexual or emotional gratification through receiving humiliation, discomfort, or pain. Motivations may include: Sexual satisfaction, derived from experiencing abuse. A need for punishment for past or present thoughts, desires, or misdeeds. An endorphin "rush," induced by overwhelming physical pain. The required abuse is most often physical, but can be psychological (humiliation). Corroborated evidence exists that some masochists can only achieve orgasm through painful genital abuse. Anecdotal evidence indicates that others can achieve it through extreme humiliation. In any case, abuse usually stimulates the masochist's libido, and/or intensifies a concurrent or subsequent sexual experience. A masochist will not necessarily be involved as a sub in a D/s relationship, and therefore may or may not defer to a Dom/me on any particular decision. A masochist can be perfectly capable and desirous of managing his/her own life. Unless the masochist is also a submissive, he/she doesn't necessarily require tangible evidence of status. A pure masochist, however, may use enhancements to his/her physical appearance to "advertise" availability. Given the nature of his/her activities, there may also be incidental collateral visible evidence, such as scars, burns, cuts, lash marks, etc. A masochist may role-play at being a submissive, however, in general, masochism itself is not usually an assumed role: it is a deeply rooted mindset. The consequences of masochistic experiences are usually too severe to be acceptable to role-players. In summary: A Sadist may or may not be a Dom/me. A Dom/me may or may not be a Sadist. One need not be both to be one or the other. A masochist may or may not be a submissive. A submissive may or may not be a masochist. One need not be both to be one or the other. It's technically feasible for a Dom/me to be a masochist (I think I even know a few of those) or a sub to be a Sadist. Now, with any luck I have explained, or perhaps clouded, the issues of D/s and BDSM enough that my critics are either too impressed or too confused to further question my assertions about my own personality. Thank you for reading. Quantum Mechanic