The Red Room: Where no one can hear you scream, except the audience…

Amazon Description

How would you fare in the Red Room of Miss Magnussen, where no one can hear you scream? Except the hundreds watching online, enjoying the show. In the Red Room there is no past or future, only the agony of the present. Like a war zone, no one comes out the same. Read about Rick Till. The man who had lived the superficial, unpleasant, boorish life of a man who had always lived on his own terms; unemotional, disinterested, unfriendly. Follow him into the Red Room, and see how he fares at the cruel feet of Miss Magnussen, terrified and alone. 

Extract:

Rick Till was in a funk. It was all he could do to stop himself leaning forwards in the train compartment and hugging the boiling tension in his guts. He was a man who had walked through his adult years as though he had a gun on his hip, a hard drinking, frequent brawler who was banned from most of the public houses in his home town. His small stature and clown’s feet made people feel this was amusing, but no one laughed to his face.

His blue eyes bulged slightly in a sallow, long, weathered face, and his hands were crooked as if still holding the handle of the pick and shovel that had been cradled in them more times than he would care to remember. His clothes were barely passable for public transport, denims and sweatshirt dusty and creased from work, though basically sound. A beaten-up satchel that contained a few tools and essentials were in the seat next to him, as if to deter anyone from sitting there.

He had never learned to drive, having spent the earlier part of his life at sea, but latterly had worked as part of a labouring crew going mostly into neighbouring counties. He liked to move around.

It was his time for going home from the latest job away, but the prospect filled him with terrible dread. He kept himself upright with an effort, kept his face as hard and set as it always had been, while his stomach churned and ached with anxiety. It was still all so new. He did not know yet how to interpret the signals from his bottom. He felt as if he were on the point of defecating, but he knew that it was only the plug installed deep in his rectum. The plug that kept him from leaking into his pants and staining his trousers. Oh, he had learned that lesson early! Better to feel uncomfortable and sore than stand up with a damp patch and a smell to match. It could be a build up of wind, which brought its own perils. He would have to go to the toilet for that, in case it made too loud a noise as he eased the plug to one side to let the air pass through.

He did not look at the pleasant countryside going by through the window over his right shoulder as he once might have done, if only through sheer boredom. Mostly he used to watch the people as they came and went down the carriage, gauging the fighting potential of the men, and ogling the women, as if he were some sort of bad character in the films he loved to watch, too restless and dangerous to read a book, or slip into a snooze.

But this time looked neither right nor left but stared straight ahead at the back of the seat or closed his eyes tightly with obvious effort. It was as if he knew something terrible awaited the train further down the track and there was nothing whatever he or anyone else could do about it. Indeed, for him, it was quite true.

The feeling of powerlessness came hard to Rick Till. He had bought entirely into the idea that you made your own life. Made of it what you wanted. He had owned every part of it, good and bad. Like most people, he would rather be wracked with guilt about bad decisions than admit that he’d had no power to do otherwise. Recent events had brutally exposed the lie, swept him along as helplessly as a leaf in a gale. He had lost all sense of himself, all his old confidence and swagger.

He had never greatly looked forward to going home from the job, however long he had been away, it was true. Most of the lads were much keener to get back than he. Rick had always enjoyed the work environment, felt more comfortable there, even though he kept himself to himself and was rarely more than steadily morose. At home he just tended to drink and, he had to admit, be a bit of a pain to his wife and kids. Maybe occasionally a bit more than a pain, he admitted, with an inward shudder, and not just to his family, but also in the public houses around the town.

At this thought, he had to stop himself from groaning out load. He stole a look around the train carriage to see if he were attracting attention, but if anyone noticed that he was on edge, they gave no sign on it. Mostly they had their attention drawn to mobile phones or laptops anyway.

He had always been in control. His life had been on his own terms. He gave no favours to anyone, never did anything he didn’t want to do, and threatened violence to anyone who dared suggest anything different.

Nevertheless, he knew that he was going to do something that day that went against everything that he had built his life around, compelled against every shred of his old identity by a deep urge that he had not even known existed.

He had been through it a hundred times in his head over the past days as the job progressed. He had found it easier when he was working, concentrating on the job, but at night at the guesthouse it had been hell.

As the train rattled along terrible images flashed before his mind’s eye, impacting like blows to his brain, making him wince. The gleaming toe of a female boot in patent black leather, the arch of its heel, a slim extended finger pointing down at it, with a painted nail the colour of blood.

No…..!

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Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

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