Diana used the crop to reinforce her hands and the mental images she built as she squeezed, podded and poked me. Like I said, it was not my bag. Final...y, she realized that.“I am through, Davy,” she said as she removed the chains from my wrists. My arms began to throb as I shook them to return circulation. I put on the robe she gave me.“Would you like some tea?” she asked in her crisp British accent. I accompanied her to a small, pretty room done in soft pastels and a far cry from the black of. Tears have meanwhile dried in my thickly-applied make-up, so thickly-applied, in fact, that it's like a mask of sludge, so thick, to be precise, it's like my face is under an inch of mud; why, I wonder. Why--this heavy-handed, intentionally inexpert job? It's theatrical make-up, that's why, corpse make-up, that's what I suddenly realize, puddinged on the way they prepare the dead, or the slow dancing actress portraying an archetype of death on stage, her face emotionless, unblemished,. More

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