Preface
Preface
From William Shakespeare’s Hamlet to Richard Manton’s “Captive,” few themes provide such deep satisfaction as the tale of well-deserved vengeance. One can witness the popularity of this theme, by trolling the murkier depths of the Internet, where stories of some richly deserving, (and usually overbearing) character receives his or her just deserts in a case of s****l revenge; stories found with startling frequency among the fantasies of healthy men and women of all persuasions.
Here we find stories of lovers and strangers, inexorably compelled to perform s****l acts by means that are sometimes covert, often nefarious, but always highly effective. In the course of this literature one encounters various methods of inducing compliance -- ranging from the time-honored techniques of hypnosis, to the modern joys of biochemistry. It is in this tradition that The Pleasure Machine is offered
Don Julian Winslow
Copenhagen
An Interlude
You’re totally wrong, Honey. You’ll consent... without any violence.
Quite the contrary! You’ll beg me to f**k you.
I just have to turn on this machine and you’ll be groveling at my feet,
wetting your panties.
-- Faust to Claudia, in Milo Manara’s Click 2
His eyes never left the willowy figure of the solitary blonde at the end of the bar. She sat bent over an open notebook in which she occasionally scribbled. A cup of Latte, sitting by her side, waited to cool. He was watching her closely. She had a sort of preppy look: just another young college girl, in her navy blue blazer and powder blue cotton blouse, worn with a pair of faded, but nicely-fitted jeans. His eyes took in her soft hair, caramel-colored and streaked with white gold. As she bent over her book, it fell forward in an enveloping cowl, gently curved ends lightly teasing her collar.
He waited, till he saw her move decisively, finishing off her coffee, and gathering up her things. Then he tensed, straightening up very slightly. Looking at Gavin, he gave an almost imperceptible nod. He got up and dropped some money on the table, just as she slid off the high stool, slung a backpack over one shoulder, and headed for the door. And he was in position, just two paces behind her by the time she had made her way to the street. Gavin was already outside, ambling along on the far right. He quickened his own pace, so that the girl would be between the two of them for the few crucial seconds they would have to have.
The unsuspecting girl’s escort fell into place, flanking her, staying just a step behind. They waited till no one else was close by to close in. He never saw Gavin slip the stun gun out of his pocket, but he saw the quick move that brought it to the back of her neck, heard the muffled zap, and smelt the pungent flare of ozone. It happened so quickly she could do no more than make a tiny “uumph” as she arched up, and then her body went limp, just as his hand shot out to come around her shoulders and grip her hard, so that when she collapsed, it was into his arms. Her head lolled back against his chest as he scooped her up and held her, half-dragging the unconscious girl towards the parked car. Anyone who bothered to notice might have thought the girl was suddenly ill, or perhaps had started drinking a little too early on that warm spring afternoon.
