Madame Douleur realises only moments later that the letter is gone together with the CD. “Merde!” She calls for Marat to run after the woman, but she has already vanished, absorbed into the street that now stands empty but for the few exceptions of passing vehicles and a trickle of tourists coming out of the museum.
Marat thinks himself ingenious at his bright epiphany: of course, she had entered the museum! He buys himself a ticket of admission and, for the first time, sets his foot inside the building dedicated to the romantic époque. Marat soon forgets what he is looking for and gets lost in 19th-century paintings and furniture. When a young dark man strikes up a conversation with him, he completely loses track of both time and his target. And the one furthest away from his thoughts is his mistress. In this hour she appears to be missing him more than he does her.
Madame Douleur changes into a costume made entirely out of PVC. It exposes her breasts through two round openings. It is what the client wished for. Very seldom did she have sex with a client, but this one will be an exception, so the garment accommodates for this too. It is a new client, thus apart from the information he provided over a few scantily written emails, she knows nothing of him.
She tries to push the recent theft from her mind. Marat was securing the letter along with the CD and the bitch had already given her name. What a stupid cow!
There is a knock on the door. A rather tall, yet unassuming man stands on the other side. It must be her client, who was five minutes too early. She opens the door and lets him in.
Mr. Nemo watches the woman as she walks into the adjourning room. She swaggers her full hips as she places her feet, one after the other, in a perfectly straight line. The way she walks, she might have been a model years ago. She still looks good, he thinks. Good enough to fuck.
She closes the door behind him and asks him to sit down.
“Do you want to start straight away?”
“No, I’m here to give you the best fuck of your life,” he responds.
“Excuse me?” She looks confused, like this is the response she least expected.
“You heard me. I’m here to give you the best fuck ever.”
She walks slowly backwards towards a wall cabinet. Although well hidden, he notes a small alarm bell beneath it.
“Don’t move,” he threatens as he flips open a stiletto knife. The woman freezes, as any woman in his experience has done in response to the vision of a sharp instrument. A moment later he is at her side, running the knife along the front of her body. In one fine movement it separates the rubbery material, revealing her white skin that has turned pink where the edge of the knife has brushed by. He pushes her down and straps her to a table, and for a moment becomes deeply inspired by her instruments of torture – an abundance of whips, gags and dildos that form a well-stocked arsenal. He doesn’t bother to rip her suit off further. Everything that needs to be exposed is. He unbuckles his belt, and pulls down his pants,
First he places it in her mouth. She gives a good blowjob. “Suck for your life, bitch!” he commands as he holds her hair in a steady grip. He is almost about to come when he pushes her head away and shoves his veiny member into her cunt. She is surprisingly tight for a whore, but a good fuck, just as he had anticipated. He hasn’t gagged her and she doesn’t scream. Instead she moans with what he believes is pleasure as he rams his thirty-something-centimetre cock into her tight hole. He is a master of controlling himself and lets his dick work on her for a good fifteen minutes. When he finally comes, he misses the knock on the door. It could have been Madame Douleur’s only escape, but the client, who is a little too late for his appointment, just thinks she has already closed for the day and leaves the building crestfallen. It would have been his first time with Madame, but as life takes a different turn – as often life does – he will never work up the courage to entertain his perversions ever again.
Madame lies on her own table, having indeed had what probably constituted the best fuck of her life. Her attacker had worn a condom, and thus there would be no DNA at the scene of the crime. Mr. Nemo looks around for a good implement to secure her confession. He settles on a medieval instrument that he is certain he has seen elsewhere. As his memory is jogged by the instrument’s strange shape, he knows it had to be some three and a half years ago during a solitary trip to the region of Languedoc. He is quite fond of his history, especially that relating to the Inquisition and the Crusades, and thus he took most of an afternoon wandering the medieval merchant house now turned into a museum of torture within the walled city of Carcassonne. It was therefore not so strange that his cold blue eyes fell on a small and delicate piece of iron called the Pear of Anguish. He takes it down from the hook it is hanging on and decides to give the woman a lesson in history.
“This beautiful piece of a torture device is called the Pear of Anguish. As you know, it’s made out of four metal leaves, almost like petals, that are joined by a hinge on top. As you also know, the beauty of it is that it will expand the further I turn the key on the very top. In medieval times it was used for heretics, homosexuals, witches and adulterers alike. The Inquisition was of the distinct belief that the punishment should fit the crime, which is why the pear would be inserted in different cavities depending on the sin.” He stops for a moment and brushes the cold device against her cheek. For the first time he can see fear in her eyes.
“In your case, two crimes are quite obvious. But I think one holds the higher ground, don’t you?” He waits for a brief moment, but his victim remains silent. It appears she is preparing herself for the ultimate sacrifice that any man or woman dedicated to giving and receiving the pleasure of pain could seek. In this case he would offer her a beautiful gift that would only be fully understood on the brink of death.
He speaks to her in a soft, gentle, almost hushed voice. “You see, a bird whispered to me that you have something that belongs to the Organisation. I want to know where it is.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“You don’t? That’s interesting. So let me refresh your memory. Monsieur Codorniou sent it to you together with a video. This was a little over a year ago.”
“I don’t know a Codorniou. What do you want me to say?”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’d much prefer seeing this device do its work first.” Madame Douleur screams, but this only serves to create an entrance for the implement, and soon her voice is muted by the pear-shaped device. As he starts to turn the key, her back teeth begin to fracture. The woman frantically wrenches her head to and fro, but he holds it down with his right hand as he continues to turn with his left. As happened with the Hedge-Fund Director, Monsieur Codorniou, she pleads with her eyes for him to stop. This is always the tell-tale sign they are ready to sell out.
Mr. Nemo unscrews the device. The inside of her mouth is largely still intact with the exception of the back of her inside jaw, which has started to look like a red-and-white pulp. She coughs violently, spitting up little pieces of shattered enamel together with blood and saliva. She takes a moment to adjust her jaw before she begins to speak.
“OK, I did get a letter, from an anonymous sender. But I don’t have it anymore. The woman has it.”
“Bertrand – Justine Bertrand. Her business card is still on the table.” She tilts her head in the direction of the adjoining room. He walks over and picks up a white card with black printed letters. He weaves it through his fingers, as if creating an interlude of amusement. Like a court jester performing before the queen loses her head.
“When was she here?”
“About half an hour ago. She stole it.”
“Where’s your safe?”
“Behind the big painting.”
“And the code?”
He walks over and opens it. If any document had ever been there it was now gone. The only piece of value is a stash of twelve thousand euros in cash, which he puts in his back pocket. He walks back to the woman who is moaning in pain.
“Where are the copies?”
“I have no copies. This is it.”
“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” He takes her jaw in his strong hands and gives it a hard squeeze. The woman cries out in agony.
“I have two copies. That’s all. One in my apartment and another in my bank safety deposit box.” He looks at her as if he expects more information.
“The key to the deposit box is in the safe. Right lower side.”
Shit I missed it, he thinks to himself. He was getting sloppy.
“The key to my apartment is on the key ring in my bag. It’s the green one.” He goes for the items and picks them up. He already knows her address, but still isn’t sure if she is telling everything. So he decides to put her through a final test. He takes out his lighter and starts to burn her bound feet. Again she howls in agony.
“I swear, I’ve told you everything. I know nothing else.” He watches her eyes, and this time they convince him his victim has told him all there is to know. So again he inserts the Pear of Anguish into her mouth, this time not stopping until it had expanded to its full size. He can hear her teeth fracture, her jaw dislocating. Her head thrashes once more, her eyes rolling backwards as she slowly dies of hypoxia, which eventually results in cardiac arrest. He leaves the body still jerking. In the end the whore did have a big mouth. And this was indeed a fitting punishment to a crime that should have long been recognised and dealt with.