Last Resort by Paul Moore
BDSM erotica. Former supermodel, Regina Snow, is rich and bored. When her friend, Muffy, challenges her to break her nicotine habit, she responds to a website that promises behavior modification training. She is seeking adventure, and she finds the promise of discipline oddly titillating. Disturbing changes enter her life. Her phone is tapped. Her house is watched. Her friends are questioned by mysterious strangers. Without regarding the consequences, she signs away her rights and promises to quit smoking or submit to strict training if she fails. A handsome stranger seduces and betrays her, and she finds herself incarcerated in a private prison where sexual abuse and corporeal punishment are considered part of the therapy. This story includes scenes of male and female domination. Graphic sexual content.
Hello diary. Sorry to have neglected you so long. I used to spend many evenings pouring out my thoughts on paper, back when I was married to Raul. (That shit!) His philandering drove me to confess my worst fears and most evil wishes to the one listener who would neither tattle nor judge. You were my friend in need, forgotten on better days.
I didn’t talk to you about Howard, not even while he lay dying. Money is a real comfort in times of grief, and dear Howard did leave me quite a pile. Of course, there were plenty of lovers to console me. Money attracts them the way shit draws flies.
Through all those years of cheerful prodigality and debauchery, and the inevitable ennui that followed, I never had a word to say to you.
Now I find myself in this empty cell with nothing to distract me from my dread. The view from the window is tedious, nothing but a mowed field all the way to the razor wire. There are no bars on the window, but it doesn’t open, and the Plexiglas is at least an inch thick. You can bounce a chair off of it. I’ve tried. The walls are concrete block, painted a drab shade of institutional green that makes me itch to hire a decorator. Some former tenant has scratched an editorial on the wall. “Welcome to Hell.”
There is no closet to hide in. It doesn’t matter. I haven’t a thing to wear- literally. There is only a desk, (It’s built in, I can’t use it to barricade the door.) a chair, (No knob to wedge it under, just the key way of that fucking, double lock.) a stainless steel toilet, (No seat) a mattress on an iron cot, (No pillow or sheets) and bare, little me. There is a porthole in the door. Anyone who walks by can look in and see what I am up to. Overhead, a video camera assures my lack of privacy. From time to time, the intercom beside it crackles with static, the preamble to one way communications I don’t want to hear.
The notebook and pen were waiting when they brought us in from the exercise yard this morning. I suppose writing is part of the therapy. I will have to assume that anything I say can and will be used against me. Everything else seems to be. (Will that last sentence earn me swats? Probably, they don’t need an excuse anyway.) The pen is a potential weapon, but I can’t see myself battling my way to the main gate with it. I would have one chance to poke someone. I don’t want to think about what they would do to me if I tried.
I did fend them off with the chair one night, like a lion tamer. But these lions always come in pairs. They have training and guile, and they are the ones with the whips. They found my rebellion amusing. I was quickly overcome, cuffed and collared, and led away on a leash. Digging in my heels meant choking and inviting the lash. They had a tearful apology from me by morning. The chair is still here though; perhaps they left it here to tempt me.