One of them is coming home with me.
The other is already dead, he just doesn't know it yet.
Scarletta approaches the cross with the kind of reverent hesitation that tells me everything I need to know about what's happening inside her head.
She's not afraid of the cross.
She's afraid of how much she wants it.
The St. Andrew's Cross stands between two mahogany trees, powder-coated black steel bolted directly into living wood. Eight feet tall. Magnetic restraint points positioned at wrists, ankles, waist, and throat. The moss beneath it is soft and green, carefully maintained to cushion kneeling or collapse. Ferns have been cleared in a fifteen-foot radius to ensure unobstructed camera angles from every direction.
I designed this station myself. Every bolt. Every angle. Every sight line.
Scarletta bends to retrieve the laminated instruction card from its wooden holder at the base of the cross. The movement exposes the glistening cleft between her thighs, and I watch the camera feed capture the evidence of her arousal in merciless high definition.
She reads the card.
I know exactly what it says because I wrote it.
Simple instructions. Clear parameters. No ambiguity.
My attention shifts to the biometric panel on my left. Scarletta's vitals scroll across the screen in real-time, transmitted from the fitness tracker app loaded on her wrist.
Calling it a watch would be like calling the desert a sand box. It's a medical-grade monitoring device that tracks her heart rate, blood oxygen, skin conductance, and core body temperature with surgical precision.
Her heart is fluttering like a a bird's.
But this isn't fear. She's not afraid, she's excited.
The distinction matters. Fear produces cortisol spikes that show up in skin conductance readings as erratic fluctuations. What I'm seeing on Scarletta's biometric feed is sustained elevation with steady conductance. That's anticipation. That's desire building toward a peak she knows is coming.
Her body is already preparing itself for what I'm about to do to her.
I reach for the audio control panel and slide the volume dial three notches higher. The recorded voices fill the clearing around Station 2 with increased presence.
"God, look at her standing there."
"She knows we're watching. Look how she's holding that card."
"I'd pay double for that one."
"Triple. Did you see her file? The things she writes..."
Scarletta's head turns slightly, scanning the tree line. Her heart rate ticks up to one hundred and twenty-two. She can't locate the source of the voices, can't determine how many men are observing her or from what distance.
That uncertainty is intentional.
I key the signal to the attendants. Three short pulses on the encrypted frequency they're monitoring.
Movement in the trees behind Scarletta. She's facing the cross, back exposed, exactly as the instruction card directed. The positioning makes it nearly impossible for her to see the three figures emerging from the carefully concealed access path.
They're dressed immaculately. Black tuxedos with satin lapels. White gloves. Venetian masks in matte black that obscure their features while maintaining a theatrical elegance that fits the fantasy I've constructed.
Scarletta doesn't know these are the same three men who bathed her, shaved her, brought her to orgasm in the stone tub. Her conscious mind would recognize them if she saw their faces, but the masks prevent that recognition. And in her current state of arousal and sensory overload, her brain is highly suggestible.
She'll accept what I want her to accept.
That's the art of what I do here. Every detail serves the narrative. The lighting. The soundscape. The costumes. The choreography. Nothing is accidental. Nothing is improvised.
