WARNING: This story contains disturbing and sometimes violent material. If violence bothers you, please do not read this story.

Chapter 3

"Newton!"

Forty-five minutes ago, Mike Newton, the new intern, left to pick up my lunch from the little deli around the corner. I knew that he hadn't returned yet, but it somehow made me feel better to bark out his name every few minutes or so, demanding his immediate appearance. This was completely illogical, but it pissed off Jessica - she had to get up from her desk each time to let me know that he wasn't back yet. And anything that pissed off Jessica was a good thing. She stood in my office door, for the fourth time in the last half hour.

"He's not back yet, Miss Swan. Should I try his cell again?" She said this with a fake smile and a clenched jaw, overly polite and sweet. She was obviously irritated with me. I glared at her and exhaled loudly.

"Just let me know the minute he gets back. This is unacceptable."

She nodded once in acknowledgment and turned quickly, disappearing from my doorway. I stared at the empty space and drummed my fingers on my glass desktop, waiting.

Newton's first day had not gone well.

He arrived a few minutes before eight, obviously pleased with himself and what he thought was promptness. Jessica was waiting for him when the elevator doors opened, and, with a firm grip on his elbow, she ushered him to his desk, whispering her displeasure with him while they walked. He looked confused, not yet understanding his error. He was to be at his desk before I arrived each morning, Jessica reminded him, and I had arrived that particular morning at seven. I could hear all of this through my open office door, and I let myself briefly fantasize about the panicked expression on his face.

A moment later, he rushed through my door, a pastry bag in one hand and a coffee to-go cup in his other. He was talking non-stop.

"I am so sorry, Miss Swan, I thought I was supposed to be here for eight, to meet you, you know, like we talked about, but then I got here and Jessica… I mean, Ms. Stanley, told me that you've been here since seven and…"

He placed the bag and the cup on my desk and stepped back, still apologizing.

"… And I stopped by Krispy Kreme and got you a coffee and a couple of glazed donuts. I mean, everybody likes Krispy Kreme and …"

It went on like this for a full minute, non-stop, until he finally noticed that I hadn't said a word in response. He stopped mid-sentence and swallowed nervously. I stared at him, waiting for him to feel uncomfortable and start to squirm. That was my cue, and I was exceptionally patient.

He did not disappoint.

"The office opens at eight, Mr. Newton. But not my office. If you want to know what time to be here in the morning, ask." He opened his mouth to explain his actions, and I help up a hand to silence him.

"I don't drink coffee. And I don't like Krispy Kreme donuts. I actually despise Krispy Kreme donuts. If you want to know what I want for breakfast, ask." His eyes were cast downward, staring at his feet.

"I informed you yesterday of my expectations, and I have to say, I'm a little surprised that we've having this conversation so soon. How can you expect to be responsive to my needs if you don't know what my needs are?"

He looked up and started to speak, thinking he needed to provide some sort of answer. Again, I stopped him before he started.

"That was a rhetorical question, Mr. Newton."

He snapped his mouth shut and stared again at the floor, shuffling his feet like a five year old.

I was bored. I had enough of him for now, nothing left to say. I sighed heavily and dismissed him.

"You may go Mr. Newton. See Jessica about answers to the questions you have yet to ask." He turned and started out the door. "And, Mr. Newton… be available when I need you. This is not a request." He nodded and returned to his desk. I smiled to myself. He was like a puppy - eager to please, but untrained. Eager was good. Eager was always good. And the rest, well, I was more than willing to teach him.

He followed my instructions to the letter for the remainder of the morning, apparently taking our little talk to heart. I sent him to pick up a salad for me almost an hour ago, a ten minute trip at the most, and he had yet to return.

So much promise, and so quickly it disappeared.

I heard the ding of the elevator, then he appeared in my door, bag in hand, panic on his face. He knew he was late and that it wasn't going to be pleasant. Again, he started with the apologies.

As he stood in front of my desk blathering on about pecans and feta cheese, or the lack thereof, my mind started to wander. I imagined the flat grey color of the duct tape and how it would look against his skin, covering his mouth. The pleading look that would appear in his eyes when his ability to communicate through speech was taken away. I could tell he was one of those boys who was used to being able to talk his way out of anything, and once I removed his only weapon, he would be crippled, and completely at my mercy.

Apparently, he had stopped apologizing and was nervously awaiting my response. I snapped back to the present.

"Think, Newton. Just think, for God's sake." I stared at him for a minute, waiting for the squirm. Then I dismissed him, for the second time that day. "Now get out of my office."

He seemed shocked at my anger, my choice of words, but he quickly returned to his desk. At this rate, he would never make it to the basement. Maybe I needed to reconsider my selection, maybe he wasn't going to work. But no need to make any rash decisions. I had all the time in the world, and I had someone waiting for me, at home, at this very minute. Someone who needed my special attentions.

That thought focused me, centered me, and I was able to get back to work, concentrate on the tasks at hand. I had to keep up the façade at work, keep my status as a producer, a ball-busting, workhorse bitch, so that I could continue my extra-curriculars as I had become accustomed. This office had provided me a steady stream of the most perfect boys in desperate need of my services. They were perfect, all of them. And there had been so many. I was good at what I did.

The day proceeded without further incident from my newest intern, and he was still as his desk when I turned out my office light a little after six.

"Newton, come here."

He snapped to attention and was at my side instantaneously.

"You did good this afternoon. Keep it up." He smiled slightly, relief evident on his face. I swear to God, if he had a tail, it would have been wagging. But I couldn't have him slip into complacency. I needed him on the edge, ready for me. I lowered my chin and looked at him over the top of my glasses. "Don't fuck up again. Take this. And follow me." Again, he bristled at my choice of words, but quickly shook it off and grabbed the box that I handed him. He followed me to the elevator, not a sound out of his mouth.

As I approached my car and popped the trunk with the remote, my mind started to wander again, and I had to force myself to concentrate on the present. Not yet, I thought. Patience.

He loaded the box in my trunk, slammed it closed, and started to walk away. He turned back to me, almost an afterthought, and asked one question in a soft, hesitant voice.

"Um… seven, Miss Swan?"

Yes. He wanted to please me. This was good. I had to force myself not to smile. I had to keep him where I wanted him.

"Yes, Mr. Newton, seven sharp."

I drove into my garage at home, and closed the door behind me. The door to the basement was just inside the mud room, but I needed to attend to a few things in the house first. I dropped my keys on the island in the kitchen. The lights were already on - they came on every night at six on a timer. I checked my answering machine for messages, and, finding none, scooped a big cup of dry food for the cats. They begged for my attention, rubbing against my legs, but instantly abandoned me as soon as the food was in their bowl.

I turned on the small television set on the kitchen counter, carefully examined the image on the screen, and then flicked the set off, pleased with what I saw. The set was connected to an internal channel, a security camera strategically placed in the basement.

It was time.

I walked to the basement door and keyed in the security code. I heard the soft click of the lock as it released, and I listened for any movement below me. Utter silence. This was good. I knew all was well, so I was not worried. I always checked the security monitor in the kitchen before going downstairs, so that I would know what to expect. This one had been with me for a while, and he was well-behaved, knew the rules. It was actually approaching the end of his run, and I was reluctant for him to leave me. But I knew the rules too.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and saw him, sitting in the middle of the bed, waiting for me. This was my favorite moment of the day. The first few seconds were always heavy with anticipation, the fear and the hope on his face, and although I carefully orchestrated every minute of my life, there was always the sense that anything could happen.

I walked to the chair and sat, motioning to him with my finger.

"Come here, James. It's time to play."

Disclaimer: All things "Twilight" belong to Stephanie Meyer. "Trunk Boy," however, is all mine.