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Back to normal indeed- normal being synonymous with hell.

Normal would be a vast improvement.

She'd resigned herself to this pathetic existence, cast away the whimsical, the childish notions of predestination. There would be no lovers, no "something more" for her- - or Jarod- - at the next turn.

She and Frankenboy had been installed upon the universe to circumnavigate the outskirts of each other's life in this tedious dance of run-chase until one- - or both- - of their lives waned and they inevitably drew a final breath.

Vanquishing her morbid thoughts, Parker focused on today's goal: luxuriating in Raines' absence and surviving yet another day in the lion's den.

Ankles perched high atop her desk, she pretended to search for the wayward Pretender and didn't look up when Broots entered her office looking rather unlike himself; the tech was confident, cheerful. He was whistling for Christ's sake.

"Mommy didn't teach you to knock." Came the mocking quip.

"Oh, she did," Broots grinned, "and to wash behind my ears," he tacked on matter-of-factly, "but uh, I didn't want to raise any suspicions by standing out there."

Parker answered with a derisive snort and flipped to page three of The Times Picayune.

"I found him." Broots winked when Parker finally met his gaze.

"Where?"

"New Orleans."

"We. Just. Left. New Orleans; Jarod was a no show." Decidedly agitated, she returned her feet to the desk and her gaze to the newspaper- the one she'd retrieved from the lair in New Orleans. "Come back when you have something substantial." She demanded dismissively, but then swung her expectant gaze towards the familiar (but not familiar enough) swish of paper-on-polyester; Broots, in one fluid movement, retrieved a photograph from his shirt pocket. "How's this for substantial?"

And there was Jarod in white coveralls and a lab coat, donning a hair net and latex gloves.

"Oh. My. God," was Parker's dry exclamation. "What the hell is he masquerading as this-"

"Um, technically Jarod doesn't masquerade, Miss Parker, he insinuates himself- it's like he-"

"The score, Broots," Parker said and observed as Broots blinked and stammered and finally answered with: "Uh, well, apparently, he's taken a position in a candy manufacturing factory and-"

Parker interrupted with a nod of head and a smug, vulpine smile, "I should have known."

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Jarod was more intrigued than surprised. It's true what they say.

I thought of her and now she's here, as if he'd conjured her, willed her presence; if it were true, if he indeed possessed the power to bring her here, to this place where she'd be under his aegis, then, Jarod mused: I could possess her.

His penis- - with its own selfish agenda- - stiffened, twitched.

"What do you want me to do, sir," Vida, the new intern, asked Jarod, who- - to Vida's utter bemusement- - was grinning roguishly and staring off at some amorphous picture taking shape.

"Shall I send them away?"

Vida knew Jarod had no intention of sending them away- well the two men, yes, but not the woman. No. Not the foul-mouthed, ice-for-blood brunette with the serrated tongue, glacial glare, perfect hair, nails and body. And those legs? Vida wished she could be there when Dom Big pinioned the brunette's lissome body to the wall and parted her legs to reveal the triangle of dark, corkscrewing wisps at the apex- or maybe Barracuda Lady shaves her pubis?

Would DOM BIG swallow her screams or allow them to echo through- - but not outside- - the soundproof dungeon when he thrust his penis- - to the tilt- - into her welcoming vagina.

Rumored to be the most intense and perceptive master to ever grace the dungeons of Sweet Dreams, Inc., Jarod could bring a woman to a screaming, sobbing climax in three certain thrusts. The brunette was lucky, Vida mused.

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Parker rolled her eyes at the middle-aged man with the compact belly, thinning dirt-yellow hair and matching teeth when he addressed her, Sydney and Broots via the mail slot in the door.

The tech found it eerily reminiscent to the way the wizard addressed Dorothy; he scratched his balding head and meekly interjected: "We'll catch him when he clocks out." Parker, of course, responded to the suggestion with a bone-chilling glare.

"This here's a factory; no guests, and that inspection story of yours? Ain't true. I checked with the FDA-" He stopped abruptly and then moments later, said, "I have to go. The applicants will be arriving shortly."

Parker quickly thrust her hand into the slot. "Applicants?" She queried.

"For the job opening."

"Job opening?" Broots stammered.

"Yep, 'course we're only looking for female applicants and- oh hell, you're wasting my time."

The small window of opportunity was rapidly closing- a window through which Parker- - and Parker only- - could gain entrance.

Jarod observed, tense and tetchy, from the security room as his huntress blurted: "Wait! I'm interested."



Parker was led down a set of stairs where she was introduced to a leggy strawberry-blond named Vida, who, for reasons unknown to Parker, stared daggers at her when Parker's gaze turned elsewhere.

"Before we go any further", Vida explained somberly, "You should know: we do not manufacture candy."

"Excuse me?" Parker returned, eyes wide with surprise.

"The logo, the samples, the trucks outside- it's a front; Sweet Dreams is an adult fetish role-play lounge."

Vida bristled at Parker's derisive snort and frothy smile. "You're talking about sex, aren't you?"

"I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. There are many common tropes- - some unfair, some truthful- - and many preconceived notions, even prejudices; we aren't esoteric freaks." Vida was informative rather than didactic and Parker listened attentively. "The short answer is: sex is only one aspect of what we do here, Miss- ?"

"Angel." It wasn't her name but she had answered, bent to it and to the will of the man who'd bestowed the moniker upon her, to the man who'd referred to her as his "treasure" and to Jarod as "the key; the sobriquets enabled him to manipulate; like father, like daughter.


Jarod didn't want to believe she was one of them, he wanted to give Parker a chance to redeem herself and leave, stop interfering- even if he was guilty of the same, of tormenting her; he wasn't trying to take away her freedom- - and possibly her life- - when he telephoned or crept into her home. No. I'm trying to help her hold on to what little freedom she has. There was a selfish agenda as well: and make sure she's safe and sound and not outside my door with her lady-smith aimed at my head.

He prayed she'd leave now that she knew the truth: Sweet Dreams did not produce calorie packed poison; they manufactured delectable fantasies, erotic pleasures capable of liquefying bone and cartilage and shaking a person to the core. And sometimes they created gruesome nightmares, horrific scenarios, because, after all, individual needs varied- some of them want to abuse, some of them want to be abused.

He was foolish to believe she'd cower.

Parker agreed to undergo on-the-job training, to become personal assistant to someone Vida referred to endearingly as DOM BIG. Her duties involved- - but were not limited to- - preparing "sets", as they were called. Some were adorned with hearts and roses and smelled of incense- for the romantics no doubt.

Others, however, were nothing more than glorified- - and electrified- - dog kennels with assortments of chains and pulleys and restraint apparatuses suspended from them, and of course, the obligatory- - and scary- - array of metal instruments (Wartenberg wheel, vibrators and butt plugs in various sizes) atop a stainless steel tray.

At the first opportunity, Parker abandoned her "duties" and stalked off in search of the personnel department- which didn't exist.

Jarod observed impassively from the security room as she opened one door and then another and then murmured a string of obscenities when she found a door locked- but that was only a minor inconvenience: she reached into her bra and retrieved a small knife and hair pin (Jarod intended to divest her of those in due time) and eventually opened the door to find it was only a broom closet. And oh how she cursed and stamped her feet! "Jarod, you bastard, if I find you, I will kill you." Came her barely audible soliloquy.

The pretender pressed his palm to the monitor, to her face and drew a question mark in the dust. "No, not if, Miss Parker, but when. When," Jarod whispered to the screen.

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"Oh, there you are, Angel," Vida exclaimed upon finding Parker breaking into yet another room. "Dom Big wants you to test the new shipment of gear. Come." Vida waved and Parker followed; they descended four flights of vertiginous spiraling stairs, passed an archway and entered a chilly, dark "set" that Vida referred to grimly as "the chamber".

The "new gear" consisted of a blinding white gown- - that looked, in Parker's words: far too virginal to be worn in this house of horrors- - a leather muzzle with matching eye mask, iron shackles and a ball and chain.

"What, precisely, does this entail?" Parker inquired with a squint of skepticism to which Vida responded with: "Dom Big wants you to go into the dressing room, and put on the gown- and only the gown. I'll help with you the remaining gear."

"How long do I have to wear the mask," Parker queried softly.

Jarod pressed stop and rewound the footage. Twice. How long do I have to wear the mask? How long do I have to wear the mask?

Not much longer, Miss Parker, Jarod said softly, I promise.



"I don't know how long he will keep you in full gear," Vida answered honestly. "Do you still want to do this?"

"Yes. I have to do this." Have to catch Jarod, damnit, he's the key.

The key to her survival, to her freedom.

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That key- -Jarod- - observed as she stood in haughty naivete; he waited until her chest was heaving, until she realized she'd willingly relinquished her control, her body, hell her life, to ultimately take away his control and had done it for the organization that had killed her mother and lover. How stupid that must feel! He wanted to ask if it was worth it.

Instead, he advanced stealthily, came to a stop two inches from her writhing form and drew lazy circles along the length of her arm.

Jarod heard the harsh gasp behind the muzzle, observed as she stiffened at the touch, and felt the goose bumps come alive under his caress, felt her come alive. He wanted her to yield to his every command, to every touch, kiss. And she would.

She inhaled. No, Jarod decided, she was sniffing, a sound he'd initially feared was sniffling, crying; instead, she was attempting to identify the scent, was thumbing through that vast catalog in her mind. I know that scent from somewhere. Where? Where! Where!

And then, she knew. Jarod! And she stiffened again to Jarod's surprise; he'd never witnessed that magnitude of tension emanating from anyone before.

He tore the mask away and observed as Parker squinted and blinked against the blinding light and disorientation. And then came recognition: her eyes widened in anger, disbelief but dropped ever so briefly to appreciatively appraise his taste in apparel. A black, open collar shirt and matching slacks. Versace.

Damn him for looking so good.

Parker eyes grew even wider when she spied the leather tassel whip which- - oddly enough- - looked right at home in his certain grasp. It occurred to her then that Jarod was really a part of this madness, this sexual deviancy, whipping people for pleasure, fulfilling fantasies (except the one she had about returning him to the Centre, of course).

Jarod smiled amiably, smugly when her cheeks darkened and those gray-blue eyes narrowed.

"Congratulations, Miss Parker", the smallest beat, "you've captured me."

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