3 SUM by Quig Shelby

for the benefit of the next generation. Nature had always been cruel.
    Steve couldn’t resist using the monitored phone booth whilst we waited for our meal. We left in different taxis. The bus driver was in Steve’s.
    This was crazy, like my mind. I needed to feel something, anything, and I held the candle above the cage that might no longer be a prison but a gateway to freedom. Was it agony or ecstasy I felt as the burning wax landed onto me? Claude’s treatment had changed my body; this changed my mind. The candle was both a weapon and an instrument of desire.
    It was difficult and time consuming to remove the congealed puddles of wax once they had melted into place. I had writhed in agony and pleasure, sensations that had seemed joined at the hip. My mind was both curious and alarmed. I yearned to fit in and hide, and my desires below the belt were corroding my sensibilities. Would I really gamble a lifetime of comfort for a momentary pleasure?
    I had taken the first dangerous step, replacing the sensual caresses of another with pain. I was shaking, covered in sweat, feeling first hot and then cold. No woman would or could love me legally; pegging was neither love nor sex, it was power, aggression.
    I would trade my pain for a woman’s love. Although I didn’t know who she was, if there were a hidden column of masochists amongst us, then there had to be sympathisers. Every force had an opposite.
    Mason Adam Deviant would know where to find them, but did I really want to find him, or was the fantasy better than the reality? I poured myself another glass of wine, wanting to abandon my caution, just for once. But I couldn’t fight the habit of a lifetime or the propaganda. I had to save myself from myself, before I ever stared into the abyss again.
    The token ride for Tilda’s Boat House was still a secret, if it meant anything at all. Danny 55 would never talk. After all, which tools could a woman use to extract the truth on a horny male masochist? But maybe I should. I curled up on the rug, smashed, with my month’s supply of wine wasted in one night, like me.
    Chapter Nine
    I had bags under my eyes, and just taken a couple of painkillers with my breakfast muesli. The desk sergeant was surprised to see me. She sat on a high stool, looking down at me. On the bench to my right sat two guys looking sorry for themselves. They were dressed to be killed, not kill, in women’s attire, power suits. The men were protestors, hence the handcuffs.
    â€œWe don’t normally get voluntary returns. Forgot your bag?” she asked. “Or perhaps you can’t resist a woman in uniform?”
    â€œI’m medicated,” I replied.
    She removed her black latex cap, undid a clip, and her hair tumbled down, a brunette fountain, with no split ends. I wanted to faint at her feet, worship her. She could feel my consternation.
    â€œYou were saying?”
    Was it a trap? I was unsure how to answer.
    She put her cap back on and laughed.
    â€œYou’ll never change, no matter how many meds, or operations. I keep telling them, but no one listens to Sandra Eve. You were saying.”
    â€œI was here a few days ago. I think I could be of use in finding Mason Adam Deviant.”
    I had a hangover but didn’t want hanging. I’d decided to relinquish the truth about Danny 55. The stress of knowing what they didn’t was killing me.
    â€œIf you say so.”
    She sounded decidedly unimpressed.
    â€œLook, just let me see the judge who interviewed me.”
    â€œYou’d be lucky to; it’s the weekend. Fill in this form, and she’ll read it Monday.”
    â€œTraitor,” muttered the guy next to me, under his breath.
    â€œI heard that,” said the sergeant, standing up. “To the cells, now.”
    Slowly they stood to their shackled feet. As they marched off, one looked over his shoulder studying my face, remembering me should we ever meet again.
    I sat on the