He had often wondered what it would be like to make love to her. Well into his twenties and still dragging his pathetic virginity where ever he went, he regarded Mistress Nemesis, in spite of her paddle and all the abuse, as the woman of whom he should surrender his boyhood. Although he was well aware of the inherent futility of this dream, for the Dominatrix had stated on many occasions that she didn't sleep with clients, as she was most definitely not a whore, and even if she was he knew she'd never stoop so low as to do it with a midget, yet he couldn't save himself from believing in it. She was the only woman he felt he knew, and being in her arms, clutching her shoulders through her clothing, hearing her breathing, so close he could even smell her... She was someone special. Plus she'd seen his genitals, and apart from his horrid old mother, no other woman in the world could lay claim to that!

She carried him out into the hall way, slowly walking him up and down the length of that dark and narrow room. The door to the dungeon was slightly ajar, and he noticed a dim red glow emanating from within. He shuddered when he caught sight of something ghastly on the wall: a sinister chain like object dangling before him - what was it, some hellish instrument of torture perhaps? What on earth did his Mistress do in there? His blood ran cold just thinking about such things, his mind desperately trying to block out the many thoughts of horrible sights and diabolical practices inherent within, for he could just picture the battered corpse of that weasily little man from the vulcanizing plant, all trussed up and suspended from the ceiling, leering down upon him in nothing but rubber pants. What was he doing here?