When her punter's warm milk was ready, Mistress Nemesis removed the pan from the stove and reached for a particularly grimy mug. She then brought pan and mug to table, tipping half of one into the other.
    "You know what," she began, glaring at him as he took an unwilling sip from the mug. "You're a born loser."
    He didn't respond as he was well-acquainted with this routine, his Dominatrix being in the habit of ending their sessions in such a manner.
    "You know what you should do," she continued, standing over him as he drank his milk. "Go and top yourself. I mean it's not like you've got anything to live for now is it."
    He grimaced slightly as he drank his milk.
    "Or better yet, why not let me oblige you, for I'm perfectly willing to heat up that remaining warm milk there," she nudged the half-full pan, "Only this time I'll add a little bleach, not to much mind, just enough to get the job done."
    Stig looked up at her somewhat incredulously and she continued.
    "Then I'd pop your cute 'lil body into one of dem plastic bin bags and shove you down the garbage chute."
    "You wouldn't risk it," he finally replied.
    "Wanna bet... For I reckon I could get away with it, I mean it's not like anyone knows we're acquainted nor nothing. No one'll ever trace you here."
    Stig proceeded to drink his milk with haste, for even though it tasted vile, he had never witnessed his Mistress actually threatening to kill him before, oh sure, she called him 'loser' ad infinitum, but to seriously propose his murder... He had to get out!
    "Why don't you just jump out there?" she said, pointing at the small window over her sink while leering down upon him. "For you know what I'd like to see?"
    "What."
    "You, sailing through the cool night air whilst wearing nothing but a fetching set of see-through waterproof rhumba panties." She appeared to relish the closing words of that particular fancy as if she were mashing strawberries on her tongue, however her client merely grunted, for he had thought about suicide many times before yet had always arrived at the same conclusion: he simply couldn't be bothered.
    "Right," said Mistress Nemesis, seeing her tiny punter had finished his milk she slammed her hands on the table. "Where's my money you little creep."
    She was usually like this after a session, clearly tired of insulting him she'd cut to the chase and demand payment, and he immediately responded, frantically ferreting around in the little pockets of his Mothercare anorak, all the while the Dominatrix growing increasingly impatient. "Hurry up," she said, "My next weirdo's due in a minute." She added that she didn't have all day, "You better have the cash," she said, "unless you're angling for a night in the dungeon." He gave her an earnest glance and she responded by a swift lick of the lips. However Stig breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the best part of his dole money lurking in a more remote pocket, and, with a vaguely victorious gesture, he handed it to his Mistress.
    "You were lucky", she said, snatching it from the midget before ordering him out.
    Stig did as he was told, for he didn't want to spend another moment in there. Mistress Nemesis followed her lowly client down the hall with her flat keys in hand, pushing him aside before unlocking the front door. "Get out, or I'll padlock those little-boy knickers over your corduroys, make you take the town with them superhero-style." She flung open the door and pushed Stig out, giving him one last kick for the road, rendering him prostrate on the dirty corridor floor. When he got up the door was locked, and he was alone, walking tentatively along the 19th floor of the 'Terror Tower'. He figured the time was well past midnight and the prospect of braving Riggerswell again was certainly less than inviting. Plus all that warm milk he'd drank had inevitably made its way to his bladder, and he suspected they'd be an accident or two before he finally made it back to his bedsit.