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 I went off for a romantic weekend away with my girlfriend at a fancy hotel
at the seaside.  I left my girl in the basement with my deviant friend
Steve.

   When I got back, I opened the cellar door with a bit of trepidation - no
telling what Steve could have done given a girl and 48 hours.

   I was relieved to find Manuella alive in fact.  And by the look in her
eyes, she was glad to see me.  Steve had left her tied up, standing on a
box, with her arms pulled up tight behind her.  If she had fallen off the
box, she would have dislocated her arms - classic stress position - Steve
was something of a fan of interrogation techniques.  I could see marks on
her legs and feet.  Steve, I suspect, had been using a soldering iron and
cigarettes on her in an attempt to make her fall.  Must have been a long
night for the poor thing.

   I cut her down and let her recover a little on the floor - circulation
returning to her limbs made her squeal.  I look around at my equipment to
see if there were any clues as to what else they had been up to over the
weekend.  Dried blood on the chains in the corner suggested a certain
amount of vigorous corporal punishment, and I noticed that one of my canes
was broken.  There was a note from Steve, apologising on behalf of
Manuella. It was her fault for being so irresistably hurtable.

   The entire cellar was a mess.  I woke Manuella and gave her some
cleaning supplies.  I don't speak Spanish and she doesn't speak English,
but I gestured with the scrubbing brush and patted the taser I carried on
my belt whenever I ventured downstairs and she understood well what needed
to be done and what would happen if the quality wasn't tip-top.

   I left her scrubbing the floor and went upstairs to catch up on some
sleep - it had been a pleasantly exhausting weekend.