I’ve heard that gentlemen prefer blondes, but what’s a blonde to do if she’s trying to attract the attention of a man, one who isn’t by any stretch of the imagination, a gentleman?

Tonight, I decided to find out. Choosing to wear revealing black latex lingerie and high heels, I visited the home of one of the city’s most decadent fetish-themed nightclubs. The moment I walked through the door and checked my coat, most of the guys in the place and quite a few women started trying to pick me up. Ironically, most of them were disappointed when I explained that I wasn’t a mistress but a submissive masochist, the ones who claimed to be dominant, only interested in using me for bondage sex.

It was almost closing time when I noticed a ruggedly handsome man watching me intently from across the bar. Smiling seductively, I gave him my best come hither look. Pausing to whisper something to the bartender, he left his seat and walked around the bar toward me.

Smiling demurely, as he sat down next to me, I asked, “So, are you another groveling male submissive, or perhaps a pretend dominant just here for the sex, or are you the real thing?”

I felt a delightful twinge of fear at the coldness of his eyes as he replied, “I believe that if you leave this place with me, you’ll find I’m more real than you could ever imagine, even in your darkest nightmares, Faith.”

Seeing my look of surprise at the casual mention of my name, he continued, “The bartender is an old associate. He told me your name when I offered to pay your tab.”

“Seems a little presumptuous, paying my tab. What if I decide to go home instead of leaving here with you?”

“Then, I’ve paid yet another beautiful woman’s bar tab. Of course, you’ll never get another chance like this to fulfill the truly torturous depths of your darkly masochistic desires, will you?”

Smiling, despite my lingering sense that he’s too good to be true, “Alright, let’s get my coat, but I’m warning you, if I find out that you’re not the real thing, I’m calling a cab, and you’ll be paying the fare.”

I felt a shiver of fear racing down my spine at the dark look of evil anticipation in his eyes, “I promise you that tonight, the last thing you’ll need is a cab ride home.”

Arriving at his house, he led me down into his basement dungeon, a dimly lit yet surprisingly sterile steel paneled room, “Interesting décor, I was expecting something a little more medieval.”

Leading me over to some wall-mounted steel wrist restraints, I felt a delightfully erotic sensation of eager masochistic anticipation as he secured my wrists. Then, pulling out his phone, he opened an app and tapped one of its icons. Lights, mounted on the ceiling, gradually grew brighter until I was standing in a pool of light, the rest of the room lost in the shadows. Tapping a second icon on his phone, I noticed several small glowing red lights in the darkness and realized he’d set up video cameras.

“You didn’t mention that you were planning to video record our session. Not that I’m opposed to it, but you should have asked before you turned those cameras on.”

Wordlessly walking back to where I was standing helplessly with the bare skin of my back pressed against the cool steel wall, he pushed a large black latex ballgag deep into my mouth and buckled it tight.

“Well, Faith, I guess you’ve fundamentally misunderstood where you are and who I am. This place is an abattoir, not a dungeon playroom. In this place, beautiful women like yourself come to die in agony for the amusement of my wealthy and highly discriminating snuff film audience.”

Pausing, he put on an ominous-looking metal mask and picked up a razor-sharp knife, “You know it’s odd, Faith, but you never asked my name. Here in this place of blood and death, I’m known simply as the Ghost.”

Faith’s final thought as she died, long, torturously agonizing hours later, it seems some serial killers prefer blondes, as well...