Author's notes:

Hitchcock was a great fan of having his murders be performed offstage. This was not always the rule, but I remember reading an essay or interview where he indicated that intent.

Done well, this is better than anything the writer can write for a simple reason: instead of me conceiving the idea, rendering it to words, you reading the words and reconstructing the idea, it's far simpler. You birth the idea, and it's in your mind, crystal-clear.

Done poorly, it's sophmoric. We've all see attempts at horror stories and movies that end with an ellipsis. "And she descended into the basement..." It seems cheap and lazy.

The difference is the build-up. With Hitchcock, we knew pretty well what was going to happen between-the-scenes. We've already seen the previous body (or, in keeping with his 'make the audience part of the story' goal, we've seen what the people who found the last deader said and did.) We know it won't be quick or easy. We know everything about it, and it chills us.

So why show it? Nothing he could film, nothing anyone could write, could match that sense of unease we build in ourselves. He built it up well, gave us a common visual vocabulary with which he used for that film. At this point, a "..." might even be merciful compared to seeing and hearing the axe cleave through the hapless victim.

So it goes with this story, too. No horror, but no outright fornification, either. I'm no Hitchcock, but I strive to give enough build-up that the inevitable is rendered in full glory where it ought, in your mind.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



When the red convertible pulled off the expressway, Sian had no idea where she was. The ride was a blur of memories, but few of them visual. Her cheeks and forehead ached from clenching her eyes so tight, so long. Her mouth was dry from gasping, panting, begging. But the rose she still kept treasured in her hands, albeit a little worse for wear.

Her head swam with memories of endless climbs up mountains of needs, always mindful of the precipice should she slip. Should he slip. But always, he guided her to crest the peak and be consumed by the brightness of her pleasure before leading her partway down, only to draw her gaze, then psyche up another trail to another, yet higher summit.

All the time racing down the highway, only one hand on the wheel.

All Sian knew was that warmth glowing from her lap, from beneath her black dress, would consume her thoughts for the rest of the evening. It pooled from deep muscle, aching and protesting the exertion. It flowed to legs and rear, throbbing with her racing heart, granted precious respite from being held taut for so long.

They drove along country lanes in solitude. "Little pet," Marc said, "In the glovebox are some wipes. You best use them before we arrive."

She blushed as his hand parted, letting cool night air waft in its place. "But... but I'm soaked through..."

He flashed a hungry grin. "So remove them. You won't need them tonight, cherished one."

The promise unspoken in his words reassured her. She set the rose in the footwell, undid the seat belt, struggled a bit, then worked them free. As she clicked the belt back into place, he held out that blessed hand. "Give them to me."

Her hand found his before her mind had chance to form a thought. She watched as he held it up to his nose, inhaled deeply, then let the night wind take it. She whirled in her seat as much as the belt would allow, hand on headrest to watch it vanish in the fading red glow of his taillights.

"Now, my hand, pet." His arm had not moved from when it let go, so he seemed as if he were frozen in time, taking an oath.

Her instinct took over, and she caressed his wrist, guiding his hand, redolent with her passion's extract, to her mouth. Closing her mind to the rest of the world, she wrapped her lips around his thumb, then worshiped it until it had no more of that unique taste. This she repeated for each digit, then she set to his palm.

"That's my good girl," he murmured.