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Before they could make it too far, however, Cheryl could hear the old man who had bought her talking. “Actually,” he said to the auctioneer, “I’ll be taking my purchase home immediately.” “Excellent,” the auctioneer said, then called out to one of the sellers dragging the girls away. Cheryl was taken by her leash to follow the seller and the old man to a nearby booth, where they handled his transaction. Money swapped hands, as did Cheryl’s leash, and she found herself face to face with the old man, trying to hide her look of disgust, knowing things would probably be better for her if she pretended to go along with his desires. The old man looked her up and down, then, to her shock, turned her around and untied her wrists. “Master’s bitches are absolutely not allowed to stand on two feet,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong. Cheryl blinked at him, confused. “S-sorry?” She was distracted yet again, now thinking she should run. But not too far by she could see a booth where. And he was trying to get the chords right. Chords. Not cords. Not cords you can use to hang on drapes or cords you can use as tassels on lampshades. But cords you could use to kill yourself with. Your own private garrote. Your own private false fantasy world comes true. But the music he made, he had to keep that in mind. So he pressed the Chords. And he tried to think what he had said before. He tried to think the long silences were his chord strokes having an effect. Not that he particularly wanted to have an effect. It was just his way of saving face, of pretending the chord listener was not up in the belfry looking down like the Phantom of the Opera and seeing him for what he really was and for what he was really doing. And he was lying, but the chords said just get through it, you tried to explain, and explanations never get you anywhere, but stared at. You have to do it this way. You have to do it their way. That was a line from ‘I Was A Teenage Werewolf’ that Malcolm Atterbury.
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