It had been two years, and I’m pretty sure I’d thought about him every day – my gorgeous, superhuman, supernatural, undead lover. He had known all my deepest, darkest fantasies, and he’d made them come true. It was just a week in Vegas, but I had fallen under Elliot’s spell, the spell of a vampire, and I couldn’t get him out of my head.

But, like a heroin addict, I had done my cold turkey, and moved on with my life. Well, bits of it anyway. I’d tried to date, but how do you deal with okay when you’ve had the best? Funny that I had trusted a vampire with my  body, allowing him to tie me up and even drink my blood, but I couldn’t trust anyone else enough to tell them my secret desires.

My friends, who already knew my secrets, had tried to set me up, of course. The worst was clearly the one where the guy – very good-looking, just my type – opened with the line ‘So, I hear you’re into bondage?’ I walked out right there and then, cursing my friend Susie for her meddling.

I’d thrown myself into work to compensate, which led to burnout, which led to this city break to Rome to recharge my batteries. I was supposed to be here with my best friend Helen, but she’d cried off at the last minute with a family emergency, and it had been too late to get anyone else. But I really needed to get away, and I’m a Yorkshire lass, so I wasn’t going to waste money by cancelling.

Which is how I came to be in the Eternal City, the City of Love, alone. I did the touristy things, visiting the Coliseum, the forum and the catacombs, all very impressive. I went to see the Trevi Fountain, of Frank Sinatra fame (‘Three Coins in a Fountain’), and the next day to the Vatican – I’m not Roman Catholic, I don’t even believe in God, but you can’t go to Rome and not see it. Say what you like about Renaissance popes, they certainly knew how to spend the peasants’ money!

After that, I went to see the Sistine Chapel which was just around the corner from St Peter's. I have to say I was rather underwhelmed by Michelangelo's magnificent works - all wonderful pieces of art, I'm sure, but all a bit crowded, like he just had to get yet another piece of the Bible illustrated, like some very high concept comic book.

As I made my way out, I had a strange feeling that I was being watched and, when I looked around I saw, standing by one of the walls about ten metres away, a nun staring fixedly and directly at me. I felt uncomfortable, but I had no choice except to walk past her, as she was standing near the exit. As I approached, she stepped in front of me, her eyes looking wild.

"You carry the Mark of Satan, whore!" she exclaimed, loud enough for the people around to hear her, and they turned to stare at me. Suddenly flustered, I blushed and hurried on out of the door with my head down, wondering what could have gotten into her. As I emerged into the sunlight once again, I looked behind me, reassured that she had not followed me, and dismissed the incident as some kind of bizarre street theatre - after all, she might not have been a nun, she could have escaped from some hen night! Okay, probably not a very plausible theory, but at least as plausible as the idea that I'd been accused of being some kind of Satanist by a nun.

I bought myself an ice cream and wandered around St Peter's Square, letting myself calm down. But I couldn't get rid of the uneasy sense of being watched and, deciding that maybe I'd had too much sun, I went back to the hotel for a lie down.

I had been there about half an hour when there was a knock on the door of my room. I got off the bed and put my shoes back on before opening it, to find two Italian policeman standing there. Needless say I was surprised, and immediately began feeling guilty, even though I had nothing to feel guilty about.

"Signorina Harrison?” one of them asked.

"Yes," I replied nervously, "is there a problem?"

"I must ask you to come with us, Signorina," he responded, "you are required to answer some questions at the police station." I was thoroughly alarmed by this stage - what was going on?

"I don't understand, what is this about?" I asked, but rather than answer, the officer took a pair of handcuffs from his belt. As he reached out towards me, I stepped back, now frightened by this strange turn of events.

"This is just standard procedure, Signorina," he said unsmilingly, "please do not try to resist."

I was just completely stunned as he gently but firmly pulled my arms behind my back and handcuffed my wrists together. As they led me through the hotel, I couldn't help but think of the irony of me, being a bit of a bondage fetishist, being handcuffed in public like this, getting stared at by guests and staff alike. But there was nothing erotic about this, this wasn't a game, this was just frightening! As they loaded me into the back of the police car, I looked at the grille between me and the driver and felt like crying.

When we arrived at the police station, I was led into the building and down a corridor to an interview room. There were three chairs in the room, two on one side of a table and one, the one that I was made to sit in, on the other. The two police officers removed the handcuffs, then left the room without a word and I was alone. I rubbed my wrists as I looked around the room, but it was bare, it didn't even have the large mirror which I expected, the one that appears in every police drama with the cops on the other side staring in. I felt utterly alone, I didn't even have my bag with me, with my passport and my mobile phone. This time I did break down and start to cry quietly.

I had been there about half an hour when the door finally opened. To my astonishment, the person who came in was not a police officer, or even a plainclothes detective, it was a priest! He looked as though he was in his mid-fifties, and wore the full cassock and dog collar, with a large golden cross hanging from the chain around his neck but, rather incongruously, he carried a small briefcase, as if he were an accountant or something. Following him into the room, I saw two nuns, in their black habit and white wimple, and I recognised one of them as the mad one who had confronted me at the Sistine Chapel. They were followed into the room by two policemen, different to the officers who had brought me here. The second officer closed the door behind him and they all stood, threateningly, before me.

Suddenly, the madwoman stepped forward and pointed accusingly at me.

"She's the one!" she shouted. "She has the Mark of Satan!" The other nun came forward and put her arms around her shoulders, pulling her into the far corner, out of the way. I stood up to face my accusers, confused as well as frightened now.

"What is going on?" I demanded. "Why am I being held here?"

"Please take a seat, Ms Harrison," the priest said with a smile, moving to the other side of the table and sitting down himself, placing the case on the table, but leaving it unopened. I glanced nervously at the police officers, who had stationed themselves either side of the door, as though I was about to make a break for it. Reluctantly, I resumed my seat.

"My name is Father Donnetti," the cleric went on, "and it is my job to investigate certain… situations. Do you believe in God, Ms Harrison?"

"No," I replied, wondering what on earth he was asking me that for? Was he here to convert me?

"Do you believe in the Devil?"

"No!" This seemed like a preposterous line of questioning. Was it now a crime in Vatican City to not believe in the full Dante’s Inferno?

"Do you believe in the undead?" I opened my mouth to reply, then closed it again when I realised I didn't know what I was going to say. When I saw the knowing half-smile on the man's face, I knew I had already answered, and I blushed a deep red.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" he prompted smoothly.

"I don't know what you mean," I blustered, "how can anyone believe in werewolves and zombies…"

"And vampires?" He fixed me with a steely glare, and I felt myself crumbling. Between his questions and the madwoman's accusations, I was convinced they knew something about Elliot, although I could not work out how.

"Sister Teresa," Father Donnetti said, indicating the madwoman, "has a gift, she can detect the undead, and those that have been touched by them. And she has identified you as having been with a vampire!"

"This is ridiculous!" I protested, trying to laugh it off as a fantastical story, "everyone knows that vampires are just a literary creation, a silly story in films, they're not real!" Somehow I knew that this tactic, which would be fine with anyone else, was not going to work on the priest.

"The undead are troops in the legions of the devil," he said, "and the church has been combating them for two thousand years, so we know that they are real. And so do you, Ms Harrison, because you've seen one, haven't you?"

"Who are you?" I asked, now frightened for a whole different set of reasons than I was earlier.

"The group I represent has had many names over the centuries, and its current name is not important to you. What you need to know is that our sworn, holy purpose is to seek out and destroy all the legions of Satan, to clean this Earth before the second coming of our Lord. And you are in a position to help us with that."

"You're mad!" I laughed, somewhat hysterically, "this is the 21st century, not the Middle Ages! We don't burn witches anymore, and we don't believe in vampires and werewolves, unless you're a 12-year-old girl with the hots for Robert Pattinson! I'm not going to help you with this lunacy, and I demand that you let me go immediately!"

I wish I had felt as certain and confident as I sounded. The priest gave me his knowing smile again and indicated to the police officers to step forward.

"Ms Harrison," he went on, completely unperturbed by my outburst, "I am sure that Sister Teresa is correct and you have, indeed, the Mark of Satan on you, but we must be certain. I see no marks on your neck, so we must search elsewhere for the evidence. Guards! Strip her!"

As the officers lunged towards me, I just had time to rise from my seat and let out a scream for help before they grabbed me, one holding my arms tightly behind me, while the other stood in front, towering over me. He took the straps of my light summer dress, one in each hand and pulled them off my shoulders, dragging the dress down my body until it was bunched around my hips. When it wouldn't go any further, he adjusted his grip and then I heard the sound of the material ripping at the seams, and he pulled the torn remnants from my body.

I kicked out at him violently, but achieved nothing except to kick my sandals off my feet and across the floor. He grabbed my bra and broke the clasp, pulling the ruined garment off my arms and throwing it away. I resisted desperately as he gripped the waistband of my panties, but I found myself lifted off the floor as the man behind me held me in an armlock whilst the other dragged my final scrap of clothing down my thighs and off my legs, leaving me naked.

"Hold her down!" Father Donnetti ordered, and I found myself pinned across the table on my back. As I continued to struggle, the police officers use their handcuffs to lock my wrists and ankles to the four legs of the table, before stepping back, leaving me spreadeagled before the cleric.

As I screamed and shouted at them to release me, the priest calmly took something from his briefcase and moved towards my head, leaning over me. Before I could even move my head out of the way, he had placed something over my face which covered most of it, with just holes for my eyes and nose. It felt like old leather, smooth against my skin, and it tucked firmly under my chin, preventing me from opening my mouth. He expertly fastened and then tightened the straps behind my head, which held it tight against my skin, like some strange hockey mask. When I tried to continue my protests, I found I could only make inarticulate, muffled sounds, and was only able to breathe through my nose.

"Come and help me search her, Sisters," he said, motioning for the two nuns to come forward. The three of them began examining my body in intimate detail, touching every inch of me, and I guessed they must be looking for the puncture marks where Elliot had taken my blood.

Father Donnetti seemed to take great care while examining my breasts, lifting them, squeezing them, twisting and pulling the nipples, all of which seemed unnecessary in the search. Meanwhile, I felt fingers parting my labia, exploring my innner lips, even pushing my clitoris around as if searching for something underneath it! All of this was finally starting to have an effect on me and, when combined with the handcuffs and the gag-mask, I found myself becoming horribly aroused - horrible because I was still in such a terrible situation.

"Father," I heard a female voice say, "I think I've found it!" I felt the fingers prodding and poking at my inner thigh, just at the spot where Elliot had sunk his teeth into me nearly 2 years ago. I'd thought that the wound was completely healed, and certainly I had not been able to see it when checking in the shower. But somehow they had managed to find it. A few moments later, I saw the priest standing over me, looking down with a cruel smile on his face.

"Well, now that we have the evidence," he said, "we can move to the next stage. Take her away!"

I lifted my head as I had heard the door open and I saw two male nurses with a hospital gurney entering the room. As they approached, I saw that one of them was holding a hypodermic syringe, and I renewed my desperate but futile attempts to break free or to cry for help. I could do nothing but watch as the nurse took hold of my arm and slid the needle into me.

Almost immediately, I lost all control of my body and my arms and legs became limp. The police officer released me from the handcuffs, and then the two nurses lifted me on to the mobile bed. I watched, helpless and unable to resist, as they strapped me down, tight bands across my chest, stomach and hips, as well as pinning my arms and legs down. As I quickly began to lose consciousness, I saw them cover me with a sheet, as if I were a dead body. The last thing I remember before passing out is being wheeled towards the door.

When I finally returned to the land of the living, the first thing I noticed was a terrible ache in my shoulders and a sharp pain in my wrists. The next thing which drew my attention was something jammed into my mouth, keeping my jaws apart, causing me to drool over my bottom lip. I also noticed that it was very cold, and this confirmed to me that I was still naked.

Eventually, I couldn't put it off any longer, and I opened my eyes. I was looking down at the floor, my head lolling on my chest, and I could see large flag stones beneath my feet, which were just barely touching the floor. With some difficulty, I planted my feet a little more firmly and took my body weight on my unsteady legs, relieving some of the pain in my shoulders.

As I raised my head, I saw that I was in some kind of cold, dark dungeon, poorly lit, with no windows, just light filtering through some kind of grille in the ceiling. When I looked above me, I saw that my wrists were trapped in iron manacles, which were attached by chains to a metal bar about three feet long which was in turn hanging by a chain from the roof. I found that by standing on the balls of my feet with my heels in the air, I could relieve some of the pressure on my shoulders and reduce the amount that the manacles cut into my skin, but it wasn't long before my calf muscles were starting to protest at this strenuous position, and I found myself alternating between relaxing my arms at the expense of my legs, or hanging painfully by my wrists while my leg muscles recovered. It was not a comfortable situation to find myself in.

I seemed to be hanging there for a very long time before, finally, I heard the door behind me creak open and then slam shut, followed by the sound of footsteps on the stone slabs. I tried to look behind me, to see what was happening, but the chains held me tight, preventing me from seeing anything until the figure was virtually alongside me.

I was not surprised when Father Donnetti walked in front of me, but then neither was I reassured. I would have immediately protested, demanding he free me, but the hard rubber shaft strapped between my teeth meant that anything I said would be garbled. I also felt it would probably be a waste of breath, so I waited to see what he had to say for himself.

"I'm glad to see that you are awake, Ms Harrison," he said in a very self-satisfied tone of voice. "I'm sure you are wondering what will happen to you now." Oh great, I thought, he sounds like a Bond villain about to splurge a load of exposition and then describe my gruesome fate. I'd already realised that he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, but I supposed I would at least find out what he intended to do with me.

"Now that we have confirmed that you have been with an unholy one, you will bring him to us."

"I wi’ never te’ you ‘ere he ish!” I quite literally spat out, the bit gag not only mangling my words but making me dribble down my chin as well.

"I can assure you, Ms Harrison, that if we want information from you, we will get it," he said smugly, a nasty smile on his face. "The Roman Catholic Church has been successfully extracting information from reluctant sinners for centuries. I'm sure that even a heathen like yourself has heard of the Spanish Inquisition and their methods of obtaining a confession."

I couldn't keep the look of fear off my face, and his smile broadened a little when he saw that he had got through to me. He let it sink in for a little while before he continued with his clearly pre-prepared monologue.

“A vampire has a very strong link with his victims, those who survive his attentions,” Donnetti went on in a conversational tone. “Strong emotions – fear, pain, terror – are transmitted from the victim back to the vampire. Now, of course, the vampire may choose to ignore these messages but let us think positively, and assume that  your particular vampire will care enough to try to ease your suffering.”

My suffering? That didn’t sound good, and the evil smirk which accompanied the phrase didn’t reassure me either. I heard the door behind me open and the priest looked over as someone clearly entered the room.

“Ah, perfect timing as always!” he cried. “Let me introduce you.” I looked to my side to see who was approaching, and my heart leapt into my throat.

“Ms Harrison, meet Signor Mario Campagno, the church’s Chief Inquisitor.” The man was a caricature of a mediaeval torturer - he was tall, well over 6 foot, he was stripped to the waist revealing a muscled torso and bulging arms, and he seemed to be wearing black leather trousers, with matching studded cuffs. He also wore one of those half-face hoods like a true executioner, so that all that was revealed of his face was a large, bushy beard split by a thin lipped smile. I almost wet myself, I was so scared!

"I do hope we don't need any information from her," the man-monster said in deep, gravelly tone, "I do hate it when they have an easy option to end their suffering."

"Do not concern yourself with that, Signor," the priest replied, giving me his evil smile again, "all we require from her is her suffering. And afterwards, she will be ‘cared for’ in the Holy Sister’s House of Penitence, where they will be more concerned about the state for her eternal soul than the state of her physical body."

The Inquisitor looked at the priest as if requesting permission to begin.

"Don't mind me, Signor," Father Donetti responded, "please go about your work. I would like to observe, if I may, at least at the start. I like to hear their screams and protests while they still have the energy and voice to express them." At this, the other man smiled, and I let out a howl of desperation and terror. The sound of rattling chains bounced off the stone walls as I struggled vainly against my bonds.

I watched as the leather-clad interrogator walked away until he was out of my sight. I turned back to see that Father Donetti had moved a little further away and nonchalantly pulled up a chair and sat down, as if settling down to watch a tennis match! I decided I had to make some attempt at reasoning with these madmen before they began what they had threatened.

"P’ees,” I begged, staring at the priest in front of me, “I te’ you wha’ever you wan’, p’ees don’ hur’ me!” To my horror, the man laughed out loud.

"Oh, my dear Ms Harrison, have you understood nothing of what has been said here? There is no mercy for you to beg for, and there will be no rescue by the forces of law and order - what we are doing here is perfectly legal within the confines of Vatican City. There are many ancient laws still on the statute here, and they allow for the ‘scourging’ of sinners in the hunt for Satan's forces."

I was about to continue my forlorn pleading when my world suddenly exploded in a shower of fireworks, which my nervous system took a few microseconds to interpret as pain, and I let out a throat-ripping scream. The sensation resolved itself into a line of fire across my back, and I realised that I had heard the loud crack of a whip before I had started screaming. I had just about managed to process this when it happened again. By that time, I was already crying, the tears running down my cheeks, the saliva exploding from my open mouth as I continued to try to give vent to my agony.