Ascot? Really?

Not many words could have been farther from the one they wanted. In over twenty years, you’d never lost your schoolboyish glee for playing mind games with the hired help. You see movement in your peripheral.

Luckily, you have learned over the years how to move your head just before the moment you’re struck. The baddie is satisfied he’s connected, and you avoid a concussion. This guy is clumsy, giving you ample time to feel a sting from the butt of his Walther but not to feel it mash your brain.

There’s a knock on the door, and all three thugs nervously move to answer it. You can’t turn your head far enough, but hear a raspy female voice. Feet shuffle and the door closes. Someone’s still in here, but who?

A pleasant scent catches your nostrils, and you assume the female is here to take over. She’ll undoubtedly use the flirty, make nice-nice routine to soften you up. Less painful, but usually just as effective.

“Ascot?” she asks with a smirk, undoing your restraints. “Really?”