I clear my throat and my ears detect such humility in enunciating words which I attempt to inflect as stentorian.
“Yes... yes ma’am.”
She laughs.
“Not going to set a cadre of lawyers after me? I retrieved your files from my archives, Bobby. I remembered your face in the bodega but not all the details. You were a fascinating study.”
She laughs and despite the long relaxing soak, I feel my circulation rush. Being thought of, referred to, as some kind of laboratory animal incites both memories and anger, but what does one do about it?
Once again while contriving a reply, she cunningly speaks and disrupts what could be a thoughtful verbal parry.
“Stop in tomorrow night, Bobby, 7:00 p.m. The address is on the card. Let’s not call it for drinks, just for a talk. And you will shave? Just like the old days, you know what I mean.”
Before replying, there is a click. She knows I will be there and she knows I will be shaved. And I know she is correct, which adds to the frustration more than anything else.
Chapter Three
The Prince Street address is an old industrial building converted to apartments. Denise Evans, PhD is on the sixth floor of what appears to be a six story building. I am promptly buzzered in without verbal exchange. After a moment’s wait in the lobby, I decide to skip the slow grinding elevator and walk the stairs.
The stairwell is dank and ominous. I am somewhat reminded of the building in Bangkok where I spent three months, only there the heat was oppressive and the New York autumn has chilled the unheated fire protected stairway.
Reaching the sixth floor, I note that the stairway continues upwards to a floor not noted on the lobby directory. A small hallway has only one door. It is ajar and I push it open. Again there is trepidation in entering the unknown lair of my one time interlocutor, the woman who changed my life.
In a dimly lit parlor, I am greeted by the voice on the phone, a young Asian woman dressed in black. My eyes struggle to adjust to the light as her accented voice, much more directing than on the phone, commands, “You follow. Miss Denise see you when prepared.”
My mind is immersed. I am mentally returned to Bangkok. The unknown, the darknes
s, being ushered by a woman, my unexplained reaction of acceptance in being directed about.
We traverse a set of stairs. There is another floor above. The apartment of Denise Evans, PhD is huge and a sconce on the landing provides enough light to better glimpse at the Asian woman. Her face remains obscure but I can better see a black leather bodice leaving arms and shoulders bare, short black pleated skirt of satin. Thighs exposed. Knee high leather boots.
She is not a maid.
Down a hallway of some half dozen doors, at the last we enter a large open room. Cabinets occupy a far wall. In the middle is a metal chair. The straps and other paraphernalia attached bring consternation. I gulp and stop in my tracks. The woman continues on to stand behind the chair, turn and face me. She smiles, diabolically. Her face is vaguely familiar yet I am too distracted to recall.
“Miss Denise wants you to be comfortable. She say you know what that mean.”
Yes... I do.
“You put in here,” she gestures to a drawer as I lean to slip out of my shoes.
Belt is unbuckled, slacks dropped, shirt unbuttoned. I slowly disrobe. The Asian woman assists by folding each garment and placing such in the drawer. As I approach outright nakedness, she smiles more and more. In completing the task I tremble in being vulnerable and exposed to a woman I have never before met.... or have I?
She locks the drawer then gestures, putting her hands behind her head, indicating that I should follow. I do, finding myself becoming strangely docile. I await as she dons latex gloves.
“You sit. You know the chair. Sit before.”
She laughs, apparently with the image of me helplessly sitting bound and naked. As I approach the peculiar device, a gloved hand smears unguent on the cylinder of rubber protruding from the seat.
“Very slippery. It no hurt.”
More accommodation than I received in the Bangkok jail... if it was in fact a jail.
She motions, crooking her finger. I approach. The trembling increases as she assists in aligning my backside. Latex covered hands guide my hips. For the first time in three years I once again feel the humiliating sensation of a stout rubber object parting my cheeks. I know to slowly lower myself and she has indeed sufficiently lubricated the phallus. It glides past my rectum with embarrassing ease.
The woman chuckles as she works with noted celerity in encircling wrists and ankles with strong nylon straps, simply adhering my limbs to the chair with velcro. Such bindings become ironically frustrating in that a mere child can provide release. Yet without use of my hands, I must sit impassively and learn discipline. In Bangkok, they termed it obedience. Yes, I learned obedience and the lessons remain ingrained in my psyche. I find myself sitting without even testing the bindings.
The special seat, split at just where my scrotal sac hangs, has thigh straps used to hold me well spread. She pulls each over my inner thigh and effortlessly adheres the end to the outside of the chair frame. Satisfied that I am thoroughly bound, a neck collar is retrieved from a cabinet. Broad... stiff... fur-lined for comfort... my head will be kept completely immobile as it covers my neck from sternum to chin.