The Interrogator

capsulated in some strange contraption, still feeling the effect of her controlling hand.

Around and around she walked. Her carefree movements seemed to highlight the severity of my restraint, mock the fact that I could barely move my toes and fingers, much less move from place to place with impunity and without forethought.

She knew I was watching, circled the cell then sashayed to stand directly above me. My eyes followed her every move. She pointed at me with her hand. In it was a small black device. Her thumb squeezed and I grimaced expecting to feel a painful electrical shock where I had felt so little over the weeks of confinement and forced chastity. Miss Denise laughed at my reaction as the ceiling lit up. Resting on the floor over my head was a slide projector. And above the image of a beautiful woman flashed onto the white concrete ceiling. She was lying on her side on a rug, torso propped by up her left arm, her right resting behind her head. The pose seemed to highlight her breasts, thrust forth against a tight blouse. She was well endowed.

“Nice Bobby? Sweet? Kind of the girl next door, but grown up. We selected her image from many, many photographs after hundreds and hundreds of trials. Do you like looking at her? You may speak.”

“Yes, Miss Denise.”

“Does she remind you of someone?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

In hindsight I believe the details of my reply were meaningless to the process. Miss Denise was fostering talkativeness. I answered, my rambling much encouraged.

“Good... is this better?”

I heard a slight click and the projector blinked. The same girl appeared, in the same pose. But the blouse and skirt were gone. She wore a skimpy bathing suit.

I felt stirring in my loins. For weeks, physical contact with my genitals had been denied me. Other than teasing glimpses of the guard’s finely shaved labia, also denied over the past four weeks, exposure to the denudated female form had been limited.

“Yes.”

“More thoughts? Recollections?”

And after many weeks of enforced silence, the words flowed. And I said so much... small things... stupid things... told stories long forgotten. Girls I had dated. Loves long ago lost.

Miss Denise walked to the case where the wires from my penis cuff connected. She looked down, presumably to some type of monitor.

“Good... and this.”

Another flash. The girl reappeared. Same pose. Completely naked. She was indeed a gorgeous young woman.

“Kind of fun taking a girl’s clothes off electronically. Wouldn’t you agree Bobby?”

“Yes, Miss Denise.”

I respectfully answered. She wanted me to talk and I talked. It was apparent that Miss Denise was building a file, akin to putting together a jigsaw puzzle. And the first step was to collect all the pieces before attempting assembly. And I offered every piece available.

There would be no more trips to the discipline room for Robert Dawson.

Chapter Seventeen

More memories of time in my cell.

“Are you trying to move your hand, Bobby? Your right hand? It’s well strapped down, as I am sure you have realized by now. A woman has you completely restrained and you’ll only move it when she releases you. Would you like it to be released?”

“Yes, ma’am. I would like it to be released.”

“Why, Bobby? What would you do with that hand? Just your right hand? That’s all?”

“Yes, Miss Denise.”

“Why, I want to know why?”

“I would like to stroke my penis.”