All for naught of course, the guards were merciless and my naked form was returned to the ironically comfortable whipping bench. After weeks and weeks of sitting, lying on the padding felt wonderful. But knowing that my flesh would soon be ablaze obviated any notion of true enjoyment.
The guards left me, and I found myself stretching out my arms in the demanded pose of the whipmistress. I remained perfectly still, a curious reaction as the only restraint was my ball strap. But one did not dare raise the ire of the whipmistress. I so much intended to please and thus was most unequivocal in placing myself under her grace.
“I am going to warm you a little and then I have something for you to consider.”
The voice of the whipmistress came from somewhere behind me. I was glad I had showed such obeisance in assuming her preferred pose.
And then she began, the swish, the splat, the initial burn, and then the explosion of pain as the cerebral cortex became overwhelmed. Such a familiar procession; my shriek, my humble words for mercy, pleas for leniency, all unheeded of course.
It was probably a half dozen strokes when the pause came. And in my mind, with the whipmistress’s halting style, those six strokes took some thirty minutes.
“I have something for you to read and sign, Mr. Dawson. Take your time. Meanwhile I will apply the rattan. This length is particularly thin and pliable. It almost seems eager to chastise.”
Wonderfully smooth and soft hands, belying the excruciating meted pain, propped a document under my face where normally was found the metal bowl for my stomach contents.
Knowing that the caning would resume, I read quickly. Perhaps a question would spur discussion and the whipmistress would refrain from her heartless endeavor.
I scanned. Though there was no official letterhead, it was from the Bangkok police and it discussed the terms of release for Mr. Robert Dawson! My heart leapt. I had been held for months.
Then there came the swish, the splat, the burn and I closed my eyes with the onslaught of agony.
“Care to sign, Mr. Dawson? You have my permission to move your right hand.”
I emphatically nodded, of course.
Release!
A pen was tossed to the floor. My outstretched hand gathered it. Though I was promising to abstain from any legal action, to keep all events of my incarceration confidential, to leave Thailand as soon as practicable with the expectation of no further information or explanation, I had to sign. I had no choice.
A trembling hand was controlled long enough to record my compliance to the terms. The whipmistress retrieved the papers and then my brief euphoria ended.
Her booted foot slid the metal bowl under my face.
“So let’s finish our task, shall we?”
The swish, the splat, the burn.
Chapter Twenty-One
Throughout the night I am watered as directed. I find it curious how quickly I revert to the learned behavior of my Bangkok cell.
When I feel the plastic straw about my lips I know to greedily imbibe. When I feel fingers sliding back my foreskin, I know to release the contents of my bladder.
Where do women such as Mae Lee learn to so deftly handle the male appendage?
She is most adept in assisting in the most basic male function, even on occasion toying with a nipple to relax me when an initial flow is not forthcoming.
And then of course, there comes the release of the straps. Yes, and each so expertly timed. Just when my cortex shuts off the messages of slowly building pain from cramping muscles desperately seeking to move, Mae Lee releases a strap. Starting with the right arm, I feel the pressure of the strap being relieved. And then, as opposed to the procedure in my Bangkok cell, two hands firmly grasp, massage with vigor, and then begin pulling, twisting and turning until it seems ligaments or tendons will tear. I believe I cry out, though the hissing in the headphones cuts out the sound of my own voice. And ironically what begins as relief becomes a new source of pain, once again commencing the slow journey toward unbearable torment. I find that Mae Lee is strong and merciless, treating each limb as an object, some type of challenge, a serpent to be wrestled to supplication. For as she works a limb, the initial relief quickly changes to sharp agony.
Do I beg? I cannot hear my own words.
I am reminded of childhood encounters with the neighborhood bully when one would find himself in a headlock, full nelson or some other restraint and be forced to cry out ‘uncle’.
If only the simple word would end the suffering.
And then, I assume satisfied that the circulation has been restored and the pain threshold reset to a low level, the woman replaces each limb into the ineluctable strap and I find myself once again held completely immobile.
So for many, many hours Mae Lee becomes my only contact with reality. Water, urination, the strange relief of temporary release, immediately followed by the more pronounced agony of her aggressive wrestling holds. Then the process begins anew. Is this indeed reality?