The Interrogator

“So nice of you to entertain us, Mr. Dawson,” the nurse proclaimed, bringing much tittering.

“We’ll see what a visit to the discipline chamber does for such impertinence.”

Just as the liquids were slowly introduced, such were slowly released... again in complete disregard of my entreaties. The woman was heartless.

But something about her power, her control... excited. To tumefy under such conditions I found peculiar. Being helpless and under the tutelage of the female gender stimulated me.

Chapter Fourteen

Whenever I felt fingers working about my neck collar while my scrotum was encircled with a strap, I knew the control rods were being hooked to the sturdy ringlets and with a third between my thighs, I was to be walked. With a guard to my right and left and one to the rear, most ignominiously pulling at my gonads, I would follow the tugs as best I could to the washroom where the British nurse assumed control.

But unless my sense of time was completely awry, the control rods were being attached very shortly after a recent visit to the nurse. A week could not have gone that quickly, I told myself.

In remaining deafened and blinded by the hood, moving about involved stumbling and reacting to strong directional tugs on my neck collar and scrotum more than walking. And I imagined the fun the guards were having as they kept me up on my toes and bent forward at the waist to guide me through the deep basement jail.

But on this occasion, I did not arrive in the washroom. No, when the neck rods were removed I was forced to kneel and was placed over a surprisingly comfortable device... smooth leather, thickly padded. It seemed to swallow up my torso, leaving me with head and shoulders down and buttocks up. The rod attached to my scrotal strap was unhooked, but unlike visits to the washroom, the strap thereafter remained. And I felt tension as if it was attached to something.

On whatever it was I was lying, I was secured there by my balls!

The neck collar was removed and I felt something brushing the back of my neck. Then all motion ceased and I presumed that either the

guards were tending to someone or something else or I was left alone. Because of my lacking muscle tone and being accustomed to extreme restraint, I did not move. In realizing my testicles were secured, I knew I could not go anywhere. So I just idly laid in the unusual position, grateful to be able to move arms and legs. I did try to raise my head and my neck encountered a bar, holding my head down.

But my hands were free! And so I reacted as any chaste and virile male would, I immediately sought my neglected penis.

That’s when I received the harsh message that I was not alone. Sudden sharp pain in my left foot convinced me that such action was not advisable. And instead of touching myself where I so pined for attention, I thrashed about wildly as the pain grew and the intensity spread in my cerebral cortex as if my foot was on fire. The consequence of whatever and whomever struck me exceeded anything experienced by way of the cattle prod wielding guards. My own scream, muffled by my ear plugs, shocked me.

So I remained most still as I felt hands working my hood and with a brisk tug, my eyesight was restored.

I quickly adjusted as the room was quite dark. Fingers worked to remove my earplugs and a voice came through unimpeded for the first time since my last visit to the nurse.

“Do not touch. Your limbs are free only to amuse me.”

The Asian accent was not as thick and staccatoed as with the guards. This woman knew English.

She stepped to my front. I craned my neck and looked upward to see a gorgeous young woman, apparently Thai, with the expected black hair and dark eyes. She wore a bodice of black leather which silhouetted fine breasts and left her arms bare and a short pleated skirt which likewise exposed most of her shapely and obviously powerful thighs. Black leather boots covered her calves but one could extrapolate and conclude she was well proportioned there as well.

In her right hand, she held a length of bamboo... thin... whippy... spine-tinglingly evil.

“This is the discipline chamber, Mr. Dawson, and you’re on a whipping bench, cleverly designed to comfortably hold you between strokes, as I am sure you’ve ascertained. It’s not a place where one should consider exercising indiscretion. That useless tube of flesh will remain untouched for now.”

She reached down with her left hand and smoothed her fingers over my bald head to the back of my neck. There she massaged most expertly, seeming to extinguish the lingering burning of the single stroke of rattan. She gently directed me to turn to the left and look up.

“There’s a bar just over your neck which will serve to force your head down and thus your buttocks up. The bench is concave from shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, to inhibit you rolling about and is sloped from front to back as I am sure you can feel. That ripe posterior of yours presents quite the target when so positioned. And of course, you’ve felt the tension on your testicles. It’s your only binding. Otherwise you are free to kick, squirm, wrench, wriggle, thrash and move in any manner you desire. However, as the pain subsides and you’re finished moving about, I’ll want you properly positioned for the next stroke, knees and feet widely parted and your arms straight out to your sides, as if preparing to dive into water. Since this is the discipline room, you’re going to learn the discipline of a proper caning and how to please your superior.”

“The room is sound proofed, scream to your heart’s content. And we’re alone. The guards get a little squeamish during my little tête-à-tête’s and elect not to observe.”

Her comment brought concern. After weeks of experiencing the guards’ cruelty, it was difficult to perceive an encounter involving male subjugation which would fail to entertain.

She laughed most ominously and her booted foot pushed a stainless metal bowl under my face.

“Vomiturition is common here. Please try to hit the receptacle should you feel the urge. And don’t be embarrassed or concerned should your bladder open. There is a drain in the floor. Just let it all flow. Consider it an offering, one of complete submission.”

Though the room was dark, there was a strong light behind me. I turned and raised my head just enough to note that my buttocks glowed most obscenely in a single beam of light. The reflection from my flesh seemed to illuminate the entire chamber. When the woman stepped back and began applying a light oil to my posterior, she noticed my awkward gaze as my globes radiated more and more light.

“It’s best that you not watch, Mr. Dawson. Just turn your head back and rest your chin on the padded bench. Calm yourself as best you can. This will take some time. Good canings are never rushed.”

Chapter Fifteen