The Interrogator

And of course there is the boredom, the interminably long periods of sitting. No motion, only my mind moving, wandering. And one’s thoughts center on Miss Denise, the woman who again holds me captive.

So, the entire Bangkok ordeal was some kind of net thrown out to snare sexual predators. All these years of contemplation, mentally asking ‘why’, and the answer was in the slides and the penis cuff. Photos designed to elicit a response of arousal, one that could be measured where the male most evidences stimulation. And with the arousal and measurement would come a judgment... sexually healthy male or pedophile.

What happened to those judged aberrant, predators to the young?

Thankfully for me, whatever degree of stimulation was indicated by the instruments enclosed in her case did not correspond with the attributes of the so termed ‘fly’ for which Miss Denise had spun her web. After all, I was released.

Yet, she holds me again, a noted psychologist with expertise in deviant sexual behavior. And she has so

wickedly schemed, duplicating the elements of my incarceration, right down to the metal chair and inflatable anal insertion.

And Mae Lee! Where does one find such a woman? A cross between Jackie Chan and the circus strong man!

I find myself laughing sardonically in my silent darkness. Miss Denise’s expertise is ironic... physician heal thyself!

Then as my mind continues to wander uncontrollably, a long forgotten visit to the British nurse is recalled. Yes, I am posed on the pedestal, showing myself, arms outstretched, bent at the waist, struggling to keep my balance as I lift my left foot as directed and push it behind me. The demanded pose.

“Oh yes, so nice of you to show off for us,” the nurse coos as I am again forced to degrade myself before the female audience.

“Nicely developed testicles, something to keep, so often here the male organs become fruit to be plucked.”

The nurse laughed as did the trio of guards. And in her mirth she reached out and patted my dangling plums with reassuring words.

“Overly ripe fruit will rot. For some men it is best that such be harvested before the rot spreads to the brain, affecting behavior. But I hope you will be permitted to keep these. They hang with such deference, such humility, a treat for the feminine eye.”

More clues long overlooked. What happened to those whose response to the nude slides proved to be that of the ‘fly’, the male predator sought by Miss Denise? The one for whom the web was spun?

There was much equipment in the wash room never used in my treatment. In a corner there appeared to be a gynecological chair with bright lamps, stirrups, straps, an autoclave for sterilizing surgical instruments, and a glass cabinet stacked with bandages and gauze.

I had assumed the paraphernalia was to treat prisoners who had encountered an overly exuberant guard or perhaps a rare, skin-breaking stroke from the whipmistress.

As I contemplate, I recall having heard somewhere that the procedure termed ‘orchiectomy’ was stultifyingly simple for the male.

“A first year nursing student could do it. Two small incisions, a few snips to nerves and ducts, slide the pesky eggs from the sac, a couple of sutures to close and Presto!.. a changed life. Completely modified behavior.”

I shudder in recalling the observation of a nurse friend who once taunted me over casual drinks. At the time, I laughed with her. Now I find myself trembling in my silent darkness, realizing for the first time that with all the suffering and torment endured in Bangkok, the results of my incarceration could have been worse than ejaculatory incompetence.

The British nurse was well past the experience level of first year student. And though she expressed delight in viewing my balls, there was no doubt that with the simplest suggestion from Miss Denise, I would have found myself strapped into that gynecological chair. My interrogator had aptly demonstrated her power. I recall the casual words used to commence the infusion of cold water and the many trips to the discipline room.

After all, a glass jar could afford the nurse the same view of my ripened plums and one of heightened empowerment.

With nothing able to stir except my imagination, visions of sitting in that chair with the smiling nurse working between my forcibly spread thighs begins to overpower all thought.

Yes, she cuts, snips and then laughingly holds up a trophy, one male organ vanquished, another to go. And my audience of female guards cheer her on as I feel the scalpel cut again...

Chapter Twenty-Two

Do I smell coffee?

With sensory deprivation comes vivid dreams or daydreams. One does not know whether one slumbers when in complete darkness and silence or whether one hallucinates, thus the confusion. But why would I hallucinate about coffee?

Then I feel fingers around my penis. Is it really being stroked? Just a hallucination?

Since I do not control anything, not even bodily functions, I mentally ignore the pleasant handling, convincing myself of the delusional nature of the manipulation.

But then my hood is removed, and I must close my eyes with the introduction of even the dimmest light. The headphones are removed, and the interminable hiss finally disappears.

“Good morning, Bobby. Thought I’d have Mae Lee augment your dreams with some real sensation.”