I See a Red Door Ch. 06

Neil stood helplessly in the cell, corseted and in severe head bondage, his hands cuffed to his slave collar, unable to influence anything to change his state of sensory deprivation and utter despair. There was no sight, no sound except his heartbeat and breathing, no taste but rubber, no smell but leather, and no feeling except the cold concrete floor beneath his feet. Where did she put him; and for how long, he wondered?

He thought about sitting down where he was but with his hands cuffed where they were to his neck, he worried that he would then be confined to the cold concrete, unable to get up again. Absolute isolation weighed upon him and he tried to get Alena to help him. He whined; he grunted, to no avail. Cautiously he moved his feet to find the extent of his domain, inching slowly forward, fearful of stubbing his toe or banging his shins or head. His heartbeat pounded and quickened in his head.

The sounds that Neil was able to make despite the gag were only guttural grunts, but they seemed to soothe him. At least, he thought, he was throwing something out external to himself; it seemed to connect him to something, anything. Eventually, he started giving instructions to himself, "Take a step. Shuffle your feet. Find a wall. Find a chair," all in the form of grunts.

After what seemed like hours, he said, "Where is the fucking wall? There must be a fucking wall. A door. Is there a door?"

His mind was beginning to adjust inward, attempting to sort out internal stimuli, as if he had multiple personalities and they were all trying to speak with one another.

"Door. What would the door be like? Color didn't matter did it? Could be red; could be black." Then he remembered the song Alena had sung to herself after she had taken him from behind that first fateful meeting. He hummed it to himself now, "I see a red door and I want it painted black; No colors any more I want them to be black." Mick Jagger's leering face filled his mind's eye.

Time. He thought about that now. It had no meaning, other than being without measure. No external stimuli, thus no uptake of external change, thus no way to measure time.

Every few inches and thousands of eternities, he stopped his shuffle in panic and screamed out in his mind. What had she done to him? How could she do this? Was she even here? Would he die like this? She said she was a psychopath. Oh my God, he screamed silently.

His right foot hit something. Thank God...a change. Lifting his foot he quickly recognized it as a steel bar. He was in the cell. Or was he? He could be outside. No, she would put him inside the cell. That would be her style. All his thoughts now were represented by grunts and whines; he was talking to himself, and it seemed normal. Days, hours or minutes had passed, and a new normality had set in.

The toilet; he had to find the toilet. He had to pee, and he had to sit down. Several eternities later he felt the cold porcelain on his shin. Finally Mr toilet, he laughed, I found you...I found you. Cold, cold, feet cold. Sit down. Okay. Hope penis is pointed down. Ah, good. Thirsty. Feet cold. Feet cold. Good to sit.

Suddenly he heard scratching and felt vague movement on his leather hood. Finally, something touching him...from outside! He jerked his head and grunted, and then with despair, realized it was his own hands exploring the outside of the leather head prison.

Hands. Oh. Mine. Help, oh God, help me... Alena, please, please. Floor cold. Feet. What? Oh, feet cold...yes. Where? Alena, oh yes. Thirsty.

Neil started rocking back and forth on the toilet, random thoughts going through his head and every one of them expressed like a person without a tongue, grunts unintelligible to those listening, completely sensible to him. He didn't know if he slept. How would he?

Alena awoke early, way too early to get up, but she realized that she had fallen asleep early so why not get up? She was intensely thirsty, probably from the wine, and also the spicy fish dish at the restaurant. She rolled off the bed and walked quickly to the bathroom, glancing only briefly at Neil in the cell. Allowing the water to get cold first, she filled her glass and then wandered toward the cell, sipping calmly, observing.

She watched him rock back and forth on the toilet grunting and groaning with different pitches and tones. He was talking to himself. They all did that and she passively wondered what it was like to go insane. Out of the blue she felt slightly sorry for him. Where did that come from, she wondered? Had to get rid of those thoughts. Nonetheless, she unlocked the cell door and silently approached him. As she stood in front of him, she had doubts as to what she should or could do without sending him into a complete terror of surprise.

Then she chuckled to herself. When in doubt with a man, a slave, touch his penis. He recoiled strongly but settled into a continuous groan as she fondled and caressed. It grew in her hands and then she stopped, expressed by his anguished whine. She stood him up and turned him around, spending five minutes tightening the corset and tying it off. Then she took the locks off his wrists that bound him to the collar and left the cell, locking it behind her. There, now she felt better.

She watched him feel around for her, going from bar to bar of the cell in desperation.

Finally he found the cell door, felt the locked padlock, and realized he was alone again. The internal talking started instantly, and he found his way back to the toilet and sat down again. His hands explored his corset and his locked leather hood, as well as his breathing tube, kinking it and finding that it was his only tether to life itself. He grasped his penis and masturbated, as unknown to him she watched, mesmerized, just outside the cell. His breathing became labored as he approached the limits of the breathing tube and when his climax shot cum two feet in the air he was heaving for air, his lips tingling and probably blue, in full panic.

Alena sipped on her water and then went upstairs to make some coffee and finalize plans for the day. She was not in the mood for orgasm right now, only power. She reveled in that. Ideas were already crystallizing in her head as the smell of coffee eventually drifted to the dungeon, although undetected by the slave.