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Their come ran from my ass and cunt, spilling onto the sofa. I remember thinking: they have ruined their clothes. Who cares? They didn't. It was one of those automatic thoughts, childhood conditioning: don't spill food on your dress. I was a long way from that.
Even after their cocks softened and left me, I still felt them inside me. Jefferson alone was almost too much, almost inhuman. And to feel his gigantic shaft pressing against the monster's cock in my ass. The opposite frictions up the two canals, pressing, rearranging, deforming me.
As though he knew my thoughts, Brad said, "We will find a third for your mouth."
When I put on the leather cuffs in the Rolls Royce, I had taken off my watch and had no idea of time. I had in fact forgotten time. And Winston. And Broadthroup. Everything except what was happening to my body in the present moment. If asked, I would have guessed that hours had passed, when Brad glanced at his Cartier wristwatch and said, "There is one more thing I want you to see before we take you to the airport."
As if from a daze, I awoke and asked, "What time is it?"
"Almost 10:00."
My meeting with Verigen had begun twelve hours earlier, yet it seemed infinitely more distant. I found myself wondering what was happening to me.
A tug at my neck. I struggled to my feet. I was learning. I was being trained.
I followed Brad and Jefferson followed me, across the living area, through the kitchen area, and into a somewhat more private region of the house, delineated by opaque partitions that reached two thirds of the way to the ceiling, covered with abstract mosaics , until we were in a space that served as a bedroom and office.
Embedded in a brick wall was a huge circular steel bank vault door, Brad stopped and handed my leash to Jefferson. He pressed some numbers on an adjacent electronic pad.. I assumed we were going to enter a safe, but when the vault swung open, a light came on automatically, revealing a flight of stone steps leading downward.
"I have found the descent psychologically effective. After you," he said. And Jefferson led me past him.
The stone was cold beneath my bare feet. The foot thick steel door closed almost soundlessly behind us, but I felt it compress the air, and heard a low thud as bolts automatically engaged, and a low hum of machinery circulating air.
The place was air tight. And no doubt sound proof. The steps were steep. I was buried alive. With each descending step ever more helpless.
Halfway down the flight of steps a large high ceilinged room began to take shape filled with various modernistic variations of structures and implements from a museum of horrors. A rack. A cross against a wall. Stocks. Chains from overhead. Eye bolts. Metal collars. Whips. Something electric that I assumed was a cattle prod. Other objects of which I had no concept except that I was sure they were intended to cause pain. It was all black plastic, chromed metal, burnished steel. Cold. Detached. Clinical.
"You can't." I gasped.
He laughed. "I can do whatever I want."
"But Winston will see the marks and find out."
"Oh, we can do quite a lot without leaving marks. For now I only want you to see and wonder."
On the late flight to Boston, I reached out to take a glass of champagne from the flight attendant . Her eyes shifted to the fading marks on my wrists left by the leather cuffs, then down to similar marks on my ankles, before returning to my face. She gave a slight smile, as if she knew what had caused them. But perhaps I was becoming too sensitive. To myself I seemed to have changed so much that it must be outwardly obvious to everyone. But I guess it wasn't.
