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In the corner of a small concrete cell sits a hunched over figure of a man whose arms are securely bound behind his back.
He has lost all sense of time since arriving here.
All he knows is that he woke up in this place and that some time must have passed without his awareness. A few days at least judging by the amount of stubble that he can run his tongue over.
As near as he can tell, the cell is a cube, roughly two meters wide by two meters long, probably the same in height, bare of any decoration, the floor slopes to a tiny drainage hole in the center, there are no sounds except that of his own breathing.
The walls and floor are made of concrete, any sharp edges that may have been there, have long since been smoothed over. Which is one small mercy.
Bad enough he is cold and naked (who knows where his clothes are now) but to be cold naked and bleeding because of sharp edges would be insult to injury.
He has long since lost feeling in his arms, thanks to the bindings that he can feel rubbing against the small of his back, keeping his hands securely fastened together at waist level. He flexes his fingers in a vain attempt to encourage circulation every now and then.
His ankles are held by heavy manacles, a secure chain between them stops him from separating his legs any further than shoulder width.
More troubling is the fact that he has had no sensation whatsoever from between his legs since waking up.
Looking down again with eyes that are now accustomed to the almost total darkness he can just about make out the long, thick cylindrical device protruding straight out from between his legs.
It is securely attached to his groin by the harness secured about his waist and thighs, a thick cable that trails from under the steel door disappears into the top of the cylinder, effectively serving as a leash to keep him from moving too far.
It's purpose he can only guess at.
Just looking at the damn thing sends shivers up and down his spine every time.
He knows he will eventually find out, calm certainty has long since replaced adrenaline fueled fear.
He screamed himself hoarse on the first day.
When no help came, he tried to force open the steel door.
With a scorched dry throat and both shoulders bruised (probably right down to the bone) he has been sitting in this cell, contemplating what might happen next.
His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a heavy lock being turned in the door.
Struggling to his feet, he pushes himself up and out of the corner in a last ditch attempt at defiance, temporarily blinded by the bright light.
When his vision clears he comes face to face with the last thing he was expecting.
There in the doorway stands a statuesque figure of a woman wearing skintight black leather from head to toe, if he was forced to guess he would say she had the outfit spray painted on, or possibly she was poured into it. Because there isn't so much as a blemish or a wrinkle in the outfit. Opera length gloves, stiletto heeled thigh boots and a mask that covers her head, leaving only her eyes, the tip of her nose and mouth visible makes identification impossible.
"I don't think we've met" His voice is raw from lack of use, and try as he might he can't stop his eyes from wandering away from hers to glide over every inch of her body.
Her stiletto heels click on the cool concrete with every step she takes into the cell, like a predator stalking it's prey she takes her time.
Every step sure.
Every pace confident.
Every movement even and balanced.
"You will call me mistress" despite having had nothing to drink since first waking up in the cell he manages to say the words.
"I don't think so" he can't stop his eyes from following her graceful movements as she makes her way around him in a wide circle.
Unable to stop his traitorous body from shivering, he can't help suddenly feeling he is in a great deal of trouble.
Watching him as he watches her. She stops her perusal of his naked body to focus an unflinching look into his eyes.
Seeing the look in those eyes sent another shiver racing up and down his body.
Then she smiled.