My stomach was really hurting pretty bad by the time they turned into an open little square room. The ceilings got much higher and there was a woman sitting at a desk. They marched me over to her with the lead security guy walking up to the desk. There were hallways at the far ends of the room from where we’d entered. The hall that had led us here was maybe a hundred yards or so, so we were likely out past the baseline footprint of the building itself. Neat. Underground bunker thing.
The head guard turned to the men holding me before he addressed desk lady. “You’re done.”
They dropped me from about waist height. Maybe if someone had been thoughtful enough to carpet the floor, it wouldn’t have hurt so bad but as it was I landed ass-bone first on the bare metal. A guard came to my front and pointed a gun at me while the other four left. It was my sincere hope that writhing on the floor and swearing didn’t seem to constitute an escape attempt because I was doing those things whether the gunman liked it or not.
“Where’s he headed?” The guard was talking to the… torture receptionist? Not sure what her job title was. There wasn’t a nameplate on the desk. I felt like that begged a lot of questions. Like how do you even get this particular job? What were her qualifications? Clearly I was injured. Is she just a secretary? Has she been through corporate evil secretary training? There was a phone on her desk, so clearly she was fielding calls from somebody. I didn’t really have a good reason to believe that any of these questions would be answered by anyone if I asked them and, honestly, I didn’t want them to start butt-rifling… rifle-butting? I didn’t want them to hit me in the face. My stomach bruise was already going to be all purple and green and girls aren’t into that. Scars, sure. Maybe even an eye patch if you can sport the rugged look and get away with it. No one is into bruises. I shouldn’t say no one. People are into everything. There are entire communities dedicated to erotic zit popping and the removal of limbs. Probably bruise porn. In fact, mental note made to check and see if bruise porn is a thing.
She said a number, presumably a room. I didn’t really think much of the number, since numbers are less of a mental distraction from constant pain than bruise porn, but when the head guy looked at me and said “Lucky boy.” I got very uncomfortable.
“Why would you say it like that? That makes me very uncomfortable.”
“Oh you’re going to be uncomfortable.” The head guard laughed like he was auditioning for the camp villain in a community theater production. No one else laughed. They all kind of looked uncomfortable as well which didn’t do wonders for my state of mind.
“Move.” The gunman motioned with his gun, which is a weird thing to see in real life.
We walked down the hall to the left-front edge of the room. It looked unremarkably similar to the one I’d been in before except with doors now. There were numbers on them, which followed from the secretary’s answer. Still no idea why she was necessary in any way. How do you even get someone to sign up for that?
As we stood in a little triangle outside the door, with me at the front, I tried to imagine we were in a really weird music video but it didn’t help. That sinking feeling that I was actually going to get killed was really working its way into my brain. The door opened and they pushed me inside. I heard the gun go back over the guard’s shoulder behind me. When I caught my footing I decided to look—
Oh god. Oh god, black table. Black cushiony table. Oh god! They’re gonna fuck my butt.
I turned to run but they grabbed me by the arms. The guards did. I wiggled. I wiggled so good. If I was greased up. Son of a bitch, if I was greased up, it would have worked.
The table had straps. Really good ones. Firm straps. They laid me on it, stomach-down.
“Why am I stomach down?! Why am I stomach down?! What is this?! Don’t fuck my butt! Don’t fuck my butt!”
I held on hope that screaming exactly what I wanted to not happen would make that thing not happen. I felt a sharp pinch on my ass. Right cheek, well away from the crack.
“This is how it starts! Ahhhh! No! This is how it starts!”
I heard a zipper. I know I heard it. It was a real sound.
I blacked out.
When I woke up later, I was still strapped to the table, face-down and, curiously, my ass didn’t hurt. I felt woozy, though. And they may have just numbed my spicy manhole. Nothing was out of the question at this point. The room was dark. Not pitch-black, but the main lights were off and I didn’t hear anyone moving around in the room with me. It’s quiet moments like these that I tend to agree it’s advisable to give some thought to your life and the decisions you’ve made. For me, that began with a summing up. The only person I could really stand had escaped into a bathroom ceiling and I was strapped to a table in the murder basement of a company that will get away with killing me whenever they remember I’m in here. Unless this is the murder part. Seems like a strange way to go. I’m sure that guard would be happy to give me an insane monologue and then cut my skin off.
I wiggled some more, but my stomach put an end to that almost immediately. I was genuinely scared. The
