AWAKENING TO A NIGHTMARE

I awoke feeling slightly hung over and disoriented, ineffectually struggling against my chains on the sweat slick rubber mattress while trying to separate the images of my nightmare from the not so different reality. In my dream I had been a classical damsel in distress, scantily clothed but tightly lashed to some pagan altar, about to be sacrificed to win the favour of some decidedly evil, but otherwise nondescript deity. To my terror, the pompous high priest had just raised his arm, the surprisingly small ceremonial dagger nearly vanishing in his meaty hand, poised to cut my heart out when he was stopped by the voice of my master, coolly stepping between me and the priest. He wore his white physician’s smock like impenetrable amour and pointed out to the enraged cleric in his most deliberately reasonable tone (which I hated with a passion when it was directed at me) that the time for something so crude as this laymen’s attempt at heart surgery was long past, and besides, my heart had already been claimed by himself and was kept safe in cryogenic storage in the clinic’s vault. Hidden from view behind him I smirked at my master’s clever lie, that is until I noticed the faint scar above my breast, and realized the chilling truth of his statement. However, his remark deflated the priest’s bravado quite nicely, making his resemblance to my former boss even more pronounced.

Examining my nightmare a little closer, I realized his ceremonial vest had born the logo of one of the company’s numerous corporate identity promotion campaigns, his dagger had resembled a stylus, and the “pagan altar” would not have looked out of place in one of the company’s conference rooms. Suddenly, fully awake from a rush of adrenaline, I felt immensely relieved to find myself in my cell instead, comforted by the familiar embrace of my restraints.

I had no means to determine how late in the morning it was, but felt I had slept rather long. It was highly irregular that I should wake on my own. Normally, the rumbling sound of my master opening the massive door to my cell was the first thing that penetrated my sleep, to be soon afterwards complemented by the bright glare of the overhead, natural spectrum lights which always made me press my lids together. Now marginally conscious, I would listen to the soft footsteps on the tiled floor when he crossed the room, but still wait until the moment his kneeling body shielded me from the overhead brightness and his lips softly brushed my brow to finally open my eyes. Looking up, I would catch my husband’s ironically amused eyes, to silently reaffirm my submission to him, before I began my customary writhing and grunting, attempting to communicate my urgent wish to be freed from the night’s bondage at long last.

But this day I seemed to be deprived of this treasured waking ritual. Instead, my quick mind was busy evolving all kinds of more or less (rather more) fatal scenarios to account for his absence, and their invariably disastrous consequences for me. An accident that even only temporarily incapacitated him could conceivably spell my end, for there was no chance at all for a casual trespasser to ever find my prison, perfectly sound-insulated and hidden as it was in an elaborately camouflaged subterranean extension to my master’s stately house. Once the annex may have housed big oil tanks for fuelling the central heating, but it had since been upgraded beyond recognition to serve its current, far more sinister purpose. As far as the authorities and their official documentation were concerned, the oil tanks had been demolished and the extension razed when the house was connected to district heating (the work supposedly even supervised by an official representative to ensure no oil spillage occurred). I assume the authorities would have been quite surprised if they had discovered the truth, i.e. that the annex was still used to store fuel, although nowadays of quite a different variety and for quite a different purpose; namely my helplessly chained body to satisfy my husband’s furnace-like appetite for dominance and control.

In my own overheated imagination, I wondered what kind of theory some future archaeologist would come up with if he should happen to excavate the annex, uncovering my desiccated but well preserved remains, the harness and cruel piercings even more readily apparent in my body’s shrivelled state. What crime could possibly have justified this cruel a punishment? Maybe I had been some modern day Jean d’Arc, considered extremely dangerous by the ruling caste because my enlightened drive for a world of freedom, peace, and justice would surely topple them? Therefore, in revenge, I was kept in secret imprisonment by an agent of the regime, to prevent my loyal followers from freeing me and overthrowing the prevailing order. Or, I had been a cruel and remorseless terrorist, responsible for the deaths of thousands, now in the hands of an equally cruel and remorseless close relation to one of my numerous victims. I supposed that the actual, prosaic truth of what had put me in my present circumstances, namely my near suicidal drive for being dominated in the most pervasive manner imaginable, would never have cross my fabled archaeologist’s mind. That was strange, as he was nothing but a figment of my imagination and I could have created him a lot less straight-laced. Of course, he still had his scientific reputation to consider.

I could not seem to control the torrent of my thoughts, becoming ever more distressed. It was most unlike my husband’s methodical, well organized, and reliable personality not to show up for his first, and as he maintained, most important appointment of the day. In my memory, it had happened only twice before. The first time he had gotten senselessly drunk after an error of judgement had cost him the life of a patient he was sure could have been saved, if only he had taken a different approach (his colleagues did not share this opinion, but he would not listen to them). He simply overslept the next morning. When he had finally sobered up enough to make his way down to my cell, I was nearly incoherent. Seeing me in this state obviously shocked him out of his stupor, and he had made a solemn promise to himself never again to allow his own troubles to trouble me.

The other time, the electronic lock controlling access to my cell had developed a glitch and he had been unable to open it. That I did not hear anything of his frantic attempts to force the door open was a testament to the excellent sound insulation afforded by my prison. Fortunately, I had slept through most of this episode and had barely had time to work myself into a mindless panic again when he had finally managed to locate the glitch and found a way to circumvent it. Naturally, the door’s locking system had since been upgraded to a higher level of redundancy and fail-safety, as well as impregnability.

Intellectually, I recognized that my fears of imminent doom were unfounded in reality, and only explicable as a kind of delayed panic reaction (if there was such a thing) to my total loss of control over my own fate. I knew that my master did not subscribe to the view that everybody else should share his funeral, and had on numerous occasions assured me of having made appropriate arrangements, so that in case of his untimely death, my continued well-being (translation: my continued suffering) would be properly taken care of. Obviously, George, my mechanical nemesis, being the only other person who knew every detail of my plight (sharing a great deal of responsibility in creating it!), was the logical choice for acting as his henchman in this capacity. So, I would conceivably have joined George’s wife Fran in receiving the tender attentions of her loving husband. This in itself was an appalling proposition! The concept of moderation was largely unknown to George, and only my master’s mitigating influence had so far kept him from pursuing some of his more extravagant ideas. Left unchecked his sometimes boyish enthusiasm could have serious consequences for those unfortunate enough to find themselves entrusted to his power, as Fran would undoubtedly attest to. I had never understood how she had managed to abide him, but neither could I claim complete understanding in my own related case. Of course, these days, our choices were somewhat limited.

I wondered with sudden terror if the key to my chastity belt would also be transferred into George’s safekeeping? What if not? This chilling image of the key accompanying my husband to his grave, like some dead Pharaoh’s most valued treasures, made my lower abdomen contract spasmodically and the involuntarily sucked-in air whistled past my nose shackle. At the same time, the grommets occupying the many holes in my vaginal lips, as well as the shackle through my clitoris, dragged uncomfortably against their respective anchor points to the belt’s shield, forcing me to focus my attention even further on this most sensitive region. I slowly expelled the air in an effort to calm my racing heart and after some minutes of deliberate, slow breathing, succeeded in lowering my heart rate to a more sustainable pace. I would dearly have liked to also wipe the cold sweat from my brow, but I had to content myself with the observation that the tears streaming down along my temples would serve as well to prevent it from stinging in my eyes. The terrible prospect of living out the remainder of my life in stringent captivity, without the chance of ever attaining sexual relief, was too much to contemplate just then, so I retreated in a set of mental exercises my master had taught me in the past to help me cope with the sometimes overwhelming psychological strain of my situation. I was not very adept at these techniques, but this time I was supremely motivated.