probe a little longer this time and are promptly removed. My body responds to the intrusion, but the impact is less obvious given my captured position.
‘Good, let us proceed.’
I feel a strange sense of having travelled through time and participating in some ancient sexual rite of passage.
‘There is no requirement for the subject to acknowledge anything I say. It can be verified on her behalf by J. It is, however, important that she hears the words before we remove that sense as well.’
I feel my breasts rising and falling with each breath; the anticipation as to what is coming next is so distinct.
‘It is our understanding, Dr Quinn, that the subject gave you permission to effectively render her blind for forty-eight hours?’
The subject. I am truly a nonentity.
Pause.
‘True.’
‘It is our understanding that you made her aware, on a number of occasions, that there were implications for her behaviour over this period.’
‘True.’
‘And that for each question she asked, there would be consequences?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it your belief that she understood these requirements?’
‘Yes.’
‘Finally, you have discussed our research program and she agreed to be involved?’
‘That’s correct.’
This is it, it is actually happening. I have handed myself over to him, to them. Although I do wonder why are they going through this mentally tortuous process.
‘This is truly excellent work. We can say categorically that she is perfect for our program. I am very much looking forward to analysing the results.’
Wow, positive feedback. Jeremy must be very pleased with himself. I wonder whether all of this is turning him on.
‘We must address the consequences of her actions. How many questions has she asked in total?’
Before I am given the privilege of hearing the answer, earplugs are inserted into my ears. Oh god, this is full on. Complete silence, complete blindness, completely mute and completely exposed. I have never gone into a state of shock before; I can only imagine that this is what I am feeling now. Completely devoid of … well … everything! Completely 100 per cent numb, frozen in time. There is now absolutely no sensory way to predict what will happen to me and absolutely no way of preventing it. Touch is my one and only remaining sense.
Something helmet-like is placed over my head. It feels weird, a little onerous at first, and it takes me a moment to register that, of course, they will be monitoring the neural activity in my brain. This is the missing link in their research and I am their human experiment. Instinctively, I attempt to control my thoughts, then scream silently; I want to test the device and its tracking mechanisms to see if it will make any difference when they analyse the results. This situation is almost too bizarre to comprehend.
My wrists are released from behind me and rebound together in front of me. My arms are stretched way beyond my head. No further please, I pray silently. My hips are steadied as the stretching continues and my body is then forced to bend over a spongy bar until I reach the floor where my bound wrists are attached and secured, along with my neck. This position ensures my chest is now lower than my now-protruding arse. I can only imagine my breasts dangling free as my breathing escalates, ensuring I understand this is all very real and not a dream at all. All hands are removed from my body. My restraints are now entirely non-human.
The sound of my racing heart consumes me. It pumps so hard and fast I wonder if this is it. Is this what a heart attack feels like? Am I having a heart attack right this second? What a position to die in. Before I fully assimilate the possibility of heart failure, my body bucks against the intrusion of yet more probing fingers. I feel my nipples harden and my butt jolts at the invasion. I hold my breath as they stay longer this time, apply more pressure, test and stretch the confines of their now slippery surrounds. Warmth emanates from within me as my vagina moistens in anticipation of their touch. The sound of my heart racing threatens to explode in my ears. I exhale sharply as they retract; shocked at the emptiness they leave behind.
Then nothing but my beating heart.
I am stung so hard and fast on my arse I freeze, completely rigid.
It happens again. It stops.
There is no breath going into or out of my lungs.
And again. It stops.
I need to inhale.
In quick succession, I am struck again and again and again and again. I inhale with each thwack of the strap landing across my arse, unable to exhale from the sheer shock of it. The oxygen intake is in stark conflict to the silent scream frantically attempting to leave my throat, rendering it impossible. I spasm as my head spins in turmoil.
The stinging sensation is like nothing I’ve experienced before; not too painful but not un-painful. Just enough to feel the bite on the surface of my flesh for a second or two, then just as quickly the sensation begins to recede. It starts and it stops. I am left panting, overwhelmed. Cooling ointment is being caressed into my buttocks, so smoothly, so seductively I could weep at the miraculous change in intensity. I’m already emotionally spent. Can I really take this? Perhaps my thesis would have proved a very different piece of work had I experienced this first-hand.
Then again thwack, thwack, and again higher, lower, within and around … and I lose count …
My world slides into slow motion. I’m splitting in two.
My body arches and retracts in both desperation and desire as it attempts to avoid the impact of the relentless lashes on my buttocks. I’m writhing and squirming internally as my arse maintains its rigid position as if it is begging for more. Is it, I wonder?
My hips are held firm as yet again the probing fingers effortlessly slide in to reacquaint themselves with my vagina. I feel the deep vibration in my lower body that releases a seed of invitation to this entire experience. I feel my vulva swell in anticipation as if my vagina is welcoming a long-lost friend and I am throbbing, aching and wet. I have no doubt the owner of the fingers is ensuring this information is ‘noted’, given its extended stay within me.
They leave. Cooling ointment arrives, applied with hands stroking softly, gently, my arse attempting to replicate the rhythm of the caress. Once again tears flow with the relief and tenderness of it. What is happening to me?
I’m left alone. I breathe. I sob.
Blackness and silence encompass me.
It is only now that I register I want more.
The straps under my knees and binding my ankles are released. My legs tremble and shake in response. Knees are repositioned further apart, spread wide, re-strapped and ankles realigned and anchored accordingly. Oh, dear god. Abstractly, I wonder why I use the term ‘god’ in such highly sexualised moments. The bar is shifted into a higher position, resulting in my arse becoming an even more obvious spread-eagled target, if that
