Thursday, November 19, 2009

From 'The Interrogator'

Some chapters from an old but good story.


The Interrogator

Copyright 2004 by Chris Bellows

Chapter One

Professionally attired. Hair short and well styled... and dark which I have always found attractive. Striking blue eyes. Firm demeanor.

Just watching her order coffee and listening to her very exacting instructions gives her away.

“Black... one packet of sugar... lid tight... extra napkin.”

It is indeed she, I quickly conclude. The firm, no nonsense voice. I cannot forget her.

The Hispanic clerk dutifully prepares the hot brew, presses the lid tightly and stuffs the small brown bag. She pays, accepts the change and turns.

Our eyes briefly meet. She smiles that smile... one of confidence to those who have never crossed her path... one tinged with evil to those who have.

She pauses, broadens her grin, seeming laugh to herself, then strolls to the door of the bodega.

Does she recognize me?

Her manner gives little hint, yet now I know it is she. It’s that walk. How much time was consumed watching her so nonchalantly sashay about the confines of my prison cell.

I quickly toss a dollar bill onto the counter and follow. On to the sidewalks of New York... as the morning rush winds down... I first look left then right to catch a glimpse of her heavy winter coat, the tails flailing in the wind as she turns a corner. Even with the covering she looks good and passing heads turn to ogle her feminine but authoritative gait.

And I of course continue. I cannot stop now, though I find myself quavering.

Is it the cold of late autumn?... or the psychological duress of seeing a woman whose image so often visits on sleepless nights?

The woman walks with purpose and I must half jog to gain proximity. Why, I do not know. I do not even know what to say to her. I was not good at engaging girls in casual conversation when I was young and, at age 35, I am no better with grown women.

One block... two. She turns into a narrow street, some would deem an alleyway, the likes of which give the Greenwich Village area its charm. I run to the corner to ensure that I can spy whichever doorway she enters.

At the corner I quickly turn. I almost knock her down. There she stands... radiant... poised... her upright, shoulders-back posture so commanding. She is awaiting me.

I lurch to a halt. An apology forms but does not pass my lips. The woman chuckles softly... knowingly.

“Most women would be calling 911 right now, Bobby. Something you wanted to say to me?”

The mocking intonation of my name... the sarcasm. My mind reels and I am not only flabbergasted but realize she is correct. One should not stalk women in New York City with any sense of impunity.

I catch my breath but before formulating a reply, she speaks. And I am trained to listen when she speaks.

“Oh, yes. I recognized you in the coffee shop. I remember you of course, but was polite enough to be respective of your anonymity. But when you so brazenly follow me, all respect for your little secret must be cast aside.”

I feel belittled by her stern lecture. She seems to enjoy my forlorn look and laughs abruptly after giving equally derisive intonation to the words ‘little secret’.

“Why?” I finally blurt, both disconcerted and surprised by the squeakiness of my voice.

She laughs more.

“You don’t need to know that. I am not sure I want you to know that. And the agreement you signed with the Bangkok police should have been very specific in addressing the issue.”

She turns. She is just going to leave me standing... to once again heartlessly walk out of my life. The way she so haughtily departs makes me shake more. And I find it difficult to speak. It as if I am back in my cell.

“I can contact a lawyer,” I finally utter, again disappointed with the lack of masculine menace in my disguised threat.

She stops and turns.

“I have a complete copy of your file, Bobby.”

She speaks with the ominousness which I failed to marshal, still sneering my name.

“Oh, yes. The Bangkok letter of release did not cover my records, Bobby. It can all come out in court... if you push too hard. Yes, just think, your entire psychological profile available to all.

“Many court records can be accessed on the internet you know...”

The threat is so calmly enunciated. So cool. So authoritative So much in control.

“You should recall that there were photos taken...”

My apoplexy becomes more apparent. She steps back toward me and pauses, knowing that I will have difficulty mustering an appropriate reply. She enjoys my mental struggle.

I stammer. Words are not forthcoming. She continues.

“You decide what you want to do. But before taking any drastic action, give me a call. We’ll chat... just like old times.”

Again the sarcasm. ‘Old times’ were in a large Bangkok jail cell. Hot, musty, humid. But for me the size was superfluous. I was continually kept in what is referred to in the incarceration field as ‘four point restraint’. The spacious surroundings were for the comfort of my jailers.

A hand gloved in fine black doeskin produces a business card. I take it, looking straight into her beautiful blue eyes. With any other woman I would feel desire... perhaps a degree of lust. With her I feel trepidation.

“I broke no laws, Bobby. Think back. I did not even touch you... other than to perhaps help you wipe your nose. Though you certainly begged for more than that. Remember... you weren’t permitted to use your hands... for anything.”

She teasingly glances to my crouch with a ribald look. There are women who believe that left unsupervised the hand of every male has only one goal. She is one.

“But perhaps you’d like to hire lawyers to engage me civilly. Keep in mind I believe a competent attorney will advise you that the first step, after complete discovery and thorough disclosure of your little peccadilloes, will be to decide whether New York or Thailand is the proper venue to adjudicate your complaint. I’ll argue for Thailand... and win.

“You’d like to return to Thailand, wouldn’t you Bobby? There are some prison guards I am sure would enjoy your visit.”

She now outright chortles and I am dumbfounded. I shake more and stare at the card, silently trying to disguise my cowering physical reaction. Then I look up to realize that she is gone and I failed to observe into which building she entered.

But alas, I have her card.

Chapter Two

“OK, Bob, may I call you Bob? So your rights were trampled upon and a bunch of women had some fun... in a foreign country... where the laws are not only sketchy but change with every election... and where you can’t quite remember all the names of the parties involved... if you were given their true names to remember.

“Think we have a bit of a problem?”

‘Shaun the Shark’s’ words echo. Having twice offered that I prefer to be called ‘Robert’, he pontificates as if speaking to a group of news reporters on the courthouse steps. A highly aggressive attorney, to the point of being borderline unethical, he listened to my Thailand escapade and expressed less then little interest in representing me.

And... I felt demeaned in relating the story.

He seemed more enthused about asking the question which the jury would most like to hear answered... what was a bachelor of 32 years doing on vacation in Thailand... alone?

“There is a systemic problem of pedophilia in those Southeast Asian countries,” he beseechingly suggested in encapsulating the jury’s unspoken quest.

He posed the statement as a question, extending his hands palms up, expecting some type of sage retort which would instantly sway the hypothetical gathering of twelve to my side of the story... and award massive damages.

“Of course if the venue indeed is changed to Thailand, that subject matter comes off the table... and a different stratagem for the complaint must be formulated....”

That meant time... which meant money... which meant I was not going to be engaging ‘Shaun the Shark’ on straight contingency.

“Do the courts in Thailand permit contingent fee arrangements?”

His question summarized the peculiarities of my case and more importantly the vagaries of enhancing the size of his wallet. I left his office rather disgruntled with the legal profession. It was apparent that the question of venue would not be litigated by an attorney working on a contingency basis.

So, I sit in my apartment in the tub, having learned that, in all deference to the adage concerning cold showers, what most tames the libido is a hot bath... that and a well chilled bottle of Chablis.

As I lie back in the darkness, the lettering on the business card seems to be imprinted in my brain... ‘Denise Evans, PhD. Professor of Psychology, New York University’.

Well, at least I was given her real first name... only in Thailand it was preceded by ‘Miss’... Miss Denise.

In mentally invoking her name, the memories begin to stream and though sitting in piping hot water, I again shake with the trauma. It’s been three years and I remain an emotional wreck. I do not date in a social sense and masturbation does not lead to climactic release, just frustration... thus the weekly hot baths, which seem to quell the effect of the abundant hormones.

So my brain hits the rewind button where I likewise am lying in a tub... only in a Bangkok hotel room. A loud knock on the door receives my bellow of ‘come back later’, only to be followed by the jiggling of keys and the sound of the hotel room door being opened. Having engaged the chain, I once again call out to the presumed room service to return later. My admonition is followed by the sound of a snap, breaking the chain lock, and an army of footsteps. I arise from the tub, in deshabille of course, and three uniformed officers brusquely enter the bathroom as I stand to greet them dripping wet.

“Robert Dawson?”

I nod with the sound of my name and two officers grab an arm as I step onto the tiled floor. The third officer retrieves a towel, begins to hand it to me only to realize that my wrists are being cuffed begin my back. In stepping forward to encircle my waist, I am chagrined to look down into the eyes of a rather cute Thai police officer who seems to enjoy enshrouding a naked male.

The gibberish of the Thai language follows. My name was the only English spoken, but it seemed safe to assume that I was being read my rights... whatever such were in Bangkok. The female officer took me by my left arm, a remarkably firm grip, and directed me out of the bathroom and into the hall... wearing nothing other than the towel and dripping wet. She seemed to enjoy leading me about and her commanding presence became an appropriate beginning for my ordeal.

The two male officers remained behind searching the room and I presume packing my effects. I never saw them again or any other male for the ensuing months.

The tub chills. I have been immersed long enough to counter the level of testosterone. I read somewhere that the reason the testicles are outside the body is to provide coolness which promotes the production of sperm. I have always surmised that the long term calming effect of the hot baths is to curtail sperm production. My own theory of course, but it seems to help. Since that fateful trip to Bangkok I have not been able to ejaculate. Ejaculatory incompetence is the clinical term... not being able to pull the trigger the vernacular. Whatever the term, the condition leaves me jumpy... and horny in a very odd way. I seem to seek something that I cannot find... Massages, New York ‘full body’ massages, arouse but the promised ‘happy ending’ does not occur. Dates end in embarrassment when orgasm cannot be achieved. Hookers... well the story is consistent.

I dry myself and wrap the towel around my waist, ironically just as the Thai police officer had. Into the kitchen for water and as I stack ice in a tall glass, there lies the business card... Denise Evans... ‘Miss Denise’ my mind politely corrects. The address is Prince Street... in the Village but unexpectedly distant from most NYU facilities. It cannot be her academic office.

It’s Friday night... not late. A phone call to an office would reach an answering machine... to a home would not annoy. I ponder and her words... ‘before taking any drastic action, give me a call. We’ll chat... just like old times’... rattle my brain. So cool... so authoritative. And she seemed to relish watching me struggle for any appropriate utterance.

The Chablis brings relative loquaciousness. I reach for the cordless phone and dial. A female voice answers with a ‘hello’... accented... Asian.

“Miss Denise, please.”

I curse myself in so humbly requesting the haughty PhD by the demanded reverential salutation.

“Who is calling?”

“Robert Dawson.”

“One moment please.”

The exchange is in the clipped English of someone learning words by rote... reciting back carefully scripted phrases.

“So you would like to chat.”

It is Miss Denise and as suggested, the woman’s demeanor is no nonsense, skipping all polite greetings and driving to the point.

I clear my throat and my ears detect such humility in enunciating words which I attempt to inflect as stentorian.

“Yes... yes ma’am.”

She laughs.

“Not going to set a cadre of lawyers after me? I retrieved your files from my archives, Bobby. I remembered your face in the bodega but not all the details. You were a fascinating study.”

She laughs and despite the long relaxing soak I feel my circulation rush. Being thought of, referred to, as some kind of laboratory animal incites both memories and anger... but what does one do about it?

Once again while contriving a reply, she cunningly speaks and disrupts what could be a thoughtful verbal parry.

“Stop in tomorrow night, Bobby, 7:00 p.m. The address is on the card. Let’s not call it for drinks... just for a talk. And you will shave... just like the old days... you know what I mean.”

Before replying there is a click. She knows I will be there and she knows I will be shaved. And I know she is correct... which adds to the frustration more than anything else.

Chapter Three

The Prince Street address is an old industrial building converted to apartments. Denise Evans, PhD is on the sixth floor of what appears to be a six story building. I am promptly buzzered in without verbal exchange. After a moment’s wait in the lobby, I decide to skip the slow grinding elevator and walk the stairs.

The stairwell is dank and ominous. I am somewhat reminded of the building in Bangkok where I spent three months, only there the heat was oppressive and the New York autumn has chilled the unheated fire protected stairway.

Reaching the sixth floor, I note that the stairway continues upwards to a floor not noted on the lobby directory. A small hallway has only one door. It is ajar and I push it open. Again there is trepidation in entering the unknown lair of my one time interlocutor, the woman who changed my life.

In a dimly lit parlor I am greeted by the voice on the phone. A young Asian woman dressed in black. My eyes struggle to adjust to the light as her accented voice, much more directing than on the phone, commands.

“You follow. Miss Denise see you when prepared.”

My mind is immersed. I am mentally returned to Bangkok. The unknown... the darkness... being ushered by a woman... my unexplained reaction of acceptance in being directed about.

We traverse a set of stairs. There is another floor above. The apartment of Denise Evans PhD is huge and a sconce on the landing provides enough light to better glimpse at the Asian woman. Her face remains obscure but I can see a black leather bodice leaving arms and shoulders bare, short black pleated skirt of satin. Thighs exposed. Knee high leather boots.

She is not a maid.

Down a hallway of some half dozen doors, at the last we enter a large open room. Cabinets occupy a far wall. In the middle is a metal chair. The straps and other paraphernalia attached bring consternation. I gulp and stop in my tracks. The woman continues on to stand behind the chair, turn and face me. She smiles... diabolically. Her face is vaguely familiar yet I am too distracted to recall.

“Miss Denise wants you to be comfortable. She say you know what that mean.”

Yes... I do.

“You put in here,” she gestures to a drawer as I lean to slip out of my shoes.

Belt is unbuckled, slacks dropped, shirt unbuttoned. I slowly disrobe. The Asian woman assists by folding each garment and placing such in the drawer. As I approach outright nakedness she smiles more and more. In completing the task I tremble in being vulnerable and exposed to a woman I have never before met.... or have I?

She locks the drawer then gestures, putting her hands behind her head, indicating that I should follow. I do, finding myself becoming strangely docile. I await as she dons latex gloves.

“You sit. You know the chair. Sit before.”

She laughs, apparently with the image of me helplessly sitting bound and naked. As I approach the peculiar device, a gloved hand smears unguent on the cylinder of rubber protruding from the seat.

“Very slippery. It no hurt.”

More accommodation than I received in the Bangkok jail... if it was in fact a jail.

She motions, crooking her finger. I approach. The trembling increases as she assists in aligning my backside. Latex covered hands guide my hips. For the first time in three years I once again feel the humiliating sensation of a stout rubber object parting my cheeks. I know to slowly lower myself and she has indeed sufficiently lubricated the phallus. It glides past my rectum with embarrassing ease.

The woman chuckles as she works with noted celerity in encircling wrists and ankles with strong nylon straps, simply adhering my limbs to the chair with velcro. Such bindings become ironically frustrating in that a mere child can provide release. Yet without use of my hands I must sit impassively and learn discipline. In Bangkok they termed it obedience. Yes I learned obedience and the lessons remain ingrained in my psyche. I find myself sitting without even testing the bindings.

The special seat, split at just where my scrotal sac hangs, has thigh straps used to hold me well spread. She pulls each over my inner thigh and effortlessly adheres the end to the outside of the chair frame. Satisfied that I am thoroughly bound, a neck collar is retrieved from a cabinet. Broad... stiff... fur lined for comfort... my head will be kept completely immobile as it enshrouds my neck from sternum to chin.

Meanwhile, my penis rises, the pink glans protruding from its foreskin sheath and slowly turning purple. The anal insertion is having its expected effect. Viewing my slow tumescence amuses and the woman knowingly laughs. I am grateful for the dim room light.

“Yes, you sit before. You enjoy.”

Her laughter... her comportment... irritates. Yet I find myself strangely silent. I do not protest. I cannot. I am catatonic in reliving a three year old nightmare.

“Dr. Denise, she be in soon.”

Lastly, a gloved right hand reaches to my pubes, my privates forcibly exhibited by my parted thighs. She examines.

“You shave. Very nice. Very good.”

And with that, the woman flips off the light switch to leave me to my thoughts in the dark... sitting naked... well bound.... completely immobile... anally impaled... and erect.

And is it all so familiar...

Chapter Four

Was I in jail in Bangkok?

The unanswered question still rattles my brain. And there are others.

My confidential release agreement was with the Bangkok police department, but the facility was more like a mental institution than a place of incarceration for criminals.

As I sit awaiting Miss Denise my mind wanders. Though it has been three years, everything remains so crystal clear.

Riding in the back of a police car, wrists handcuffed, a towel as my only covering, the police woman continuously gripped my left arm at the elbow. There was something about being nearly naked in her presence, the adrenaline flowing in the excitement of being arrested, if I was arrested, the thought of being controlled, directed against my will... well I suddenly found myself hardening... where a man normally likes to harden... only not in front of a woman police officer and not when at some point the ride will conclude and I will be escorted out of the car.

Yes, as the fast moving car bounced through narrow streets of Bangkok the woman held more firmly, particularly around turns when she knowingly steadied my upper torso so I would not to topple over. Once I realized I had a problem in the groin area it became even more difficult to mentally control and the towel slowly tented as my manhood pressed against the folds.

Then the driver took an unexpected and fast turn. With nothing to hold I leaned. The officer pulled me back and the motion caused my penis tip to find its way through the opening where the two ends of the towel met. Guys know to cover themselves such that the ends of a covering overlap at the hip. In the hotel room, the woman had hastily covered me such that the overlap was at my pubes... just where my penis was ardently attempting to poke through.

I was not sure whether she noticed my predicament but when I pushed my feet together to draw closer my thighs and relieve the tension on the towel she objected. A torrent of Thai words flowed. Apparently keeping one’s feet apart is mandatory in police custody, at least in Thailand, for when I did not respond to her admonition, she pulled out her nightstick and gruffly pushed against my right knee. This action ended all pretense as the towel parted altogether and the tip of my turgid erection popped fully into view.

The look on her face was of alarmed disgust but quickly changed to amusement when she seemed to realize that the vaunted male penis, though virile and normally respected in the Asian culture, was very much under her control.

There were more words, translation unknown, but the tone of her voice mellowed. Not to one of sympathy but more to one of pity and ridicule. As if to indicate ‘poor baby, all aroused and no available climax’. There was a phrase she uttered more than once, posed as a teasing question, which I guessed was something like ‘wouldn’t you like to stroke it?’

Then her free hand brazenly pulled away the front of the towel altogether and there I sat completely exposed. To make matters worse she jostled my testicles with the end of her nightstick to afford herself a better view then began to diddle the underside of my erection with the smooth polished wood.
Mocking words, which I subconsciously translated as ‘you like?’ were teasingly offered and I worked to control myself as the nightstick stroked and the bouncing car added a perverse rhythm to her handiwork.

I was humiliated, yet aroused and my erection seemed to grow and rise to the point that I worried about the driver up front seeing the standing tip in the rear view mirror. When the car stopped in traffic, I became frozen with the fear, concerned that passers-by would see the depraved antics. My apoplexy in turn seemed to thrill the female officer. And of course there was the ultimate concern... finally capitulating to her weapon and ejaculating in the back of a patrol car.

The officer would of course deny all participation in such a degenerate act. That I knew. So I fought off any arousing thoughts and mentally worked to control myself.

But alas, she seemed to sense pending climax for she perfectly timed respites of her diddling with the smooth stick to correlate with those moments when I frantically pulled on my handcuffs... which she rightfully interpreted as unbridled attempts to stroke myself to climax.

She worked then stopped, worked then stooped. Finally, with a glance out the window to ascertain our location, my tormentress abruptly thwacked the very tip of my penis with the end of her nightstick. I gasped in agony as my proud erection quickly detumefied like a pricked balloon. This brought laughter and some words I interpreted as gloating from the woman in control.

As the patrol car turned into a drive, the seemingly delicate hands which had so callously deflated my erection reached over my lap and gently folded the towel over my pubic area.

I wanted to hug her in gratitude.

In hindsight, I admire the entire subterfuge. Rather than vociferously proclaiming my rights as an American citizen, protesting my treatment, threatening to call the American embassy, I spent the entire ride concerned with the exposure of my privates and the licentious deeds of my captor. When the patrol car pulled to a halt, I was more occupied with my nudity than any legal issues.

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