Saturday, December 10, 2016
Digital Indoctrination V
“You objectify women, Mr. Ross... particularly your stepdaughter. She’s become an object of envy and admiration... but also scorn.”
Scorn yes. The minx seduced, set me up and pressed charges. Yet I cannot... dare not... come across as belligerent or vengeful. The report of Dr. Rebecca Rogers will be given great weight in determining my ultimate fate. In recalling the strip show that evening in the bathroom, emulating a fan dance with a bath towel, the words of attorney and friend Henry Foster come to mind... that if it comes to a trial the prosecutor will have Cindy in a little girl’s dress, wearing pigtails and carrying a toy doll during testimony. The girl could do it... she role plays with zeal.
Envy and admiration? For some reason, despite being emboldened by a confluence of narcotics, I strangely succumbed that evening, surrendered to the charms of a most precocious temptress... an 18 year old aspiring trollop. And the manner of my capitulation? Ah... the sordid details...
“I’m going to immerse you Mr. Ross. It’s an arduous course of action... there will be needed some modifications... harsh yet reversible... and necessary. We don’t molly coddle here at the Mills Institute. And your reluctance to fully relate the events and the actions that brought you here is counter productive. If you’re attempting to abridge your therapy, it won’t work. You’re here until I can report change and improvement. And for that I am going to have you indoctrinated.”
The normally soft soothing voice of the maternal Dr. Becky is firm and ominous. It brings concern. But of more concern is that I have no hint of what she has install for me. Visions of the MILF prosecutor... the mother I’d like to fuck... come to mind. Could it be me ultimately fucked? The woman was uncharacteristically gleeful with the judge’s slam of the gavel.
Mostly acclimated to the bizarre form of restraint... mind and body separated by a thick wall... there comes renewed distress. One by one my limbs are released, each time after the jab of a needle. Is there numbness? I cannot determine in remaining immobile, but I do know that after each jab... right ankle and left, right elbow and left... hands and fingers putter about. And there’s discomfort... masked... but there is a sense that something penetrates.
Then come jabs which terrorize... about my pubes. When fingers fiddle there, I realize for certain that I have been numbed.
What is happening?
Finally whomever attends, whatever is being done, ends. And though the minutes, hours and days are countless, there comes a long interval during which the only sensory input is someone regularly swabbing elbows, ankles and pubes. Plus there is the tap of my nose and the offering of bland sustenance and water. Yet now the offering of liquid seems increased. Yes, the flow through the offered straw seems endless, a pause required to refill the bottle.
Minutes later... hours later?.. there comes the requisite urge. By now I know to just release. But there is a degree of arrest and stinging pain, the flow somewhat hampered. Something is different! I must press with my abdomen.
Then I feel immediate response. A warm wet towel cleanses. Normally I am left to wallow in my excretions. Instead someone is carefully attending to me! The thought disturbs... that someone is assigned to constantly observe my nakedness.
The ensuing hours... days?.. I am watered frequently. Over time, urinating becomes less of a task. but something is different. The warm wetness puddles about my buttocks, no longer streaming to my thighs. What have they done to me? Rather what have they done to my estranged body?
Meanwhile the boredom... the isolation... dulls the mind. I pine for the return of my therapist, admonishing lectures notwithstanding.
I am to be indoctrinated, she threatened... forewarned... her normal cheeriness clouding with the advisement.
I divert my thoughts wondering if I will ever be permitted access to legal counsel. Friend and attorney Henry Foster, having placed on the hold my criminal matter, is hopefully fervently engaging in civil actions. My assets, transferred from joint accounts in the dead of night, need to be reclaimed. Queen Vicky has graciously opened her checkbook... burgeoning with much of my money... to pay Henry on the criminal matter... as agreed when I surrendered myself to the Mills Institute. But in a fair division of assets, my share should approach half a million. Such will be needed as the financial institutions which hire foreign currency traders require thorough background checks... clean background checks. That I now lack. Therapy successfully completed, the unemployment line beckons.