'Submersed' Third Snippet

This will be the last posted snippet.

A Captive

“Arrgh,” the indiscernible noise emanating from a naked form kneeling on all fours, tummy propped up by a short wooden bench. 

“He’s coming to, Pansy. Water please.”

Aida Benson sets aside her precision tools, taking from her servant a squeeze bottle of water. First she douses the head of her kneeling charge, stimulating more consciousness, then inserts the straw into a yawning mouth to hydrate. Her captive sputters, some liquid imbibed, some spewing to the stone flooring.

“Whaa...” the well trussed man attempts to speak.

“Stay still for just a little longer and I’ll remove the molt gag. Don’t bother trying to talk,” Aida’s tone smooth yet firm.

Hands return to her tools. There comes the high pitched screech of a small drill, the bit approaching the captive’s mouth.

“Just one or two more teeth for today then we’ll talk and I’ll finish tomorrow.”

The drill pushes past a mouth forcibly opened by the steel jaws of the molt gag. There comes pain, there comes heat, there comes the pungent odor of enamel greeting the sharp rapidly spinning bit. The captive spasms, legs and arms flailing... attempting to flail. This triggers more pain.

“You’ll find that to be futile... mister whomever you are. You’re well bound. Let me finish and we’ll exchange information.”

The steady hand works, another bicuspid is ground to the gums.

“Your smile will be... ah... rather ungainly. But there will be few who will notice,” Aida’s flippant observation so aloofly uttered... considering the abhorrence of the deed.

“There... more tomorrow,” smiling in assessing her efforts.

In removing the molt gag, Aida surveys four front teeth, ground away, flattened to the point of uselessness in terms of masticating food. But more importantly in terms of biting.

“So... I’ll talk... you’ll listen. Then you will talk... answer questions... and I will listen.”

“Fuck you,” the invective comical in being hissed through missing teeth.

“Tsk, tsk. Such nastiness for the woman who saved your life,” a hand reaching forth, fingers gathering up the man’s nose and twisting. “I’m sure you’ve already realized you’re not only well restrained. But you’re also naked and quite vulnerable,” twisting convincingly, smiling with the resulting outburst of agony.

The hand retreats, the smile turning to a wicked grin in seeing unavertable tears of anguish rolling to the cheeks.

“That’s better. Silence. My name is Aida Benson. You were in an accident, driving your vehicle into the river. You were knocked unconscious. Blunt force head trauma. You’ve been in a coma for two days. Really, seat belts do save lives by the way. I rescued you, brought you to my home. It’s a good thing you float, otherwise I would have had to swim the width of the river.”

“Hospital?”

“No. I’m medically trained. You’re in capable hands. And I did not think you’d want to alert the authorities.”

The captive attempts again to move, his effort bringing more pain.

“I’d be hesitant to do that... Mr. Whomever. For reasons which you’ll come to understand. If you have not already guessed... I’ve got you restrained. While unconscious, I took the liberty of assuring you’re in bondage... inescapable bondage... and bound in such a manner that you’ll not need to be freed for quite some time. So move about, but be forewarned, too much motion... sudden pulling... will bring cramping.”

With that the captive mightily tugs at his right arm, a futile attempt to grasp or punch his interrogator... and a painful one. His action brings a sharp and agonizing cramping to his arm muscles.

“Yes, sometimes actions are more convincing than words. Slow and easy... you’ll learn. While you’ve been in la la land, I’ve been busy. You’re bearing some rings for me. Best described as surgically implanted. At your heels, deeply inserted to snare the Achilles tendons, and at your elbows, snaring your medial epicondyle tendons and thus the ulner nerves. As a child you were probably told it was your funny bone when you banged yourself there. Well, with your harsh attempt to strike me, you just triggered your funny bone. Different tendons in your legs, but you’ll endure the same type of pain if you were to try to kick me or otherwise try to stand.”

An arm extends to pat the man’s cheeks, the tenderness incongruous with the size and strength of the hand. 

“To the rings are attached steel cables. Such end with a foot or two of elastic cording which are in turn secured to floor bolts. So mercifully, you’ll be able to move a little and stretch... stay any cramping. But sudden motion... punches and kicks will aggravate some very large nerves. Just think, you can instantly punish yourself for any untoward attempts to become physical.” 

Aida stands from sitting on a low stool. The man is astonished to see that other than an attractive bodice of white cotton, she is uncovered... completely naked from just below breasts of size to her feet. Just as astonishing is the tone... the muscling. The woman has the physique of a well exercised Olympian, abdominal muscles rippling, shapely thighs of granite. He finds himself gawking where a man seeks to take his pleasure. Little pubic air, thick meatiness of dark brown yield to peeking deep pink labia... seeming to beckon for attention. Above is a clitoral hood, fleshy, the man’s imagination envisioning beneath a pearly bud of wondrous size.

“It tends to be warm in these parts. And with the seclusion, I keep myself comfortable... and readily accessible for pleasure... my pleasure,” noting his lascivious gaze. 

“Where...” speech faltering.

“You’re at my home, as I said. Along the river where you nearly killed yourself. You’re in a sub basement, dug well underground, beneath the original basement, before the Civil War. Supposedly as a wine cellar. But at the time the owners of this house were abolitionists and this hidden chamber was to shelter escaping slaves... the first stop on the so termed underground railroad... transporting folks like my ancestors to freedom in the north.”

A hand gestures to a far wall.

“You’ll note the many hanging artifacts. Chains, collars, shackles... forged from wrought iron. Much sweat and labor expended in assuring a man was well restrained for working the plantation. After escape, here is where they were freed... the bonds broken. I’ve left the stuff in place as mementos. Some it was probably worn by my ancestors. Ironic that sometime after the war, my great, great grandfather made a good living trading cotton... what the slaves long toiled to harvest in the hot sun. So when the plantation ran into hard times during the Panic of 1873, he bought the place. When things got better he sold off much of the land to make a tidy profit and kept this house. Family’s been here ever since.”   

Aida signals to her servant Pansy.

“Bathe him... and remove his hair,” reaching to tug a clump at the back of his head. “Curious that you have not inquired about your passenger.”

Aida steps back. The naked Pansy, clothing rarely permitted, works to the kneeling man’s rear side, unraveling a spray hose. Within a moment, the man is showered in comforting warmth.

“Now, what is your name?”