Man

By wolfie

He stretched open his eyes and felt perfectly comfortable. He was bent over at the waist, staring at the black stone floor, but his head was lying on a soft pillow. His legs were drawn up at the knees and resting in soft rubber greaves of a sort from his knees to his ankles; his feet were free to hang. His arms were bent likewise at the elbows and rested pointing down in soft rubber braces wrapped cool around them from elbow to wrist. His back was not arched toward the ground, but supported by a thick pillow just below his ribs, and his torso lay in a broad pillowed basin from his belly to his collar. The basin was so soft and deep that it did not compress his ribcage as lying flat on the floor will, and his back did not sag and ache as lying on one’s stomach in bed will do. He lay in as relaxed a position as possible, and he was neither cold nor hot, but perfectly warm, and thirsty.

He started to reach his right hand to his eyes to clean them, but his hands were held at the wrists each between two steel plates that constrained his hands out flat, but did not press them unto discomfort. He could not bend his fingers in the slightest, nor turn his hands. His arms were bound at the elbows in the rubber braces each with a wide, soft rubber strap; and his legs were bound likewise at the knees and ankles. His only clothing was a pair of tight boxer briefs, but he never wore briefs; his penis followed flaccid along his right thigh and the underwear was much too tight for his balls to sag.

But his head was free to move, so he lifted it and looked around at the black walls hanging with sticks and whips, bats of various shapes, shackles and chains, myriad melee weapons, no firearms or bows, and three black tables pushed up to the wall each with two or three black chairs and scattered paper. His head had lain on a thickly pillowed doughnut headrest. He shook himself back and forth but the apparatus was so sturdy that it made almost no noise as he shook it; no part of it was loose enough to move.

“Oh, good! You’re awake,” said a woman behind him.

“Who the hell is that?” he said. “Where am I?”

Bare feet padded the floor over to him by his left and he turned to see. She looked very much by face and shape like Sandra Bullock, that actress from a little over a century ago.

“I am Captain Alessandra Parkes, with an ‘e,’ of the Marine Fourth Lambda Division, two-twelfth regiment, in charge of reconnaissance and intelligence. We’re in an interrogation dungeon, three stories underground.” She passed him and brought a cushioned stool from a table next to the wall and sat before him with an amiable smile. “And you’re one hell of a warrior,” she said. He stared at her eyes for a moment, breathing slow and deep with his nose, but said nothing.

“Good,” she said, “you aren’t panicking. I believed you wouldn’t but that’s still very impressive. You know, if you keep holding your head up like that, your neck and shoulders will get very tired. Just rest it on the pillow and let me talk to you. I promise you aren’t in for as horrible a fate as you think.”

He was not afraid, not in the slightest, but positively livid, and beginning to pant with his nose; he licked his lips, and then sighed and laid his head in the pillow, staring at the floor.

“Thank you!” she said. Her voice resonated soft in the dungeon, like electric feathers. “You’re not the only prisoner I’ve ever seen wake up unafraid in such a predicament, but you’re the only one I’ve ever seen so furiously brave. And something tells me you know precisely what’s in store for you. You’re a sergeant, but what’s your name?”

“Sergeant Alexander Gabriel Hoffmann, two-one-five-oh-eight dash thirteen-arr. What do you want from me?”

“Intelligence, but never mind that for now. You know, I’ve never seen anyone fight as--irate as you? At all times you possessed marvelous courage, valor and fury; or so I’m told. I didn’t arrive until near the end of the firefight, right when they finally brought you down. You took three tasers in the chest and back and swung on for another five seconds or so before you collapsed. That’s astounding. You killed twenty-three women. And that’s about half the total your twelve-man squad took out. I don’t have to tell you every woman, both civil and military, that’s heard about it is screaming for your torture session to be televised.”

“Go ahead and torture me, you motherfucker! Bring it! Son of a bitch!”

“Hey, calm yourself! You didn’t let me finish. I guess you’ve never been captured before. That makes sense. You’re resting in a massage chair. Modified to restrain its occupant. Not protocol. As I was saying, you’re the finest soldier I’ve ever seen, even if you are a man. I thank God I never had to meet you in a skirmish. But therein is what distinguishes me from the average woman. I consider your military attributes respectable. Most women hate everything about men, and that’s a blind disgust; not a quality of intellect. You’re a hero to men. I have no doubt. No matter what happens to you. You’re either a hero, or a martyr and a hero. Benefits of a classical education. I’ve read The Iliad, The Odyssey, and The Aeneid, so you’re prowess, you’re technique and bravery are not lost on me. But the point remains that you’re certain to know useful information that will help the Women’s Marine Corps quell this revolution for good and all. So interrogation is necessary, but while I’m a sadistic person, just like all women, you also charm me; your physique, your personality. In spite of our progress for the last hundred and fifty years, women have not altered their genetic programming. We are all born heterosexual, and though I’d say ninety-eight percent of us are trained to be lesbian, I fall into that two percent that lucked out. I’m bisexual. Best of both worlds. And so you’ve lucked out. I’m not just going to ruin such an attractive specimen, not until I’ve gotten my heart’s desire out of you, all I can enjoy.”

“Then what are you going to do to me?”

“Oh, I’m going to rape you!” She ran her hand through his hair, down his neck, and scratched his scalp, and he shivered. He chuckled. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Think about that before you worry; what I said. When a man rapes a woman, he tortures her; but if a woman rapes a man, she can’t really hurt him unless she uses some deviant sexual implement, like a whip or a knife or something. I won’t do that to you. You’re delectable to look at. And I don’t want to ruin the view.”

His breathing deepened and hastened but he did not open his mouth. He turned over and laid on the floor beneath his face and spoke, “You knew that if you were ever captured, you’d be castrated for resisting even in the slightest, and I’m sorry to say that that is so. I’m sure you knew it would happen, because you fought with the rage that only a man averse to ghastly torture can summon in himself. But I’m willing to make you a deal.”

She waited for a moment, until he spoke, “I’m listening.” His eyes never left hers, and he seldom blinked.

“You answer my questions about your troop movements, strength, attack plans, things like that; answer them as I need them answered, with smooth cooperation, and I promise I won’t hurt you while I rape you.” She smiled. “I’ll get you to enjoy it. In fact, the only reason it’s rape is because you don’t consent. But we’ll love every second of it, I assure you. You have the most massive genitalia I’ve ever seen. Eleven and a half inches; three point two wide! God! And your balls are as large as plums! Gargantuan! Only testicles I’ve ever seen that are larger are horse testicles. I’ll draw it out as slow and delicious as I can! And then after, since I have no choice, I promise your castration will not hurt at all. Protocol is to torture them until they’re crushed and tape the whole session, but I’ll only bring myself to be so sadistic if you refuse to answer my questions. And I honestly don’t want to; not to you. You’re gorgeous. So when it’s all over, I’ll anesthetize your groin and just a quick slash with a knife. Nothing compared to what you thought would happen.”

“I’ll bleed to death.”

“No, no,” she brushed her palm across his cheek, “I’ll stop the blood supply first. It won’t look like much of anything when it happens.” She smiled and slid her hand over his chin and massaged his throat. “What do you say?”

After a moment, he said, “What happens to me after I’m castrated?”

“Oh, you’ll be required to work for us, according to your education. Sort of a new life. And if you don’t think you have a suitable education, you’re welcome to enroll in a university. Major in whatever you like. That isn’t so bad.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, but his breathing had quieted.

“Please don’t say, ‘No',” she said at last. “I’m an expert torturer and I’ll savor every second of it. I’ll make it last as long as I can, but I honestly don’t want to have to start on you!” She spoke with an amazingly, bizarrely indifferent tone, with an air of simplicity.

And after a long moment, he spoke, “What did you expect from such an invincible fighter? Did you expect me to cower from the dread of agony? I’m a fighter to the end! You had to have known I’d say that. So fuck off!”

She stared at him blankly, without a smile, and at long last sighed.