So when I woke up naked in that cabin and I felt the straps on my arms, legs, and across my torso holding me fast to the bed with a tarp beneath me, an IV unit connected to my arm, you can believe I was praying to God for help again.
It was a one room building with paneled walls and a musty smell. It was an extremely bright day outside, with light pouring in through the windows and crack the door was left slightly ajar. I must have been deep in the wood where whoever brought me there was sure no one could hear anything that would happen.
Things came into focus. In the far upper corners there ware ceiling mounted cameras aimed at me, red lights on. Along the far wall beneath a window with blinds down, there was a table with a green plastic sheet over it. From the angle I could see it at, there were the tips of instrument handles visible. I couldn’t make out anything else, and I didn’t want to.
I struggled mindlessly against the restraints, barely able to move my hands and feet. I screamed with no one to hear me that would come to my rescue. Knowing that didn’t stop me. I screamed and struggled for what had to be at least a minute. I stopped only at the small sound of the door opening.
A man stood in the doorway. He was six feet tall at least, fit as an ox, and a little bored. He wore a surgical apron. When I saw him, I began screaming again. He didn’t respond much as I alternately begged him for mercy, threatened him, or called him a motherfucker and such things. He went over to the laptop both cameras were connected to and did something with what I imagine was some videostreaming program. He didn’t so much as glance at me for a minute as he made some adjustments. He walked over to my side then.
“Shut the fuck up!” he yelled at me, his tone more annoyed and exhausted than angry. He sounded like he’d dealt with people like me so many times before that all I had to scream was the another part of the routine for him. I shut up.
“And keep your mouth shut. Okay, checking, checking, audio audio test.” He went back to the laptop and played back what he’d just recorded. After a nod of satisfaction, he picked up a piece of paper from next to the laptop and returned to where he’d been standing when he told me to shut up. He looked from the paper to me as he read.
“Hello from the husband you fucked along with her, you piece of shit.” He read robotically. He wasn’t mad at me, after all. He was just a messenger.
“E-Ellen?” I said weakly. “Is that about Ellen? But I just met her on...” He stared at me for a few seconds when I said that and I stopped again. Then he shook his head slightly and continued. Ellen was just a name to him.
“Did the bitch even tell you? It doesn’t matter. Are you still hoping you’re gonna escape? You still thinking the man who strapped you down is just gonna scare you? That you’ll see tomorrow? That you can apologize maybe? Well, you can stop hoping. I’ve seen too much of you with her to ever let you live. You’re gonna die really, really slowly and you’re gonna feel every little bit of it on the way out. And Ellen and I are gonna watch everything, her especially. You’re not the first other man to stick his cock in her, but you will be the last.” He sighed quietly as if he’d just read the cheesiest thing in his life, crumpled up the paper, and dropped it in a trash bag. Then he made for the surgical instruments. He definitely did not seem like he was merely trying to scare me. What I was thinking seemed to be the least important thing to him.
Without so much as another glance at my face, he came over to me with a scalpel. He spread my largest and second toe on my left foot, and began to cut the webbing. I don’t have the words to describe the pain. I had never experienced anything like that before and showed no strength in the face of it. I shrieked like an animal, I screamed every word at him until it just became gibberish and pissed myself. He barely glanced at me.
Make him stop, I thought. Please God, make him stop.
He seemed finished with my left foot and made for my right hand. I tried to clench it into a fist but that did nothing to slow him down. He went for the flesh between my ring and pinkie finger and began to cut. I had developed no tolerance to pain since he started on my foot. My throat became hoarse, my screams stopped sounding like my voice. It sounded like a weaker, childish version of me. I was dimly aware of mucus touching my lips.
He stopped after an eternity and stepped back, breathing heavily. I faintly heard the sound of him peeling off his gloves. I begged him to not to continue and lied pathetically about reasons he shouldn’t kill me while he got on two replacement pairs without acknowledging what I had to say.
He came back to me with a surgical retractor in one hand and the same scalpel in the other. He stopped when he stood over my face. I pointlessly tried to swivel my head away. He grabbed a section of my lip below the nose in the retractor and pulled it so that my face is swiveled towards him. He pressed the blade of the scalpel against my lip and began to cut.
I couldn’t take any more.
I hoped he’d forgive me.
“Medula!” I screeched as loud as I could with my throat in the shape it was in. Over and over again. It seems looking back on it that I only needed to do it once. Immediately he stopped. My lip was let go and he went back to the table he’d kept his instruments on.
“Okay, hang in there, Art. It’ll be over soon! I’ve got the tetracaine ready!” Almost immediately after he took away the pain, he got out the kit to give me the stitches. While he was doing that, the adrenaline rush gave out or something, because I actually fell asleep. When I woke up, he was finished.
So now I’m at our home typing this. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk properly for a few weeks, but we have our story for how I got injured like this straight for our coworkers. And he has all the evidence he would need that it was consensual, that he respected the safety word in case I decide to go to the police or anything. Not that I would do that. He told me he’d been more than satisfied with what we’d done. He had not expected me to let him go farther than the foot. I was just pleased. Anything for him. I love him so much. I’ve loved him for years. Many more than he knew. I feel, if anything, I should have let him go farther.
But I also have to admit I’ve been telling myself over and over again that he must be okay now. He's got a partner that will let him live out his fantasies now. He didn't dare tell anyone else about this fetish, so he must trust me. He didn't hesitate when I told him to stop cutting me, and he had the pain killer ready. He loves me.
I know this goes far beyond a normal S&M relationship, but it doesn’t matter. He's never going to do this to anyone else. Not to someone who doesn't know the safety word. He's never going to do this and ignore the safety word. He's never going to just keep going until I can't say the word. He loves me.
I haven't just given him a taste. I haven't made him want to go farther so much he won't be able to stop next time. He loves me. He’s not going to cut anyone else. Please God.
Please, oh please God.