Chapter Twenty-Seven
Declan
“Good morning, Declan,” the doctor speaks, but does not look up from the paperwork before him. “I would ask you how you are feeling, but I don’t care at this time.”
“Huh?” I don’t know what else to say. I was sleeping, though I have no idea how long I’ve been in this medieval dungeon of a room.
Now I’m suddenly sitting here, feet from the thick glass wall behind which the doctor sits at his desk.
I’m still not wearing any clothes, and I swear I feel cold air around my balls.
Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure they’re dangling below me in this seat.
And fuck me, my limbs are tied to its rusted arms and legs.
“Dr. C, I’m not quite sure what’s going on. Why am I restrained again?”
“You continue to disappoint me with your beat-around-the-bush antics, and it is becoming quite tiresome,” he says sternly, then stands and walks toward the window of a wall. “It’s really quite simple Dec–”
“No, Doc.” I interrupt his tangent. “You’re—I was asleep. I don’t—what day is it?” I mutter incoherently. “I’m not ready for—whatever you’re on about.”
“Fair enough.” Dr. Campos walks back toward his desk, presses one of his mysterious buttons.
“Bring our guest something to help him wake up, and be quick about it.” Then he turns to me and continues.
“Now, Declan, you say you aren’t awake and therefore are unable to assist me with my endeavor.
I am going to help you with that issue, and then we are going to get down to business.
” The doctor glares at me as if looking directly into my soul, and asks with a groan.
The wailing of that steel door rings out again, and again it’s followed by the clack, clack, clacking of Miss Paxon’s short and deliberate steps.
It doesn’t take long for her to come into focus from this distance.
She’s keeping it simple today, in a generic set of pumps, a basic A-line skirt and snug silk blouse.
Though, she’s carrying something. It’s shiny and unusual, and I’m left clueless.
“Missster Roberts,” she says, peering down at me with a disapproving scowl. “I thought I made myself quite clear. You must do as the doctor says without question.”
They’re red again.
“What the fuck are you—”
SMACK!
“Tsk, tsk, Missster Roberts,” she says, waving her index finger in my face. “You’re being quite naughty.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, utterly ignorant to what is happening.
"Naughty boys must be punished, Missster Roberts," Miss Paxon responds. Her face shows signs of disappointment and lust. “Now, be a good little boy and be still.”
She crouches down behind me, and in a beat, I feel her soft hand wrapped around my sack.
“Ouch, fuck!” I yell when she pulls hard and harshly squeezes.
Miss Paxon slowly moves her hand toward my center, where she grips the flesh above my balls tight, stranding them just outside her grasp.
Wrenching them back to her, there’s a chill that shoots to my perineum when she touches something hard and metal beneath them.
A breath later that same cold sensation hits the opposite side of my testicles, sandwiching them between two frigid blocks.
“Wait, what are you doing? Stop,” I plead with her, but it’s too late.
TICK! TICK! TICK! TICK! TICK!
The steel plates inch closer to one another, pressing hard into my balls.
“No, please,” I say, feeling dread inching its way back.
TICK! TICK! TICK!
The plate merges closer. This time the pressure sends scorching fire through me as my nuts begin to flatten.
“Ffffuucckkk,” I cry out. It’s miserable. I didn’t know external pain could cut so deep. I think I might puke. Or pass out. Maybe both.
"So, Declan," Doctor Campos says, "Are you awake yet?
" He's been observing me the entire time. He waits for an answer, but he must know one isn’t coming.
"I apologize," the doctor continues, "I sometimes forget a consequence of Miss Paxon’s… expertise, is that you may not readily be able to provide an audible response.”
“Ggggaaaah,” I groan out at him. “Fuck. Stop. Please. I can’t. Hggggh. Shiiiit.”
“Excellent,” he boasts, smugly acknowledging my plight.
“Declan, I am going to tell you what will happen next. From your response a moment ago, I assume you now realize how very little you can move. You will remain like this until I decide otherwise. Miss Paxon has been so kind as to get you prepped for compliance. She shall continue to assist me, as my proxy, an extension of myself, while operating any further equipment I’ll need for our next round of Q&A. "
“Fuck you!” I scream, and three seconds later I regret it.
TICK!
Agony seizes every muscle in my body, and the contents of my stomach simultaneously spew from my mouth. Bile and bits of what Miss Paxon fed me hurl down my chest.
“I don’t want you to be confused,” the doctor resumes. “You don’t have any choice in the matter. I will complete the procedure with or without your cooperation. I have morals Declan, and those very morals tell me that giving you a chance to decrease your overall suffering is the right thing to do.”
The pain blinds me to his words. He wants something, but even if I knew, I couldn’t give it to him. Not when it hurts this much.
I barely recognize Miss Paxon stepping in front of me with a small towel in hand.
She doesn’t stop the doctor’s monologue, rather, she slowly wipes the puke from my pecs and stomach.
Her eyes look starkly into mine, almost begging me to stop fighting this.
A flash of peace hits me before the doctor’s voice pulls me back.
“Declan, in a moment I am going to ask Miss Paxon to clamp your right eye open. I know this doesn’t sound pleasant, but it’s really not so bad, as long as you relax and let it happen.
” He pauses while she discards the dirty rag.
“The hard part is what follows. I am going to be using a special serum—of my own design. It will need to be injected into your tear duct,” he explains, as if such a procedure is commonplace.
“Now, I know your mind is probably freaking out right about now.” And the doctor is right.
“But, you can either tense up and be in tremendous misery or, if you allow yourself to avoid your base instincts to react, it will hurt moderately and be done.”
“Just tell me what you want, Doc.” I manage to string together a coherent sentence.
“Declan, this is a speculum.” Miss Paxon holds a metal object for me to see.
It most closely resembles a pair of tweezers.
Though, there are latches on the end. “I imagine you’ve seen these in movies, or perhaps even in infomercials for various eye surgery programs,” the doctor boasts.
“It’s used to hold your eye propped open so that a surgeon can access it without difficulty.
In many instances, it looks as though the subject’s eye is going to fly out across the room, but I assure you Declan, you are in no danger of losing any body parts at this time. ”
“Tell that to my balls, Dr. C.”
Miss Paxon walks behind me again, and I know I’ve fucked up. A beat later I hear it again.
TICK!
“Grrnnggh.” The pain is relentless. But I don’t wretch. Not this time. I just feel like my scrotum is going to shred to bits if I say one more stupid thing.
“Miss Paxon’s going to put it in place, Declan,” says the doctor.
“And once it’s set, she’s going release some of the pressure from your testicles.
I hope you’ve seen the lengths to which I’ll go for your compliance.
So, when I start asking you questions, I expect short and on-point answers.
Anything less and Miss Paxon will… tenderize the area some more. ”
In less than a blink, Miss Paxon leans over my face, speculum in one hand, and with the other, she uses her index finger and thumb to push my top and bottom lids in opposing directions.
My heart wants to scream, but the thought of cranking the nut press any more nearly has me shitting on the floor.
When my lids have stretched to their limits, Miss Paxon slips the speculum in place. The cold metal lips at the end of the forceps cup my eye and spread the skin. Tears leak out and stream down my face.
I wish this nightmare would end. That I’d wake up in my bed at home. That this is all a horrid figment of my imagination.
Fuck needles. I think I’d prefer public speaking followed by death.
I become consumed by trepidation to the point I forget about my smashed bag.
That is until Miss Paxon unwinds the restraint around my balls.
The sensation of my boys returning to their natural shape feels better than most orgasms. The nausea begins to dissipate.
My lungs fill with fresh air. It’s unnerving how alive I feel simply not having my jewels crushed.
But the relief is short lived. Because turning my free eye to look at Miss Paxon, I’m overrun by a new wave of shock.
The syringe in her hand is fucking enormous.
That’s enough to send my guts spiraling.
But it’s also filled with a neon-mint-green liquid that must glow in the dark.
It’s quite beautiful. Alarming. But beautiful.
“Now, Declan,” says Dr. Campos. “We have arrived to the point I mentioned previously. I’m hoping, for your sake of course, that you paid attention. You have no power to prevent it.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond, or even acknowledge his statement.
He merely nods at Miss Paxon, who in quick succession takes the index finger of her left hand and lays it below the edge of my suspended upper eyelid.
Most people who get nervous exhibit signs, such as sweating from their palms. But not her.
When she pushes the free skin toward the bridge of my nose, forcing the area to become taut, I feel how calm she is.
I can’t help my reaction. I grumble, grunt, groan, blink my free eye, whine, all of it. But it’s futile.
Miss Paxon aligns the end of the syringe with my right tear duct.
At this distance it’s a blur. A second later I feel a bitter prick stabbing.
I know the doctor said it would be my duct that gets penetrated, but the reality pierces right to my brain.
A torrent of tears gushes from my unencumbered eye.
“AAAAGGGHHHH!” I gurgle aloud in indescribable pain when she plunges the solution out of the syringe.
My right pupil expands and contracts, then rests fully dilated.
My motor functions tell me to bring my hand to my face, but I can’t.
I sense my brain freezing in my skull, like it was placed in liquid nitrogen. Then, the world fades around me.