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Janus unbinds one leg at a time. He removes the shoe of the first leg, then slips my underwear and pants off from the ankle. Once the leg is free, even though the fight is futile, I begin to kick. Yet, as it is my only loose limb while I am strapped down on my back, and my head is duct taped around my mouth to the gurney, all the kicking does is shake the table a bit. Janus is strong and restrains me effectively. I’m certain however, that unbound, I would be stronger than him.
His name is likely not Janus, that was just the mask he wore during my captivity. Now he wears no mask, and I choose to be in denial about the possibility that I may be in another state of captivity again. He calls me Doan, which in my opinion is a stupid name, and doesn’t seem familiar to me at all. Then I begin to wonder if all these events aren’t just the results of a mistaken identity. I doubt that, though I wish it were true. There is too much that is familiar as pieces come together, regardless how arbitrary their pattern.
He bends my leg over the side of the gurney while he duct tapes my ankle to the bottom leg by the locked wheel. Then he follows through in the same manner with my other leg, removing my pants and underwear completely. He pauses, his eyes meet mine, and I think I see warmth in them, but I am fooled. They change to the blank, dead gaze of a sociopath, before an exhibition of amusement overcomes them and he smirks. He leans over and briefly tickles my foot over my sock. I breathe heavily through my nose with what would be laughter and think in my head I’d rather this be pain. My body jerks involuntarily as the unbound response would be an automatic struggle to get away from being tickled. The movement only causes the gurney to shake slightly.
Janus stops and smiles, “Ok, now I’m sure you’re bound appropriately. You will need to be for the surgery. If you squirm from pain, it could cause you damage.”
After strapping me firmly in place across my pelvis and abdomen, I presume in order to prevent movement of my hips, he feels around my scrotum again, then runs his finger along the skin beneath it. As paranoid as I am, I know he is not being perverted at this moment as he seems to be feeling around for something. But as the blood surges my veins prompted by adrenalin, the light caresses of his fingers cause an erection, despite all my efforts to prevent that from happening.
“I will mark the spot, and I will have to shave you.” He holds up a red marker and I feel a cool tingle as he marks an area just shy of my anus.
The shaving cream feels silky as he rubs it over my testicles, down by my anus, and even a little into my pubic area that’s not covered by the strap. And though my fear is increasing, my erection becomes harder. It’s the fear and the adrenalin doing this to me. It’s humiliating, demeaning, and emasculating. My reprieve is that he doesn’t appear to be deriving pleasure from this, rather he is behaving as would a professional surgeon, accepting the idiosyncrasies of the human body as physiologically natural and not imposing any sort of sexual deviation onto the matter.
However, I’m reminded of my time in captivity when I was being molested and it was the first pleasure I had experienced so I let myself go. After having been so tormented, and not foreseeing any hope for liberty, I allowed myself to be aroused despite the violation. Now, this here is a man and it doesn’t even matter, as once again I begin to allow myself to be stimulated by it, since I will soon be experiencing excruciating pain, according to him. But I don’t think of him, I close my eyes and imagine the sensation of the hands first massaging my pelvis and as I relaxed more they went onto massaging my penis faster and faster until I almost orgasmed. As I feel the light scrapes of the razor over my testicles, now with my eyes closed, my stimulation overwhelms me.
“You can’t be like that for the surgery you know, because there will be too much restriction in your testicles.”
I’m thinking that once he begins to cut me open, whatever he’s planning to do, it wouldn’t be long before I would go limp, so he shouldn’t be worrying about it, I don’t want him to concern himself with it. I feel exposed, humiliated, and vulnerable and the rush of testosterone is beginning to trigger an anger that consumes me so intensely, I believe that it may be too powerful for me to contain. It is as if it is another entity altogether, that I only allow to accommodate my otherwise empty self. Or perhaps it is the ruler of my dominion, and it’s simply keeping me on as the caretaker. The pressure of it builds and I think it may burst out of my body splitting me open and leaving me a vacant, rotting shell of what once was a man.
“Now we definitely can’t have you in that state of mind while I’m castrating you.”
I begin to struggle against the binding and scream within the duct tape and the gauze in my mouth, obviously to no avail. I need to stop however, because the gauze is soaking up so much saliva and beginning to shift, it could easily slip down my throat and asphyxiate me. Then I think that may be how I die. Tied to a surgical table in a log cabin in the middle of nowhere, choked to death while some psychopath cuts my balls off.