Marco "meets" Tate
4 November 2020 20:05![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
m_d_hTesticles pain takes a while to completely disappear, I'm learning, a steadily throbbing reminder of how much worse mine felt about a minute ago. I do not want to feel that much pain again. I am certain I wouldn't be able to move, much less walk or run or escape. And I don't know how much higher they can turn the dial on that.
These guys have me by the balls! I don't know how they did that, some sort of implant inside my scrotum? Activated by wireless signal? How recent was the surgery, I hadn't felt anything strange anywhere on my body, not around my scrotum or anywhere. Or some sort of pain gun operating from a distance?
But I'm looking at "Tate", this handsome young man who opened my cell door. From what little I've observed of my own body so far, Tate is definitely younger than I am, and in better physical shape, but I'm not sure how far past puberty he is, although he's naked like me, with a grown-up's male equipment. What's up with the nudity around here? Not a regular state prison, for sure.
I'm still on the floor in a semi-fetal curl, except that I moved around from where I'd face-planted, enough to look up at Tate in the doorway, standing astride a flood of visible and infrared light.
"Marco, I'm so sorry about all this. I'm sure you have a lot of questions. May I come in?"
He's asking me permission? Hah! So he's the good cop, that dude above the ceiling with the ball-pain gun is the bad cop.
"I'm not interested in playing good cop / bad cop with you two. Bring me my clothes and ID and let me go."
Tate remained in the doorway, I'd say "looking down at me" but I don't think he can see, I think he's blind, his eyes aren't acting like I'd expect normal seeing eyes to act.
"I understand. We aren't cops. I'd say we're more like temporary custodians, although I just work here, Chris is the CEO."
At this, the voice in the ceiling said, "Hi, Marco, sorry for the shock. It was necessary."
"Fuck you!" I yelled at the ceiling. "How can shocking my balls be 'necessary'?"
Tate oriented himself toward me, "Because we're trying to save your memories."
These guys probably deleted my memories! "Bullshit!" I yelled at Tate. Though less harshly, he's just a kid. Maybe I should try to get on his good side.
Tate considered something, then said, "Good cop / bad cop routines are for interrogation, right? I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm here to help you. May I come in?"
Deep sigh. I sat up, balls throbbing less, but still reminding me. "Sure, what the hell, 'come in'. Have a seat, make yourself at home, whatever."
As Tate entered "my" room the infrareds light came back on. He's really beautiful, even more so with the infrareds bathing his skin and hair. I felt like I was on acid looking at him in this complex light, with these eyes.
Tate did sit down next to me on the floor. Oh, he was holding something in his hand, it looked like medical equipment of some sort. I touched it.
"This? It's for injecting sedatives. I'm often helping people to calm down in this job. Would you like some help calming down?"
No way, I thought. "Absolutely not. You can throw that in the piss bucket."
Tate laughed, "OK," and tossed it in the general direction of the corner, hitting the outside of the bucket, "sounds like I missed, I haven't practiced tossing these things into piss buckets before."
A charming kid, which I suppose is his job, he's still the "good cop" here, definitely, despite his demurral.
"Tate, just bring me my clothes and ID and let me go. Please."
Tate sighed. "Do you want your memories back or not? Do you consent to never getting your memories back?"
"Tate, just give me my memories back! What's going on here?!? Just let me go!"
Tate reached out to hold my hand, I think. Then he said, "Marco, this is your name, we know that, Marco, why don't you give me your hand, let's sit here and talk for a while."
Um ... OK ... I give him my hand. He's got soft warm hands.
"Marco," Tate continued, "maybe you remember what a 'booby trap' is, like if you open a door a bucket of paint falls on you, or a bomb explodes."
"Yes," I told him, "I know what a booby trap is. Sort of like when I tried to masturbate and you guys shocked my balls. That was one helluva booby trap."
"Marco, that wasn't the booby trap, that was Chris acting quickly to stop you from setting off the booby trap. I'm not sure how else we could've stopped you, you were about to orgasm."
Tate was gently, lightly, barely squeezing my hand in his. He's really a beautiful young man, he could be a model. He has extraordinary nipples. I found myself becoming aroused, my cock filling up a bit. And, yeah, thinking about the orgasm I was on my way to having ... and my balls aren't throbbing so much now.
"You mean, my having an orgasm would set off a booby trap? This sounds ridiculous. This entire setup is ridiculous."
Tate's expression became serious, along with his tone. "Marco, please believe me, if you have an orgasm, you'll never get your memories back. That's the booby trap. Well, part of the booby trap. Your memories are trapped, sort of wrapped inside a memory bomb. And to get your memories back, we have to avoid certain triggers, and set off other kinds of triggers."
WTF.
"OK ... if I believe what you are saying about my memories being booby trapped, and that an orgasm would set off the booby trap ... who the hell would do such a thing? And how do you know this?"
"Marco, you did this to yourself."
WTF.
I let go of Tate's hand. "Tate, of course this sounds fantastic and ridiculous. But why ... why keep me in the dark, I mean, literally, and then why turn off the infrareds after I figure out how to see them, and what's up with the phrase on the door? And why am I naked and in a prison cell? I mean, why am I not waking up in a sun-filled hospital bed with my spouse and children nearby, and a bouquet of balloons, and bland hospital food?"
Tate was quiet for a bit. I had asked him a lot of questions all at once. Then he replied, "Well, I don't know what phrase is on the door, but this isn't a prison cell, you've been here several times and if you really wanted to leave we wouldn't keep you. You're sort of a client, sort of a friend, sort of a colleague, sort of a ... play partner. I suppose Chris was just playing with you, to see how you'd respond upon waking up here. But then you sped things up by masturbating."
"I sped things up?" This was so impossible, it was confusing me.
"This," Tate waved his hands around, "is what you wanted. You wanted to hide away and booby trap your memories, you wanted to wake up like this here, you wanted Chris to play around with you and frighten you a bit, and then you wanted me to come in and explain things, to calm you down. This is all what you wanted to happen. But we didn't expect you to start masturbating out of the blue like that."
WTF.
It sounds like some terribly expensive deepshit head game for billionaire BDSM players.
"Tate, am I a billionaire?"
"Yes, I think so. I don't usually ask about the money stuff. I'm just a servant, really. You've been a generous tipper in the past."
"Do you have any proof of all this stuff?" Now I think I've been captured and wiped to play a role in their twisted dungeon game. And I'm starting to worry they're going to kill me.
"That's kind of tricky. If you want your memories back, there's kind of a set of rules, kind of a scenario, stuff we can and cannot tell you. That's how you designed this. I think going down the road of giving you proof means you'll never get your real memories back, you'd just have to relearn who you are the hard way. Which was a possible outcome you expected -- you expected this might be too difficult a game for you and that you'd just walk away. And part of you, maybe hoped you'd just walk away. I'm not sure you're happy with your memories."
Tate stopped, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, "Personally, I think this is what you wanted: to fry your past forever while having some hot sex in our dungeon. But we figured we had an obligation to warn you first. And we didn't think you'd just start masturbating right away before we had a chance to talk."
These guys have me by the balls! I don't know how they did that, some sort of implant inside my scrotum? Activated by wireless signal? How recent was the surgery, I hadn't felt anything strange anywhere on my body, not around my scrotum or anywhere. Or some sort of pain gun operating from a distance?
But I'm looking at "Tate", this handsome young man who opened my cell door. From what little I've observed of my own body so far, Tate is definitely younger than I am, and in better physical shape, but I'm not sure how far past puberty he is, although he's naked like me, with a grown-up's male equipment. What's up with the nudity around here? Not a regular state prison, for sure.
I'm still on the floor in a semi-fetal curl, except that I moved around from where I'd face-planted, enough to look up at Tate in the doorway, standing astride a flood of visible and infrared light.
"Marco, I'm so sorry about all this. I'm sure you have a lot of questions. May I come in?"
He's asking me permission? Hah! So he's the good cop, that dude above the ceiling with the ball-pain gun is the bad cop.
"I'm not interested in playing good cop / bad cop with you two. Bring me my clothes and ID and let me go."
Tate remained in the doorway, I'd say "looking down at me" but I don't think he can see, I think he's blind, his eyes aren't acting like I'd expect normal seeing eyes to act.
"I understand. We aren't cops. I'd say we're more like temporary custodians, although I just work here, Chris is the CEO."
At this, the voice in the ceiling said, "Hi, Marco, sorry for the shock. It was necessary."
"Fuck you!" I yelled at the ceiling. "How can shocking my balls be 'necessary'?"
Tate oriented himself toward me, "Because we're trying to save your memories."
These guys probably deleted my memories! "Bullshit!" I yelled at Tate. Though less harshly, he's just a kid. Maybe I should try to get on his good side.
Tate considered something, then said, "Good cop / bad cop routines are for interrogation, right? I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm here to help you. May I come in?"
Deep sigh. I sat up, balls throbbing less, but still reminding me. "Sure, what the hell, 'come in'. Have a seat, make yourself at home, whatever."
As Tate entered "my" room the infrareds light came back on. He's really beautiful, even more so with the infrareds bathing his skin and hair. I felt like I was on acid looking at him in this complex light, with these eyes.
Tate did sit down next to me on the floor. Oh, he was holding something in his hand, it looked like medical equipment of some sort. I touched it.
"This? It's for injecting sedatives. I'm often helping people to calm down in this job. Would you like some help calming down?"
No way, I thought. "Absolutely not. You can throw that in the piss bucket."
Tate laughed, "OK," and tossed it in the general direction of the corner, hitting the outside of the bucket, "sounds like I missed, I haven't practiced tossing these things into piss buckets before."
A charming kid, which I suppose is his job, he's still the "good cop" here, definitely, despite his demurral.
"Tate, just bring me my clothes and ID and let me go. Please."
Tate sighed. "Do you want your memories back or not? Do you consent to never getting your memories back?"
"Tate, just give me my memories back! What's going on here?!? Just let me go!"
Tate reached out to hold my hand, I think. Then he said, "Marco, this is your name, we know that, Marco, why don't you give me your hand, let's sit here and talk for a while."
Um ... OK ... I give him my hand. He's got soft warm hands.
"Marco," Tate continued, "maybe you remember what a 'booby trap' is, like if you open a door a bucket of paint falls on you, or a bomb explodes."
"Yes," I told him, "I know what a booby trap is. Sort of like when I tried to masturbate and you guys shocked my balls. That was one helluva booby trap."
"Marco, that wasn't the booby trap, that was Chris acting quickly to stop you from setting off the booby trap. I'm not sure how else we could've stopped you, you were about to orgasm."
Tate was gently, lightly, barely squeezing my hand in his. He's really a beautiful young man, he could be a model. He has extraordinary nipples. I found myself becoming aroused, my cock filling up a bit. And, yeah, thinking about the orgasm I was on my way to having ... and my balls aren't throbbing so much now.
"You mean, my having an orgasm would set off a booby trap? This sounds ridiculous. This entire setup is ridiculous."
Tate's expression became serious, along with his tone. "Marco, please believe me, if you have an orgasm, you'll never get your memories back. That's the booby trap. Well, part of the booby trap. Your memories are trapped, sort of wrapped inside a memory bomb. And to get your memories back, we have to avoid certain triggers, and set off other kinds of triggers."
WTF.
"OK ... if I believe what you are saying about my memories being booby trapped, and that an orgasm would set off the booby trap ... who the hell would do such a thing? And how do you know this?"
"Marco, you did this to yourself."
WTF.
I let go of Tate's hand. "Tate, of course this sounds fantastic and ridiculous. But why ... why keep me in the dark, I mean, literally, and then why turn off the infrareds after I figure out how to see them, and what's up with the phrase on the door? And why am I naked and in a prison cell? I mean, why am I not waking up in a sun-filled hospital bed with my spouse and children nearby, and a bouquet of balloons, and bland hospital food?"
Tate was quiet for a bit. I had asked him a lot of questions all at once. Then he replied, "Well, I don't know what phrase is on the door, but this isn't a prison cell, you've been here several times and if you really wanted to leave we wouldn't keep you. You're sort of a client, sort of a friend, sort of a colleague, sort of a ... play partner. I suppose Chris was just playing with you, to see how you'd respond upon waking up here. But then you sped things up by masturbating."
"I sped things up?" This was so impossible, it was confusing me.
"This," Tate waved his hands around, "is what you wanted. You wanted to hide away and booby trap your memories, you wanted to wake up like this here, you wanted Chris to play around with you and frighten you a bit, and then you wanted me to come in and explain things, to calm you down. This is all what you wanted to happen. But we didn't expect you to start masturbating out of the blue like that."
WTF.
It sounds like some terribly expensive deepshit head game for billionaire BDSM players.
"Tate, am I a billionaire?"
"Yes, I think so. I don't usually ask about the money stuff. I'm just a servant, really. You've been a generous tipper in the past."
"Do you have any proof of all this stuff?" Now I think I've been captured and wiped to play a role in their twisted dungeon game. And I'm starting to worry they're going to kill me.
"That's kind of tricky. If you want your memories back, there's kind of a set of rules, kind of a scenario, stuff we can and cannot tell you. That's how you designed this. I think going down the road of giving you proof means you'll never get your real memories back, you'd just have to relearn who you are the hard way. Which was a possible outcome you expected -- you expected this might be too difficult a game for you and that you'd just walk away. And part of you, maybe hoped you'd just walk away. I'm not sure you're happy with your memories."
Tate stopped, looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, "Personally, I think this is what you wanted: to fry your past forever while having some hot sex in our dungeon. But we figured we had an obligation to warn you first. And we didn't think you'd just start masturbating right away before we had a chance to talk."