Groin tingling and oddly insensitive from the pain killers, but still distantly aware of the wrongness, Phillip knelt with his forehead pressed to the cool, rough but clean cement floor wearing nothing but a medical scrotal support. The doctor had long since left, leaving pills and instructions for Annette and not even a backwards glance for his patient.
He would have rather defied his captor, and the weight of Annette’s foot on the back of his neck was light enough he could have shrugged her off, but she was backed up by her ever present bodyguards, and a long prod she held in her right hand. She’d shown him how it worked once, on a lower setting, pain of the shock still leaving a hard cramp in his calf.
Maybe if he could catch her off guard, he thought, he could take the prod from her and hold it to her neck, or maybe find some weapon and force her guards to back down. So he listened, quietly as she spoke, hating and waiting, listening more for the pauses not the meaning of her words.
“Adam, you will obey me. You will refer to me with propriety, as Lady and let no foul word or curse escape your lips. You will not speak unless spoken to, and until I say otherwise, you will crawl on your hands and knees. Tell me that you understand.”
Phillip waited a moment before grudgingly answering her pause. “Yeah.”
He screamed as she held the long prod to his thigh.
“I don’t want to put you through intense training for the next forty-eight hours, as the doctor advised, but you will learn this simple thing. Do not forget your manners. Adam, you will say ‘Yes, my Lady’ or ‘No, my Lady.’ Anything else is not acceptable.”
Phillip grunted, wishing he could massage his calf. It wasn’t much worse than being roughed up, and less frightening than when he’d held fast as a jail guard had held a knife less than an inch from his eye, but the electric prod was hard to ignore. He wanted her out of his face while he figured out what she’d done to him and he was still loopy from the surgery. “Yes, my Lady”
“Good boy, Adam.”
The Harrington country home was palatial, huge by necessity to house the support staff needed by such a distinguished family. He’d never been inside it before, having no interest in assuming his late mother’s social habits, nor the wealth to support that level of socialization, but all great houses tended to be built the same. The room that Annette escorted him to was stripped bare except for a foam pad placed in front of an old white painted wrought iron radiator. One of the guards provided a heavy padded manacle, a psychiatric restraint cuff of the kind used to stop psychotics from hurting themselves, and Annette personally locked his right wrist, testing it by tugging and pulling. Steel chain and a heavy lock held him to the radiator with enough slack that he could move to a sitting up position on his mat, but not stand.
Annette left him without a backward glance or further instructions. He guessed he was in a cramped, undecorated room in the servants’ quarters on the third floor, and he could see the slight angle of the ceiling suggested he was under the roof. The location suggested upper floor, the sort of miserly quarters made available for a maid or footman who was needed to be close by even when they slept.
The light was on, under a cheap smoked glass shade and an unmoving camera was perched in the corner, red LED blinking an insistent, steady pulse. If he sat up he could see the window, set slightly dipped into the sloping roof. That gave him some sense of time, though nothing exact. That and the three visits each day to see him given a plastic bottle of water and a breakfast shake still in its package, and to briefly give him the use of a blue plastic bucket. Checking his crotch showed healing, and simple stitches, as well as the lingering stain of the numbing solution they’d washed him in.
As Annette promised, two full days passed, without a word being spoken to him. Pills were swallowed, ordinary gel capsule ibuprofen and an unidentifiable orange pill that took several gulps of water to pass. Boredom made him memorize the uneven plastering on the ceiling and guess at the age of a wallpapering repair, where it looked like a stain or a rip in the paper had been replaced with a carefully cut piece of paper pasted on top. The view from the window gave him nothing to watch but clouds. As far as calories went, he was running a deficit. He’d lost weight in prison and now, reading the labels on the meal replacement bottles, even though they were well fortified with nutrients, he was consuming exactly half the amount he needed.
At noon on the third day, as far as Phillip could guess by the window, the same guards that had been feeding and looking after him unlocked his wrist and hauled him out of the room. Downstairs again in the basement, where Annette was waiting with her long orange prod in her hand. He could see she’d changed her hair again, new colours to satisfy ever shifting fashion, but her clothes were the same conservative blue from neck to mid calf.
“Adam, how are you healing?” Annette’s face seemed to show genuine concern, though he knew that ladies were masters of feigned sympathy, as they represented one benevolent project or another in an endless quest for self promotion.
Phillip watched her, sourly, savouring the words as he said them. “Fuck you, you mutilated me, bitch.”
Pain in the large muscles of his thighs left him badly cramped and she kept pulling back and retouching him in the naked buttocks and backs of his legs, while three guards stood on his legs and arms. Phillip screamed.
“I’m pleased to see that Officer Dairedo told me the truth,” commented Annette dispassionately. “This picana is well designed. Would you like some more, Adam?”
Philip snorted from the floor, feeling the heavy boots of the guards grind his joints into the floor. His eyes were watery and his breathing snuffly and moist.
“You do, Adam?” Annette approached him again, prod held out.
“No, my Lady,” Phillip managed. “Please…”
The pressure on his limbs eased up. He’d have fresh bruises now.
“Now Adam, the sooner you learn to obey, the less damage you will take. Perhaps you hope if I find you defiant enough I’ll have to have you shot, but there will be no easy escape through death. I have decided to make you my pet project.”
Love “Catamite”? Find Book 1 as the ebook “The Pet Gentleman“, available now.