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Part One – The Compound

“Your nurses are all from a small Pacific Island near the Samoa Islands... in case you’re
wondering.”
	The voice is calm yet direct. The woman is in charge, that is evident, though oddly I
can envision her in recent years leading a team of high school cheerleaders. Yes, her
confidence belies her youth... and her extreme good looks. And her beauty serves to
intensify the distress over my situation.
	I am strapped supine to a plank. And I am without a stitch of clothing.
	“How do you feel?”
	In any other setting the question would be comically superfluous.
	“Why?” is my simple response. “Why am I here?”
	The woman nods to the Samoan nurse, though she is not Samoan but from an island near
Samoa. A white uniformed arm reaches forth and an olive-skinned hand pulls a pin on the
edge of the board. She pushes. The bottom edge lowers, the top edge rises and with a click
the hinged board is reset so that I am presented more upright, afforded a direct view of
the woman who will question me…but also presented more exposed.
	Alluring indeed. My interlocutor sits with perfect posture in a straight back chair, her
legs crossed just as proper young ladies are taught in charm school. Professionally
attired, yet the conservative pantsuit cannot disguise what my gaze extrapolates to be a
trim yet well formed figure.
	“I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Davies,” comes her firm rejoinder.
	The nurses don’t speak, though I know they understand English. So I have been afforded
no information since my... well I guess it’s termed rendition. Instead I have for an
interminable period lied well strapped to this board. A large hole under my buttocks
offers opportunity to empty my bowels. But with the near constant supervision such is most
embarrassing. The small olive hands also assist with spoon feeding, tasteless mush, as
well as urination, holding my penis to assure neatness. Once or twice per day, if I am
accurately judging the time, each limb is one by one released, permitted momentary
movement, and most gratefully massaged. I am also sponged bathed, shaved... every square
inch of my body... and coated with a light viscous oil. A steel collar encircles my neck.
But most embarrassing of all, besides being left totally naked to be sponge bathed and
massaged by cute young nurses, a smaller loop of steel snugly encircles my scrotal sac. No
explanation was offered for its presence until, during my second massage, I stupidly
resisted in returning my wrist to the waiting fur lined cuff secured to the side of the
board.
	That is when I felt the extremity of the first shock. The scrotal ring can deliver
searing voltage to an anatomical area where a man prefers to feel nothing more than tender
feminine caress. Thereafter I limply allowed the nurses to quietly complete their chores,
moving not a muscle and obviously offering no resistance. Shaving, bathing, massaging...
and as noted assuring that my penis is properly aligned to relieve my bladder. 
	“How do you feel?” the voice more forcefully repeats.
	“Exposed, vulnerable... and perplexed,” I meekly reply.
	“It is intended that you feel vulnerable. Such extreme exposure imparts such thoughts.
But perplexed? Why would an operative feel perplexed when he is subjected to
interrogation?”
	“I am not an operative. I sell machine tools.”
	The woman smiles demurely.
	“That’s what I want to know more about. And you’re going to tell me.” 
	“Who are you?”
	“I ask the questions, remember, Mr. Davies.”
	With the snippy reply the woman’s hand rises. In it is an all too familiar black remote
control device. The right thumb presses. Just as I felt when I stubbornly resisted
returning my wrist to its waiting cuff, there comes a tingling which grows to a jolt and
then an eruption of pain. It emanates this time from my neck and seems to creep up my
spine to explode in my cerebral cortex. Just as with my scrotal ring, my neck collar is
electrified. I lurch within my bonds hearing the soft chuckle from the woman zinging with
her black remote.
	“I can activate the other ring as well, Mr. Davies,” the now more authoritative voice
offers as I feel a very moderate zing within my testicles. “But I prefer to save that for
occasions of extreme truculence... which I suspect I will not encounter. Or when I want to
be entertained.”
	The woman arises. My eyes involuntarily inspect, my nerves calming.
	Yes, alluring indeed. Curves where a woman is best curved, an angelic face, the beauty
of which an overly plain hair style cannot disguise. More appropriately dressed... or
rather undressed... she would be the object of male fantasy. 
	“We’ll talk again. In time you will be eager to speak to me.”
	“Am I to be waterboarded?” I inquire in apprehensively breaking her mandate of no
questions.
	She laughs. I ask because of the nature of my bindings. With the plank capable of
tilting, returning me to the supine position then lowering the upper edge just a little
more, my form of restraint would enable the perfect angle for pouring the eponymous liquid
over my towel covered nose and mouth.
	“Waterboarding is too quick, Mr. Davies. What I want from you is your life story. Every
detail. And I suspect you’ll soon be singing like a choir boy.”
	Her smug look, her threatening words, bring goose bumps of fear. She notices. But most
embarrassingly, she notices something else.
	“An interesting attribute of uncircumcized men, Mr. Davies. Sometimes latent fears...
and latent desires... cannot be veiled. That’s why I prefer a man to be stripped naked. It
can be amusingly telling.”
	With her irritatingly impolitic and intimate observation, her arm extends and the smooth
black surface of the remote control sensuously grazes the underside of my penis. Her brief
action is a deriding tease. In my lower gaze I can construe the gist of her reference.
Despite the extreme embarrassment, despite the pain of her quick application of wattage,
the tip of my penis has popped from its sheath. For some reason my appendage finds
stimulation and I am chagrined to also find enjoyment in the ephemeral action of her hand.
She knows the male anatomy... ever so briefly brushing where a man covets feminine
attention. 
	She chuckles again in retracting the device. I do not like her... but then again I do.
Her form pleases, her demeanor irritates.
	“We’re going to get along just fine... as soon as you better understand your
circumstances... and the rules.” 
	She speaks as the pin is pulled and the Samoan nurse of some 100 pounds facilely returns
my 200 plus pound frame to lie supine.