Chapter Twenty-Eight

As the second quarter of his treatment proceeded, the FNS system continued to feature prominently. Karl’s daily workouts grew ever more strenuous as his endurance improved. As a result, the degeneration of his muscles stopped and he began to show increased tone if not bulk. Doreen made much of this, calling him irresistible and ravishing him at every opportunity. He also underwent daily atonement sessions that left him more wrung out each time.

In addition to his genitals, Nurse Drake began attaching electrodes to his nipples and even anus. All those sensitive nerve endings she liked to talk about sparked and sizzled and kept Karl shuddering like a vibrator himself. It had him clenched around the rubber mouth guard he now used to spare his chattering teeth and keep him from biting or even swallowing his tongue.

This was a distinct danger when in the throes of his most violent, eye-rolling paroxysms. A few times he actually did pass out during these ever lengthier sessions: too much stimulation overloading his switchboard. Each time Nurse Drake gently revived him. She checked his pupils and vital signs. Then she resumed torturing him – all with Karl’s gratitude or at least resignation.

Fortunately he never had to use the ‘danger’ word, though the fact that electricity left no marks meant these sessions could be prolonged indefinitely, unlike those with whip or cane – with which he still endured regular beatings. So as expected Karl was suffering more each day, far more than even during the week after his idiotic orgasm.

Thankfully he again had Doreen’s love and encouragement keeping his spirits high, his motivation strong and his honor intact. Bolstered thus he was still holding up well, even under the kind of classic torture practiced in secret police states (and CIA black sites no doubt). Other electrically driven impositions were harder to take.

Though it couldn’t begin to compare to FNS for excruciation, the vibrator slid into his ass each afternoon remained a source of distress Karl found ever more difficult to cope with. Despite Doreen’s teasing he still found it intrusive and humiliating beyond bearing. There was just no getting used to it as he had to so much else. Worst of all was the way it massaged his prostate.

This caused his penis to erect, which along with that curling of his toes had Nurse Drake insisting that this was good for him, essential to his recovery. She even performed fellatio on him with it buzzing angrily away up there, and though Karl soared and wept with ecstasy and frenzy as always, he could never forget what was contributing to keeping him so quiveringly rigid.

Between this and the panties regularly pulled over his face, he came to dread his time alone far more than even the worst FNS session. In keeping with her policy of constantly ratcheting up the demeaning and suffering he must endure, Nurse Drake had donned those panties recently for a long, multi-orgasmic indulgence in riding him. Now they smelled powerfully of the vaginal fluids with which they were impregnated.

Karl was even masked with these for sex occasionally, or while he was enduring his other treatments. In any case, they made him pine for the video files or even the Lifetime channel more than ever: anything to distract him from that pervasive smell, that awful stuffing and buzzing. And of course he still had to deal with the panic that sometimes reared its frantic head after being left too long alone and helpless. This was a problem particularly when Doreen had to leave the house for whatever reason.

Quasi-hermits that they were, even taking regular grocery deliveries rather than going to market, life in modern society still carries unavoidable requirements. Besides making her quarterly reports, Doreen had to drive into the city on average about once a month.

It would be irresponsible to leave Karl with no recourse to assistance should something happen to her en route. A fatal car crash of her own could mean a horrific lingering death for him. To guard against such possibilities, she always left the voice activation running on the computer. One simple command would open the telephone line and dial 911.

Necessary or not, the trust inherent in this helped to fortify Karl during these profoundly unnerving times. He swore to himself he would never call except at the most dire threat to his life, and this steadied him when the dreaded heebie-jeebies closed in. Of course Doreen always returned. And if for some reason she was delayed (a flat tire once, a particularly nettlesome meeting with an accountant another time) she always called and spoke to the voicemail that Karl could overhear to let him know everything was okay.

Other than these rare occasions they still spent nearly the entirety of their time sequestered, ignoring the world beyond their doors as much as possible. They didn’t even surf the web or watch the TV news. The commercials were insufferable, and who really needed to hear about dysfunctional government reneging on its obligations to the people, religious crazies trying to force their delusions and misogyny on everyone else or the latest terrorist attack? They had all they needed in each other, and indeed their isolation was a crucial therapeutic tool in Karl’s treatment. Besides, as the quarter crept by and the intensity of their interactions continued to rise they had no attention to spare for anything else. This too proved irresponsible though. Suddenly everything they’d been working toward and even perhaps their very lives stood at threat. If not for fortuitous timing, all might have been lost to a vagary of fate already.

Nearly a month had passed since FNS had been added to his atonement. Karl still dreamed of the tree-house in the execution yard, but not with the same vividness and specificity. Even better, he recognized the dream now and had learned to will himself awake before it reached its climax. He still had trouble diverting himself when left alone all masked and stuffed, but both of them were satisfied with the current status quo. Neither expected anything out of the ordinary when Doreen left to pick up a few items for a quiet celebration they intended – her thirty-first birthday was coming up. It was quite blustery out and anyone could see a storm was coming, but that wasn’t unusual this time of year. Still they should have at least checked the weather forecast, if not the national news reports.

Alone in the house, Karl hung in the sling. He was on his back, his legs pulled so wide it was like the splits Krista used to practice for cheerleading. That used to drive him wild, until he just had to fling himself between those legs and bang away. Now he felt only the usual weariness and discomfort, and the degradation and distress of the pungent mask over his face and the volatile object up his ass. His head hung back unsupported. His hands were posed as though presenting his breasts, showing off the nipple-stretchers so cruelly twisting them. He hadn’t been this way long enough to either slip into rapture, become truly miserable or fear the threat of tedium yet. The sound of the weather outside was diverting enough.

The wind whined and whooped, making Karl glad there were no trees within falling distance of the house. Though he could barely see the skylight though a gap in the panties by lifting his woefully heavy head, the light was dropping swiftly. Already it was much too dark out for four in the afternoon.

Now anxiety pounced, with panic waiting to take the baton. Though he wasn’t surprised, Karl’s relief was enormous when Doreen returned empty-handed not fifteen minutes after she’d left, flying back in on the wings of the storm.

“We’ve got trouble, darling.”

Knowing it was okay and even expected, Karl rubbed his head against the sling, shifting the panties until he could see properly. He caught the clothespin on his tongue with his teeth and pushed it off. Ignoring both the piddling flash of pain and the ease of these operations he’d resisted attempting for so long, he lifted his head to meet her agitation.

“This isn’t just a thunderstorm is it?”

“Little slut, meet Hurricane Diana, category four, already responsible for hundreds of deaths. From now on we check the news and weather regularly.”

Already Doreen had the remote that controlled the lift and skylight in hand. She touched it and with a low grinding sound a heavy shutter began trundling across the glass. As the room darkened further she turned on the rarely used overhead light and hurried into the bathroom. There she started the tub and sinks filling: emergency water supplies in the event the power failed for an extended time.

“The streets are deserted, all the stores boarded up. The radio says people have been warned to evacuate, but there’s no time now. We’ll have to hunker down and ride it out. Sit tight, little slut. I’ve got to close the rest of the shutters and generally batten down the hatches. I’ll be back in just a minute. Don’t worry darling, I’ll take care of you.”

“Is it really called Diana?”

“It really is.”

With that she was gone, leaving Karl to ponder unsettling coincidences – and start thinking in superstitious metaphors.

The first drops of rain were drumming the closed skylight: the angry tears of a goddess pushed beyond endurance and building up toward some cataclysmic tantrum. The wind continued to pick up, presaging furious shrieks of outrage. The terror of helplessness in the face of inescapable danger (this was exactly the kind of hypothetical circumstance that had originally inspired his panic attacks) tried to well up. Karl crushed it ruthlessly.

Goddess had promised to take care of him and she would do so, come hurricanes, floods or poison monkeys. He forced a grin at that last joke from The Simpsons.

It seemed there was one for every occasion. Doreen had loaded the first twelve seasons onto his laptop, and now he distracted himself by chuckling about the episode where a hurricane destroyed the Flanders’ house, delivering Ned into the same dubious hands of modern psychiatry that Karl had toured so ineffectually himself. Now that he thought about it, he and Nurse Drake had been applying the ‘University of Minnesota Spankological Protocol’ for months now. He was still grinning when Doreen returned from banging around the house.

Her color was up and she exuded the boundless confidence in the face of a challenge that he tried to emulate daily. Though muted by the closed shutters the wind was howling louder still and the rain was now hammering down. She shut off the water in the bathroom and grabbed a bag containing elimination necessities: condom catheters, suppositories, lube and gloves. Then she hurried over to where she’d stashed his wheelchair (now deliberately dusty) with a flash of real and uncharacteristic anger.

“Goddamn it, I promised myself you would never use this thing again! I’m so glad I didn’t promise you too. Fate likes to punish us for our arrogance, doesn’t it, little slut?”

“Sometimes it does, my love.”

“Well, every time fate has tangled with me, it’s lost. How’s that for arrogance?”

She set up the chair, connected the leg rests and bounded nimbly onto the bed.

“Okay baby, you’re coming with me. We’re going to have a little party down in the wine cellar, just the two of us.”

Without bothering to remove clothespins, nipple-stretchers, vibrators or even the panties stretched over his head, Doreen transferred him to the wheelchair with her usual swift and safe efficiency. She tossed her laptop on top of his lap and then the adventure was on: Karl was about to tour more parts of the house he’d never seen before.

Back to the kitchen he’d arrived in they went first. There across from the door to the garage Doreen opened another wider, sturdier door set into the floor. Clearly this led to the basement, only instead of the stairs he’d expected a ramp dropped away. Corrugated rubber padding over concrete, this descended in a long switchback to the utterest floor of the structure. Doreen switched on the light and Karl saw a hand-truck down there for wheeling things up and down. As she began easing him down the ramp he was again impressed beyond measure.

People in this part of the country were expected to have disaster preparedness kits and most had reinforced storm cellars. Like everything else about Doreen’s remodeling job though, this had been done with a superb attention to detail.

She’d called this a wine cellar, and there was indeed a respectable rack of bottles and even a cradle for a small barrel of the staple she favored. Yet that was just the beginning. There was also a short row of still-sealed liquor bottles: bourbon, scotch, vodka, gin. All along the floor stood a long one of plastic water jugs, five gallons each. Above were shelves and shelves of various canned goods and emergency supplies. Though enough stuff was stashed down here for months (Doreen had apparently taken The Road to heart), there was plenty of space left over, which had been turned into a comfortable studio apartment.

The forbidding concrete block walls were softened by sorority trappings: banners and tapestries featuring Greek letters and collegiate themes. A small bookcase held yearbooks in addition to weighty novels and encyclopedia. A commemorative pewter beer stein sat on top. Mounted above this, displayed like a trophy or emblem of accomplishment was a beautifully finished and inlaid paddle with those same Greek letters carved through the middle. Karl could already imagine it cracking against his buttocks, the pain greatly increased by those perforations.

Except for the drain in the center, the concrete floor was similarly civilized by a thin layer of all-weather carpet. As he came down the ramp onto this, Karl saw a stack of boxes of the tall pillar candles he’d shamed himself by.

These also stood forth in somehow gothic iron sconces bolted regularly to the walls. In addition there was a Coleman lantern hanging from the heavy overhead beam and another on the table. There were flashlights and a powerful radio on the table too and a TV on the wall. In one corner was a small waste processing and water reclamation closet, and in another under the ventilator a propane stove, along with associated pans and utensils.

Dominating the other side of the room was the adjustable queen-size bed, and between were the table and a big adjustable armchair. Two collapsible chairs and TV tables were stored in the last corner. There was a phone and a wireless router on the wall and plenty of outlets should the power hold out. It appeared they had everything they could ask for. There was even a semiautomatic shotgun and a dozen boxes of shells among the supplies, though Karl didn’t see any zombie repellent. In any case, Doreen leaped back up the ramp in a couple of short-cut bounds to shut and bolt the heavy, counter-weighted door. She dropped back down in similar fashion to tousle his hair through the panties still humiliatingly half-masking him.

“Welcome to my dungeon, little slut. Now you’re really in deep aren’t you? Let’s get settled in. Here, bring up the weather channel’s website for me please.”

She opened the laptop and turned on the voice activation for him and then hurried to the TV. Within a minute they were catching up on the event that had so nearly overtaken them.

For a time they simply watched video: smashed shorelines and scattered debris, radar and satellite images of the gigantic storm. The center was plowing straight toward them; they were already within its outer bands. They listened to studio talking heads and weather-braving correspondents. When it all began to repeat, Doreen sighed.

“I’m sorry, darling. This is my fault. We should be hundreds of miles away by now.”

“I’d rather be here,” Karl answered honestly. “I don’t want to leave this property until we head for the airport on the way to Hawaii. A long car ride stuck in a mass exodus to look for a hotel room? Forget about it! I’d much rather hunker down with my owner and rough it, even if she lacks the electricity to properly torture me.”

Doreen laughed at that.

“Don’t worry, little slut, we have plenty of candles. And I’m sure we can improvise.

“ Okay, we’re right where we want to be, squirreled away together in the emergency shelter. How shall we pass the time? Are you hungry? You want some dinner?”

“I believe I’m a little too keyed up to eat.”

“I know what you mean. How about I make us a drink – Wild Turkey and a little water – and we play some cards while we keep an eye on the muted TV?”

“Sounds good to me.”

They squeezed together at one side of the table, the laptop in front of them. Sipping whiskey, nibbling at a can of cashews, joking and flirting despite the circumstances, they began to wile the long evening away in what should have been a highly enjoyable fashion.

The novel setting, the break in routine, the sense of adventure and even the slight spice of danger all contributed to the fun. Still Karl could hardly get comfortable with that vibrator (both vibrators) still buzzing away. Doreen had pulled the panties off and removed the clothespins and titty-twisters, but had left him sitting on what felt like a vibrating spike. She commiserated with his groans and whimpers, but insisted they needed to remain ready to move fast.

Hurricanes of this size spawned tornados. One of these could pluck the house from right above them. They didn’t want Karl stuck in bed or in the middle of a transfer if that should happen. Besides, if this was an ordinary day he would still be hanging in the sling suffering all the usual lonely torments, instead of sipping top-shelf hooch with his beloved. He had to count his blessings.

So they played cards and enjoyed each other’s company until playing cards staled. Muted by the house above them, the storm roared on, a strangely soporific sound. Mellowed by the whiskey, they started touching and kissing, passing at least some of the long hours hunkered down as so many other couples do. This was awkward with the wheelchair though, and eventually Doreen removed the armrests and reclined the back some so she could sit on his lap and straddle him. They were deeply engrossed thus went the power went out.