Oliver coughed and finally spluttered awake. As his senses began to slowly come back to him, so did the pain, ferociously rushing through his bloodstream like a contaminated river. Every muscle, every bone, every joint in his body ached, as if they had been individually pounded to an inch away from breaking and rupturing… and then there was confusion – thick and dark like a heavy storm cloud. His brain, numb. His thoughts, lost.
Despite trying, Oliver had no idea of how long he’d been unconscious. He couldn’t remember where he was either. In fact, it had taken him several seconds just to remember who he was.
Through the pain, he tried to force his eyes open. Identifying his surroundings would certainly help with the debilitating confusion, but his eyelids felt too tired… too heavy to move. All he got from them was a drowsy flutter before they collapsed back to their starting position.
Oliver’s mouth also felt desert-dry, with his glands struggling to produce any saliva. The little they did produce would die on his tongue way before hitting his throat, which felt as if he had gurgled with crushed glass.
Oliver coughed again – a natural reflex to clear the airways – but that rush of pressure felt as if a bomb had gone off inside his skull, compressing his brain and making him dizzy again, the pain so intense that even breathing became a struggle.
It was then that he heard a noise.
Thud, thud,.
It came at him faintly, but in perfect timed intervals, as if a maestro was conducting a beat.
He tried to think, but nothing made any real sense.
Was this a dream? A nightmare?
It had to be. That was the only plausible explanation. How else would he be here? Wherever the hell ‘here’ was.
Thud, thud.
The metronome-precise sound came again and it seemed to be getting louder… closer even.
Fear began taking over.
Thud, thud.
Despite the pain, Oliver breathed in a lungful of air that felt warm and stale, heavy with an odd smell that he couldn’t quite identify.
Thud, thud.
As the sound kept on repeating itself, Oliver finally realized that it wasn’t coming from around him… it was coming from inside him. That pounding noise was the sound of blood powerfully thundering through his eardrums, and with each thud he felt his entire head pulse along with his heart, connected by the rush of blood.
What ridiculously crazy nightmare is this?
Splash.
All of a sudden, ice-cold water splattered against his face like an angry backslap, prompting Oliver to finally let go of the fearful cry that had been readying itself in his throat since he had regained consciousness.
The scream echoed loudly around him, a clear indication that he was surrounded by solid walls.
Desperate, he gasped, swallowing air as if he was trying to drink it.
This isn’t a nightmare, he thought, his body shivering, his heart about to explode out of his chest. This is real. All of it. What the hell is happening?
The unexpected slap of freezing water to his face brought on a multitude of immediate physical reflexes – shivering, tightening of the muscles, constriction of the diaphragm, skin turning into gooseflesh and, worst of all, a brand new avalanche of fear – because now Oliver knew that wherever he was, he wasn’t alone.
As the water dripped down his face, onto his bare chest and down to the floor beneath his feet, a hacking cough wrenched through his body, sending the pain at the base of his skull crashing through his ribs and down into his pelvis and thighbones.
But the icy water also served to shock him into an even higher state of alertness. His eyelids fluttered again, but this time he managed to find the strength to finally flick them open. As he did, he was immediately greeted by blurred shapes, his brain still heavy and foggy, but fear had its own special way of accelerating physiological responses. A fraction of a second later, his eyes began to regain their focus.
Concrete flooring.
That was what Oliver seemed to be looking at – polished concrete flooring.
He took in another mouthful of air. His ribcage lifted then fell slowly, as his lungs took in the much-needed oxygen. His eyes were still adjusting to the poor light, but he was sure that he was staring at polished concrete flooring.
It took his brain an extra two seconds to connect the dots. Oliver was in an upright position, with his head slumped forward, his chin almost touching his chest. What he was staring at was the floor underneath his feet, because his feet weren’t touching the ground.
Suddenly, pain exploded from both of his hands and arms, travelling all the way from his fingertips to his shoulders, where it spread like wildfire onto his neck and back. That was when Oliver finally realized the exact position he was in. He was upright, but he had been tied onto a large, X-shaped wooden cross. Also known as a Saint Andrew’s cross.
His wrists and ankles were being held in place by thick, leather straps that had been buckled as tight as they would possibly go without actually cutting the blood circulation to his hands and feet. The straps at his wrists were dotted with blood. The reason why his arms, shoulders and neck hurt so desperately was because his arms were supporting most of his weight, as his feet couldn’t quite touch the ground.
It was at the same moment that Oliver realized that he was completely naked.
Splash.
Another splatter of ice cold water against his face.
Another shocking round of immediate physical reflexes.
The straps around his wrists bit deeper still into his flesh.
‘Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead.’ Oliver heard a voice say. The tone was smooth, underlined by such serenity it was disturbing. There was no rush in the words… no anger… no emotion. Just a stillness that was as soothing as it was unnerving.
It took Oliver an effort of will to lift his head up, trying to see who was talking to him. As he did, bright light burnt into his eyes and he immediately squinted, his head recoiling back like a fired weapon.
Where is that voice coming from?
He blinked, once again, giving his eyes time to adapt. It didn’t take long for the burning to dissipate and a shape to finally begin to take form before him – a figure, tall, athletic – but the harsh light was still there, coming from behind it, which meant that all he could really make out was a silhouette… a shadow looking back at him.
Oliver tried to focus on the silhouette’s face, but there was nothing there other than a dark oval of shadow. Oliver couldn’t make out the eyes… the nose… the lips… nothing.
‘Who… are you?’ Oliver tried to say, but his vocal cords didn’t quite respond like they were supposed to. All that came out of his lips was a barely audible rasp.
The shape before him shifted from one leg to the other, but remained in darkness.
‘The headache…’ the shadow said. Once again, the voice was calm and controlled. ‘The muscle pain… the dizziness… the burning throat… all of those are mainly side effects from the drug I slipped into your ice tea when you fell asleep. Your arms hurt because they are holding the bulk of your weight. The side effects of the drug should wear off in a few minutes.’ There was a pause. ‘But trust me when I tell you that you’ll wish they hadn’t.’
There was something evil in the way that the shadow delivered that last sentence.
Oliver ran his tongue against his cracked lips, trying to collect a few drops of water to sooth his agonizing throat. With that, he somehow managed to fight the fear… the pain… the exhaustion and find the strength needed to finally activate his vocal cords.
‘Who… are you?’ he asked again in a labored breath.
This time, Oliver’s voice finally reached the shadow’s ears. ‘I’ve already told you who I am,’ it said. ‘Don’t you remember?’
Oliver heard a smile somewhere between those words.
‘To you… I’ll be a mentor, Oliver…. a teacher of sorts.’
Oliver’s memory blinked inside his head, tripped, blinked again. Where had he heard that before?
To you… I’ll be a mentor, Oliver.
Oliver concentrated with everything he had, until some of his memory finally came back to him. He hadn’t heard those words before. He had read them… in a text message.
Another flash of memory – he had been sitting in his living room, watching a basketball game, when his phone beeped.
It hadn’t been a dream.
‘Would you like a drink of water?’ the Mentor asked.
Oliver desperately needed water, but fear kept him from replying.
The Mentor read him like a book.
‘Don’t worry, Oliver. This isn’t drugged. There’s no need for that anymore.’ The Mentor poured some water into a plastic cup and had a sip before approaching Oliver. ‘See?’
As the Mentor finally stepped out of the shadows, Oliver’s eyes eagerly tried to take in everything he could.
What he saw looked like a nightmare.
The Mentor was dressed all in black, wearing what seemed to be a neoprene diving suit. The hair was also covered, completely tucked away under the diving suit’s hoodie, but the face was exposed. Oliver concentrated on it – the eyes, the lips, the nose, the cheekbones, the shape of the chin… whatever he could see. He tried hard, urging his brain to respond. It took several long seconds before his memory told him that it had no idea who the person standing in front of him was. He had never seen the Mentor before and that only served to fill Oliver with even more confusion and fear.
The Mentor held the plastic cup to Oliver’s lips, who drank its contents in small, but hungry gulps. At first, the water scratched his throat as if he was drinking liquid sandpaper, but it soon felt like the nectar of the gods.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ the Mentor said, looking around the room they were in. ‘This has saved me a lot of time and effort.’
Oliver swallowed the last drop of water from the cup and tentatively allowed his gaze to scan his surroundings. He’d been so frightened, so confused since he’d regained consciousness that he had concentrated all of his attention on his assailant. The room he was in had come a very distant second on his list of priorities, but now that his eyes began taking in the walls, the ceiling, the corners, the furniture, the props… despite the dim lighting and the shadows, it took him only a moment to realize where he was. His sense of smell also seemed to finally wake up, registering the faint smell of leather mixed with latex.
The Mentor, once again, read Oliver’s expression.
‘Yes, Oliver, this is your basement, and I must admit that I’m impressed.’ The Mentor looked left then right. ‘This is one hell of a well-equipped dungeon. You and your wife must be into some very kinky shit, huh?’
Both Oliver and Josie enjoyed all different kinds of sex play, including BDSM, role-playing and mild to moderate pain. It was all a big part of their sex life. Just before their wedding, they managed to find a house with a reasonably large basement, something that was considered a rarity in Los Angeles. It took them two months to transform the basement into a very well-equipped dungeon, with wall and ceiling metal rings, used for tying each other up, a vast selection of mild punishing implements and all different kinds of whips, canes, ropes, straps, and chains. There were also two different restriction chairs and the St. Andrew’s cross that Oliver was now tied to. This was their playroom.
What the hell is happening here?
Fear slapped Oliver across the face with an angry hand and he could feel his whole core shaking. Pain tugged at his arms again, but he pushed through.
‘We… we don’t have that much money.’ His weak voice filled the space between him and the Mentor. ‘Some savings…’
The Mentor placed a gloved finger on Oliver’s lips.
‘Shhhhhhh! You think this is about money?’
Their gaze found each other’s, and Oliver saw something burn inside the Mentor’s eyes that he had never seen before in anyone’s eyes. Something dark and dense like a black hole full of anger. If there was any truth in the phrase ‘the eyes are a window to the soul’, then the Mentor didn’t have one. All Oliver could see was darkness.
The Mentor smiled before walking back into the shadows.
Oliver could feel panic starting to craw along his skin.
‘This won’t be pleasant,’ the Mentor said. ‘At least not for you. Here we go. Lesson number one.’
That was when Oliver noticed what the Mentor had picked up.
Fear and panic rolled into a single ball of terror that made him gasp for air.
‘No… wait… please…’
The Mentor smiled again.
‘Well, if this scares you, Oliver, then I can’t wait until you see the real surprise.’