Day 2

The lights cut out on me suddenly as I was still writing my last entry. It was pitch black in the room, so I gave up writing and felt my way back into bed. She must have me on a sixteen hour “day” in here, though whether the period of lights-on, lights-out I experience correlates in any way to “daylight” in the outside world I couldn’t know.

Today was just as bizarre as yesterday. The lights coming back on in my cell woke me from strange dreams, in which I was being chased by a large golden bird over a barren landscape. I was disoriented for several minutes, and was about to begin pleading incoherently once more when the steel door opened and she entered, bringing me back into focus.

“You!” I growled as awareness returned, and my memory of the last 24 hours (the only memory of any kind I could access) flooded my mind.

“Good morning, pet,” she chirped in a pleasant tone. She was carrying a tray stacked with various dishes and carafes. Looking at the pages on which I had written the day before, she said, “I see that you followed my instructions to keep a log. Since you have been a good boy, I will reward you by having breakfast with you today.”

“Why would that be a reward?” I asked.

She only laughed at this, as if the answer was obvious. Setting the tray down on the table, she set out its contents and sat in one of the chairs. Turning toward me, she made a summoning gesture, indicating the chair opposite her. “Come eat, pet.”

“Fuck off,” I snarled.

“Suit yourself,” she retorted. “This is the only food you will get today unless you come breakfast with me. I think you know by now that I don’t make empty threats.” I had been given food several times through the pass-through since waking up in this cell, but I didn’t doubt that those deliveries would stop if I didn’t do what this crazy bitch was asking.

She began eating. The sounds of tableware clinking and the smell of coffee and pancakes incited my hunger. After a minute of sulking I walked over to the table and sat across from my jailer.

“That’s a good boy,” she cooed. “Try the pancakes, they are delicious.”

We ate in silence for a while. I tried to ignore her, but it was difficult. Every time I looked up from my food I could see her green eyes boring into me, her face set in a Mona Lisa smile.

“So should I give you the journal pages I wrote yesterday?” I asked.

“No. They are for someone else, not me.”

“The person who hired you to do this to me?”

“Yes…” she replied, drawing out the word and narrowing her eyes secretively, as if to say that no more information would be forthcoming.

“Who could hate me so much?” I asked.

“How do you know that the person who hired me hates you?”

“Only an enemy could want me caged and humiliated like this,” I declared.

Silence descended again. Finally, I asked, “Why do you do this?”

“I told you, I can’t say…yet,” she replied.

“No…I didn’t mean this specific mad caper we’re a part of,” I explained. “This job in general. Hypnotizing men.”

“It turns me on. I like having control. I like it a lot.”

As she spoke these words she slipped her foot out of her shoe and worked it up my calf under the table.

“Doesn’t that make you a warped personality?” I challenged.

She laughed. “Says who? The only people who like my control more than me are the men I enslave. Are they warped too?”

“Yes,” I answered self-confidently. “That’s not natural.”

“Then why is your dick hard?” she asked.

It was true. I had been too focused on our confrontation to notice, but the feeling of her nylon-clad foot snaking up my leg had raised a boner. What was most disconcerting was trying to figure out how she knew I was hard. She couldn’t see my crotch from where she sat on the other side of the table. I shrugged it off internally as a lucky guess.

“Th…that’s a reflex,” I stammered, trying to show more composure than I felt.

Another laugh. “A reflex would have been flinching away when I began foot-fucking you, if you really didn’t like it.”

This nearly made me blow my top, but I managed to deny her the satisfaction of having angered me. She is really a piece of work. The combination of psychosis and arrogance is as amazing as it is infuriating. It will be a great pleasure to see her locked up when she is finally caught.

We ate the rest of the meal in silence. My eyes stayed focused on my plate for the most part. Every time I looked up I saw her looking at me with the same secretive smile, like the cat who ate the canary.

“You are a surly pet,” she said finally, rising from the table, “but you followed orders like a good boy. I will reward you with some toiletries.” On this she collected the breakfast tray and departed.

About an hour after she left a tray came through the pass-through stacked with a new gown, a towel, a bar of soap, a can of shaving cream, and a disposable safety razor. This last item surprised me. I know I can’t us it to attack her, but if I broke it open and used the blade on myself I could force her to send me to a hospital. I have kept that in mind as “Plan B.” Meanwhile I will wait and see how this plays out. A note on the tray instructed me to leave my old gown by the pass-through to be collected.

Almost as soon as the shower supplies came I used them to get cleaned up, and despite everything, it made me feel better. Amazing how a shower and a shave can change your outlook. I’ve been twiddling my thumbs ever since, apart from eating the food that has been sent. I finally got so bored that I wrote this down. I’ll break off here so that I don’t get caught again when the lights go out.



Day 3

Ate breakfast with my jailer again today. This journal seems to be the main thing she wants. That and my compliance with her requests to breakfast together. I was rewarded again.

“Since you’ve been a good pet,” she declared as I ate my eggs sullenly, “I have decided to give you this.”

She placed a remote-control device on the table. It is hard to know where she kept it before then, since today as usual she was very scantily clad- wearing only a black corset, garters and stockings over which was draped a sheer black see-through nightgown, open at the front.

“What is that for?” I asked.

“It controls the TV. You must be bored in here when I am not with you. This will help pass the time. If you keep being good I can give you books, newspapers.”

“You’re not afraid I might learn something?”

“Learn what?” she replied. “Nothing you see on TV can loosen my control. Channel-surf to your heart’s content.”

After breakfast I did just that. She was true to her word; the TV receives dozens of basic cable channels and even a few premium stations. I spent most of the day switching between news channels. From the local news I learned that it is April of 2019 and that we are in California, most likely in the vicinity of Los Angeles. I couldn’t make sense of any of the national or international news, because my blank slate of memories leaves me no context.

The time stamp on the live broadcasts suggests that my lights-on, lights-off schedule corresponds to a standard day. I woke this morning at about 7 AM PDT, breakfast was at 8. Lights-out seems to happen at about 11 PM. Of course, she could be recording all of the stations and streaming them to my TV on a time delay, but that seems like a lot of trouble. I don’t think that time disorientation is key to her plan, whatever that might be. My lunch tray had a new gown, a fresh towel, and a change of sheets for my bed. Torturing me with lack of sanitation doesn’t seem to be part of the program either.

I kept surfing the channels for some sign of my own identity. I’ve been in here for three days, I had hoped that I would have been declared missing by now. But there was nothing about me on the news.