The chair, again. I can feel its chilly metal before I open my eyes. I can smell the antiseptic she cleans the floor with.
No, don’t panic, try to calm down. Breathe slowly: in through the nose, out through the mouth. I can’t open my mouth. She hasn’t reconnected the nerves. My lips remain stubbornly sealed against my teeth. Breath chokes me, then reverses and streams out in a high pitched whistle from my nostrils.
I can still hear, then.
I try moving my hands. They stay frozen-stiff: palms up, fingers spread. Supplicant, the way she likes them. She’s obviously decided I won’t be needing them. Legs are too much to hope for.
Hard footsteps ring off the tiles around me. Panic again. My heart shrinks to a tiny frantic point. It’s still beating, obviously; even she wouldn’t change that.
I open my eyes: she is a slanted silhouette backed by bright white light, blurry through my tears.
“Poor you,” she leans over me, “poor you.” A sharp alcohol stench: she’s still wearing that bastard perfume. I wonder what it would be like to vomit with my mouth sealed shut.
“Just look at yourself.”
Hand behind my head, she tilts me up. I look down at my naked body: I’m bluish-white, and skinny. I need feeding up. No doubt she’ll get to that.
“I know,” she whispers, “I know what’ll make you feel better.” She giggles.
The one body function she’s left me. Fluid pulses into veins and arteries. A throbbing ache. Staring down myself, I watch the grey head of my cock begin to unshrivel. I can feel it swell as cold and hard as glass.
“We’ll have to be quiet as mice,” says she. “Just like old times.”
Tom Pollock lives and writes in London. He hopes you enjoyed his story.