Her Minder
Her Minder
By
Teddy Radiator
Her Minder
Teddy Radiator
Published by Teddy Radiator AKA Tracy Furlong at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by Teddy Radiator AKA Tracy Furlong
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Note:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is also available in print form at Lulu.com.
For Tracy and Trevor, the most patient man on the planet
AR and KH
Many, many thanks to the goddess Sempraseverus for her illustrations, her inspiration and her friendship.
Also, special thanks to the Gothic Princess Mimimanderly for making me truly understand Dahlra in the first place
Dedicated to My Precious DMuse
Chapter One: The First Examination
Chapter Six: The School Master
Chapter Seven: The First Night
Chapter Ten: The Fantasy Lover
Chapter Eleven: Returning To The Cell
Chapter Fourteen: The Revelation
Chapter Sixteen: The Aftermath
Chapter Eighteen: The Confession
Chapter Twenty-One: Discipline
Chapter Twenty-Two: Father Figure
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Airport
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Guilt
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Family
Chapter Twenty-Six: Wedding Day
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I’ll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
To honour thy decree;
Or bid it languish quite away,
And’t shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
While I have eyes to see;
And having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I’ll despair,
Under that cypress tree;
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E’en death, to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me;
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.
To Anthea, Who May Command Him Anything
by Robert Herrick
(1591-1674)
She woke with a start, on the move even as her mind registered consciousness. She was restrained securely to the examination table, however, and the mind bending pain of her injuries caused her to cry out in spite of her firm resolve to remain silent. Numbers bubbled to her lips: “6, 13, 27, 4, 12, 6, 13, 27, 4, 12….” Every day she recited the numbers, a litany against insanity.
Dimly, she tried to focus on how many days she had been incarcerated. Between the beatings and the drugs, she was fairly sure she had been here at least two months, but she couldn’t be one hundred percent positive. She could smell herself, and felt sick again.
The overwhelming stench of every bodily waste she could produce was encrusted on the ragged hospital gown she was given to wear. Underneath, a pair of bloody knickers were further stained with urine and feces. They had not allowed her to use a toilet in days. One of the guards apparently liked that sort of thing.
Over and over she replayed the day it had all gone wrong. She had been double-crossed, she was sure of that, now. Her cover had been impeccable, and she had gone through the checkpoints several times. She had been so close. Only one more reccie and her mission would have been complete and she could leave this hellhole.
This time, however, she had known she was in trouble. The guards were different, and they had hesitated just long enough for her to realize the trap she’d stupidly walked into.
She had been taken into a compound, a former hospital, and had been optimistic that her cover would ensure her release. Looking back, they had only given her credentials a perfunctory glance before the two guards had walked into the interrogation room and started mercilessly pummeling her.
Even now, weeks later, she still remembered the slow, methodical beating she’d been given. Even as she had begged and screamed and protested her innocence, the numbers had soothed her. As the mnemonic codes flowed into her mind, she was almost fascinated at the detached way her mind withdrew from the pain, while her voice keened against the cell wall, pleading for mercy that would not come.
Then the rape had begun. How many men had raped and sodomised her as she counted, “6, 13, 27, 4, 12, 6, 13, 27, 4, 12….” Yes, it had hurt, yes, she felt more degradation she thought it possible to feel, but above it, the overall feeling of, “6, 13, 27, 4, 12, 6, 13, 27, 4, 12….”
When she had prepared for this mission, she had been given the codes. The fact they had given her the codes in the first place told her they expected trouble. Memory codes, calming codes, codes that would keep her alive, codes that would allow her to recall every scrap of information she had discovered, and codes that would allow her to block the pain.
It was a very sophisticated form of self-hypnosis, involving numbers and word strings and she had been trained extensively before she’d embarked on this fool’s errand of a mission. She had everything she needed to bring them down, but it looked as if her knowledge would go no further than this stinking cell.
Every day the interrogator would ask the same questions. Who sent you? What are you here to discover? What have you learned? They had no evidence other than what was in her head, and they couldn’t release her, but they were afraid to kill her. It was a no-win situation until evidence was found, or they could break her and get a confession. So far neither had happened.
Every day she gave them the same answers. She had learned long ago that, to be a good spy, not only did you have to have a good cover you had to believe your own story. She knew who she was. What she did not know is why they hadn’t cut their losses and made her disappear.
The interrogator would sigh and leave, in spite of her pleas for mercy, and the guards would come in, already grinning in anticipation of what they would do to her. She stopped fighting after the first week, and stopped asking for a bath after the first month. It was during that time they cut off the second toe of her right foot.
During the second month, she got the feeling she was an embarrassment to the interrogators, and they stopped questioning her every day. The feeding schedule became erratic, but the beatings and rapes continued.
Today the food was late. Her internal clock told her it was almost noon, and she wondered where everyone was. It seemed deathly quiet; normally she heard noises outside the cell, but not today.
She now knew this cell like the back of her hand. Using the size of the ceiling tiles above her, she surmised it to be approximately ten feet by fifteen feet in size. The walls were dingy white, and the cabinets and cupboards above them were bare but for a few rolls of gauze, rubber gloves, bottles of alcohol.
She knew the rubbing alcohol was there. One of the guards had poured two bottles over her bleeding rectum after a particularly brutal anal rape. Just to hear her scream, he said. It was then she realized that, to these men, it didn’t really matter if she was a spy or not. She was just a toy for them to play out their most sadistic dreams. She was the best thing to happen to them in years.
There was a battered sink just in her line of vision on her right. She was in a narrow bed/examination table in the middle. A harsh light swiveled overhead.
She had been lucky, for the most part. She was good at what she did, and had enjoyed a long career. She wasn’t one for self-actualization but she had to admit she’d given it her best shot, and felt she still had a chance to survive. Yes, she told herself that every day. At the beginning of the day she willed herself to stay alive, and at the end she congratulated herself on accomplishing her daily goal.
The door opened, and a man she had never seen walked in. He was tall, with white-blond hair and extremely pale skin. His eyes were a cold emerald green with no warmth in them. He might have been considered handsome but for the fierce scowl on his face. At first thought she thought he was albino, but his eyebrows and eyes were too dark. He wore a white coat, and a stethoscope was tucked into his pocket.
For a brief moment, they looked at one another. She tried to assess him in that moment, but his demeanor was completely different from the other guards. His aloof, slightly disdainful countenance was in sharp contrast to the leering faces of the guards who brutalized her.
For the first time since her capture, she was unsure of her chances of getting out alive. She chewed on her lip as she and the new man stared at one another. She swallowed. This one, she knew, wasn’t a rapist, or a sadist. This one’s cruelty would be insidious, cold and calculating, a real professional. This one would find the chink in her armor. This one would pay attention, and turn her inside out. This man was her potential assassin. Or her potential savior. If he wasn’t made of stone. She couldn’t even be sure of that.
Finally, he spoke. “Do you know why you are here?” His voice was cool. A clipped, crisp English accent. Obviously old money, cultured, sophisticated. It was a deep baritone voice, with inflection and color. Silk and chocolate. Its owner would know how to use it to get what he wanted.
She sighed in relief. “Finally,” she cried, “Someone who will see sense. Please, Doctor…” she raised her inflection, as if requesting his name.
“You may refer to me by the honorific, ‘Doctor’,” he answered softly, his eyes never leaving hers. “Answer the question, please, Ms. Chapin.”
Tearfully, she answered, “I’m trying to tell you! My name isn’t Chapin. It’s Parker. My name is Geraldine Parker. I work for Capital Oil as a buyer. There has been a hideous mistake! Please tell me why this is happening to me!”
“I’m sorry, Miss…Parker, is it?” He picked up a manila folder and looked at the first few pages. “I’m afraid I don’t believe you. You are Special Agent Sydney Chapin, and you are being detained on charges of espionage, sabotage and treason to this government.” He looked up at her with suspicion-filled eyes. “I would caution you not to waste my time with fruitless attempts to gain my sympathy. I assure you none will be forthcoming.”
He paused imperceptibly. “Name?”
“Geraldine Parker! My husband is Allan Parker and my daughter is Amanda-”
“Enough, Miss Chapin. While I’m sure your little work of fiction is very entertaining, I neither have the time nor the inclination to listen to it.”
“Please, help me, Doctor. No one will believe me. I’ve been raped and beaten so many times,” she cried, a sob escaping her. She turned the full weight of her beautiful hazel eyes to him imploringly. He snorted and tossed the folder on the table.
“Obviously, Ms. Chapin.”
“My name is Geraldine Parker. You must believe me. I need to get word to my husband. My daughter-”
“Would you like a bath?” He said abruptly.
Startled by this non sequitur, she choked slightly, “Oh yes, please. I haven’t been allowed to bathe in-”
“Yes, I see that. I can smell it, too.” His nose wrinkled in disgust, and she lowered her eyes and allowed tears to spill from her eyes at the cruelty in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, frantically trying to unlock this strange Doctor’s compassion.
He was unmoved. Finally, he sighed and stepped forward to unlock the restraints, then moved back to allow her to stand.
Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself into a sitting position, then swung her legs over the table. She stood up, but her legs crumpled beneath her and she stumbled forward. He moved away and allowed her to drop painfully to her knees. She fell to the floor, sobbing, her lank hair hanging greasily around her face. His legs were inches from her and she desperately flung herself at his feet.
“Please, please help me!” She begged, throwing her arms around his knees. She looked up at him, pleading with her eyes. She felt strong arms roughly pulling her to her feet.
“Ms. Chapin, stop this foolish nonsense.” he said flatly, his voice harsh. He held her arms in a painful grip. “If you cannot stand unassisted, tell me and I will provide you with a chair.”
Meekly, she bowed her head. She had seen a brief flash of emotion and tried to exploit it. “I’m very sorry, Doctor. I just want to feel clean.” She wept silently, and she felt his iron grip loosen. “I just want to know why this nightmare is happening to me.”
The Doctor ignored her as he helped her to the large tiled bathroom. He turned on the shower and waited until the water was warm, then silently helped her out of her rancid clothing, averting his face in disgust.
“Can you stand in the shower long enough for me to order some new bedclothes?” he queried, sounding rather bored. When she nodded, he left her to stand with the delicious water running down her body, rinsing away the filth and the shame.
The Doctor walked to the door of the bathing room and called for an assistant. His voice was chillingly calm. “Clean that room up. I’m not going to work in a cell covered in shit. And bring some clean clothes for the prisoner.”
In spite of her good intentions, she felt her knees weaken, and leaned against the shower wall. She slid down before he could get to her, and she could almost feel his disapproval. The water ceased. She looked up at him apologetically.
He gave her another irritated sigh and turned toward the tub. She could hear water splashing in the tub as he returned to the shower stall and unceremoniously hauled her to her feet. He was unmoved by her nudity and her helplessness.
Trembling with effort, she managed to crawl in the tub unaided, but once again found herself too weak to do anything other than soak in the hot water. She thought of this new development. Obviously they had sent in this ‘doctor’ to step up her interrogation.
He was a professional, she was certain. They meant business this time, and she wasn’t sure she had the strength to face it. The fact that she was so weak frightened her. Weakness caused mistakes. Weakness caused indiscretion. Weakness would get her killed. In a whisper, she began counting, “6, 13, 27, 4, 12, 6, 13, 27, 4, 12….”
“Excuse me?” the Doctor queried, as he began to work shampoo into her hair.
She froze. “Sorry,” she reiterated.
Another sigh. “Ms. Chapin, or Ms. Parker-”
“Mrs.” She corrected. “Mrs. Parker. I’m married. I’m a mother of a four-year-old.”
“As you wish. What were you saying before?” His fingernails scrubbed harshly into her scalp, but strangely she didn’t mind. She was so dirty.
“Nothing.” The Doctor rinsed her hair and helped her to stand, dispassionately looking away as she wrapped herself in a towel.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the sink and stared. God, she had been in some scrapes before, but this was the worst. She looked like a cadaver.
She had always been rather dismissive of her looks, but seeing herself this gaunt and battered actually frightened her. Bruises showed purple and yellow on almost every inch of her body. She still bore the remnants of a black eye and there were teeth marks on her collarbones and neck. Forgetting she was not alone, she opened the towel to assess the rest of her body.
She closed her eyes, sickened by her own self image. Teeth marks, bruises, cuts, contusions, gashes, scabs. She was a complete mess. No wonder she was in horrific pain.
“Impressive, isn’t it? Man’s inhumanity to man – or to woman, in this case.” The Doctor’s voice was diffident, but with a silky quality, as if he was almost musing to himself. In the mirror, she saw his reflection over her shoulder. She met his eyes defiantly, and this time he looked away.
“Please change into these clothes, Ms. Chapin.” Again, he stood at a distance as she painfully drew on the hospital gown and plain cotton knickers that had been provided. Now that she was clean, she could think a little straighter, and the numbers comforted her again. “6, 13, 27, 4, 12, 6, 13, 27, 4, 12….”
“8, 43, 6, 29, 5,” he mocked in a lazy drawl, as she whispered the numbers to herself. “Why are you reciting random numbers, Ms. Chapin?” Again, he used his voice to cajole, making it sound deeper and silkier. “What do the numbers mean?”
When he asked the question, something strange happened. She could almost feel her spine stiffen. Her head cleared and she could feel calm steeling into her body. “You won’t give me anything to read. I’m just saying numbers to hear myself.” She sounded petulant, but in reality was relaxed. “It reminds me I’m real.”
Once she was safely ensconced in her cell again, she found food waiting on her. She ate ravenously everything on the plate, even though the food was tasteless and grey. She knew it would be drugged, but she had to get every ounce of nutrition possible. Before she had finished the meal she could feel the drug starting to take effect. The Doctor turned to her as if addressing her for the first time.
“You are a prisoner.” His voice was cold and threatening.
She nodded hesitantly in confusion, not sure why his demeanor had changed so radically. “Yes, I am.”
“My word is law.”
She nodded hesitantly again. “Yes, it is.”
He moved forward until he was looming over her in his most dominating pose. She found herself leaning away from him as far as possible, unnerved by the cold indifference in his eyes.
“You will obey me or suffer the consequences.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Name?”
She looked up at him, pretending to feel more drugged than she actually was. “Geraldine Parker. I work for Capitol Oil…” She dropped her head, pretending to drift off.
The drug was fully in her system now, and she was overwhelmed with nausea. The Doctor pushed the wastebasket beside her just in time for her to vomit up the lunch. She felt dreadful, and worse, she felt the last vestiges of hope slipping by. As the Doctor called for someone to come in and clean up her mess, she realized the Doctor was going to win.
Two guards she recognized came in, and she knew they were here for what they euphemistically called ‘Fun Hour’. The Doctor sighed and walked over to the corner of the room, jotting notes in a folder. As the guards began pulling her clothes from her body, she looked over at the Doctor and stared at him until he looked up at her.
Enjoying a freshly washed, drugged woman, the guards spent an enjoyable two hours with her. The entire time, she watched the Doctor’s face. He looked up furtively to meet her uncompromising gaze. Once he knew she was staring at him while being molested, he refused to meet her eyes.
For the better part of the month, the Doctor spent almost every day questioning her and drugging her, trying to coax a confession from her. He gave her drugs that made her body feel it was on fire. Drugs that made her violently ill, that made it hard to breathe until he administered the anti-dote. She hallucinated; she called out for her mother and daddy.
Certain drugs would make her skin break out in small blisters that itched maddeningly. Others caused her to cry monotonously for hours. And always he watched from a distance, only assisting her when she reacted violently to whatever he was pumping through the IVs.
The numbers made the drugs easier to deal with. Easier, in fact, than she thought it would be. She had seen interrogations before. Hell, she’d performed them herself. Her reactions were much less extreme than any she’d seen. Were the codes really keeping the worst of the effects at bay?
Through it all were the questions. She patiently answered when she could and screamed her answers when the tortures of the drugs warped her sensibilities to the point of madness.
And through it all, the numbers were there, ticking themselves off in her head, so that she could find them even through the haze of hypno-narcotics, fear and despair. It finally occurred to her that she had not been molested in days. The Doctor’s form of rape was far more dangerous. He was systematically fucking her head to death.
The Doctor tried every method. He threatened, he shouted, he seduced, he cajoled, and still she never wavered. At one point, they faced each other trembling; he from shouting and she from the effects of the latest serum being pumped into her. She was sobbing and cowering and pleading for mercy. White faced with anger, the Doctor leaned over to her.
“You know, my dear Ms. Chapin, I think I would rather listen to your pretty lies all day than the pedantic truths of my employers, but the fact is that you have something we need – your knowledge.” He moved in closer to the writhing, suffering woman. “Tell me your secrets, Ms. Chapin. It is inevitable. You will tell me the truth.”
His voice became more alluring. Uncharacteristically, he reached out to stroke her tangled hair. “Let me ease your suffering,” he soothed. “I have the antidote here. One quick jab and you will feel soooo good.” He spoke the last words tenderly, almost seductively, and he smiled to hear her breath hitch. She looked into the barely concealed triumph in his eyes and swallowed.
“6, 13, 27, 4, 12, 6, 13, 27, 4, 12….”
Sydney’s voice faded as the numbers filled her head. The Doctor was coldly furious. “You are a prisoner.” His voice was rough, but very quiet – steel wrapped in velvet. His tone was indecipherable, but she heard it as a threat.
“Yes, I am.” 6, 13, 27, 4, 12….
“My word is law.” He stepped closer, and she started trembling, though she still wasn’t clear why.
“Yes, it is.” 6, 12, 27, 4, 12…..
He moved his hands along her body, this time with a firm touch, though it was still gentle.
His voice was cool and smooth, a black marble slab to lie upon. “And you have not obeyed me, so you will suffer the consequences.” One hand had found a breast while the other was on her thigh. Incredibly, Sydney felt herself moisten, but couldn’t distinguish if it was with fear or some sick sort of arousal. She looked away from him, and disgust was written plainly on her features.
He stepped back as if she’d pushed him, his face suffused with anger and something she could not quite recognize. “Very well, Ms. Chapin,” he hissed, and turned on his heel to leave the room. “Enjoy the afternoon. You do realize the pain will be quite excruciating.”
Panting against the ravages of the drug, she tried to breathe normally, but it was impossible. Contrary to his promise, the pain was not as terrible as she’d anticipated, which made her dread the next session all the more.
She decided then that it was too late. She would die in this cell, tormented by this cold, diabolical wielder of syringes, who was cruel and coaxing in turn. She did the only thing left. She gave up hope.
He had carefully observed this particular security guard for the past two weeks. The guard was sloppy, indifferent to his duties, bored and obviously hated the night shift. He came on at Midnight and was relieved at 7am, and almost always fell asleep between 3am and 5am.
The Doctor developed the habit of checking the prisoner several times during the shift and almost always stopped by to speak to the guard, sometimes sharing a snack or cup of tea with him.
After he was certain of the guard’s routine, the Doctor stopped by on his two am round. “How is our friend?” he queried, nodding toward the screen which showed Sydney’s still form. In the night-vision light, she looked strange and ethereal, her hair spilling over her pillow.
“Quiet,” the guard grunted acknowledging the cup of tea with a nod. “I think she might be sleeping,” he said, faintly bored.
“Oh, really,” the Doctor said, quietly. He grinned at the guard, and tipped him a leering wink. “Then I might have to wake her up.”
The guard returned the lecherous grin. “Feeling a little anxious, Doctor?”
They both laughed.
“Let’s just say that I feel a little justified in enjoying myself after hours - and where else am I going to find a bit of fun in this monastery?”
The guard laughed and shook his head in agreement. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he grinned lewdly, “but you can’t begrudge me having a watch - it’ll be better than the porn they ship in!”
The Doctor smiled as he left the security room. “Watch all you want - just remember it’s been a while for me, so don’t critique my endurance.”
The guard laughed again and finished the last of his tea, yawning. “Fine, I’m so sleepy this evening I may miss it all if you don’t hurry.”
The Doctor walked slowly toward the cell, calculating the amount of time it would take for the drug he had placed in the guard’s tea to take effect.
He entered the cell without bothering to be too quiet; he wanted Chapin awake. He turned on the night lights, which were at much lower wattage than the daylights, and her eyes opened instantly.
“What do you want?” she whispered hoarsely, alert because of the sudden change in his routine. She watched intently as he produced a syringe and injected a small amount of something into her arm. It bothered him that she accepted it without so much as a protest, and it made what he was about to do even more important. He only hoped that one day he could make her understand why.
“I would think that would be obvious by now, Ms. Chapin. I want you.” he said lewdly. His tone was surprised, as if she had just asked the most obvious question, and his speech was rather slurry, as if he were drunk. He leaned over her and proceeded to lie down on the bed almost on top of her and slightly to her right. A look of irritation rose in her eyes and then they shifted out of focus as the drug began to take effect.
“Oh, come now, Ms. Chapin, or whoever the hell you are, I think we know each other well enough by now to dispense with the formalities, hmm? Didn’t I promise I could make you feel soooo good?” His laughter sounded slightly breathless.
When she didn’t respond, he continued sulkily. ‘Come now, we can both agree I deserve a little reward for all my hard work on your behalf, don’t I?” He began to roughly caress her breasts through her hospital gown.
She looked away and sighed, willing herself to accept without a struggle. He began to kiss her, and was a little satisfied that she again tried to turn away. He lowered his head to nuzzle her neck, and calculated that the guard was most likely asleep.
“Ms. Chapin,” he whispered urgently, still caressing her, “I’ve just given you a mild sedative to relax you. I need you to do this. I need you to enjoy this.”
She turned and looked at him, nonplussed. He continued to pretend to nuzzle her neck, and his hand slipped underneath her gown.
“I’m not doing this to rape you.” At this declaration, Sydney blinked and examined his face closer. She could detect no alcohol on his breath. With the drug starting to take effect, she reached out for an explanation, but couldn’t seem to grasp it.
He continued his gentle caress. “I need you to feel alive again. You are giving up. I can’t allow this to happen. I need you to feel like fighting again.”
Stunned, Sydney began to struggle as she felt his hands slip between her thighs and caress her vulva. “The guard is watching us,” he continued, his whisper barely heard over the blood pounding in her ears. “It will look like I’m molesting you to anyone who reviews the security video.”
“Because that’s what it is,” she said in a dull, passionless voice. “Do you actually think this is exciting me?” She gave a harsh soulless laugh. “You are delusional.” Her last words faded away, and her eyes fluttered for a moment, as the Doctor’s fingers found the soft, dormant bud of her clitoris. In spite of her lethargy, she felt a frisson of arousal, and hated herself for it. She turned her face away and stared up at the ceiling.
“You’ve humiliated me every way possible,” she whispered back, “Now you want to have a laugh over this? You really are fucking sick.” Her body was responding against her will, the juices she produced smoothing the way for him to stimulate her further.
“I need you to feel alive again - I need you to orgasm,” he whispered, gently kissing her temple. “It will help you to feel better. I’ve convinced them to stop raping you because I’ve told them I want to do it. I’m trying to give you time to heal. For Christ’s sake, girl,” he said, desperately, “if you would masturbate I wouldn’t have to do this!”
“I’m not a performing monkey,” she countered, through gritted teeth, her breath quickening with the movement of his fingers. Try as she might, she could not quell the feeling of pleasure, the deep pressure in her damaged soul that called for her to allow her body to orgasm.
He could sense that she was close to climaxing, and he increased the pressure of his fingers. She responded immediately, and he could feel the control slipping.
“Don’t show them you are enjoying it, Ms. Chapin,” he crooned. “Turn your head to me and I’ll hide your reaction.” To his relief, she turned her head and he shielded her face from the camera. “Don’t give them the satisfaction - be as quiet as you can-”
She stiffened suddenly, and he heard the wordless gasps as she reached her climax. It was not a particularly spectacular climax but he thought it might be enough. He could feel her body gradually slacken, and he kissed her damp forehead. “What a good girl you are,” he praised, feeling her arms and chest relaxing completely. He waited until her breathing returned to normal and smiled down at her, his face turned from the cameras.
“If I make sure the guards are asleep and the cameras off, will you try to masturbate?” She shook her head, and he was rewarded with a hate filled look. Frustrated, he hissed, “It will help, I promise.”
“What kind of sick, twisted person are you? Fuck off, Doctor,” she whispered back, her face contorted with anger. He smiled. The fire was still there - smoldering, tamped down, but there nevertheless.
As long as you are feeling something, I can keep you alive, Ms. Chapin,” he countered. “If you can remember pleasurable stimuli, you’ll stay alive. Will you do it if I ensure you have privacy? If I can have the restraints removed?” His face, inches from hers, looked impassive, but there was something in his eyes that stopped the insult she was about to utter.
“Can you make them leave me alone?” she whispered. “Can you make them believe I am who I say I am?”
“Not yet,” he said, and for once he could not meet her eyes. “But if you can stay alive, I’ll help anyway I can.”
He turned and swung his legs off the table, and stood. He wiped his hand on her hospital gown in the crudest manner possible. “Very nice,” he sneered, and licked his fingers obscenely. “VERY nice,” he repeated, and pinched her nipple for good measure. “I may have this little nighttime snack more often, my dear.” He walked over to the door and switched the lights to infrared again. “Nighty-night, love.”
Long after he had gone, she lay awake, eyes shut, breathing deeply. She was completely flummoxed with what had just happened, and knew that she was missing something, but the drug was preventing it from coming together in her mind. He body still faintly hummed from her orgasm, and instead of feeling violated and dirty, as she always did when raped, she felt angry. Perhaps he had been right, she thought. Perhaps it was what I needed. I was giving up.
As the Doctor walked into the compound that morning, he could sense a change in the air, and from deep in the building he could hear her screaming. He forced himself to walk casually to the entrance and scan his security pass. When he walked through the door, it was the odors that first assaulted his senses: the coppery smell of blood, sweat, urine and the more indefinable whiff of bloodlust.
In the antechamber beside her cell, Sydney Chapin was tied and hanging from a hook in the ceiling so that her feet barely touched the ground. She was naked except for a pair of tattered knickers. A man the Doctor didn’t recognize was slowly and methodically whipping her back to ribbons with a slim, flexible metal rod.
Judging from her face, they had started beating her before the whipping commenced. One eye was swollen shut and blood oozed from her nose and mouth. On a nearby table was a pair of pliers and he saw to his covert horror, several bloody teeth. They had pulled them out, roots and all.
Her breathing was harsh and frighteningly uneven. She whimpered with each breath and tears of excruciating pain coursed down her swollen cheeks. The Doctor regarded her silently for a moment then turned to her tormentors. Forcing his voice to remain impassive, he sighed. “What’s this in honor of?”
The man with the slim metal rods turned to him, sweating, a huge grin on his leering face. He was spattered with Sydney’s blood. It was flecked over the cell and starting to run down her legs onto the floor. “Stepping up interrogation,” he grinned.
“Why?” The Doctor forced himself to turn away from her bleeding form. He had to play his cards right. It seemed that she could be dying right before his eyes.
The man wielding the rod shrugged. “Why not?” He turned back to Sydney, and drew his arm back for the next blow. “Get ready, doll,” he said, almost casually. Sydney screamed in anticipation. Her words were incoherent and the Doctor could see that she wasn’t counting.
The Doctor caught the man’s wrist mid-swing. “For fuck’s sake, this is pointless. If you beat her to death, we still won’t know anything, you idiot.”
The other men in the room looked up, mildly surprised. One of them shrugged. “Getting soft in your old age, Doctor?” He sneered. “Or are you just saving her for yourself?”
“It’s not like you’ve left much worth saving,” He replied coldly.
The rod wielder seemed disappointed but backed down. The Doctor’s chilling demeanor intimidated them so he forced them back with his sheer will. “I can’t get anything decent out of her half dead, and I won’t be able to understand her if you pull all her teeth.” He looked around coolly. “Take her down and put her on the table face down. I’ll be back shortly.”
He waited until they unhooked her bound hands from the ceiling chain and unceremoniously slung her onto the table. She cried out with every movement and her body shook. Her agony was palpable in the little room, and the men grumbled as they left the room.
The Doctor walked into his private study and locked the door, breathing deeply. He crossed the room and entered his bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before he began to vomit.
He heaved until he thought he would pass out then, bathed in sweat and breathing hard, he slumped against the far wall. He waited until his breathing returned to normal, then slowly crawled to his feet and faced the vanity mirror over the sink.
He looked at his white face for a long time, loathing what he saw. He splashed cold water over his face several times until his stomach began to settle. He tucked his shirt back into his trousers, rinsed his mouth and dried his hands. He left his study looking very much as he had entered it. Now he was ready to face her, and he dreaded it more than anything he had ever done.
“This is going to be unpleasant, and I apologize,” said the dispassionate voice above her. He began to treat the worst of the lacerations on her back, some of which were bone deep and bleeding profusely. “I notice you aren’t counting, Ms. Chapin.”
Flat on her stomach, Chapin could barely see out of the one eye that wasn’t beaten shut. Her breathing was rapid and shallow; the numbers began to spiral out of her head, and for the first time, she could not seem to concentrate. She tried to remember what counting was. She could not. Tears streamed from her eyes, and mingled with the snot and blood on her face. She was dying. Thank fuck.
She could see the Doctor’s white coat move into her vision, and he was leaning down to inspect the damage of her eye. “Please…” she whispered.
“Unable to count, are we?” he said softly, his gloved hands touching her face. She didn’t respond to his touch; she was going into shock.
“Kill me.”
He blinked. The mask of indifference and malice he had honed during is intensive training slipped from his face for a fraction of a second and snapped back in place so quickly she later thought she’d imagined it. “Why, Ms. Chapin? Are you ready to confess?”
She huffed and a bubble of blood seeped from her mouth. “No one believes me. I can’t stand the pain. Please make it go away.” She closed her eyes, her breaths coming in hard pants, the effort of those few words taking more energy than she could expend.
She took another deep, racking breath. “You’re a doctor, you can make it look like I’ve died from injuries.” She closed her eyes, trying desperately to draw breath. There was a soft dripping sound, which Sydney realized was probably her own blood dripping from the table. She looked up at the Doctor, her eyes pleading. She was shuddering with each breath.
He brought his face closer to hers, smiling coldly. “Why don’t you just count your troubles away, Ms. Chapin? Why don’t you just escape to that place I can’t touch with your numbers?” He drawled, his voice both silky and dangerous.
The room was almost completely silent. The only sounds were her raspy, gasping breaths and the insistent dripping. She closed her eyes, praying for oblivion. She’d done all she could. Let someone else mop up the mess. She just wanted it to be over.
The Doctor shook her by the shoulder, but she didn’t respond. Finally he grew impatient, and slapped her face to get her attention. “Do you honestly think I don’t know what you are doing? Crying and begging me for mercy when you’re so far away inside your head counting your fucking numbers you don’t even really feel the pain! You go away and leave me and I’m all that stands between you and bleeding to death and you still won’t let me in! What do the numbers mean?”
He was insistent and cold again. His voice rose almost to a shout. “What do the numbers mean? Surely you can tell me now. I don’t think I can keep you alive much longer, so you might as well. What do the numbers mean, Ms. Chapin? What. Do. The. Numbers. Mean?”
That phrase again! Something in the cold, calculating repetition of his tone seemed to clear the fog of her scarred mind, and the numbers appeared in front of her as if he had written them. ‘6, 13, 27, 4, 12 - 6, 13, 27, 4, 12…’
The numbers began flowing from her swollen, bleeding lips again. The Doctor swore under his breath - he seemed furious and helpless at the same time. “6, 13, 27, 4, 12 - 6, 13, 27, 4, 12…”
As the Doctor tended the worst of the lacerations, he became aware of a growing sound in the halls. It started off as a distant buzz, but the sound grew as it grew closer. The harsh pop of gunfire echoed and reverberated against the shouts of men, in English.
He whirled and locked the door of the cell, and flew to his bag. He had been expecting this moment to come, but now that it was upon him, he found his hands shaking as he retrieved a small black case.
He quickly placed the contents in his breast pocket and in his shirt, for protection. He glanced at Sydney, face down on the table, and his resolved almost failed him. If he made a mistake now…
The noise in the hall was perhaps ten feet away from the cell door now, and he had to work quickly. He could hear the screams of the dying, and the curses of the invaders. He glanced up at the CCTV, and hoped this would be recorded properly, so the right people could see what really happened.
In the bottom of his bag was another, smaller black case. He unzipped the case with trembling hands and retrieved one of two loaded syringes. He took a long slow breath, turned to Sydney, and removed the protective cap from the needle.
She looked up at him and he could see her dimly take in the scene: a man walking toward her with a large syringe. He pulled back her arm to expose her neck and shoulder to him, and he whispered, “It won’t hurt. I am sorry.”
Realization dawned in her face and she tried to pull away from him. He held her down easily and found the spot he was seeking. “Shh,” he soothed. “It’ll all be over soon. Don’t try to fight it.” His tone was gentle, almost comforting.
She cried out in pain as the he plunged the contents of the syringe in her neck, then almost immediately relaxed. The Doctor’s legs buckled, and he leaned against the table for support, the empty syringe falling to the floor.
A small hand tugged at his sleeve, and he looked up to see her eyes flicker. Gathering the last of her strength, she smiled.
“Oh, God!” he cried, backed away from her. He didn’t want to meet her eyes, but found he couldn’t tear his gaze from hers.
She nodded her head, and took a long, painful last breath. “Thank you.”
The door burst open and a male voice shouted, “In here!”
The Doctor looked up at the CCTV screen once more and held out his hands in surrender. The first bullet caught him in the midriff, and the second over the heart. Blood bloomed from his chest, and as he fell, he looked up in Sydney’s face. She was still conscious, but fading quickly.
She looked down at the Doctor dying on the floor at the base of her table. He was sprawled out like a fallen scarecrow, one leg slightly raised, as if he were trying to push himself back up. She was barely aware of anything else around her, and felt herself slipping into death.
She oddly wasn’t afraid, but something about the Doctor lying on the floor troubled her for a split second. Her last thought before the merciful release was, ‘I’m not alone. He is with me. I took the bastard with me...’
The Rescue Team leader sent to invade and spirit away Special Agent Sydney Chapin took aim and blew the CCTV camera into pieces. He turned to the dead man in the room, looking around the room for any other monitors.
“Alright, the eyes are gone.” He walked over to the prone woman and checked her pulse. He asked to the room, “Can you revive her?”
“Get us somewhere safe and I will.” The man Sydney Chapin knew as “the Doctor” was struggling to his feet. He rushed to Sydney’s side. Her pulse was almost nonexistent. If she was breathing he couldn’t see it.
He turned and scooped her extracted teeth into his coat pocket and began hastily checking his supplies. He was busily stuffing the last evidence of his existence into a duffel bag when the door opened again and two men were carrying a dead body into the room and placing it in exactly the same position as he fell.
“Raise up his right leg more,” the squad leader commented. “It obscured his face from the camera.”
The Doctor barely glanced at the body. This man, too, had white blond hair and looked uncannily like himself. His doppelganger’s face was, however, completely blown away and would not be recognizable. Any evidence that this was not the Doctor was being altered; fingerprints wiped, documents falsified. Anyone else who had seen the Doctor up close on a regular basis was dead.
He had a mercifully brief desire to ask who the dead man was, but was too busy trying to cover Sydney to prepare her for transport. The group of men lifted and carried her like she was a sack of potatoes and started running.
“Be careful, for fuck’s sake!” the Doctor hissed. “She’s severely wounded.” The squad leader looked at him with contempt.
“You just concentrate on reviving her, Doctor; we’ll concentrate on getting you out of here alive.”
The team left the compound with minimal involvement, and those who engaged them died. They arrived at the transport point and the Doctor was relieved to see that it was well equipped with everything he needed.
He removed the second syringe from his case and gave Sydney the antidote to the drug he’d given her in the cell. The Doctor connected Sydney to the Defibrillator monitor. She was in cardiac arrest.
As the vehicle moved out of the compound the Doctor began CPR, but she was not responding. The squad leader, who’d had paramedic training, started IV drips and inserted them in her lifeless body.
He placed the bag valve mask over her mouth and nose. The entire squadron looked on silently as the two men worked frantically to resuscitate the woman on the stretcher.
The Doctor charged the defibrillator and called “Clear,” and placed the pads on her chest. The shock brought her body off the table, but the monitor did not change.
The Doctor swore under his breath, as he continued CPR. Sweat ran into his eyes; he was trembling with fear and exhaustion. “Come on, Sydney,” he muttered. “Breathe for me, girl.”
He applied gel to the pads again and charged the defibrillator. “Clear,” he said, with a calm he did not feel, and again Sydney’s body rose from the stretcher. Suddenly, it was there: a weak, feeble pulse, thready and faint, but there nonetheless. The squadron leader looked up at the Doctor, as Sydney took her first, struggling breaths. For the first time, the Doctor smiled. His work had begun.
Inigo Lightoller shook hands with the Doctor and followed him into a small room that sufficed for the Doctor’s study in the Agency’s private hospital. As Sydney Chapin’s immediate superior, Lightoller was supposed to be understandably concerned. As her friend, he was frantic with worry.
“Okay, Dr. Gar, give me some good news,” Lightoller said as they settled in makeshift plastic chairs. “How is she?”
Dr. Dahlra Gar leaned on his desk. He looked more tired than any man had a right to be. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Inigo, you have one tough agent.”
Lightoller allowed a smile of pride. “The best. What’s going on?” He understood that the Doctor had every right to take his time, but it was time that Lightoller did not have. “When can we access the codes?”
Dr. Gar shook his head, incredulous. “Inigo, the woman has bone deep lacerations on her back. She has to have gynecological surgery because of internal and external trauma to her genitalia and anus. She’s had a toe amputated and several teeth removed. We’ve got to get her stable first.”
The Doctor tried to ignore the growing irritation of having to justify himself. “She’s in a drug-induced coma right now because the pain could be enough to send her back into shock. She’s suffered blood loss, psychological trauma, some of which I caused, and –”
Lightoller put up his hand to stop the lecture. “I’m not interested in your redemption, Doctor. I want to know when you can access her memory. If they are on the move, she can tell us what we need to know.” His demeanor was much calmer than the Doctor’s, and he was damned if he was going to leave without an answer.
“Bring her to the surface, Dahlra,” Lightoller said firmly. “It won’t take long to get what we need to know. You can do what needs to be done afterward.”
“Oh, I see,” Dahlra said, his voice coldly calm. “You don’t care if she lives or dies as long as you get your precious information,” he hissed furiously.
Lightoller blinked, but his expression didn’t change. “Now let me tell you something, Doctor,” he began, his voice quietly cold. “I could have sent you in to the compound to get the information and left her there. I could have sent in another agent and written her off as a lost cause the day she got captured. Instead, I sent you in to keep her alive and bring her back home so we could put her life back together.”
He could see the contrition in the Doctor’s face, and he felt sorry for the man. He, too, had suffered there. “She’s not just one of my best agents. She’s a friend, and in this business, friends are rare as rocking horse shit.”
It was Dahlra’s turn to look away. He sighed, and rubbed the stubble on his chin. When had the man last slept? Lightoller thought.
Finally, Dahlra answered. “Give me two days to bring her out of sedation. I’ll do as much as I can, then I must insist we start properly healing her.” The Doctor sighed again. “She was amazing, Inigo. I don’t know how she did it, even with the codes.”
Lightoller smiled, and shook the Doctor’s hand. “She’s special. One in a million. She’ll be compensated for it, Dahlra.” He paused and looked at Dahlra significantly. “And so will you.”
Dahlra visibly relaxed at Lightoller’s words. “Thank you.” Lightoller left him to his own thoughts.
A quiet, insistent humming brought Sydney to the surface. Groggily, she tried to open her eyes, but the light was too bright. The humming sound became a disembodied voice, a million miles away.
“Tone down the lights.” Almost immediately, the light became a bit more bearable. Again, she tried to open her eyes, because a persistent voice was calling to her.
“Sydney, open your eyes. You are safe. You are in England in the Agency’s hospital. You are safe. Open your eyes.”
The voice wouldn’t go away, and Sydney valiantly opened her eyes. The disembodied voice was familiar, but comforting, and Sydney heard the familiar numbered patterns of total recall. She floated up to the surface, but the closer she came, the more an unwelcome bedfellow reared its ugly head – blinding pain.
“Sydney, don’t fight the numbers. Let them guide you.”
“Hurts,” came the reply, through cracked and swollen lips.
“I know,” the voice soothed. “5, 2, 9, 17, 3, 6…Motorcycle, Oracle, Gymnasium, Roquefort, Landslide, Prosecute...” For what seemed hours numbers and words slipped and slid into her consciousness and she began the recall of everything, everything…
Sydney heard her own voice floating somewhere above the pain. “Six points of attack. London, Tokyo, San Francisco, Beirut, Miami, Berlin. Code names Snow, Maple, Oscar, Johnny, Crab and Cabernet…”
Video cameras and DAT tapes turned as Sydney Chapin recalled detail after detail, name, dates, ordnance, manpower and strategies; everything she had infiltrated the country to discover was retrieved in a four-hour session, and Sydney remembered everything – including the fact that the Doctor who had molested her in her cell was the same Doctor who had planted the codes in the first place.
Five days later, Sydney awoke like a fist plunged in oil, screaming in pain and almost mad with fear. For almost four hours, she had gradually surfaced from utter blackness and oblivion to pain that made her last beating pale in comparison.
As her vision cleared, she saw a nurse running from her hospital room and heard excited voices beyond the wall. She crashed back into unconsciousness thankfully, just as the Doctor rushed into the room, hoarsely calling her name…
Days later, Sydney woke again, whimpering helplessly, terrified, in unspeakable pain. Gentle voices tried to soothe her awake. Cool water bathed her face, and tender hands held her head upright and moistened her lips and gums with cubes of ice. Dimly she saw a dark haired man, heard his soft voice encourage her and coax her to stay alert, to come back to him…
It was a few days later that Sydney was able to stay awake and focused. She felt hideous, but deliriously alive. Life was not expected; she felt as if she’d just dug herself out of her own grave. She was grimly aware she needed to savor it, as painful as it currently was.
Never one to ponder these things, she found herself not only climbing back into life, but back into hope. She was realistic enough to know the kind of trauma she had experienced wouldn’t go away overnight, but she could deal with it. She wouldn’t crumple under the weight of it. She convinced herself she would rise above it.
The door opened and with some relief, Sydney saw the familiar figure of Inigo Lightoller stride in the room. Inigo was a short, handsome Englishman with an almost exaggeratedly posh Cambridge accent. He was only a few years older than her, but had the backing of wealth and privilege which had enabled him to rise higher in the ranks more quickly than most.
Inigo had approached her those years ago before she had even thought about joining. She’d made overtures in her native America, but the CIA wasn’t taking in new agents. Lightoller had seen her potential and had brought her to the British Government’s attention, where she entered as a raw recruit a year later.
Lightoller had enabled her to get that first foot through the door and start her stellar rise to the top echelon of their agency. He’d been her mentor and, for a person who didn’t have many, a cherished friend.
Sydney almost wept with relief as Inigo crossed to her and took one of her hands. He smiled down at her, and she knew him well enough to know that he was damn glad to see her.
“Sydney, my dear, you have no idea how happy I am to see you back in the land of the living! I know you are in terrible pain, old girl, but can you stand to talk?”
Sydney nodded, and tried to speak. It was only then she realized her jaw wouldn’t work. “What happened to jaw?” she stuttered through clenched teeth.
“Wired shut, old thing. They put you under yesterday to do it. Several of your teeth were pulled by your captors, and they were replaced. You also have a hairline crack on the left side, but according to Dr. Gar they only need to keep it wired for a few days.”
Dr. Gar? She thought. Why do I know that name? What did…Sydney’s eyes widened as she realized that Dr. Gar was the same Doctor who had tormented her in her cell.
“Dr. Gar?” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Where is he?”
Lightoller’s pally facade faded. “I know you aren’t too happy about this, Sydney, but you understand that Dr. Gar asked to be sent in to try to help you. He volunteered, and was sent in to keep you alive at all costs, my dear, even if it meant standing by and seemingly doing nothing. Or everything.
“It was a suicide mission and he knew that if you didn’t survive, we wouldn’t be sending in the cavalry for him.”
Sydney digested this information. “How did you get him out?”
“Bait and switch, old girl. The mop up operation found his mutilated body, or at least someone who looked like him, in the burned out ruins of the cell. CCTV captured it all, well, all of the part we wanted them to see. And the syringe used on you contained traces of potassium chloride, so as far as our friends are concerned, you’re both dead as a very dead thing.”
Inigo pulled up a chair and made himself comfortable. Sydney felt awful, but she had to know the truth before they medicated her back to sleep.