Nemo - 0

The first thing I thought was that he had left me there.

It wasn’t the first time my Master had disappeared for hours, but I had never felt so completely abandoned. I couldn’t see anything. The blindfold had covered my eyes for so long that I had lost any sense of where I was. I only knew that my arms were held above my head and that my wrists hurt so much I knew it would take several days before I could move them normally again.

I pulled at the restraints again, instinctively, almost desperately.

The ring above my head answered with a faint creak, but the ropes remained motionless. I felt my already punished skin protest again. I let the air out through my teeth and clenched my fists hard. I had learned long ago that resisting was useless. But even so, something inside me kept trying.

Without a doubt, the silence was the worst part. Almost blind, my mind filled every void with increasingly absurd possibilities.

Maybe I was in a room full of people watching me. Maybe there was no one there.

Every creak of the wood, every draft of air, every breath I thought I heard fed an anxiety that was beginning to take hold of me.

I tried to focus on something else.

On my own body. That body so different from the one I had had a few years earlier.

The months of training had broadened my shoulders and hardened my muscles until they became something I barely recognized as mine. My skin, perfectly shaved. The rings through my nipples and the small septum, my Master’s decision and courtesy.

At first I thought they were simple aesthetic changes; later I understood that every detail answered to a much deeper reason. My Master —or my God, as I must call him— had shaped my appearance with the same patience with which a sculptor works marble. He had decided how I should dress, how I should wear my hair and, of course, how I should take care of myself.

The sound of footsteps pulled me out of my thoughts.

Someone had just entered.

He approached slowly, not bothering to hide his presence. When he was close enough, I could feel his breathing. The smell of stale tobacco and cheap coffee reached me before his words.

“Well... what’s this?”

I didn’t answer.

A hand grabbed my chin and forced me to raise my head. I tried to pull away out of pure reflex, but I had nowhere to go.

“I see someone left a toy here.”

His voice had a mocking tone, almost amused.

I felt him begin to circle me slowly, like a predator who, knowing his prey is defenseless, enjoys every instant.

Suddenly, I felt hands rest on my chest. They moved slowly, with an insulting confidence, roaming over every inch of my torso like someone examining an object before deciding whether it was worth buying.

The pressure of his fingers varied constantly: sometimes it was barely a touch; other times, they sank int...