author's note: Its been suggested that I give this story a stronger disclaimer, and so...here it is: The disclaimer that this perverted fever dream warrants. Are you ready for this. Ok. Here I go: WHAT FOLLOWS IS A PERVY, MORALLY-BANKRUPT GARBADGE. IT CONTAINS VIOLENCE AND UNPLEASANTNESS THAT SOME READERS MAY FIND DISTURBING, more specifically physical and psychological torture of the main character. Do not be fooled, for all of my pretentious attempts at artsy-ness, this was still only written to gratify my male bondage fetishism. So if male bondage fetishism is something that upsets you, it may be wise to hit the back button on your internet browser and read something else because even people who like that sort of thing have told me that this story is too dark for them. Apparently, I am very dark and disturbing. Go figure.
Whatever your feelings about sexy boys in straight jackets, however, I invite you to read this god awful fucked up fantasy with the understanding that it is stupid, sexually-frustrated, fan girl wish fulfillment and not to be taken seriously. There's no need to lose sleep at night over it. Really. Its dumb. Get over yourself. Or don't. Whatever. Anyway, please enjoy.
1
I don't know what I was expecting to see when the nurses wheeled the murder of my beloved Rebecca into my office. For some reason I'd pictured him as someone older, perhaps tall and menacing with a permanent scowl plastered across his swarthy face. The man in the strait jacket, sitting in the wheel chair across from me, looks nothing like this, however. For one thing, he's young. This shouldn't surprise me as the file that I had been given to read concerning this particular inmate said that he was twenty-two. However, for some reason his youthful appearance is still jarring to me. The killer is ghostly pale with a large bird-like nose and greasy, disheveled black hair. His eyes are a creepy shade of pale blue and there are dark circles under them.
The killer smiles nervously at me in an expression that suggests both fear and an attempt at politeness. For some reason, I find the stupid look on his face infuriating. I don't let this emotion show, however. I clear my throat and pretend to shuffle through a pile of papers on my desk, determined to maintain an air of professionalism.
"Do you know why you're here, Oswald?" I ask him.
"Yes, doctor, I do. After all, it's only fair that I reward the kindness that the Gotham City justice system has bestowed upon me, by doing my best to repay my debt to society" he tells me and there's something so phony and pandering about this reply that it makes me want to punch him.
"You're here because you're very sick, Oswald."
"Of course."
"Let me explain to you what will happen during your stay a Arkham Asylum," I tell him doing my best to keep my voice low and calm. With every ounce of self control I possess I resist the urge to start ringing his neck and shriek: "You'll SUFFER, you miserable low down sack of greasy worthless shit! You'll suffer like you've gone to HELL because that's were you belong!"
"Ok. I'm listening," he tells me, politely. The stupid smirk is gone from his face now, and I think that's his way of telling me that he's paying attention. Perhaps he has mistaken my long pause for an invitation to speak, because he prattles on a little bit about how he'll take this opportunity to change his ways and become a productive, law abiding member of society. I'm not really listening to him. I don't believe a word he says. He keeps talking for a few minutes and during this time, I tune him out completely. I can't stop myself from imagining how satisfying it would be to put a bullet between his eyes right here and right now. I picture myself firing a few rounds into his smirking face and, in my mind's eye, his head explodes. The office walls drip with red chunks of his splattered brains.
I'm snapped out of my gory daydream by the killer's sudden silence.
"Right, good for you," I say. "That's the right attitude to have, young man. I think you'll do well here. Anyway, while you're here at Arkham Asylum, you will undergo an experimental new form of therapy based in theories of operate conditioning. It is called the Hingdimer Method and it is premised upon the theory that the human brain is most malleable when its owner is young, more specifically below the age of 24. You see, in adolescents and young adults, the part of the brain which controls emotions and impulses is still going through a process of development. Which is why, at this stage of your life, your brain is at its most violent and volatile, fortunately, however, your brain it is also currently at its most malleable. Your age combined with the extreme criminal nature of your illness makes you an ideal test subject for proving the effectiveness of this procedure."
"Procedure?" the killer inquires nervously. A hint of fear creeps in to his large, pale eyes. "What kind of a procedure? You're not going to lobotomize me, are you doctor?"
"No. That's not part of the procedure," I say.
"With all due respect, doctor, I don't think I want to be a part of your little experiment. Whatever it is, " he tells me, shifting uncomfortably in the wheel chair.
"You don't have a choice in the matter, ki-Oswald. You've brought this on yourself," I say and that time I almost call him "killer" instead of "Oswald". I resolve to try and think of him as "Oswald" as opposed to the cold blooded murderer that ruined my life, from this point forward, just so I don't make that mistake again.
"Very well," Oswald concedes begrudgingly. I can tell he's feeling trapped in that straight jacket because he rocks his body from side to side as though attempting to free himself from it. "Tell me about the procedure."
"You don't have to be so nervous about it, Oswald. Its not very bad," I say. "And I think that it will help you."
I stand up and walk over to his wheelchair. Oswald has the look of a cornered rat as I approach. He bites his lip and the muscles in his face contort into a pleading simper.
"Firstly, you'll be given drugs to calm you down and suppress your violent urges. Three a day at breakfast lunch and dinner. Secondly, you will attend operate conditioning sessions with me, which will involve you answering questions while hooked up to a lie detector machine."
"That actually doesn't sound that bad," says Oswald sounding relieved. His shoulders relax a little.
"If you lie during these sessions or say something crazy that I don't like, you will be disciplined," I tell him and his shoulders tense again. His mouth falls open and he starts to shake a little bit. "Of course some forms of physical discipline are illegal in Gotham, but I am authorized to administer you electric shocks, which will cause sharp intense pain, but no lasting tissue damage. It is also perfectly within my rights to give you a good hard spanking if you misbehave."
I enjoy the way that Oswald flinches when he hears me say the word "spanking." Like the word has smacked him on the ass. Already, I can picture Oswald bent over a hospital cot, howling and begging for mercy as I strike his bright red behind again and again. The thought makes me smile sadistically, because I plan to give Oswald so many severe whoopings that he'll never sit right again.
Oswald laughs nervously.
"That won't be necessary, doctor. I promise I'll be the model inmate," he simpers obnoxously. He stands up and starts waddling toward the door, like a penguin. Every step he takes makes me think that he's about to fall over.
"You better be," I tell him.