Stripped Down,Broken and Remade.

The world softened and reformed. He was lying in a bed, the sheets cool and clean against his skin. He could hear the distant, rhythmic crash of waves. The sea. She was lying beside him, her body warm and fragrant. It was the lady from his other memory, Karen. His boss. She was kissing him, her lips soft and persuasive. Her hand drifted down his chest, wrapping around his cock, stroking him to life. He tried to move his hands to her head, to run his fingers through her hair, but he couldn't move. He was tied to the bed, his arms and legs stretched wide, bound to the bedposts. She worked her way down his body, her mouth a trail of fire. She took him in her mouth, her movements slow, deliberate, expert. She worked him up and down, round and round, until he was arching against his restraints, desperate for release. She moved back up his body, straddling his hips. She positioned herself and slowly sank down onto him, taking him inside her. Her body began to move, a slow, torturous rhythm up and down. She leaned forward, her hair tickling his chest, and whispered in his ear, her voice a silken threat.

"You'd tell me, wouldn't you? You'd be a good boy and tell me if you found out anything, wouldn't you?" He had no idea what she was talking about, but a primal part of him knew it was important. Knew his answer mattered.

"Yes," he groaned, the word torn from him as she began to ride him harder, her movements becoming more demanding, more urgent. He groaned again as he came hard, his body convulsing, spilling himself deep inside her. Then the scene melted away like a dream in the morning sun.

The image shifted, and he was in a dark, narrow alleyway, the air thick with the smell of rubbish and damp brick. He was waiting to meet somebody, an informant. The information was vital; he knew that much. A dark figure stumbled down the alleyway, weaving drunkenly. As they passed him, they bumped into him, and something small and stiff was pressed into his hand. Contact made. He waited until the figure had disappeared into the street's light before looking down. It was a piece of folded paper. An address. He was in Cambridge. The address was for a property in one of the neighboring villages.

The scene shifted again, dissolving into the warm, fugitive atmosphere of a crowded pub. He was nursing a beer, the glass cold in his hand. Another lady was sitting opposite him, her expression serious. She was talking to him, her voice low and urgent.

"We have to be careful," she was saying. "They're dangerous people. Very dangerous. If they find out we've crossed them..."

He drank his beer, the bitter taste a stark contrast to the gravity of her words. He tried to focus on her face, to remember who she was, but the picture began to fade, the colors bleeding away into nothingness.

Then he was back. The return to reality was as brutal as the departure from it. He was bent over the bench, the leather still damp with his sweat and tears. The chains were being removed, the metal clinking as they were unfastened from his ankles and wrists. His body was limp, a puppet with its strings cut. Gloved hands grabbed him, hauling him up, and he was dragged across the floor like a sack of meat. He was thrown unceremoniously into the corner of the room, landing in a heap inside a metal cage. His hands and feet were quickly chained to the bars, securing him in a huddled, fetal position. The door slammed shut with a deafening clang that echoed in the silence. He heard the sharp click of heels on the concrete, then another, softer pair of footsteps. The door to the room opened and closed, and he was left alone in the darkness. A moment later, the light went out, plunging him into absolute blackness. He lay there shivering, his body a symphony of pain, his mind a fractured mosaic of memories he couldn't claim and a present he couldn't comprehend. He was alone, with no idea what was going on or what he had done to deserve it.