Hostile Takeover

Sleep did not come easily. The ropes were tight, and the bottle's weight was a constant, humiliating reminder of his new reality. He drifted in and out of a restless, feverish state, his dreams a confusing jumble of English boardrooms and Japanese faces. He woke once in the night, his bladder full. He had no choice but to release himself, the warmth filling the bottle, a final, private surrender.

He was woken by the sound of the shoji screen sliding open. Three women entered. The first was the old crone from the night before. The second was a younger woman, perhaps in her thirties, dressed in a simple nurse's uniform. The third was even younger, barely more than a girl, who looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.

The nurse spoke first, her English passable but heavily accented. "Time for morning." She and the old woman began to untie his ropes. The younger girl just watched, her gaze a mix of fear and fascination. When he was free, they removed the urine bottle. The girl let out a small giggle at the sight of it, and the nurse shushed her sharply, her expression stern. They unfastened the collar from his neck and tossed it onto the floor with the cage and gloves. The symbols of his old life were being discarded.

The nurse produced a new gag, but this one was different. It was a ball gag, but it had a large metal ring set into the front that held his mouth open. "Open," she commanded. He did. She shoved the gag in, fastening it tightly behind his head. The ring forced his mouth into an 'O' shape, preventing speech but leaving the opening accessible.

"Stand up," she ordered.

He swung his legs off the futon and rose to his feet. He was taller than all three women, and his naked, hairless body seemed to fascinate the other two. The nurse said something to them in Japanese, and the old woman and the girl moved to pull his hands behind his back. They tied them tightly with a length of rough rope. The nurse then attached a thin leather leash to the metal ring on the front of his gag. She gave it a sharp tug. "Follow."

He was led out of the room and down a long, wooden corridor. He was taken to what looked like a small, sterile medical clinic. He was ordered onto an examination table, where his legs were strapped into stirrups, spreading him wide.

The nurse produced an electric razor. She and the old woman proceeded to shave him head to toe, removing every trace of the stubble that had begun to grow since his last cleaning. When he was as smooth as a marble statue, the nurse took out a small tattoo gun. She held his head down and began to work on the back of his scalp, at the base of his neck. He couldn't see what she was doing, but he could feel the needle buzzing, a sharp, repetitive pain. She was tattooing a design into his skin, a permanent mark of his new ownership.

Finally, she prepared a syringe and filled it from a small vial. She swabbed his arm with an antiseptic wipe. The needle slid into his vein, and a cold sensation spread through his body. He felt himself drifting away, the faces of the three women blurring into a watercolor painting as the drug pulled him down into a deep, dreamless sleep.