Classified || 2 || ✔️ mature

22 | Liam

I pull at my arms again but nothing happens, the binds wound tightly around them. A slight buzzing fills the concrete space and my head twists behind me, strawberry blonde hair falls into my eyes and I narrow them on the wall at my back, wishing I could see through the thick concrete to what lay behind it.

Giving up straining my neck, I face forward again, stretching my shoulder in the limited space and look down at the wires attached to me, pads stuck to my chest and I can feel two on my back.

The door opens and I whip my head up, tilting it at the two strangers who enter.

"You here to check my pulse." I flick my chin down to my chest. They don't answer, shutting the door behind them and I relax in the chair, "Because I can tell you, my body is very much alive."

The turn to each other, their voices too low for me to catch the topic of their conversation even as I strain to hear any words and when they turn back to me, I flash them a smile, one side tipped up more than the other.

It's my signature look, it always gets the heart racing.

My own included, if the beeping that just came online is any indication.

I twist my head to stare behind me, faintly seeing a monitor built into the wall, my heart beat staring back at me.

"Well, that's handy." I tune back to the two strangers, "What's the plan, Jan?" I look at the woman, lifting a brow, "I can call you Jan, right, we're friends."

I shrug when she doesn't answer, trying to relax in the uncomfortable seating arrangement I've been given.

Surely they could do better for their star pupil, after all, I've been here before. It's like repeating a year, I know all the work, I just need to pass.

They move to the side, and I follow them in my peripheral, watching as they start fiddling with the dials on the machines. I can feel pads attached to my skin heating up, the feeling almost comforting if I didn't know what they were used for.

"Would this count as therapy?" I ask, watching them fiddle, "Everyone is always telling me I need to see a therapist, this is as good as that, right?"

The pad attached near my nipple let out a little zap and I flinch slightly in the chair, wanting to rub the offended part.

"Hey, hey, let's not get too kinky in here," I look to the cameras, "We have an audience, and this boy likes his privacy."

They don't seem amused. Instead, they hit a button and a jolt of electricity runs through my body. My muscles tense up, but I can't move. I can feel the heat of pain as it licks along my skin yet it's fuller compared to my memory, slowly growing closer and closer to match it.

The strangers start taking notes, ignoring me, my body so tense that I'm almost lifted from the chair, the only thing holding me in is the straps on my arms and legs.

They turn off the electricity, and I slump back in the chair. My strawberry blonde hair is drenched in sweat, sticking to my forehead. I lick my lips, trying to regain some sense of control.

"I guess that wasn't kinky enough for you," I gasp out, trying to make another joke. But they just stare at me, and I can feel their fear creeping in.

They're not used to someone like me. That's okay, they will be.

They turn the dial up again, and I know I'm in for another round of torture.

• • •

When they finally stop, I slump back in the chair, my whole body shaking. I try to catch my breath, my chest heaving with the effort. My hair is soaked with sweat, and my arms feel like they're on fire.

"I hope you're taking notes," I gasp out, trying to catch my breath. "This would make a great torture scene for a movie."

They just ignore me, and turn the dial up again. I grit my teeth and ride the wave, the pain all consuming for a second before I find my bearings, my limbs shaking with exertion.

As the shockwaves continue to course through my body, I feel myself slipping away. My vision blurs, and my head starts to spin. I try to focus on the sound of my own breathing, but it's getting harder to concentrate.

Finally, they turn off the machine, and I slump in my chair, panting for breath. My strawberry blonde hair falls over my face, damp with sweat, and I look up through the strands. I lick my lips, trying to get some moisture back in my mouth.

"That all you got?" I manage to gasp out, a weak smile playing at the corners of my lips. "I've had worse on a Saturday night."

The person controlling the machine narrows their eyes, obviously not amused. They turn up the dial and start the process all over again. I close my eyes and brace myself for the pain, waiting for it like an old friend and when it hits, it's almost like coming home.