Welcome to the Madhouse

PROLOGUE

She took great, rapid, gulping breaths, her ribs scissoring in panic, her heart beating staccato-like against her chest wall as if it were pounding frantically, to get out. Sweat entirely soaked through her flimsy gown. She struggled, moaning, but the restraints did their job, holding her securely in position. Movement, never mind escape, was totally out of the question. She let out a sorrowful, pitiful whimper that coiled around the sound-proofed room but failed to land on compassionate ears. Her muscles fought, valiantly, as she tried to get free, to make her escape, but the shackles held firm.

            He watched in engrossed fascination and anticipatory excitement, a ghost of a smile on his face. He knew what she was experiencing; she had experienced it repeatedly over many sessions, each time the fear, the distress, the feelings of helplessness, heightened, magnified, until she was shivering in intense terror. He delighted in his power, the ability to twist and manipulate and subjugate the minds of his subjects, to make them willing pawns in all he desired, in what they would learn to desire.

            It was so easy.

            And without hesitation, they came, voluntarily, eagerly, in the belief that he was helping them, that he was the answer to all of their problems. It was almost laughable and yet also part of the enigma, the inscrutable puzzle, the sheer . . . mystery of what he did. But there was always work to be done, serious research to complete, important questions to be asked . . . and to be answered by someone who dared, by someone who was willing to take the risks.

            How far could he go?

            To be more exact, how far could he make a subject go?

            He ran his hand slowly up the woman’s inner thigh, stroking and caressing, up under her gown, up to the area of heat and wetness. She began to shiver and whimper more vigorously, her struggles more animated. He pressed his hand hard down upon her mouth, his strong fingers gripping into her face, although he knew no one would hear her cries, as his other hand performed the acts that would provoke and make her relive her most profound terror. He would be hours forcing her through this. He had the time and, oh, he most certainly, without a doubt, had the will.

            And when it was all done, she would thank him for it.

            That was the irony.

            She would do anything he asked.

            They all would.

            But just how far could he make them go?

            That was the real question, wasn’t it?