Escape

After the especially brutal night with Mistress Kasia, the man felt…he couldn’t describe it. He just felt a little funny. His thoughts felt clearer, more deliberate. But nothing made any sense. Why was he locked in a basement? He could easily free himself. Why didn’t he? He racked his brain, trying to remember why he hadn’t broken out, but he couldn’t come up with an answer.

Kasia and mistress had gone upstairs a few hours ago, laughing, joking around with each other. They’d had their fun. The sounds of the house had settled into quietude, and now the man — who couldn’t remember his own name — was growing increasingly alarmed at his situation.

For one impossible second, the spell had loosened its grip on him. The cellar came back into focus, not as a dream or a command from his mistress but as a real, concrete place. The door, the stairs, the faint strip of light under the doorframe. What was he still doing here? He rose unsteadily to his feet and ran. He clamored up the steps, breathing hard.

“This is a dream,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not real. You’re going to wake up any second now.” But deep down, he knew it was real. His asshole throbbed. He tried the door but it was locked. He slammed his shoulder against it in frustration. He plowed the door again, his soft cock dangling between his legs.

“I’m naked,” he thought absently. “I’ve been naked for a year.” It had been a year, hadn’t it?

He slammed the door again and it loosened against the ****. That tiny glimmer of hope reignited his strength. He crashed against the door, strong enough to stop a freight train. The door’s lock splintered open and he collapsed on the tile, surprised by his own success. He looked around cautiously. Mistress was clever. Kasia was clever. They were the smartest, sexiest, most capable masters the world had known.

He blinked and shook his head. They’d fucking brainwashed him. He didn’t know why he was suddenly feeling so clear, but he knew that what he was feeling now…this was the truth. He’d been swarmed with lies and spells and deception for the past 12 months, locked in that basement.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. What did he look like before? He couldn’t remember. For that matter, what was his name? He didn’t know that, either.

He brushed the thought aside and dashed through the hall, through the kitchen, straight to the front door. Everything looked familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to anything. His brain felt like it had been fried in a microwave. He stopped at the front door, his hand on the knob. He looked down at his flaccid penis.

“Clothes,” he muttered. He dashed to the bedroom, somehow knowing exactly where it was. He found men’s clothes on the floor. Not his, but they fit him well enough. Was someone else here? He didn’t want to find out. He pulled the baggy basketball shorts over himself and donned the extra large sweatshirt. Good enough. He went back to the front door when a clatter in the kitchen sink interrupted him. His heart nearly stopped.

He crept forward, not daring to breathe. Whoever it was, they didn’t seem to be stalking him. He tiptoed forward, still not taking a breath. He peeked around the corner and saw a nude black man at the refrigerator, his head ducked inside searching for something. His black cock dangled between his legs.

He bolted to the door and ran outside, down the front steps, not caring if the man heard him or not. He sprinted across the street. A truck barreled down the road. The man leapt backwards, falling flat on his ass as the truck’s horn blared. He rose to his feet and crossed the street, heart pounding. He ran down the sidewalk, running, running, running, until he didn’t recognize where he was. He didn’t know how long he’d been on the move. He saw a bridge and clamored down the embankment. He hustled under the overpass, catching his breath. In the shade, he tried to gather his bearings. Who was he? What was his name? Why was he running? He crouched down, resting in the fetal position under the bridge. He wept.

Night fell. He ventured out from under the bridge. Kasia and mistress would be looking for him. Cautiously, he walked to a park nearby. He sat on a bench, unsure of what to do next.

A policeman parked his car nearby. He suddenly felt a flash of hope. The policeman would know what to do. He stood up, wobbling, and his legs carried him all the way to the parking lot where the officer was on his phone. He knocked on the window, startling him. He rolled down his window.

“Hi, yes…” he began. “I, um…I…”

“Have you been drinking tonight, sir?” The officer looked tired.

“Drinking? No, I just…I was, um…”

“Spit it out, son.”

He spoke slowly and deliberately, forcing each word out with effort.

“I was kidnapped. I’ve been trapped in a basement for about a year.”

The policeman furrowed his brow. “You?”

The man nodded.

“What’s your name, son?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. They brainwashed me.”

“Who did?”

“Mistress and Kasia. My ex—that’s who it was.”

“Uh-huh. And what’s her name?”

The man almost started crying. The police officer didn’t believe him.

“I…I can’t remember her name. Sir, you’ve gotta believe me. I need help.”

The police officer sighed and sat back in his chair.

“Son, I don’t know what you’re on, but because of what you’ve said, I suppose I have to take you seriously.”

Irritated, he opened his car door. “These goddamn body cams,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Alright. Get in.”