Covid-a-Trix

“Shut your mouth, Marvin.” I whispered into his ear, a tight grip on his chin. 

As I methodically pressed the back of his head into the post and wrapped a leather strap around his neck, I watched his pulse quicken, the tiny thumping of the drum slapping the inside of his skin. 

I cinched it tightly, but left him the tiniest hint of breathability. He needed to feel restrained, but not as if he was about to die. That sensation would come later. 

I zip tied his hands behind him and wrapped an Ace bandage around his eyes from his hairline to the bridge of his nose. Breathing was labored but not due to lack of oxygen, there was a thrill in the air, an anticipation of what was to come. 

With his legs bound and secured to the beam he resembled a sculpture, a mixed media collage of found and planned items. I stood back and admired my work, wishing I had removed his shoes so I’d have access to his sweaty toes. 

I could almost hear his brain wondering where in the room I was, he sniffed and listened intently, terrified of what was to come next. I considered wrapping his torso in cling wrap for the mere aesthetic, and wondered if I should place long strips of duct tape on his hairy thighs and slowly peel them off like a pass of a lawnmower through long grass. 

I took a photo with my phone, then took one with his. I scrolled though his messages, wondering who each person was and if they would enjoy seeing the pathetic state of this man as I dehumanized and humiliated him. 

“Marvin?” I asked assertively. 

He didn’t answer, just garbled about around the gag in his mouth. 

“Sorry, darling, how rude of me,” I chuckled as I slowly stepped toward him and pulled the saliva soaked cloth from between his lips. He exhaled audibly as I traced the line of his dry lips with my latex gloved hands. 

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” I asked. Marvin waited patiently, not speaking until spoken to. Sadly, he had learned that lesson the hard way in the beginning, but how quickly they master the etiquette. 

“Good boy,” I smiled to myself as I rolled my cart of tools beside him. His head turned as much as it could, straining to hear what was happening.

“Now, I am going to ask you a few questions, and I need you to answer me clearly and with a simple yes or no, ok?”

He nodded.

“Have you or anyone in your household had any of the following symptoms in the last 21 days: sore throat, cough, chills, body aches, shortness of breath, loss of smell, loss of taste, fever at or greater than 100 degrees Fahrenheit?”

“No, ma’am,” he whispered. 

I slapped his leg with a quick flick of my paddle and he winced. 

“I said a simple yes or no, Marvin. Do we need to review the rules again?” The intensity of my voice made the tiny hairs on his arms stand up in both fear and arousal. He paused, considering, then shook his head. 

“Now,” I continued, “Have you or anyone in your household traveled outside the US in the last 21 days?”

Silence. He considered how he would answer, took a deep breath and whispered, “No.”

I smiled, not that he could see my face, but it pleased me to see a man relinquish control and become perfectly obedient. 

I completed the questions, then set down my clipboard and slowly walked until I was standing directly behind him, each click of my heel filling him with apprehension and chills. The paddle slapped the back of each thigh, a yelp begging to be released from his chest, yet restrained by his intense desire to remain docile. I reached around and placed both my gloved hands on this throat, pinching and prodding up and down his windpipe with more force than necessary. He struggled a bit, but it was more of a lustful pant than a panic. 

“Marvin, you disgust me and I’m going to kick you out of here in a minute.”

He shook his head, his nasty inner masochist wanting nothing more than to stay pinned to cold metal in my dungeon. I smiled to myself and grabbed a mister filled with Everclear, spraying him down from head to toe as I sternly asserted “you are filthy, a vile pig who needs a good bubble bath scrub down … but I’m not your mommy, Marvin.”

I retrieved the tiny vial and bendable scrubby stick from its sterile pouch on the tray and ever so slowly slipped it inside his nostril. Up it went until it burrowed its way into the back of his throat. I could sense his desire to struggle, to cough, to sneeze. I knew behind the blindfold he was crying, uncontrollable tears launched from their ducts by the abrasive Q-tip. 

Slowly pulling it out, I placed it inside it’s home and snapped the excess stick off, throwing it at Marvin’s face. I bagged and tagged the biohazard and as I slowly slipped each latex glove off, the snap of elastic giving him a fright, I asserted, “If I find out you are walking around without a mask, or engaging in any of the activities listed on the form I gave you, I will refuse to test you next time, do you understand me?” 

He nodded emphatically, well, as assuredly as he could. 

“Good. Gloria will call you tomorrow with your results,” I tossed out matter of factly as I fixed my lip gloss in the mirror by the door. “Don’t you dare leave your house until I tell you to, it may be a week, it may be a month, but I will call … and if you don’t answer by the third ring I’ll text these photos to everyone you work with. Be good, Marvin, be safe.” 

The door slammed behind me and I headed to the sanitation station where I exchanged clipboards with Gloria, took a long sip of my steamy latte, and snatched a leather belt from the cabinet for my next patient.