Hiatus, again

Sorry for lack of posts, was planning something for the 4th of July, but I've come down with a very bad inner ear infection and I just had a very nasty root canal (which was probably the source of the ear infection in the first place.)

Not a very fun holiday, for me at least. I'm not sure how long it will take before I'm back up and running. If my pain meds really kick in, maybe I'll have something in a few days, I'm not sure.

I haven't slept in three days now, so I'm going to bed. I'll be back, eventually.

- B-Rex

PS. Just to give you all something to chew on for a few days, I've put an incomplete story/caption I started a few weeks ago, after the break. It is dark. If I decide to continue it, it will become a new ebook, probably a full Midnight Surgeon story, with some mean alterations. Just a quick beginning for now though, just a teaser.

Read it now, because if I do finish it, I'll have to delete it before I publish the ebook on Amazon.

The Mutilator (First Draft)

by B-Rex

The floor was hard and cold, and she could taste blood.

The Detective didn't startle awake; it was a long, slow process, as her senses sluggishly returned to normal. Her sense of taste was the sharpest, at first, but her more tactile sense soon grew to the point that she was certain she was lying on a hard concrete slab.

She tried to sit up, but something fought against her. She was wrapped in something, re-enforced with tape, or so it felt. She drew several long breaths through her nose, as her mouth seemed to be packed with something. Each breath was a struggle, she felt like someone was sitting on her chest. It was a sensation she had felt before, a side-effect of being put under, anesthetized for surgery.

That thought gave her pause; she couldn't remember an accident, was she in some sort of hospital? No, clearly not, or else she wouldn't be restrained on a concrete floor. But she had been drugged, and kept unconscious for some time, she was certain of that much.

Her strength was quickly returning now, and she forced herself to sit fully up. Some of the tape wrapped around her gave, tearing the cocoon of nylon fabric she was apparently enveloped by. She felt thin synthetic rope around her ankles and wrists. It was fairly loose, and to her surprise, the rope binding her wrists came apart as soon as she started tugging on it. Clearly, whoever had bound her wanted her to work her way free easily.

Detective Reynolds pulled at the mass of fabric, effortlessly pulling it away. She reached carefully up to her face and peeled the last of the fabric from over her eyes. Blinding light shot in through her eyelids and she gasped.

After a moment the light no longer blinded her and she cautiously opened her eyes. She was in a small room, sitting on a concrete floor. A single, large metal door stood in the wall directly in front of her. A strange mechanism seemed to be built into it. But that would have to wait, she needed to find out what had happened to her body first.

The strong taste and smell of blood brought her attention back to her mouth. With care, she began to pull a mass of fabric out from between her lips. A nylon sock had been filled with cotton balls and shoved into her mouth. It pulled free with little pain, but was clearly soaked with drying blood.

Her mouth felt terrible, her lips were on fire, and her tongue didn't seem to be working correctly. The sight of the blood made her nauseous.

She untied the last of the rope looped around her ankles and tried to stand up. Her legs were shaky at first, but she managed in the end. Next to her was a small washbasin, with a tiny mirror mounted on the wall above. She turned and saw a toilet against the back wall. She was in some sort of restroom facility. But it was too small; cabinets lined the walls. All were locked tight.

She looked back at the mirror. A bright light was mounted at the top of the mirror, pointed in such a way that it illuminated her face. She looked beaten, bruises covered her cheeks and her lips were painfully purple. But that was nothing.

Her lips were huge! Swollen like worms; she touched one, rolling it between her fingers. It was thicker than her thumb. At first she imagined it was swelling, probably from a punch, but then she saw the syringes.

The basin was full of syringes, the needles were gone. Several small plastic bottles sat amongst them, each empty. She lifted a large bottle. It was covered in what she thought were Chinese characters, but as she turned the bottle this way and that, she found a small handwritten word. It was smudged, but “cillan” was visible enough. Maybe an antibiotic? She couldn't be sure.

Detective Reynolds looked back into the mirror. She opened her mouth and nearly screamed! Her teeth! She leaned closer, desperately hoping she was imagining things, but there was no mistake. Her teeth were gone, each and every one of them, plucked from her gums! She started shaking; her teeth were gone. She looked back at the bloody cotton-filled sack that had been gagging her.

As her horror and fear rose, she pushed against them. She needed to remain calm, fear was useful, panic was not. She was trapped, clearly kidnapped and mutilated by someone. She couldn't panic now. With great effort, she shut away her screaming self, and brought her analytic mind to the forefront. She was a detective, she needed to remain impartial, observant. She needed to know what had been done to her, and then find a way out of this place.

On the counter, there was a bottle of mouthwash. A note saying simply “Gargle” was taped to it. She lifted the bottle; it was nearly empty. Maybe three swigs worth of the blue-green liquid. Was it poison? No, not likely, she thought. Whoever had done this to her, they clearly wanted her alive for some reason. And she was starting to suspect who her kidnapper was.

She put the mouthwash back down, she'd use it in a minute. She glanced back at the mirror, catching a flash of metal from her mouth. She looked away; she couldn't handle looking at her mouth again, not yet.

She looked instead back into the washbasin. Another bottle beckoned to her. She lifted it. The word “Permafil” had been written on it in marker. Her blood ran cold.

Permafil was a substitute for collagen. Collagen injections, into the lips for instance, typically only lasted at most half a year. Permafil was one of many permanent fillers that had gone on the market when the plastic surgery craze took America by storm. Though the company that had developed it had since removed it from American stores, it was still popular in Europe. Each injection sent thousands of microscopic spheres of silicone into the lips. They couldn't be removed, without total removal of the lips, and the body would never absorb them like it would eventually with collagen.

Permafil wasn't available anymore in the United States, but it was common enough in other countries, and looking back at the Chinese antibiotic, it was clear that her captor had access to foreign sources of medicine.

She looked back at her swollen lips. Sure enough; a series of small red dots ran along her upper and lower lips, puncture marks from dozens of needles. Her lips were bloated beyond anything she had seen on celebrities or strippers alike. They were fat and huge and grotesque. And they were permanent.

She shook her head and looked away again. She felt sick. She knelt before the toilet for a moment, idling becoming aware that the toilet bowl was dry. She tried the handle; nothing. She could use the toilet, but there was no water to flush. Her nausea passed, she returned the basin and tried turning the knobs. The water was off here too.

She paced the room, measuring it at about fourteen feet by eight feet. It wasn't large, and wasn't originally meant to be a restroom. The door was still a mystery; she examined the strange mechanism which she assumed to be a lock of some sort, but she could make no sense of it. Besides the door, cabinets, basin and toilet, the room was bare. There were four holes in the concrete floor, small, probably where a table had once been bolted.

She thought about it. A metal table in the center of the room, walls lined with sterile looking white cabinets. If she didn't know better, she'd almost think this was some sort of surgical operating room. That wasn't a comforting thought.

Reynolds started to examine herself, mentally chiding herself for not doing so earlier. First she reached for her sex; thankfully there were no signs of recent sex, so she could probably rule out rape. Her lips felt a bit sore in places though, but she ignored it. Next she felt her legs, then her thighs, then her buttocks. These were painful, very painful. She looked back at the mirror. It was too small and too high to show her anything.

She ran her hands over her buttocks carefully. Though sore all over, and probably bruised, there was no clear reason as to why. She resumed her examination, finding nothing wrong until she reached her breasts. She knew these would be sore, they hurt and burned even without being touched. But besides some bruising, they appeared normal. Just a touch under a C cup, her breasts were just as perky as ever. But her examination did find something unexpected. A white line run along the underside of each breast. A film ran over the line, maybe surgical glue. She wished the mirror were bigger.

Clearly, her captor had performed some sort of surgery to her breasts, and presumably her ass as well. Implants were the obvious choice, yet neither breasts nor buttocks seemed any larger than normal. She added it to the growing list of mysteries.