The foam hadn’t quite set yet when I heard the lid slowly sliding into place. Not all the way, though. He left a gap near my head so the hose would remain free and the mask wouldn’t press against the wood. Then—silence. Only the sound of my own breathing inside the rubber, punctuated by the occasional tingle whenever the box sent a short pulse into my backside.

I had no idea how much time had passed. The foam had hardened into a shell. It covered my nipples and the area around my penis; inside that rigid casing, every electrical impulse was reflected back into my body. Then, I heard the sound of wheels. Someone was moving the coffin—not far, though. A door, a threshold, a rush of cooler air. Someone—presumably him—checked the hose and adjusted the cables to ensure nothing would kink. I lay there, motionless and encased, with the electrodes pressed firmly against my skin by the foam.

… foam 2

They placed me on my side inside a vehicle. I felt the coffin tilt, the foam pressing me even more tightly against one of the walls, followed by the sensation of flat metal beneath the bottom. The doors slammed shut. The engine roared to life. I had no clue where we were headed. Through the mask, I could see nothing but darkness—save for the occasional flash of light whenever the car passed beneath a streetlamp. The hose hissed at regular intervals. That was the only thing I could be certain of.

For the first hour, he left me in silence. Just the road, the vibrations, and the foam—which had already grown firm and warm from my body. Then, the little box came to life. First, my buttocks—slow waves, exactly the kind I was already familiar with. My muscles tried to contract, but the shell held them fast. The car turned, and a stronger impulse hit—as if he’d timed it perfectly. My nipples felt a sharp, quick pinch: left, right, left. Then came the sensation near my penis—fainter, more intimate. Inside the mask, I simply let out a breath; I couldn’t move, nor could I pull away.

The journey dragged on. Sometimes there was silence, other times a rapid-fire sequence. On a rough stretch of road, the foam held me so tightly that I felt every stone twice: once through the casing, and again when the electrodes on my buttocks and near my penis delivered a jolt—timed precisely to the moment the car jolted upward. I had no idea if we were on a highway or a dirt track. I didn’t know if it was day or night. All I knew was that the line was active, that he was somewhere up ahead, and that I had given him permission.

We stopped twice. During the first stop, someone opened the door, checked the mask, ran a finger along the hose, and slammed the door shut again. During the second, I heard voices—unfamiliar, distant—followed once more by nothing but the sound of the engine. Just then, a jolt hit my nipples—sharp and brief—as if to remind me that even though I was in a car, and even though I had no idea where I was headed, he was still the one in control.

When the car finally came to a halt and the engine fell silent, the foam had already hardened completely. They pulled the container out. I felt us moving up some stairs, then along a flat stretch, and finally into a cooler room. The lid remained slightly ajar. The hose hissed. The little box sent one last slow wave—first to my buttocks, then to the area near my penis—and then, silence.

“You’re here,” he said, standing over me. “You don’t know where yet. And for a while longer, you won’t.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t have, even if I’d wanted to. And I didn’t want to, either.