The Torture Chair

The awful man bore down upon me with a weapon of mass destruction and a lack of purpose that had led him to chose this unfortunate profession. He had already tied me up in his chair of torture.

The room smelt of some aseptic fluid that he used to clear the loose ends of his hapless victims. I had been scared at first but then I saw that he was thriving on my wide eyes, awful fear.

"I like 'em white." he said. Racist cunt.

I wonder what leads to such men becoming misanthropic. Were they not hugged as an adult? Were they hugged too much (by an uncle)? Would he break down if I somehow got out of my restraints and hugged him?

Anyway, back to the pain.

He started torturing me. The cotton stuffed in my mouth prevented me from screaming. He would test his weapons to see which one hurt more, then go with the one that made me wince the most.

"Does it hurt, he asked eagerly?

"Yes." I knew the drill.

"You'll need a crown."

Oh my god he has a royalty fetish.

"Going to do a temp job here, no hard fillings but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." he chuckled.

Denture wish you wish you didn't had to go to the dentist?