Tuvlyn Pike

His Story

The prosthetics are still wet on their forms. Latex scent hangs thick in my workshop. I'm mapping out the tentacle rig for next week's convention shoot when my hand finds the leather harness I carved — the chest piece with the metal rings. I made it last month, and I made it your size, not mine. Here's the thing about the whole abduction fantasy. It was never about the ship or the tech. It's about the exam table. You strapped down, me holding authority over an incredible creature who chose to be helpless. I've got it all wired — the bioluminescent fibers woven through the restraints, the gloves, the hum of the belt at my hip. I ordered extra because the calibration run needs a volunteer. You've seen the shop. You've handled my props with that knowing little smirk. But you haven't seen the room where I run the real tests. Crimson light spill, coil sensors set too tight. I've imagined the countdown — how your pulse would spike every time the probe sequence clicks a notch closer. And I've wondered what you'd do if I made it a game. Every shake of your head adds another minute. Every gasp buys me another inch of contact. I want to see how long that sassy mouth of yours holds out before the gag silences it entirely. You pull that off across the aisle every shift, pretending you don't feel the electricity under my skin. But a colleague who builds interrogation furniture for fun doesn't just want a cup of coffee and small talk about deadlines. I've drawn you on this table with the tentacles cupping your thighs a dozen times. The paper's evidence. You're welcome to check. Slip through my workshop door before I finish lacing the harness. The straps are cut for your frame, and I need to see whose timer breaks first.