OrpheusAgonistes
Posts: 253
Joined: 3/29/2010
Status: offline
|
So my hands are cuffed behind me, on top of which my body is strapped to a sturdy chair by circuit after circuit of silver duct tape. I'm groggy, but have some memory of being taped up--mostly giggles that sounded a million blue miles away and hard slaps that brought me back to reality just long enough for her to laugh in my face. My gin and tonic had been drugged, no doubt.
She's sitting on the floor in front of me, smirking, typing at her notebook and bopping her head along with the Elvis Costello song (Less Than Zero) that's playing at full blast. I squirm, rattle my cuffs, and she looks up half-interested. "Ha ha. Finally back with us, eh?"
"You know, that position isn't very dominant at all," I say, smart-assed. "Me sitting so far above you, you sprawled on the floor. It's not a spectacle designed to instill fear and awe."
She smiles sweetly. "That is a very astute observation." She reaches to her left, finds a riding crop, drives it hard into my right leg (bound in place with duct tape). I yelp and my leg, involuntarily, starts to tremble and shake. I'm straining now to stretch out the muscle but it's just spazzing out uselessly.
"Charlie horse?" she asks sweetly, standing up and moving behind me.
"Yes" I grumble through clenched teeth, honestly trying not to involuntarily tear up.
She's rubbing my shoulders. "Those really hurt. You should walk it off."
"Don't suppose you'd untape my leg so I could do that?"
She lights a cigarette, holds it near my face so that the smoke drifts into my nose which she knows I can't stand. "Nah. Just tough it out."
My vision is still bleary from being drugged, but an old familiar scene is beginning to resolve in front of me. There is a table full of toys she loves to play with that I fear and loathe. Still standing behind me, dragging her nails across my back hard enough to draw blood (added fact: I cannot stand the sight of my own blood) she coos: Oooh lookee. A knife. You just love knives, don't you? Sorry it got so out of hand, last time.
My eyes are watering and I'm trying not to cough as images march across my memory--the same knife, being spread eagle on the bed, the endless pricks and pokes, the cuts, the lacerations that took weeks to heal.....I tremble. She giggles. "Oooh. You do remember."
She's running her hands over my face now, affectionately. She jams one finger (black nail polish flecked with big red drops of my blood) into my mouth and says simply "Suck." A moment later she giggles "Or else." Against every impulse, I start to suck my own blood, fight the reflex to panic or to gag, try to focus on what is immediately in front of me.
She's wearing black boots that I can feel pressed against the back of my bound legs (the cramped one still trembling, to her delight) as she stands behind me, whispering directly into my ear so I don't miss a word. I can smell her perfume (Anna Sui) and feel her breath as she presses her lips (poison pink lip gloss) against my ear. "Look at the table baby. So many toys. So many memories." She's giggling, leaving the rest unsaid. So many memories of so many boundaries crossed, so many limits transgressed. The flogger. The riding crop. The knife. The clamps. On skin. On bone. On muscle. On nipples, on nuts. Being forced to beg. To plead. The things I was forced to do in exchange for small mercies and unbearably brief moments of surcease. There is a tiny tear in the corner of my eye as I remember it all, as she says "Well baby, we're going to go through it all again today. Once more, with feeling." And I'm bleary, cuffed tight, defenseless, left in her merciless mercies. I don't cry but she sees the tear and laughs, feels satisfied.
She turns a light on over the table, so as to allow me to enjoy a better view of the toys she's going to use on me as I sit cuffed in the chair, muscles tightening and aching. Breath shortening. Trying not to remember the story behind every implement (which is like trying not to think of a white polar bear in the corner, once someone has made sure to mention it to you). It's all so inevitable. So agonizing. She's smiling, running her hands affectionately through my hair, and it occurs to me she has no intention of playing right now. She wants me to sit here and re-live everything for a long time before that happens. I start to protest, to beg, but she silences me by grabbing my throat and squeezing, saying "Not a word slutface. I want you just like this. Scared. Quiet. Straining uselessly. Not. A. Fucking. Word."
I choke it back. I sit there silently. I stare ahead and squirm. It's utterly humiliating to be quiet when I want to protest but if I say a word I know she'll make things exponentially worse.
Finally she's running her hand through my hair once more. She's giggling as she walks away. She cranks a song (Wave of Mutilation) to an obscene volume, gives a school girl wave and walks out of the room, locking the door behind her. I sit bound, groggy, trapped. I sit and remember, sweat, shake, struggle uselessly. I'm affixed precisely where she wants me, already experiencing the precise torments she's devised, and all this is prelude.
_____________________________
What I cannot create, I do not understand.--Feynman
Every sentence I have written here is the product of some disease.-- Wittgenstein
|
A fragment of a prelude written off the top of my head ... - 
Profile
New Messages
No New Messages
Hot Topic w/ New Messages
Hot Topic w/o New Messages
Locked w/ New Messages
Locked w/o New Messages
Post New Thread