This is so not good.
As long as we have been together, I have never been to this place with you. My heart is pounding in my chest, threatening to explode. I have to remind myself to continue breathing in, breathing out, lest I forget in the suspense that is lingering even now in the thick air of this room.
I feel the crushing strength of my fear tightening in my chest. My mind, the same mind that was reeling not moments before, now is strangely quiet. I am scared, I am alone with my thoughts, I do not know what to expect next and that frightens me in ways I would have never imagined before this moment.
Using my bound wrists as a fulcrum, you pull me off of your lap and I am kneeling in front of where I envision you to be. I feel you stand up, a gentle “whoosh” as you walk away from me.
The tears that I have withheld until this point begin to fall from my eyes, as though they had waited for precisely this moment to make their appearance. I suppose to the outside observer I would seem to be contrite, to be looking for a forgiveness. I suppose to the outside observer I would look weak, I would seem to be beaten, to have all but given up. I suppose the outside observer would be absolutely wrong.
My tears, however they seem to you, are not for actions that I have already performed. They are not bourne of an attack of conscience or of having given up. I am far from giving up, just about as far from giving up as I can possibly get.
My tears, however they seem to you, they are for me. My tears are completely selfish, they are bourne of frustration. They are bourne of wanting something so badly and still feeling the need to resist it so very much. They are bourne of the fact that I am so hungry for the moment and yet still so afraid of it. No, my tears are not for your benefit at all. I have almost forgotten that you exist.
You have returned to remind me of your existence, it appears. My tears have no effect on you. I may not be able to see through this damn blindfold, but I certainly can hear your breathing, I can tell that you have that quick, heavy movement I only hear in your anger. Ah yes, I have angered you. I can understand your anger with me, I am ready for you. Bring me your worst, I am ready for you.
It is no surprise to me when I feel you shove the gag into my mouth. I am unsurprised when my ear is taken harshly and I am led a few steps and thrown over the kitchen table. No, this surprises me not at all. I wait for the first contact with my skin, as I know it must be coming. I know that you will never allow such insubordination, in fact, I am counting on it.
I try to squirm away from you as I feel your hands on my backside, prying apart my most private recesses. I feel the cold tip of the plug, I try to cry out for you to stop, knowing even then that I do not want you to stop. I want this, I want it more than I can express to you, but I must fight it, I must. I feel myself stretched there, in the most private of areas. Damn it all, it hurts. The tears have returned, but they are not frustration, they are relief. I want this, as much as I want the strapping that I know will inevitably follow this small diversion. I want more from you, I want to push your mind to its sadistic limits, I don’t want you to hold back. I try to stand up and find that you roughly push me back down, forcing me to submit to your will.
Seems you are not the only one who knows how to push buttons, are you?