Close Please enter your Username and Password
Reset Password
If you've forgotten your password, you can enter your email address below. An email will then be sent with a link to set up a new password.
Cancel
Reset Link Sent
Password reset link sent to
Check your email and enter the confirmation code:
Don't see the email?
  • Resend Confirmation Link
  • Start Over
Close
If you have any questions, please contact Customer Service

AC_Wright 58F
83 posts
7/30/2014 5:11 pm
Just for fun, an excerpt


2. Naked.

The third week and the fourth day of a sentence that is to consist of the rest of your natural life.

Naked sitting on the glass slab table top in front of him, your body higher than his. You can see the top of his head with your arms pinioned behind your back by the three short black leather belts that hold your wrists, elbows and forearms together. Your mouth is covered by a piece of white surgical tape reinforced by a honeycomb of kevlar threads—you won’t be speaking.

You keep your eyes down and your knees together, your ankles ridiculously crossed, exactly as if anything you wanted mattered.

How did you get here? Oh yes. You had a flare-up again.

You are not quite mentally stable. Not yet. You know this, but knowing things doesn't matter when you can't control yourself. You don't like the promise you made him. You think you can demand that he let you go (go where?) and there will be a good outcome; as if there was somewhere you could go other than back to a prison the memory of which was cut out of you along with your your parents' faces and the name they gave you.

Hell is the impossibility of controlling yourself.

Your filter is broken: you get to watch yourself while the projector runs the "I hate you" movie where you cry and wave your arms and shake your head and ball your fists. You can't turn the projector off. You hate him. You hate it when he *touches* you (you're lying) and you hate it when he *fucks* you (You're lying, you're wet) with his soft, inadequate cock (the one that makes you die when he uses it? That one?). You hate him and will go on hating him no matter how well he treats you—no matter what he promises you.

More arm-waving. You cry more.

Your shocking mess unfolds and spills out and you look at him. You know he is about to modulate his vioce in that special way because you can't cover your ears. His mouth moves but you don't hear the words and you're not crying anymore or waving your arms anymore: You are standing still, limp like an unstrung puppet while he drags your arms behind and binds them with black leather straps from wrists to elbows.

Now, you are sitting on his desk with the leather straps holding your arms behind you like wrestlers. You aren't angry any more. You feel something else: it makes you not want to look into his eyes. His eyes are like old maps. "Here there be monsters."

Constructive comments welcome.

Schrille Schlampen aller Länder, vereinigt euch! Ihr habt nichts zu verlieren als euren Kontakt mit Versagern!



Become a member to comment on this blog