July 2013
THE ILLUSION is that maybe, just maybe, we are possibly not really all alone. It is a lie, of course, but it’s one we desperately want to buy into, and we will, sooner or later, pay anything and everything for any kind of respite from the cold harsh realities that we are, in fact, a singularity.
The promise of religion is that there is, according to the stories, something else out there besides ourselves. Something huge and mighty and scary and absolutely terrifying and that is somehow supposed to give us some kind of comfort, the hope that the biggest baddest most powerful thing in the universe is actually intimately interested in us on a personal level. Us as individuals. That we are somehow valued. Just us and the…whatever it is.
And our sensorum relentlessly reports to us, however badly, that there are other beings around us, beings with whom there is some kind of miracle happening between ourselves and them because we can both point to something and agree on a word about it or for it or whatever, and another thing or two can come along and we can usually come to another agreement of sorts, and communication is born and no matter how swimmingly well it appears to go at first, it eventually all goes disastrously bad, as there are things to disagree about and argue our brains out over and fight and go to war over because there is always something that happens to be some kind of difference we just cannot fathom or understand or even begin to comprehend and no, we cannot work our way around this and why can’t they just see it our way, and no, no, no, not gonna see it their way, that’s stupid, and where are the launch codes. The art of communication, the art of love, the art of war, are all the same book.
Take this woman, for example. No matter that she came here of her own accord and agreed well in advance through extensive correspondence that this was all a very good idea that she was totally on board with—yes, of course I’ll be there, don’t worry—this woman has evidently changed her mind about things in ways, given all the upfront assurances, that have ended up as being fairly unpredictable and unexpected, and she is blathering on rather relentlessly about how she has made a mistake and this isn’t what she wanted and it hurts, please stop, please stop, please stop.
Not like that is going to happen. Not anytime soon, anyway. The ropes that have been so inefficiently and intricately—not to mention cooperatively—tied off between her and the bed make it quite impossible for her to simply stand up and walk away on her own, and there is no quick way out of all this, and so she is stuck in a time and a place and a situation that is for some reason not turning out quite as she planned or had hoped or had dreamed or whatever it was that she went through to get herself here in the first place, and her lot is now to wait, and she seems to be unhappy about that. Her imagination, no doubt, had gotten away from her, what with all the promising to herself that this would somehow be romantic and magical and orgasmic and a positive affirmation of her own quest to not be so alone and how can this have gone so unpredictably unbelievably unexpectedly wrong, please, I believed you, you said, you said, you said. It’s puzzling, to say the least. Lord know what she thought was going to happen here.
She lies there squirming and writhing and moaning her discomforts—the ropes are, after all, there to provide a restraint that she had assured in long impassioned tomes that there is a comfort in being so held, and so please, yes, do apply them, the ropes, I like them—and her discourse turns in a direction that is completely opposite to how she appeared and presented herself outside of here and she rambles on for such a lengthy stretch of time, so full of appeals to humanity and pity and mercy, that it is almost inevitable that before too much longer the promises would begin. And sure enough. The usual oaths to be good, to not cause trouble, to just walk away and she’ll forget all about it, she swears, which, upon a decided lack of desired response, get elevated to promises of other things, things like money, or wouldn’t you like to do this to someone else, and how she knows someone else who would be better than her, much better, more complicit, and how she would even go so far as to help get to this other person and bring said other person back here and how she would even help tie this third party into strictures that are even more extreme than the ones the woman herself is now suffering with, and it will be good, you’ll like it, I promise, oh, please, this hurts so much, please let me go, what do you want, I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything you want; just let me go.
Wherein lies the rub. Because this so-called “anything” can already be done to her now, and that little fact somehow seems to have escaped her attention, or perhaps she’s trying to divert attention from it, thinking that because she wants out of her predicament so intently that maybe she can suddenly, by an undisclosed superpower, convince anyone of anything, especially herself of her own powers of persuasion, even of the idea that the reality she is in fact in isn’t real at all, and she can somehow make it real—more real, actually real, even realer, whatever—and make it even better when an exchange occurs, an exchange in which she is granted an ever-shrinking relief, please, just a little, and she will then once again be on board with the idea of what she came here for in the first place, just please just don’t hurt me, it’s all I ask.
She is not in a position to negotiate, but that does not seem to have any bearing on her seemingly endless attempts to do just that. Perhaps it has something to do with her own sense of being alone, alone with something that is bigger and badder and more powerful than she is at the moment, and she is hoping and praying and maybe just trying to convince herself more than anyone else that this huge and mighty and scary thing in fact has some kind of interest in her as an individual, something personal, that maybe she has some kind of value here, a value that would somehow save her from her worst nightmares that are wallflowering their way around the room, watching her, leering in at her, waiting for the right opportunity to materialize.
Cold harsh realities crash in on her as her clothes are not simply or gently or efficiently cut from her body, from around the ropes, but they are pulled and torn and ripped and shredded away with a raw steel blade that ruins what she came here wearing, rendering the cloth useless for the purposes it had before she came here, before she laid herself down on the bed and stretched her arms and legs by her own free will toward the corners to aide and cooperate in her own getting bound by the ropes and all that went along with that, oh god, yes, I like this.
It’s all somehow different now.
The begging sets in in earnest, please, no, don’t hurt me, and the offers of freedom are made, freedom with her body, freedom with her sex and her mouth and her hands and and and her a-ass, and she’s never done that, not with anyone, but she would do that, she would do that right here and right now, tonight, of her own free will, if she could only be released, set free, please stop, please stop, please stop. Tears, actual real genuine tears form at her eyes and roll down to the bed, big ones, and her lips tremble and quiver and babble on about how she would do anything, anything at all.
Again with the promises.
Some of the textile left over from her clothing is repurposed and given a new life and some of it is tied around her head, to cover her eyes, which panics her even further, oh, dear god, what are you going to do, no, no, no, no, and she struggles however vainly against the ropes and voices her displeasure at this new turn, at being blinded, oh god no, you’re going to do something terrible, please, I’m begging you and she carries on like that for a while until she makes the threat, the last threat she can make, the one bit of power she has left and she throws it out there. It’s all she has left.
She says she’ll scream.
There is a silence in the room as more of the worthless fabric gets quietly wadded up until the ball of it is large enough to solve that problem, and it gets forced into her mouth, and she makes good on her promise: she screams. She arches her back and throws her head back toward the headboard she cannot see and she bumps into it hard and it hurts and she strains against the ropes with all of her might and she screams, she screams into the gag of her own panties, panties that have turned inside out so the part that had been rubbing up against her own sex the whole day before she got here is now face down on her tongue and she is overwhelmed by the taste and the smell of all the arousal she has been working herself up with all day long and the day before and who knows how long before that and that is all that is in her mouth along with her lips and her teeth and her tongue, but not her breath, now she has to breathe through her nose, and the taste and the smell of herself absorbs her noise along with the petty piece of torn and ripped and shredded cloth, it stoppers up her scream and it is not quiet in the room but it is quiet enough to remove the threat of disturbance because someone might hear and knock on the door and disrupt what is going on in here tonight, and is everyone alright, go away, what are you doing.
Even more strips of clothes get torn and are used to secure the gag, to secure her panties into her mouth, and she struggles and her fingers wiggle and she makes what noise she can and she thrashes about as far as she is able until she exhausts herself, slowing down with her exertions; her chest palpitates and makes her breasts wiggle enticingly, with interesting waveforms crossing her flesh, communicating a message she does not intend, look at me, look at me, look at me. Her blindfold wettens, her gag dries out her mouth, she moans through her nose. Her motions and her struggles slow as she resigns herself to the horrors of her fate, to the terrors she can dream up in her darkness and her restraint that all begin to form and solidify around her; her fears and her panics never ease up. It looks for all the world like she believes she has foolishly fallen into a trap and that for all she knows, she is going to die here. Alone. In the dark. At the hands of the worst monsters she can imagine. How can she have been so stupid.
The weapon that had so savagely dissected her clothing has a new purpose, one that is more terrifying and it’s frigid metallurgy draws heat from her skin, which at first stills her completely, then renews her vigor and battle for freedom, for redemption and she so vainly reacquaints herself with how strong the ropes are, as the ripper’s flat side and the back of the point draw lines around on her flesh, over common and then intimate ground, alternating her response between a desperate freezing in the hopes that she not disturb the sharp side, the edge, and cause her to inflict some of the horrors she dreads so deeply upon herself, and a vain laborious attempt to shake loose the knotting and wear down the mechanics of the bindings she had assured her correspondent were of interest to her—what was she thinking—and part of a fantasy structure that she carried with her in secret everywhere she went, please, I want you to do this to me, that are now holding her to her fate as she strives in a desperate attempt at a worthless escape, please, please, please, let me go.
She is left in the room on the bed for a short moment, in which her sense and abilities of predicting the future get robbed and all she can do is live in the moment, the moment of being alone in the quiet of the room with her prayers to a god that doesn’t seem to be listening at the moment, which is followed by the moment when she is no longer alone and the room loses a little bit of the quiet it had due to her renewed efforts at negotiation at the top of her lungs around underwear tied into her mouth that is not understood—a failure to communicate happens—and the true moment of panic and fear and pain and stress and reality are being ripped away from her as another blade is drawn down upon her, one she is convinced is slicing her open, dear god, it’s the sharp side, cutting her, burning right through and tearing her skin asunder as the pain is excruciating and she can feel herself bleeding, she is ruined, her breasts, her stomach, her neck are all torn open, and she can no longer pronounce the words but she she she knows, it is apparent she knows she is going to die and she is afraid of that, she is afraid of the hurting, she is afraid that it might only be darkness afterwards no matter what the stories said and she keens and she howls and she sobs and she despairs.
Her body is entered where women are to be entered; she is dying, she is defiled, she is in a wretched darkness. All is agony, all is lost. She is filled and she is alone. Worthless.
And yet she does not die. She does not die for she is not cut and she does not bleed. The second tool had been in a freezer and the blood she convinced herself of that was flowing so copiously away from her, taking her life with it was simply some warm water trickled along where the frozen butter knife had traced. The sensory illusion is convincing and it is absolutely believed until the blindfold comes off and she is astonished to discover herself intact, alright, not disemboweled at all, and how can she have been so stupid, and she cries again but for a different reason, and when the gag comes out of her mouth she expresses her relief and eagerly accepts being kissed and the invasion of lips and teeth and a tongue and she responds in kind, and when she is entered again between her widespread tied-off legs, her back arches and she strains against the ropes and she throws her head back and bumps her head against the headboard hard and it hurts, it hurts so good, and she feeds back the signal that it is alright and she behaves as though she likes this and she accepts and meets with the intrusion the way one would want a woman to reciprocate when she is so entered, her body concurs and she wettens between her legs, and she moves as best against the bindings as she can in accordance with the entering, and the withdrawing, and the entering, and the withdrawing, until her fingers clench up into fists and she makes a noise, a lot of noise, the kind of noise that can only mean one thing and it is an attractive sound, the kind of sound that might bring someone to come to the door to see if she is alright, what are you doing in there, go away, and she cries out a different cry, one of a joy and a rapture, a rejoicing at being alive and not alone, at being here with someone, someone she had found she really could trust with her secrets, what was she thinking otherwise, and she can finally have the ecstasy she had been craving so hard for so long, the jubilance of being ravished and being fucked while tied to a bed in a hotel with someone she really did, as it turns out, know very well, swimmingly well, as was the plan all along, you scared me, and she laughs and her laugh is magical, and she is happy, god, yes, happy, and I’ll do anything for you, anything at all, and that is her superpower, and where are the launch codes.
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