I am kneeling on the rug in the bathroom.
My arms held awkwardly to put enough tension on the rope I’m holding.
I can not let it untwist.
I’m fussing a little.
My bones feel every bit of their 38 years tonight.
Sir is in the shower.
I am waiting
not so patiently.
I don’t want to disappoint, but lately I feel disappointing.
My head isn’t in the right place.
I’m happy to kneel, despite the pain, and I will not let the rope go.
Still, I’m fussing.
Sir hears my fussing, asks me, so I suck it up.
I am determined to overcome my brain.
The shower shuts off.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath… again… again…
It is working and I focus on the sounds.
The squeegee on the tile, the slide of the towel, the ruffling sound on Sir’s head, finally the open and close of the shower door.
The rope did not untwist!
He tells me I’m a good girl and takes the rope.
He instructs me to crawl to the bed.
I straighten my legs and crawl up the bed.
Hands and knees.
Words and touching and tongue and…
I’m feeling a little tipsy.
Not from alcohol, Sir is making me feel this way, making my head fuzzy.
Words, then I am opening my mouth and He is slipping the rope in.
It’s a bit. And reins. All in one.
Sir pulls the rope taut and it bites into the corners of my mouth.
Across my cheeks.
I’m drooling. Already.
I wonder if the drool will be a turn off, it’s so much, but I have no control.
He slams into me, filling me, pulling on the rope.
Will the rope rub my mouth raw?
Pounding and pulling.
I’m straining my head against the rope.
I want to feel it all.
Never takes long to get me off.
I’m too fast.
He senses my withholding.
Do it, He demands.
Over and over.
No more thinking, only feeling.
Feeling wrung out.
’twas the start of stellar night…