Tokyo bondage
I twist, and feel the rope bite into my elbows. I count the heartbeats
throbbing away, fading slowly, softly. If it weren’t for the sound of
blood’s rush in my ears, I would not know if it existed.
My eyes are taped shut, but so long ago that I have come to accept that
my eyes no longer open. I faintly remember my discomfort, my mouth
straining at an object that filled my mouth from within yet still
touched my lips. Once this caused me to salivate uncontrollably, much
to my owner’s dismay. Hanging me by the spreader bar caused the
spittle to back into my mucous membranes, stinging, burning. But my
mouth is now dry, and I have no sensation of fighting an object that
gave yet does not tear.
Occasionally, I would feel the slightest of breezes on my skin, the
most sensitive part, the ones constricted by clothing by day. I know
not what is their cause, nor do I feel them on my face. I hear
nothing, and have heard nothing for an eternity and then some. What
once was warmth, and the soft tendrils of lambswool that encased my
head have become soaked with my sweat, the salty juices of excitment
and anticipation. After time, a concept that now exists only in my
mind, the water and the wool have warmed and now are my skin.
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