Warning - this is from the journal of a masochist with a sense of humor and a passion for the extreme. Not for the faint and all that.
Smell
I don’t know when I passed out. You were there and then you weren’t. I smell meat, raw meat. It envelops my nose, wrinkling against the stench. Comprehension starts to bloom…the smell triggering a memory - my eyes flick open in panic, but I slide them shut immediately, the light is too bright…
Touch
Instantly, I try to move my hand to soothe my eyes, to stop the sneeze that is growing. I am caught. I yank on the restraints, eyes sliding open, blurry and blinded..closed again. The other arm is caught too…I sneeze, unladylike like indeed…the restrains pull tighter..they are rough, unrelenting in their duty, I feel my lips grimacing.
My body shutters at the unwelcome sneeze. My legs twitching..they are stuck fast. I am bound then..the smell is strong..
I grip whatever is underneath me. It folds under my fingers, soft and willowy. Am I upside down? No…I don’t feel upside. But I am wrong, I am not right, I am on my stomach..I feel the softness pressing against my body. So, I am naked and caught fast…
Sight
I peel open my eyes slowly this time, the panic rising. The world is blurry and obscene. I blink, and again, working my eyes into focus. Ah..I see now…I am tied to something, posts. Both wrists are caught fast and spread further out than comfort allows…I am a bird, wings spread.
I tilt my head but I can’t see behind me, my neck can’t get the angle I need…the soft thing looks like sheets. They are crumbled around me, pressing uncomfortably into my sides, my breasts, my stomach…it’s like being in a tanning bed…everything aches from the pressure. The wall..I think it’s a wall in front of me is unremarkable, no clues…no help..
Smell
Underneath the meat, I smell alcohol..the medical kind..the shit a true alcoholic will swig in desperation..hollow the stomach. It stings my open eyes. Where is the smell coming from? I crane my neck again to no avail..I can’t see.
Touch
I wiggle on my belly and I feel something crinkling against my skin, pulling. There is something on my back..Is that tape? It moves with my skin, but it’s sharp, not the knife kind of sharp…but the way bandaids in creases fuss at you when they are bent..something stings..it more than stings. Something is wet..I feel wet..
Sound
It sounds like paper…the alien thing on my back. Why is there paper tied to my back? I feel it from my shoulder down towards my spine. It’s tight to my body…but it gives a little when I move..
A growl sounds out of nowhere..it warns me not to move…so you are here…I fucking hate you…you got me again..your tone is calm but I hear the mirth rising. You asshole…
Sight
There is a loud shuffling..a groan and then a terrifying thwack as a large mirror is set in front of me. I can’t raise my head enough to see you..but I can’t see your legs, they are bare. Blood, that’s the meat smell..there it is, smeared against your thighs. You are flaccid, but even there I can see the smeary orangey red. You look like a bad shaving accident…pubic hair sucks..
Touch
My head is yanked up. My hair line stinging with exertion. My neck crunches a little..you know I strained that last time..
Sight
I can see my body. Gawd I hate you…I had one tiny idea…I can see the paper. It’s white at the edges, splotched with orangey red ink. There’s the tape..medical tape..you bastard! That hurts to rip off!
On the paper there is a pattern of tiny holes. I look like one of those god damn mesh strainers..The ink is dripping down my sides..down my ass..the white sheets we bought a week ago are trashed..I fucking hate you..
Touch
My head falls as you release it. It hits the sheets unceremoniously..I bite my lip hard, I taste the iron..the copper. You asshole…
Sound
I hear it..I hear the laughter. You can’t stand it anymore. You hunker down next to my ear and whisper that this was my idea..in a way. I whimper, not wanting to give the satisfaction of a response.
You laugh again..we are celebrating, aren’t we? He beat diabetes.…I was overjoyed when he told me. He wanted to throw away all his instruments, all his testers..I helped..I made one off-color joke about not having to stick himself anymore..and ha..we should rebrand those damn finger stick things as bdsm toys..we laughed..we ate dinner and passed out.
He finishes laughing..raises himself up and smiles at me in the mirror. He tells me to be proud…like those diamond paintings I like so much, he used that damn finger prick to etch a design on my back…the tattoo I always wanted but was too scared to get..
I hate you..fucking bastard..
Touch
The paper is ripped from my back…the fucking tape with it. He lifts my head again, I wince..I cry out and bite my lip again.
I can see no pattern, just the smear of my life, oozing from a thousand pricks. I wince..that is going to bruise badly…
Sound
I make a comment about a 2 year old with a crayon boxing having more skill…my head thumps..
I hear you padding away..growling about how ungrateful I fucking am.
Touch
The ropes around my ankles are cut from their poles..the freed length is grabbed and I feel my legs yanked open. The platform shifts as I feel your weight hitting it.
A hand, I think, smoothes its way down my back. You have always wanted this…I feel that hand on my ass, slick now with life. I know what’s coming..
Sound
I cry out as the blood is swiped from my back. The pain feels like a brush burn on steroids..I can’t imagine how long you were at it..how many tiny pricks..I hate you..
The wet squishy sounds begin…all I can hear is your laughter…my screams while you rake down my back…you fucking asshole..it was one little comment.