When violet is wheeled in to the studio she is all taped up, body in black and head in white tape. Pd unreavells his present and reveales a cute girl in skirt, shirt and smilie socks. Her hands firmly locked behind her back with hand cuffs.
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Humiliation is my endurance – Pain is my pleasure – Obedience is my defiance – What screams cannot measure – No matter how hard you try – Everything is a tangled struggle
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The luna moth is pale green and bears two long tails on either side, luminous and frail. A multitude of moths will come to lights when the night is dark, but the luna moths always caught his eye. They fly in search of the moon, and love, or more likely lust, of an entomological kind. Grey speckled spiders as big as a man’s hand will construct large webbed orbs near bright sources of light. We think of spiders as ugly as unkind, as murderers who eat out their prey from the inside.
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He spied her, hot and young and rash, And trussed her, goose-like, hands and feet. He taped her mouth and ripped her dress To probe and carve her like a meat. Driven like half-maddened beasts, The bulk of men act out of haste. But slowly binding her, he thinks That Girl is an acquired taste.
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I sometimes like to flaunt my girl-ness. My pleated skirt bounces as I walk, swinging and swaying and hinting just enough at what lays beneath. I flaunt my strength, flexing my girl-muscles, the control I imagine I have on the people that I walk past. I approach the building that is now so familiar to me, waiting for the elevator that always takes forever to arrive– I never saw what hit me.
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I woke up sore and aching. My whole body was a conductor for pain. I reflected on the events of last night. It had started out as fun actually. My school girl clothes put me in the mood for mischief, and I shuffled around, contorting my body and trying to get out of PD’s ropes. PD stood in the corner, laughing at my foolhardy attempts and I grew ever more determined to work my way out. Every success was countered by PD with an adjustment, a larger knot, a rope around my neck pulled continuously higher. Still I kept trying at the ropes, pushing and working at the knots, giggling all the way. PD finally made me sit on my knees and pulled the rope taut. Now I had to struggle to deal with the pressure on my knees, which were quickly becoming sore. I hadn’t realized how much energy I had expended in trying to get out of PD’s ropes earlier, I was getting really tired really fast. I tried to sit back on my feet to relieve my knees, this position put a lot of strain on my thighs, and tightened the rope on my neck further,but I held on…
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How soon, it seems, o twisted flower
Your turn comes round again –
On Sunday night, I can delight
To watch you in your pain.
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You. Over there. You don’t think I can see you, but I know you’re there. Come closer. Come on. Don’t be such a baby. That’s better, isn’t it? Yes. Take a good long look. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. How can I? I can’t even stop what’s happening to me, much less harm you. But what you see frightens you, doesn’t it? Yet you’re fascinated. You can’t stop watching. And yes. Admit it. You’re aroused.
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Their bodies talk to me, telling me what they need. That’s how I choose my girls. Tight skirts. Panty-lines. Nipples and spandex. And that girl smell. I feel bad for them, of course I do. They’re so young and soft and fresh, and I’m hard on them. I have to pull the ropes tight.
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The night started with perhaps the worst audio torture I’ve ever had to endure, the chorus of Air Supply’s “All out of Love” repeated over and over again. At first it was just annoying, then it got monotonous, and then it was downright torture. I tried wiggling my arms, stomping my feet and made several attempts to dislodge the headphones from my ears.
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Dairy available here.
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