I am standing naked on a wooden stepstool. I can feel the coarse painted grain of the pine board under my toes as I press into it, trying to keep myself planted. The idea of falling terrifies me. My partner is somewhere near me; I can hear his breathing, but my eyes are closed and I’m blindfolded anyway, which fucks with my sense of balance even more. He’s touching me now, tracing the lines of my neck and shoulders with clinical hands, then biting me hard so that I can feel my skin already starting to bruise. I feel his mouth trailing down the backs of my legs; he fastens to an Achilles tendon (a strangely sensitive spot on my body) and I’m simultaneously relieved when he fails to bite it (which would certainly cause me to pitch forward) and disappointed when he doesn’t take things that far. At least, this time.
Now he has his hands on my back. He gives me the lightest of shoves and I almost fall, but I don’t. This time. His hand grabs me by the roots of my hair, he tugs my body back and forth so that I sway precariously on top of my stool. My legs are shaking. If he lets go of me now, I might not be able to save myself. He comes in closer and loops an arm around my waist, holds my back to his front until I stop shaking. I am so scared that I am almost hyperventilating. I am so turned on that my cunt is literally dripping, smearing my thighs. He senses the precise instant that I am calm enough to stand on the stool unassisted. He orders me to position my feet wider apart.
“I can’t,” I whimper. I am afraid to move at all; my sense of where the stool ends is completely destroyed.
“Sure you can,” he says in a teasing tone of voice. Clearly he finds my predicament amusing. I manage to screw up my remaining courage enough to move my feet outwards on the stool.
“Good girl,” he says, and I melt. “Now move about two inches forward.” I obey. My toes are hanging off the edge of the stool. I curl them around the edge of the board. I have reverted to a near-animal level of terror. My entire upper body is shaking, but I can force my legs to stay still. So that I won’t fall. So that I can do what I’m told. He moves away from me and I don’t hear him at all, and I’m wondering what is going to happen next. The uncertainty alone could knock me down if I let it. The slap across my face almost makes me collapse.
He’s hitting me hard, unpredictably, in random locations. He must be circling me like a huge predator, diving in to break me apart piece by piece. Now he’s started concentrating on my inner thighs. I can take a lot of pain most places, but the insides of my thighs are incredibly sensitive. I know from experience that tomorrow, there will be overlapping hand-shaped bruises all the way up the insides of my legs. I am swaying from side to side at this point. I know I’m making noises, scared little squeaks alternating with the panting breaths I always make when I’m this turned on. I don’t want to fall. I don’t want to fall, and I hope I do. The muscles of my legs, from hips all the way down to ankles, are rigid and shaking. The pain and the fear of falling and the arousal are all too much for me at this point. Tears are running down from under the blindfold.
“I’m so scared,” I whisper. I want it to end now. I don’t want it to end, ever.
“That’s no problem; you like being scared.”
“Yes,” I acquiesce.
He keeps hitting me. I don’t fall; I keep myself upright through sheer willpower. Later he will gather me into a small bundle and pull me into his lap, and I will fall asleep, kept in the fortress or the cage of his limbs. Next morning, I will walk secretly marked through my day. I will stand unusually straight, I will speak unusually calmly, and I will feel almost sanctified, engulfed in my own light like a saint painted by an Old Master. But for now I need to stand on this stool, to feel hurt and scared and aroused and beautiful and despised and protected and, ultimately, alive.
Most people fail to understand why I let men tie me up, hurt me, and scare me until I cry, why I actively seek these men out, how I could possibly get off on it. I fail to understand how most people can be so contented with so little.
