She didn't know how long she had lain there, drifting between her thoughts and dreams. Seconds, minutes, hours had become meaningless concepts. Time was tracked by his intrusions into her solitude. Eternities of dreamy, floating, endless waiting would be suddenly shattered by assaults of sensation. It was all sensation. She could not see. She could not hear. She could not move. All she could do was feel his touch upon her skin. She never knew what to expect when he pulled the heavy blanket off her. The slither of the rough fabric as he exposed her bound and tortured body would tear from her reverie, baring her to his whim.
Sometimes she would shriek in terrified panic. Sometimes she begged for him to free her, forgetting her promises to not speak, forgetting her pleading with him to do this thing to her. But he never wavered, never once spoke or made a sound beyond the soft grunts of effort as he used and abused her body. Worst of all was the not knowing, the uncertainty.
Sometimes he would beat her, inflicting long agonizing beatings upon her body. Beating her until she could not scream or cry, until exhaustion from the pain would numb her and pull her down, sinking below the surging sea of pain.
Sometimes he would attend to her physical needs, washing her, changing the diaper, putting the tube between her lips so she might suck down the liquid nutrient drinks he concocted to keep her body alive.
Sometimes he would rut upon her, using her body to relieve himself, fucking her endlessly. He brutally hammered at her with his body, using all her holes until they ached and burned, ignoring her cries, cries of pain, cries of passion.
Sometimes he would just sit and run his hands along her body. Slowly, sensually he would stroke her sensitized skin, petting her, soothing her.
But worst of all was when the blanket would be pulled back and he would do nothing. She did not know if he walked away or stayed there looking down at her, staring at the thing he had made of her.
When she had first described her fantasy to him and begged for this, pled for this. He had been reluctant, ambivalent, even angry at times at this obsession of hers.
"Please, I need it. I need to know what it is like. You don't know how much I think about this."
"But that is crazy. You have no idea. You will go crazy." And the worst of all, "I don't think I can do that to you. I love you too much."
Finally she had dropped the subject or at least pretended to drop the subject. Without his knowledge she cleared the small room in the basement. She had bought the narrow cot and dug the heavy coarse blanket out of the store room. When he wasn't home she would lie there, face down. She bought the head phones and the white noise generator. She would lie with her arms outstretched, pretending they were bound, pressed down by the heavy scratchy blanket. She wished it was heavier. Somehow she wanted to be compressed, smashed, pressed down and she worked at sewing a weighted quilt, filled with pounds of carefully stitched in washers from the hardware store.
She would lie there naked, quiet, alone, fantasizing that she was tied there, tied there for days, even weeks, for as long as he wanted. The he in her fantasy always had his face but deep inside he was darker, harsher, twisted, and cruel. He would hurt her solely for his sadistic pleasure. He would keep her as a convenient fuck hole. Transforming her into an object, a place to plunge his cock, selfishly taking anything and everything he wanted. He would reduce her to a thing, a thing that writhed and screamed and suffered just for him.
He must have noticed the bed in the corner of the store room. But he did not say anything, did not acknowledge its presence in their lives. She never lay there when he was home or she expected him home, but his business kept him away for long periods of time.
