The Desert 2

The desert heat creates visible waves in the air as I look out upon the arid landscape. The stark desolate terrain mirrors the loneliness that I feel when you're gone. Time passes so slowly; I feel it's been days when only hours have passed. Yet I spend my time contentedly knowing that it was my decision to come with you to this place. I knew that I was merely a distraction to you here and I willingly accept the sacrifices that I would have to endure, just to be close to you.

I gave myself to you in that solemn ceremony which seems so long ago. I vowed to endure all that is necessary to be with you. That your only promise to me, was possession; my promise to you was everything. I knew of your sexual predilections. I knew my comfort would come second to your whims. I knew that with you I would never again be free, but my heart was already shackled to yours so truly and so completely that life without you would be empty.

Now here I am, waiting for your return. I wish I had something of yours to touch or smell, but this room is the epitome of sterility. White stone walls on three sides, while glass reveals the desert beyond the fourth. The heavy wooden door lies beyond my tethered reach, as does the kitchen and bath it obscures. The sound that the heels strapped onto my feet make on the hard marble floor is the only audible trace of my presence.

I stand and pace, on display for the occasional passer by. The trail that lies between the barren landscape and my prison window must be a footpath for hikers. Since you left, the sporadic hikers have either failed to notice me or have stood there gawking until the imposing desert sun convinced them to move on.

The only relief that you have afforded my feet from these shoes with towering spiked heels is the solitary piece of furniture in the room. It is a narrow saddle shaped stool that I have made the mistake of using before. I vowed never to use it again unless you specifically told me to. It was one of the first times that you left me, tightly laced into this very same corset. It is one of your favorite torments. That's your word for them, I call them torture, but whatever the name I've sworn to endure them for you.

It starts with the corset; custom made and tightly laced it embraces me with such efficacy and severity that air finds my lungs through only the shallowest of breaths. Straps bind my arms coercing them to hang uselessly at my sides. With the tether from my collar looped over the oak beam above my head, I cannot sit down. I cannot move except in a small circle, I am helpless and on display in front of this window. My feet begin to hurt, but they too, are not within my reach. The corset extends to my thighs and prevents me from bending or lifting my legs. I have no escape, except for the stool.

The stool is the finale of this torment. I know that once I sit and rest my feet it will grasp me, and entrap me within its grip. It has the capability of vibrating me to orgasm, yet it never does. It can send electrical current pulsing throughout my groin; it does this quite often. The real devious part of it is that it continually and gradually grows a phallus. Unable to release myself and evade its impeding growth, I squirm until it finds it's way into me. It continues to grow taller, longer and wider. Soon the electrical shocks come from it, too. I writhe in anguish, sorry that I chose to sit instead of stand.

I once thought that the varying torments from the stool meant that you were somewhere close; watching me; controlling me. I know now that is not the case. You delight in knowing that I am tormented, that I willingly pay a price for being with you. That there is no release, no time that I know that I am free from your sport. As I had promised so long ago; I am yours to do with as you please, whenever and wherever you please. I am at your whim.

It has been a very long time and my legs have weakened from the ordeal. The stool is there, calling to me, yet I know that I dare not. I have no idea how long you will be, and the sun is still high in the sky. You could be hours more and there will be no release from the stool unless you provide it. And yet it is there, calling to me. I move closer to it, gauging the length of my tether. Once you bound me such that no matter how I tried I could not sit on the stool, but that was before I had learned its true nature.

Now, knowingly, I contemplate it.

The bright golden-tan hues of the vista outside my window have gradually given way to the muted silhouettes back-lit by the now setting sun. I long for the warmth I should feel as its golden rays caress my skin, but these windows are undoubtedly double paned and insulated. With its warmth and relief denied to me, the setting sun seems a poignant reminder that my ordeal though far from over is now and probably always has been beyond my control.

Disheartened, defeated, I am somehow content knowing that I have done exactly as you have wished.

Now, willingly, I sit upon the stool.

Copyright 2009 ALR1