The Cabin

When you wake, you cannot tell.

You feel your eyelashes flicker against something soft but obtrusive as you attempt to beat back your disorientation with vision. You jerk your head from side to side, feeling your head penned in—are your arms beside your head? Are they tied there? You cry out—only to be greeted with the sopping roughness of cloth in your mouth and the wet, muffled sound of your own voice. The sound and sensation shocks you into silence for a moment.

And then you start to scream for real.

I let you.

Your hands bound together above your head, your ankles bound to the antique bedposts at the foot of the old, mahogany bed, The tatters of your clothes, cut carefully, lovingly from you with nurse's scissors while you lay unconscious are smoke—their use in kindling the woodstove fire across the room is what, along with your waking fear, wrings the beaded sweat from your skin as you thrash and cry in your all-encompassing bonds. Your eyes, your voice, your agency—all taken from you.

I sit in the absurdly comfortable leather armchair by the door. And watch. And listen. I tip the broad, thick glass into my mouth and taste the scotch. Slowly, languorously. and I watch.

Your eyes finally, bulging in their fear, scrape against the blindfold material, and you cry out a hiss of pain and then freeze momentarily. No doubt the solidity of the bonds at your wrists and ankles has begun to assert itself as well. Still you cry out, but your protests subside gradually into more and more distant whimpers. Until you grow silent.

I watch your ribcage rise and fall, taking your full breasts with it, as you try to regain control of your breathing. Your body slicks with moisture in the effort, glistening in the flickering light from the glass front of the woodstove. I hear one final, choked sob—relishing the strength in your decision to hold back—such a strong, good girl.

I see tears seep from under your blindfold, but your struggles and your cries have ceased. I sip my scotch and watch as they pool and then fall over your cheeks to stain the soft blue sheet under you. Soft new sheets. For us.

When I stand and let my footsteps signal my deliberate approach, I see you stiffen. When you feel my whiskey breath at your throat, you stop breathing. I inhale you. Deeply. And then I speak.

"Now our story begins." I see you freeze. I hear the intake of your breath—and don't hear you exhale. I look carefully at your left hand, dangling in its bonds above your head. I see your fingers twitch—but not cross themselves. I smile...darkly at your gagged and blindfolded visage.

"Last chance..as per agreement." I watch your lovely hands...so pretty. I watch them flex and stretch. But not cross. I close my eyes and smile, unseen.

I watch your body tremble. My slave angel—now you've made your choice.

And so I make mine.